Child 44

by Tom Rob Smith

  Having failed to persuade Galina Shaporina to speak, they were in danger of coming away from Moscow with nothing. Raisa had been pushed out of the apartment, the door shut in her face. Standing in the hallway, surrounded by staring neighbors, many of whom might be informers, there was no way they could try again. It was possible that Galina and her husband had already notified the State Security forces. Leo didn’t think that was likely. Galina clearly believed that doing as little as possible was the safest course of action. If she tried to inform there was a possibility she’d be incriminating herself, drawing attention to herself. That was of small consolation. Their only achievement so far was to recruit Fyodor and his family into their investigation. Leo had instructed Fyodor to send any information he might be able to discover to Nesterov since mail addressed to Leo was being intercepted. Even so, they were no closer to identifying the kind of man they were looking for.

  In these circumstances Raisa had pushed hard to speak to Ivan. What other options did they have except to leave the city empty-handed? Leo had reluctantly agreed. Raisa hadn’t been able to get a message to Ivan. There was no way they could post a letter or make a call. She’d taken a calculated risk hoping that he’d be here. But she knew he rarely left Moscow, certainly not for any length of time. He didn’t holiday, had no interest in the countryside. The only reason she could think that he wouldn’t be at home was if he’d been arrested. On that front she could only hope that he was safe. Even though she was looking forward to seeing him again she was under no illusions—this was going to be an awkward encounter. She was with Leo, a man Ivan hated as he hated all officers of the MGB, a rule to which he made no exceptions. There were no good ones. However, it wasn’t his dislike for Leo which worried her most. Rather, it was her affection for Ivan. Though she’d never cheated on Leo sexually, she’d cheated on him with Ivan in almost every other way, intellectually, emotionally, criticizing him behind his back. She’d struck up a friendship with a man defined against everything Leo had stood for. There was something awful about bringing these two men together. She wanted to tell Ivan as quickly as possible that Leo wasn’t the same man and that he’d changed, that his blind faith in the State had been broken, smashed. She wanted to explain that she’d been wrong about her husband. She wanted them both to see that the differences between them were smaller than they’d ever realized. But there was little hope of that.

  Leo wasn’t looking forward to meeting Ivan—Raisa’s kindred spirit. He’d be forced to watch as the connection sparked between them, forced to see up close the kind of man Raisa would’ve married had she been free to choose. That still hurt him, more than his loss of status, more than his loss of faith in the State. He’d blindly believed in love. Perhaps he’d clung to the notion as a way of counteracting the nature of his work. Perhaps subconsciously he needed to believe in love as a way of humanizing himself. That would explain the extreme justifications he’d created to rationalize her coldness to him. He’d refused to contemplate the possibility that she hated him. Instead, he’d closed his eyes and congratulated himself on having everything. He’d told his parents that she was the wife he’d always dreamt of. He’d been right—that was all she’d been, a dream, a fantasy, and she’d shrewdly agreed to play along, all the time being terrified for her own safety, confiding in Ivan her true feelings.

  This fantasy had been shattered months ago. Yet why wouldn’t the wounds heal? Why couldn’t he move on as he’d moved on from his devotion to the MGB? He’d been able to swap devotion to the MGB with another cause, devotion to this investigation. But he had no one else to love; there’d never been anyone else. The truth was that he couldn’t let go of the small hope, the fantastical notion that maybe, just maybe, she could love him for real. Although he was reluctant to trust his emotions since he’d been so categorically wrong before, he felt that he and Raisa were closer than they’d ever been. Was that merely as a result of their working together? It was true they no longer kissed or had sex. Since Raisa had told him the truth about their history it hadn’t felt right. He’d been forced to accept that all their previous sexual experiences had meant nothing to her, or worse, they’d been unpleasant. Yet far from circumstance being the only thing keeping them together—You have me. I have you—Leo preferred to think that circumstance had been keeping them apart. Leo had been a symbol of the State and one that Raisa had loathed. But now he no longer represented anything other than himself, divested of authority and stripped out of the system she so hated.

