Child 44

by Tom Rob Smith

—Why?

  —They’ve blamed your murders on other people—many innocent people have died directly and indirectly from your crimes. Do you understand? Your guilt is an embarrassment to the State.

  Andrei’s face remained blank. Finally he said:

  —I’ll write a confession.

  Another confession: and what would it say?

  I—Andrei Sidorov—am a killer.

  His brother didn’t understand. No one wanted his confession, no one wanted him to be guilty:

  —Andrei, I’m not here to collect your confession. I’m here to make sure you don’t kill any more children.

  —I’m not going to stop you. I’ve achieved all I set out to achieve. I’ve been proved right. You’ve been made to regret not looking for me sooner. If you had, think how many lives would’ve been saved.

  —You’re insane.

  —Before you kill me I would like to play one hand of cards. Please, Brother, it is the least you can do for me.

  Andrei dealt the cards. Leo looked at them:

  —Please, Brother, one game. If you play, I’ll let you kill me.

  Leo took up his cards, not because of his brother’s promise, but because he needed time to clear his mind. He needed to imagine Andrei was a stranger. They began their game. Concentrating, Andrei appeared perfectly content. There was a noise to the side. Alarmed, Leo turned around. A pretty little girl was standing at the bottom of the stairs, hair disheveled. She remained on the bottom step, most of her body concealed, a tentative voyeur. Andrei stood up:

  —Nadya, this is my brother, Pavel.

  —The brother you told me about? The one you told me was coming to visit?

  —Yes.

  Nadya turned to Leo:

  —Are you hungry? Have you traveled far?

  Leo didn’t know what to say. Andrei answered instead:

  —You should go back to bed.

  —I’m awake now. I won’t be able to go back to sleep. I’d just lie upstairs listening to you talk. Can’t I sit with you? I’d like to meet your brother too. I’ve never met any of your family. I’d like that very much. Please, Father, please?

  —Pavel has traveled a long way to find me. We have a lot to talk about.

  Leo had to get rid of the little girl. He was in danger of being entrenched in a family reunion, glasses of vodka, slices of cold meat, and questions about his past. He was here to kill.

  —Perhaps we could have some tea, if there’s any?

  —Yes. I know how to make that. Shall I wake Mother?

  Andrei remarked:

  —No. Let her sleep.

  —I can do it by myself then.

  —Yes, do it by yourself.

  She smiled and ran back upstairs.

  Excited, Nadya climbed the stairs. She could tell her father’s brother had many interesting stories to tell. He was a soldier, a hero. He could tell her how to become a fighter pilot. Maybe he was married to a pilot. She opened the door to the living room and gasped. There was a beautiful woman standing in her kitchen. She stood perfectly still, with one hand behind her back, as if some giant hand had reached in through the window and placed her there—a doll in a doll’s house.

  Raisa held the knife behind her back, steel pressed against her dress. She’d waited outside for what felt like an impossibly long time. Something must have gone wrong. She’d have to finish this herself. As soon as she’d stepped though the door she realized to her relief that there were very few people in this house. There were two beds, a daughter and mother. Who was this girl in front of her? Where had she come from? She seemed happy and excited. There was no sense of panic or fear. No one had died:

  —My name is Raisa. Is my husband here?

  —Do you mean Pavel?

  Pavel—why was he calling himself Pavel? Why was he calling himself by his old name?

  —Yes . . .

  —My name is Nadya. I’m pleased to meet you. I’ve never met any of my dad’s family.

  Raisa kept the knife positioned behind her back. Family—what was this girl talking about?

  —Where is my husband?

  —Downstairs.

  —I just want to let him know I’m here.

  Raisa moved to the stairs, placing the knife in front of her so Nadya couldn’t see the blade. She pushed open the door.

  Walking very slowly, listening to the sound of measured conversation, Raisa descended the stairs. She held the knife in front of her, outstretched, trembling. She reminded herself that the longer she took to kill this man, the more difficult it would become. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she saw her husband playing cards.

