Child 44 (38 page)

Leo stopped reading, turning his head away. Yes, he remembered what had happened. He knew what the letter would go on to say. And yes, he’d spent his whole life trying to forget. He folded the letter before carefully ripping it into small pieces. He stood up, opening the small window, throwing the fragments out. Caught in the wind, the uneven squares of paper rose up into the air and disappeared out of view.

Same Day

Nesterov had spent his last day in the oblast visiting the town of Gukovo. He was now on the
elektrichka
, travelling back towards Rostov. Though the newspapers made no mention of these crimes, the incidents of murdered children had entered the public domain in the form of whispers and rumour. So far the militia in their closed localities had refused to see each murder as anything other than an isolated occurrence. But people outside of the militia, unburdened by any theory regarding the nature of crime, had begun to thread together these deaths. Unofficial explanations had begun to circulate. Nesterov had heard it stated that there was a wild beast murdering children in the forests around Shakhty. Different places had conjured different beasts, and supernatural explanations of one kind or another were being repeated all across the oblast. He’d heard a fearful mother claim the beast was part man part animal, a child brought up by bears who now hated all normal children, making them its food source. One village had been sure it was a vengeful forest spirit, the inhabitants performing elaborate ceremonies in an attempt to mollify this demon.

The people living in the Rostov oblast had no idea that there were similar crimes hundreds of kilometres away. They believed this was their blight, an evil that plagued them. In a way Nesterov agreed with them. There was no doubt in his mind that he was in the heartland of these crimes. The concentration of murders was far higher here than anywhere else. While he had no inclination to believe the supernatural explanations, he was in part seduced by the most persuasive and widespread of the theories, the notion that Nazi soldiers had been left behind as Hitler’s final act of revenge: soldiers whose last orders were to murder Russia’s children. These Nazi soldiers had been trained in the Russian way of life, blending in, while systematically murdering children according to a predetermined ritual. It would explain the scale of the murders, the geographical scope, the savagery but also the absence of any sexual interference. There wasn’t one killer but many, perhaps as many as ten or twelve, each acting independently, travelling to towns and killing indiscriminately. This theory had developed such momentum that some local militia, who’d paradoxically claimed to have solved all the crimes, began questioning any man who could speak German.

Nesterov stood up, stretching his legs. He’d been on the
elektrichka
for three hours. It was slow and uncomfortable and he wasn’t used to sitting still for so long. He walked the length of the carriage, opening the window, watching the lights of the city approach. Having heard about the murder of a boy named Petya living on a collective farm near Gukovo he’d travelled there this morning. Without too much difficulty he’d found the parents of the boy concerned. Though he’d given a false name he’d truthfully explained that he was working on an investigation involving the similar murders of a number of children. The boy’s parents had been staunch advocates of the Nazi-soldier theory, explaining that the Germans might even have been helped by traitorous Ukrainians, assisting them to integrate into society before murdering at random. The boy’s father had shown Nesterov Petya’s book of stamps, which the couple kept in its wooden box under their bed, a shrine to their dead son. Neither of them could look at the stamps without crying. Both parents had been refused access to their boy’s body. But they’d heard what had been done to him. He’d been savaged as if by an animal, dirt thrust in his mouth as if to spite them further. The father, who’d fought in the Great Patriotic War, knew that the Nazi soldiers were given drugs to ensure they were vicious, amoral and merciless. He was sure that these killers were the products of some such Nazi-created drug. Maybe they’d been made addicted to children’s blood, without which they’d die. How else could these men commit such crimes? Nesterov had no words of consolation except a promise that the culprit would be caught.

The
elektrichka
arrived at Rostov. Nesterov disembarked, confident only that he’d found the centre of these crimes. Having once been a member of the militia in Rostov before being transferred to Voualsk four years ago he’d had little difficulty gathering information. According to his most recent count fifty-seven children had been killed in what he considered to be comparable circumstances. A high portion of those murders had taken place in this oblast. Was it possible that across the entire western half of the country Nazi infiltrators had been left behind? An enormous stretch of land had been occupied by the Wehrmacht. He himself had fought in the Ukraine and encountered first-hand the rape and murder by the retreating army. Deciding not to commit himself to one theory or another, he pushed these explanations to one side. Leo’s mission in Moscow would be crucial to bring some kind of professionalism to the speculation of the killer’s identity. Nesterov had been tasked with the accumulation of facts regarding the killer’s location.