  They were almost at the shop door when they saw Ivan approach from the other end of the street. They didn’t call out or draw attention to themselves, they didn’t move from the line, watching as he entered his apartment building. Raisa was about to leave the queue when Leo touched her arm, stopping her. They were dealing with a dissident: it was possible he was under surveillance. It occurred to Leo that maybe the hollow coin had belonged to Ivan: maybe he’d been the spy. What was it doing among Raisa’s clothes? Had she undressed in Ivan’s apartment, picked up the coin by mistake? Leo pushed the thoughts aside, aware that his jealousy was playing tricks on him.

  Leo checked the street. He couldn’t see any agents taking position around the apartment. There were several obvious places—the foyer of the cinema, this grocery queue, sheltered doorways. No matter how well trained the agents might be, keeping watch on a building was difficult since it was such an unnatural action: remaining stationary, alone, doing nothing at all. After several minutes Leo was confident there was no one following Ivan. Without bothering to give a reason or make a pantomime of having forgotten a wallet, they left the queue exactly at the point when they were finally about to enter the shop. It was suspicious, but Leo could count on the fact that most people were smart enough to mind their own business.

  They entered the apartment building, walking up the stairs. Raisa knocked on the door. Footsteps could be heard inside. A voice, nervous, asked through the door:

  —Yes?

  —Ivan: it’s Raisa.

  A bolt was pulled back, Ivan cautiously opened the door. Upon seeing Raisa his suspicions dropped away and he smiled. She smiled in reply.

  A couple of steps back, Leo watched their reunion in the gloom of the hallway. She was pleased to see him, they were easy together. Ivan opened the door, moving forward, hugging her, relieved that she was still alive.

  Ivan noticed Leo for the first time. His smile fell away like a picture falling off a wall. He let go of Raisa, suddenly unsure, glancing at her expression, checking that this wasn’t a betrayal of some kind. Sensing his unease, she remarked:

  —We have a lot to explain.

  —Why are you here?

  —It would be better to speak inside.

  Ivan didn’t seem convinced. Raisa touched his arm.

  —Please, trust me.

  The apartment was small, well furnished, polished wood floors. There were books: at a glance they all seemed to be authorized texts, Gorky, political tracts, Marx. The door to the bedroom was shut and there was no bed in the main room. Leo asked:

  —Are we alone?

  —My children are with my parents. My wife is in hospital. She has tuberculosis.

  Raisa touched his arm again:

  —Ivan, I’m so sorry.

  —We thought you’d been arrested. I feared the worst.

  —We were lucky. We’ve been relocated to a town just west of the Urals. Leo refused to denounce me.

  Ivan couldn’t keep the surprise from his face, as if such a thing were remarkable. Stung, Leo held his tongue as Ivan stared at him, evaluating:

  —Why did you refuse?

  —She isn’t a spy.

  —Since when has the truth mattered?

  Raisa interrupted:

  —Let’s not get into that now.

  —But it matters. Are you still MGB?

  —No, I was demoted to the militia.

  —Demoted? You escaped lightly.

  It was a question, accusatory:

  �
��It’s only a temporary reprieve, demotion, exile—a prolonged punishment in obscurity.

  Seeking to comfort him, Raisa added:

  —We weren’t followed here. We’re sure of that.

  —You’ve traveled all the way to Moscow? Why?

  —We need help.

  At this, he was puzzled:

  —What could I possibly help you with?

  Leo took off his coat, his jumper, his shirt—retrieving the files taped to his body. He summarized the case, offering the papers to Ivan. Ivan accepted the papers but didn’t look at them, sitting down on a chair and placing the evidence on the table beside him. After a moment he stood again, collecting a pipe, carefully filling it:

  —I take it the militia itself isn’t investigating these murders?

  —All these murders have been solved incorrectly, covered up or blamed on the mentally ill, some political enemy, a drunk, a vagrant. No connection has been drawn between them.

  —And you two are working together now . . . ?

  Raisa blushed:

  —Yes, we’re working together.

  —You trust him?

