Child 44 (46 page)

Vasili studied the stack of documents accumulated over the past months by both Leo and the local militia officer whom he’d convinced to help him. There were photos of murdered children, witness statements. There were court documents about convicted suspects. During his interrogation Leo had denounced this work. Vasili knew that denunciation was a lie. Leo was a believer and he believed in this fanciful theory. But what exactly did they believe? A single killer was responsible for all these motiveless murders–murders spread over many hundreds of kilometres in over thirty different locations? Aside from the theory itself being bizarre, it meant they could be heading anywhere. Vasili could hardly pick one of these locations and wait. Frustrated, he re-examined the map marked with each alleged murder, numbered chronologically.

44

Vasili’s finger tapped the number. He picked up the phone.

—Bring me Officer Fyodor Andreev.

Since Vasili had been promoted he’d been rewarded with his own office–a small space, admittedly, but one of which he was immensely proud as if each square metre had been personally conquered during a military campaign. There was a knock on the door. Fyodor Andreev entered, now one of Vasili’s subordinates: a youngish man, loyal, hardworking and not too bright, perfect virtues in a subordinate. He was nervous. Vasili smiled, gesturing for Fyodor to sit down.

—Thank you for coming. I need your help.

—Certainly, sir.

—You’re aware that Leo Demidov is a fugitive?

—Yes, sir, I’ve heard.

—What do you know of the reasons behind Leo’s arrest?

—Nothing.

—We believed that he was working for Western governments, collecting information–spying. But that turns out not to be true. We were wrong. Leo wouldn’t tell us anything during his interrogation. Now, belatedly, I’ve found out that he was working on this.

Fyodor stood up, staring at the case file on the table. He’d seen these documents before. They’d been taped to Leo’s chest. Fyodor was beginning to sweat. He leaned forward, as though examining these papers for the first time, trying to hide the fact that he was trembling. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Vasili had moved and was now standing beside him, staring down at the pages, as though they were working together, partners. Vasili’s finger slid across the map, slowly, reaching Moscow and tapping:

44

Fyodor felt sick. He turned his head to see Vasili’s face close to his own.

—Fyodor, we know Leo came to Moscow recently. I now believe that rather than spying, this journey was in fact part of his investigation. You see, he believes that a murder took place here. Your son was murdered, am I correct?

—No, sir. He was killed in an accident. He was cut down by a train.

—Leo was sent to deal with the matter?

—Yes, but—

—And at the time you believed that the boy was murdered, am I right?

—At the time, I was upset, it was very difficult…

—So, when Leo came back to Moscow to investigate, it wasn’t your child that he was interested in?

—No, sir.

—How do you know?

—Sir?

—How do you know what Leo was or wasn’t interested in?

Vasili took a seat, glancing at his fingernails, pretending to be hurt.

—Fyodor, you obviously have a very low opinion of me.

—That’s not true, sir.

—You must understand that if Leo is right, if there is a child-murderer, then he needs to be caught. I want to help Leo. Fyodor, I have children of my own. It is my duty as a father and as an officer to stop these terrible crimes. This supersedes any personal animosity that exists between Leo and myself. If I wanted Leo dead, I would simply do nothing. At the moment everyone considers both him and his wife to be spies. They will be shot on sight and I fear their investigation will be lost. More children will die. However, if I had all the facts, I might be able to persuade my superiors to call off the man hunt. If I don’t, what chance do Leo and Raisa have?

—None.

Vasili nodded, pleased with the confirmation. It was true, then: Leo was convinced that there was one man responsible for all these deaths. Vasili continued.

—My point exactly, they have no money; they’re hundreds of kilometres from their destination.

—Where did they escape?

Fyodor’s second mistake, revealing that he too believed Leo would be intent on catching this killer. All Vasili needed now was the destination itself. He pointed east of Moscow, the train lines, and watched as Fyodor’s eyes moved from that position, across the map, southwards. Leo was heading south. But Vasili still needed a name. Coaxing Fyodor, he remarked:

—The majority of the murders are taking place in the south.

—Just from glancing at this map…

Fyodor paused. It was possible to tip Vasili off without incriminating himself. They could then jointly petition their superior officers to change their mind about Leo and Raisa. Fyodor had been looking for a way to help them. This was it: he’d turn them from villains into heroes. When they’d met in Moscow, Leo had mentioned that a militia officer had travelled to Rostov to confirm that the city was the most probable location of the killer. Fyodor pretended to scrutinize the papers.

—Judging from the concentration of the murders, I’d say the city of Rostov-on-Don. All the early murders were in the south. He must live there or somewhere near there.

—Rostov?

—What do you think is the best way of convincing our superiors?

—I need to understand everything. We’d be taking a great risk, putting our necks on the line. We have to be sure. Show me again, why do you believe this killer lives in the south?

With Fyodor engrossed in the documents, talking about this and that, Vasili stood up, stepped around the desk, drew his gun and aimed at Fyodor’s heart.

14 July

Leo and Raisa were in a crate one metre high and two metres wide: human cargo–contraband–in the process of being smuggled south. After the military had completed their search of the
kolkhoz
, the villagers had taken Leo and Raisa by truck to the nearest town, Ryazan, where they’d introduced them to friends and family. In the stifling heat of a small apartment filled with an audience of nearly thirty and the fog of cheap cigarette smoke, Leo had told the story of their investigation. No one needed any convincing as to the urgency of the objective and no one had any difficulty believing that the militia had proved useless in dealing with the killer. They’d never turned to the militia for help or taken their disputes to the authorities, always depending on each other. This was the same, except at stake were the lives of an unknowable number of children.