  VASILI ORDERED HIS MEN to circle the house—there was no way anyone could escape. He was accompanied by fifteen officers in total, many of them local, and he had no relationship with them. Fearful that they’d do things by the book, arrest Leo and his wife, Vasili would have to take matters into his own hands. He’d end this here, making sure he destroyed any evidence which might mitigate in their favor. He moved forward, gun ready. Two men moved with him. He gestured for them to remain where they were.

  —Give me five minutes. Unless I call for you, don’t enter. Is that clear? If I’m not out in five minutes storm the house, kill everyone.

  RAISA’S HAND WAS SHAKING, holding the knife in front of her. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kill this man. He was playing cards with her husband. Leo stepped toward her:

  —I’ll do it.

  —Why are you playing cards with him?

  —Because he’s my brother.

  Upstairs a girl was screaming. There was shouting, a man’s voice. Before anyone could react, Vasili appeared at the bottom of the stairs, his gun raised. He surveyed the scene. He too appeared confused, staring at the cards on the table:

  —You’ve traveled a long way for a game of cards. I thought you were hunting a so-called child killer. Or is this part of your reformed interrogation process?

  Leo had left it too late. There was no way to kill Andrei now. If he made any sudden movement he’d be shot and Andrei would remain free. Even with his brother’s declared reason for killing—their reunion—removed, Leo didn’t believe Andrei would be able to stop. Leo had failed. He’d talked when he should’ve acted. He’d lost sight of the fact that far more people wanted him dead than his brother:

  —Vasili, I need you to listen to me.

  —On your knees.

  —Please . . .

  Vasili cocked his gun. Leo dropped to his knees. All he could do was obey, beg, plead, except this was the one man who wouldn’t listen, who cared about nothing other than his own personal vendetta:

  —Vasili, this is important—

  Vasili pressed the gun against his head.

  —Raisa, kneel beside your husband, do it now!

  She joined her husband, side by side, in imitation of the executions outside the barn. The gun was moved behind her head. Raisa took hold of his hand, closing her eyes. Leo shouted:

  —No!

  In response Vasili tapped the barrel of the gun against her head, teasing him:

  —Leo . . .

  Vasili’s voice trailed off. Raisa’s grip tightened around Leo’s hand. Seconds passed; there was silence. Nothing happened. Very slowly, Leo turned around.

  The serrated blade had entered Vasili’s back and exited through his stomach. Andrei stood there, holding the knife. He’d saved his brother. He’d calmly picked up the knife—he hadn’t stumbled or fallen over—and he’d stabbed this man cleanly and quietly, skillfully. Andrei was happy, as happy as he’d been when they’d killed the cat together, as happy as he’d ever been in his life.

  Leo stood up, taking the gun from Vasili’s hand. Blood snaked from the corner of Vasili’s mouth. He was still alive but his eyes were no longer calculating, plans were no longer being formed. He raised a hand, placing it on Leo’s shoulder, as if saying good-bye to a friend, before collapsing. This man, whose whole being had been bent on Leo’s persecution, was dead. But Leo felt nei
ther relief nor satisfaction. All he could think about was the one task he had left to perform.

  Raisa got up, standing beside Leo. Andrei remained where he was. No one did anything. Slowly, Leo raised the gun, taking aim, just above the bridge of his brother’s glasses. In the small room there was barely a foot between the barrel of the gun and his brother’s head.

  A voice cried out:

  —What are you doing?

  Leo turned. Nadya was at the bottom of the stairs. Raisa whispered:

  —Leo, we don’t have much time.

  But Leo couldn’t do it. Andrei said:

  —Brother, I want you to.

  Raisa reached out, put her hand around Leo’s. Together they pulled the trigger. The gun fired, recoiled. Andrei’s head jerked back and he fell to the floor.

  At the sound of the shot armed officers stormed the house, running down the stairs. Raisa and Leo dropped the gun. The lead officer stared at the body of Vasili. Leo spoke first, his hand shaking. He pointed to Andrei—his little brother:

  —This man was a murderer. Your superior officer died trying to apprehend him.