During their vacation his family had been staying in his mother’s apartment in the New Settlement, built during one of the postwar accommodation programmes with all the usual characteristics: constructed to fulfil a quota rather than to be lived in. They were already in a state of decay: they’d been in a state of decay before they were even finished. With no running water or central plumbing, they were similar to his home back in Voualsk. He and Inessa had agreed to lie to his mother, assuring her that they were now living in a new apartment. His mother had been comforted by the lie as though she herself was now living in that new apartment too. Approaching his mother’s house Nesterov checked his watch. He’d left at six this morning and it was now coming up to nine in the evening. Fifteen hours had been spent for the gain of no real information. His time was up. Tomorrow they were returning home.

He entered the courtyard. Washing hung from side to side. He could see his own clothes amongst them. He touched them. They were dry. Moving through the washing he approached the door of his mother’s apartment, entering the kitchen.

Inessa was seated on a wooden stool, her face bloody, her hands tied. Behind her stood a man he didn’t recognize. Without trying to figure out what had happened or who this man was Nesterov strode forward, overwhelmed with anger. He didn’t care that the man was wearing a uniform: he’d kill him all the same, whoever he was. He raised his fist. Before he could get close pain engulfed his hand. Looking to the side he saw a woman, perhaps forty years old. She was holding a black truncheon. He’d seen her face before. He remembered now–on the beach, two days ago. In her other hand she held a gun, casually, enjoying her position of power. She gestured to her officer. He stepped forward, throwing a selection of papers onto the floor. Falling around their feet was every document he’d accumulated over the past two months, photos, descriptions, maps–the case file of the murdered children.

—General Nesterov, you’re under arrest.

7 July

Leo and Raisa got off the train, waiting on the platform, pretending to fix their bags until all the other passengers had moved into the main building. It was late but not yet dark and feeling exposed they climbed off the platform, hurrying into the forest.

Reaching the spot where they’d hidden their belongings, Leo stopped, catching his breath. He stared up at the trees, wondering at his decision to destroy the letter. Had he done his parents a disservice? He understood why they’d wanted to write down their thoughts and feelings: they’d wanted to make their peace. But Raisa had been right about him when she’d said:

Is that how you’re able to sleep at night, by blanking events from your mind?

She was more right than she knew.

Raisa touched his arm.

—Are you OK?

She’d asked him what was in the letter. He’d considered lying and telling her it contained information about his family–personal details that he’d forgotten. But she’d have known he was lying. So, instead, he’d told her the truth that he’d destroyed the letter, ripped it into a hundred pieces, thrown it out of the window. He didn’t want to read it. His parents could rest easily believing that they’d unburdened themselves. To his relief she hadn’t questioned his decision and hadn’t mentioned it since.

Using their hands they dug away at the cover of leaves and loose soil, unearthing their belongings. They took off their city clothes, intending to change back into the trail gear they’d set out in–a necessary part of their cover. Undressed, alone, they paused, naked, staring at each other. Perhaps it was the danger, perhaps it was opportunistic, but Leo wanted her. Uncertain about her feelings for him, he did nothing, waiting, afraid to make the first move, as though they’d never had sex before, as though this was their first time with both of them unsure of the boundaries, unsure what was acceptable and what wasn’t. She reached out, touching his hand. That was enough. He pulled her towards him, kissing her. They’d murdered together, deceived together, plotted and planned and lied together. They were criminals, the two of them, them against the world. It was time to consummate this new relationship. If only they could stay here, live here in this exact moment, hidden in the forests, enjoying these feelings forever.