  —Yes, I trust him.

  Leo was forced to remain silent as Ivan questioned his wife, scrutinizing the integrity of their relationship in front of him:

  —And together you plan to solve this crime?

  Leo answered:

  —If the State won’t, then the people will have to.

  —Spoken like a true revolutionary. Except, Leo, you’ve spent your entire life murdering for the State—whether in war or peace, whether they be Germans or Russians, or whoever else the State tells you it hates. Now I’m supposed to believe you’re bucking the official line and thinking for yourself? I don’t believe it. I think this is a trap. I’m sorry, Raisa, I think he’s trying to win his way back into the MGB. He’s duped you, and now he wants to hand them me.

  —He’s not, Ivan. Look at the evidence. This is real, not some trick.

  —I haven’t trusted paper evidence for a long time, nor should you.

  —I’ve seen one of these bodies, a young boy, his stomach cut open, his mouth filled with bark. I’ve seen it, Ivan. I was there. Someone did this to a child, someone enjoyed doing this, and they’re not going to stop. And they’re not going to get caught by the militia. I know you have every right to be suspicious of us. But I can’t prove it to you. If you can’t trust me, then I’m sorry for coming here.

  Leo stepped forward, ready to collect up the files. Ivan put his hand on top of them.

  —I’ll take a look. Close the curtains. And both of you sit down, you’re making me nervous.

  With the room cut off from the world outside, Leo and Raisa sat beside Ivan and narrated the specifics of the case, reciting as much information as they thought was useful. Leo summed up his own conclusions:

  —He persuades these children to come with him. The footprints in the snow were side by side, the boy had agreed to walk into the forest. Even though this crime seems insane, an obviously insane man would ramble, make no sense, an obviously insane man would scare these children.

  Ivan nodded:

  —Yes, I agree.

  —Since it’s very difficult to move about this country without a designated reason, he must have a job, one that involves travel. He must have papers, documents. He must be integrated into our society; he must be acceptable, respectable. The question we can’t answer is—

  —Why does he do it?

  —How can I catch him if I don’t understand why? I have no image of him in my mind. What kind of man is he? Is he young or old? Is he rich or poor? We simply have no idea what kind of person we’re looking for—beyond the basics, that he has a job and must appear, on the outside at least, to be sane. But that is almost everyone.

  Ivan was smoking his pipe, absorbing everything Leo had said:

  —I’m afraid I cannot help you.

  Raisa sat forward:

  —But you have Western articles about these kinds of crime, murders that aren’t conventionally motivated?

  —What will they tell you? I might be able to get together a couple of articles. But they wouldn’t be enough to give you an image of this man. You can’t build a picture of him from two or three sensational pieces of Western journalism.

  Leo sat back: this had been a wasted journey. More worrying than that: had they set themselves an impossible task? They were hopelessly ill-equipped both materially and intellectually to tackle these crimes.

  Ivan drew on his pipe, watching their reactions:

  —However, I know a man who might be able to help. His name is Professor Zauzayez, a retired psychiatrist, a former MGB interrogator. He lost his sight. Going blind gave him a change of heart, an epiphany, just like you, Leo. He’s now quite active in underground circles. You could tell him what you’ve told me. He might be able to help.

  —Can we trust him?

  —As much as you can trust anyone.

  —What exactly can he do?

  —You’ll read him these documents, describe the photos: perhaps he’ll be able to shed some light on the kind of person who’d do this such as his age, his background—that kind of thing.

  —Where does he live?

  —He won’t allow you to go to his apartment. He’s very cautious. He’ll come here, if he’ll come at all. I’ll do my best to convince him but I can make no guarantees.

  Raisa smiled:

  —Thank you.

  Leo was pleased: an expert was certainly better than some journalistic scraps. Ivan stood up, putting his pipe down, moving to the side cabinet, the telephone:

  The telephone

  This man had a telephone, in his apartment, his tidy, well- furnished apartment. Leo took in the details of the room. Something was wrong. This was no family apartment. Why did he live in such comparative luxury? And how had he managed to escape arrest? After their exile he should’ve been taken in. After all, the MGB had a file on him: Vasili had showed Leo the photos. How had he evaded the authorities?