  Leo picked up the black case. With no idea if his guess would prove correct, he opened it. Inside there was a glass jar lined with paper. He unscrewed the lid, tipping the contents onto the table, onto his game of cards. It was the stomach of his brother’s last victim wrapped in an edition of Pravda. Leo added, his voice almost inaudible:

  —Vasili died a hero.

  As the officers moved around the table, examining this gruesome discovery, Leo stepped back. Nadya was staring at him, her father’s fury in her eyes.

  MOSCOW

  18 JULY

  LEO STOOD BEFORE MAJOR GRACHEV in the exact same office where he’d refused to denounce his wife. Leo didn’t recognize the major. He hadn’t heard of him. But he wasn’t surprised that someone new was in charge. No one lasted long in the upper echelons of the State Security force, and four months had passed since he’d stood here. This time there was no chance that they’d be punished with unsupervised exile or sent to the Gulags. Their executions would happen here, today.

  Major Grachev said:

  —Your previous superior was Major Kuzmin, a Beria appointee. Both have been arrested. Your case now falls to me.

  In front of him was the battered case file confiscated in Voualsk. Grachev flicked through the pages, the photographs, the statements, the court transcripts:

  —In that basement we found the remains of three stomachs, two of which had been cooked. They’d been taken from children, although we’re still trying to find out who these victims might be. You were right. Andrei Sidorov was a murderer. I’ve reviewed his background. It seems he was a collaborator with Nazi Germany and was mistakenly released back into our society after the war instead of being correctly processed. That was an unpardonable error on our part. He was a Nazi agent. They sent him back with instructions to take revenge on us for our victory over the Fascists. That revenge has taken the form of these terrible attacks on our children; they targeted the very future of Communism. More than that, it was a propaganda campaign. They wanted our people to believe our society could produce such a monster when in fact he was corrupted and educated by the West, transformed by his time away from home and then returned with a poisoned, foreign heart. I notice that not one of these murders took place before the Great Patriotic War.

  He paused, looking at Leo:

  —Was this not your thinking?

  —That was exactly my thinking, sir.

  Grachev offered his hand:

  —Your service to your country has been remarkable. I’ve been instructed to offer you a promotion, a higher grade of position within the State Security organs. There’s a clear route to a political role if you should want it. We’re in new times, Leo. Our leader Khrushchev considers the problems you faced in your investigation part of the unpardonable excesses of Stalinist rule. Your wife has been released. Since she assisted you in hunting this foreign operative any question of her loyalty has now been answered. Both your records will be wiped clean. Your parents will have their old apartment back. If that is not available, then they will have a better one.

  Leo remained silent.

  —You have nothing to say?

  —That is a very generous offer. And I’m honored. You understand that I acted without any thought of promotion or power. I merely knew this man had to be stopped.

  —I understand.

  —But I would like permission to turn down your offer. And instead make a request of my own.

  —Go on.

  —I want to take charge of a Moscow homicide department. If such a department does not exist I would like to create it.

  —What need is there of such a department?

  —As you already said yourself, murder will become a weapon against our society. If they cannot spread their propaganda through conventional means, they will use unorthodox means. I believe crime will become a new front in our struggle with the West. They will use it to undermine the harmonious nature of society. When they do, I want to be there to stop it.

  —Go on.

  —I would like General Nesterov transferred to Moscow. I would like him to work with me in this new department.

  Grachev considered the request, nodding solemnly.

  RAISA WAS WAITING OUTSIDE, staring up at the statue of Dzerzhinsky. Leo exited the building and took her hand, a brazen display of affection no doubt scrutinized by those staring out of the Lubyanka. He didn’t care. They were safe, at least for the time being. That was long enough; that was as long as anyone could possibly hope for. He glanced up at Dzerzhinsky’s statue and realized that he couldn’t remember a single thing the man had ever said.