They rejoined the forest trail, walking into town. Arriving at Basarov’s they entered the main room. Leo was holding his breath, expecting hands to grab his shoulders. But there was no one here, no agents and no officers. They were safe, at least for another day. Basarov was in the kitchen and didn’t even turn round when he heard them arrive.

Upstairs, they unlocked their room. A note had been pushed under the door. Leo put his bags down on the bed. He picked up the note. It was from Nesterov, dated today.

Leo, if you’re back as planned, meet me tonight in my office at nine. Come alone. Bring all the documents relating to the matter we’ve been discussing. Leo, it’s very important that you’re not late.

Leo checked his watch. He had half an hour.

Same Day

Even back in the militia headquarters, Leo was taking no chances. He’d hidden the papers in official documents. The blinds to Nesterov’s office were drawn shut and it was impossible to see in. He checked his watch: he was late, two minutes late. Unable to see how that would matter particularly, he knocked on the door. Almost as soon as he did the door was opened, as though Nesterov had been waiting behind it. Leo was ushered in with a sudden, inexplicable urgency, the door shut behind him.

Nesterov was moving with an uncharacteristic impatience. His desk was covered with documents from the case file. He took hold of Leo by the shoulders and spoke in a hushed, hurried voice.

—Listen very carefully and don’t interrupt. I was arrested in Rostov. I was forced to confess. I had no choice. They had my family. I told them everything. I thought I might be able to persuade them to help, persuade them that they should to elevate our case to an official level. They reported it back to Moscow. They’ve accused us of anti-Soviet agitation. They think this is a personal vendetta you have against the State, an act of revenge. They dismissed our findings as an elaborate piece of Western propaganda: they’re certain that you and your wife are working as spies. They offered me a choice. They’re prepared to leave my family alone if I give them you and all the information we’ve collected.

Leo’s world fell away. Even though he’d known danger was close he hadn’t expected it to cut across his path just yet.

—When?

—Right now. The building’s surrounded. Agents will enter this room in fifteen minutes, arresting you in this office and collecting every piece of evidence we’ve amassed. I’m to spend these minutes finding out all the information you discovered in Moscow.

Leo stepped back, looking at his watch. It was five past nine.

—Leo, you have to listen to me. There’s a way for you to escape. But for this to work don’t interrupt, don’t ask any questions. I’ve come up with a plan. You’re going to hit me with my gun, knocking me unconscious. You’re then going to leave this office, go down one flight of stairs and hide in the offices to the right of the stairway. Leo, are you listening? You need to concentrate. The doors are unlocked. Go into them, don’t turn on the lights and lock the doors behind you.

But Leo wasn’t listening–all he could think about was.

—Raisa?

—She’s being arrested as we speak. I’m sorry but there’s nothing you can do about her. You need to concentrate, Leo, or this is over.

—This is over. This was over the moment you told them everything.

—They had everything, Leo. They had my work. They had my file. What was I supposed to do? Let them kill my family? They still would’ve arrested you. Leo, you can get angry with me, or you can escape.

Leo shook free of Nesterov’s grip, pacing the office, his mind trying to catch up. Raisa had been arrested. They’d both known this moment would come but had understood it only as a concept, an idea. They hadn’t understood what it would mean. The prospect of never seeing her again made it difficult to breathe. Their relationship, their relationship reborn, consummated barely two hours ago in the forest, was over.

—Leo!

What would she want? She wouldn’t want him to get sentimental. She’d want him to succeed, to escape, to listen.

—Leo!

—All right, what’s your plan?

Nesterov continued, recapping the first part:

—You’re going to hit me with my gun, knocking me unconscious. You’re then going to leave this office, go down one flight of stairs and hide in the offices to the right of the stairway. Hide in those offices; wait until the agents enter the building. They’ll come up to this floor, passing you by. Once they’ve gone past, you descend to the ground floor, exiting through one of the windows at the back. There’s a car parked there. Here are the keys, which you will have stolen from me. You have to leave town, don’t look for anyone or stop for anything, just drive. You will have a small advantage. They’ll believe that you’re on foot, somewhere in the town. By the time they realize you’ve taken a car, you should be free.