  The call had been set up. Ivan was now speaking on the phone:

  —Professor Zauzayez, Ivan Zhukov here. I have an interesting task I need your help with. I can’t speak about it on the phone. Are you free at the moment? Could you come to my apartment? Yes, immediately if that’s possible.

  Leo’s body tensed. Why did he call him professor—if they were so close? Why call him that unless it was for their benefit? This was wrong. Everything was wrong.

  Leo leapt up, his chair flying back. He was across the room before Ivan had a chance to react, grabbing the phone and twisting its cord tight around Ivan’s neck. Leo was behind him now, back pressed up against the corner of the room, throttling him, tightening the cord. Ivan’s legs were slipping on the polished floor, he gasped, unable to speak. Stunned, Raisa got out of her chair:

  —Leo!

  Leo raised his finger, indicating that she remain silent. With the cord still wrapped around Ivan’s neck he lifted the receiver to his ear.

  —Professor Zauzayez?

  The phone went dead. They’d hung up. They were on their way.

  —Leo, let him go!

  But Leo tightened the cord. Ivan’s face was turning red.

  —He’s an operative, under cover. Look at how he lives. Look at his home. There is no Professor Zauzayez. That was his State Security contact; he’s on his way to arrest us.

  —Leo, you’re making a mistake. I know this man.

  —He’s a fake dissident, placed underground, flushing out other antiauthority figures.

  —Leo, you’re wrong.

  —There is no professor! They’re on their way. Raisa, we don’t have much time!

  Ivan’s fingers were frantically clasping at the cord, trying to break free. Raisa shook her head, moving forward, prising her fingers under the cord, relieving the pressure on his neck:

  —Leo, let him go, let him prove himself.

  —Haven’t all your friends been arrested, every one, except for him? Tha
t woman Zoya, where do you think the MGB got her name from? They didn’t arrest her on the basis of her prayers. That was just their excuse.

  Unable to get free, Ivan’s legs began slipping across the floor, forcing Leo to take his full weight. Leo couldn’t hold him for much longer.

  —Raisa, you never spoke to me about your friends. You never trusted me. Who did you confide in? Think!

  Raisa stared at Leo, then at Ivan. It was true: all her friends were dead or arrested, all except for him. She shook her head, refusing to believe it—it was the paranoia of today, the paranoia created by the State that any allegation no matter how far-fetched was enough to kill a man. She caught sight of Ivan’s hand reaching for the cabinet drawer. She let go of the cord:

  —Leo, wait!

  —We don’t have time!

  —Wait!

  She opened the drawer, rifling through. Inside was a letter opener, sharp—the item Ivan was reaching for to defend himself. She could hardly blame him for that. Behind that was a book, his copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls. Why was it not hidden? She picked it up. A sheet of paper was inside it. On it was written a list of names: people the book had been loaned to. Some of the names were scored through. Her name had been scored through. On the other side of the page was a list of people he intended to loan the book to.

  She turned to Ivan, raising the sheet of paper to his face, her hand shaking. Was there an innocent explanation? No, she already knew there wasn’t. No dissident would be foolish enough to write down a list of names. He loaned the book to incriminate.

  Leo was struggling to hold Ivan:

  —Raisa, turn away.

  She obeyed, walking to the other side of the room, the book still in her hand, listening as Ivan’s legs kicked the furniture.

  SAME DAY

  SINCE HE WAS a State Security operative, Ivan’s death would immediately be categorized as murder, an outrage that must have been committed by someone opposed to the system, an anti-Soviet element. The culprit was an outsider, a nonbeliever, so legitimizing the launch of a comprehensive investigation. There was no need to cover it up. Fortunately for Leo and Raisa, Ivan must have had many enemies. He was a man who’d lived his life betraying intrigued citizens, attracting them with the promise of censored material as a predator might attract its prey with alluring bait. The censored material had been provided to him by the State.