  ONE WEEK LATER

  MOSCOW

  25 JULY

  LEO AND RAISA WERE SEATED in the director’s office of Orphanage 12, located not far from the zoo. Leo glanced at his wife and asked:

  —What’s taking so long?

  —I don’t know.

  —Something’s wrong.

  Raisa shook her head:

  —I don’t think so.

  —The director didn’t like us very much.

  —He seemed okay to me.

  —But what did he think of us?

  —I don’t know.

  —Do you think he liked us?

  —It doesn’t really matter what he thinks. It matters what they think.

  Leo stood up, restless, saying:

  —He has to sign off on it.

  —He’ll sign the papers. That’s not the issue.

  Leo sat down again, nodding:

  —You’re right. I’m nervous.

  —So am I.

  —How do I look?

  —You look fine.

  —Not too formal?

  —Relax, Leo.

  The door opened. The director, a man in his forties, entered the room:

  —I’ve found them.

  Leo wondered if that was just a turn of phrase or whether he’d literally searched the building. The man stepped aside. Standing behind him were two young girls—Zoya and Elena—the daughters of Mikhail Zinoviev. It had been several months since they’d witnessed their parents’ execution in the snow outside their home. In that time the physical change was dramatic. They’d lost weight, their skin had lost color. The younger girl, Elena, only four years old, had a shaved head. The eldest, Zoya, ten years old, had her hair cropped short. They’d almost inevitably been infested with lice.

  Leo stood up, Raisa beside him. He turned to the director:

  —Could we have a moment alone?

  The director didn’t like the request. But he obliged and retired, shutting the door. Both girls positioned themselves with their backs against the door, as far away from them as possible.

  —Zoya, Elena, my name is Leo. Do you remember me?

  No response, no change in their expression. Their eyes were alert, waiting for danger. Zoya took hold of her little sister’s hand.

 
—This is my wife, Raisa. She’s a teacher.

  —Hello, Zoya. Hello, Elena. Why don’t you both take a seat? It’s much more comfortable sitting down.

  Leo picked up the chairs, putting them down near the girls. Although reluctant to move from the door, they sat down, still holding hands, still saying nothing.

  Leo and Raisa crouched so that they were below the children’s eye level, still keeping their distance. The girls’ fingernails were black—perfect lines of grime—but their hands were otherwise clean. It was obvious that they’d been hastily tidied up before the meeting. Leo began:

  —My wife and I want to offer you a home, our home.

  —Leo has explained to me the reason you’re here. I’m sorry if this is upsetting to talk about, but it’s important we say these things now.

  —Although I tried to stop the murder of your mother and your father, I failed. Maybe you see no difference between me and the officer who committed that terrible crime. But I promise you, I am different.

  Leo faltered. He took a second, regaining his composure:

  —You might feel that by living with us you’re being disloyal to your parents. But I believe your parents would want the best for you. And life in these orphanages will offer you nothing. After five months I’m sure you understand that better than anyone.

  Raisa continued:

  —This is a difficult decision we’re asking you to make. You’re both very young. Unfortunately we live in a time when children are forced to make adult decisions. If you stay here your lives will be tough and they’re unlikely to get any easier.

  —My wife and I want to offer you back your childhood, we want to offer you a chance to enjoy being young. We won’t take the place of your parents. No one can replace them. We’ll be your guardians. We’ll look after you, feed you, and give you a home.

  Raisa smiled, adding:

  —We expect nothing in return. You don’t have to love us: you don’t even have to like us necessarily, although we hope eventually, you will. You can use us to get out of here.

  Supposing the girls wanted to say no, Leo added:

  —If you say no, we’ll try and find another family that will take you, a family that doesn’t have connections to your past. If that would be easier for you, you can tell us. The truth is, I cannot fix what happened. However, we can offer you a better future. You will have each other. You will have your own room. But you will always know me as the man who came to your farm, the man who came to arrest your father. Perhaps that memory will grow smaller over time, but you’ll never forget it. That will make our relationship complicated. But I believe, from personal experience, that it can work.