Together, as a collective, plans were laid to transport them south. One member of the audience worked as a truck driver shuttling loads between Moscow and towns such as Samara and Kharkov. Kharkov was some three hundred kilometres north of Rostov, half a day’s drive. Though it was decided that driving into Rostov itself was too risky since the driver had no business there, he’d be prepared to take them to the nearby town of Shakhty. He could legitimately pass off this diversion by claiming that he was visiting family. That same family would, after listening to the story, almost certainly agree to help Leo and Raisa travel into the city
.

At the very least they had a day and a half in this crate, cooped up in complete darkness. The driver was transporting bananas, luxury exotic goods intended for the
spetztorgi
. Shops for high ranking Party figures, the kind of shops Leo and Raisa once bought their own groceries in. Their crate was positioned at the back of the truck wedged under other crates all filled with precious fruit. It was hot and dry and the journey uncomfortable. There were breaks every three to four hours when the driver would stop, slide off the crates above them, letting his human cargo stretch their legs and relieve themselves by the side of the road.

In complete darkness, with their legs crossed over each other, in opposite corners of the crate, Raisa asked:

—Do you trust him?

—Who?

—The driver.

—You don’t?

—I don’t know.

—You must have some reason for asking?

—Of all the people listening to the story he was the only one who didn’t have any questions. He didn’t seem to engage with it. It didn’t shake him as it shook the others. He seems blank to me, practical, unemotional.

—He didn’t have to help us. And he’s not going to be able to betray us and then go back to his friends and family.

—He could make something up. There was a roadblock. We were caught. He tried to help us but there was nothing he could do.

—What do you suggest?

—At the next stop, you could overpower him, tie him up and drive the truck yourself.

—You’re serious?

—The only way to be sure, to be absolutely certain, is to take his truck. We’d have his papers. We’d have our lives back in our hands, back under our control. We’re helpless like this. We don’t know where he’s taking us.

—You were the one who taught me to trust in the goodness of strangers.

—This man isn’t like the others. He seems ambitious. He spends his entire day transporting luxury items. He must think: I want that, I want those fine textiles, those rare foods. He understands that we’re an opportunity. He knows how much he can sell us for. And he knows the price he’ll pay for being caught with us.

—I’m hardly the one to say this, Raisa, but you’re talking about an innocent man, a man who seems to be risking his life to help us.

—I’m talking about guaranteeing that we reach Rostov.

—Isn’t this how it starts? You have a cause you believe in, a cause worth dying for. Soon, it’s a cause worth killing for. Soon, it’s a cause worth killing innocent people for.

—We wouldn’t have to kill him.

—Yes we would, because we couldn’t leave him tied up on the roadside. That would be a far greater risk. We either kill him, or trust him. Raisa, this is how things fall apart. We’ve been fed, sheltered and transported by these people. If we turn on them, execute one of their friends for no reason other than as a precaution, I’d be the same man you despised in Moscow.

Even though he couldn’t see her, he knew she was smiling.

—Were you testing me?

—Just making conversation.

—Did I pass?

—That depends on whether we get to Shakhty or not.

After a stretch of silence, Raisa asked.

—What happens once this is over?

—I don’t know.

—The West will want you, Leo. They’ll protect you.

—I’d never leave this country.

—Even if this country is going to kill you?

—If you want to defect, I’ll do everything I can to get you onto a boat.

—What are you going to do? Hide in the hills?

—Once that man is dead, once you’re safely out of the country, I’m going to turn myself in. I don’t want to live in exile, among people that want my information but hate me. I don’t want to live as a foreigner. I can’t do it. It would mean that everything these people in Moscow have said about me would be true.

—And that’s the most important thing?

Raisa sounded hurt. Leo touched her arm.

—Raisa, I don’t understand.

—Is it that complicated? I want us to stay together.

Leo said nothing for a moment. Finally he replied:

—I can’t live as a traitor. I can’t do it.

—Which means we’ve got about twenty-four hours left?

—I’m sorry.

—We should make the most of this time together.

—How do we do that?

—We tell each other the truth.

—The truth?

—We must have secrets. I know I have some. Don’t you? Things you’ve never told me.

—Yes.

—Then I’ll go first. I used to spit in your tea. After I heard about Zoya’s arrest, I was convinced you’d reported her. So, for about a week, I spat in your tea.

—You spat in my tea?

—For about a week.

—Why did you stop?

—You didn’t seem to care.

—I didn’t notice.

—Exactly. OK, your turn.

—Truthfully—

—That’s the point of this game.

—I don’t think you married me because you were afraid. I think you scouted me out. You made it look like you were scared. You gave me a false name and I pursued you. But I think you targeted me.

—I’m a foreign agent?

—You might know of people working for Western agencies. Maybe you were helping them. Maybe that idea was at the back of your mind when you married me.

—That’s not a secret, that’s speculation. You have to share secrets–hard facts.

—I found a
kopek
among your clothes, the coin could be split it in two–it’s a device for smuggling microfilm. Agents use them. No one else would have one.

—Why didn’t you denounce me?

—I couldn’t do it.

—Leo, I didn’t marry you as a way of getting close to the
MGB
. I told you the truth before, I was scared.

—And the coin?

—That coin was mine…

Her voice drifted off, as though weighing up whether or not to continue.

—I didn’t use it to carry microfilm. I used it to carry cyanide paste, when I was a refugee.

Raisa had never spoken about the period after her home had been destroyed, the months on the road–the dark ages of her life. Leo waited, suddenly nervous.