Child 44 (48 page)

Sitting in the back of the taxi, a Volga, almost certainly one produced in Voualsk, neither Leo nor Raisa spoke. They didn’t need to. The plan was in place. Leo was going to enter the Rostelmash factory and break into the employment records. He didn’t know how exactly, he’d have to improvise. Raisa was going to remain with the taxi, convincing the driver if he became suspicious that all was well. He’d been paid in advance and generously to keep him placid and obedient. Once Leo had found the killer’s name and address they’d need the driver to take them to where the killer lived. If the killer wasn’t home, if he was travelling, they would try to find out when he’d be back. They’d return to Shakhty, remain with Sarra’s family and wait.

The taxi stopped. Raisa touched Leo’s hand. He was nervous, his voice barely a whisper.

—If I’m not back in an hour.

—I know.

Leo got out, shutting the door.

There were guards stationed at the main gates, although they didn’t seem to be particularly alert. Judging from the security arrangements, Leo was almost certain no one in the
MGB
had guessed that this tractor factory was his destination. There was a chance that the front guards had been deliberately reduced in number as a way of luring him in, but he doubted it. They might have guessed that he was heading to Rostov but they hadn’t figured out where exactly. Walking around the back, he discovered a point where the wire fencing was sheltered from view by the side of a brick building. He clambered up, straddling the barbed wire, and lowered himself down. He was in.

The factory ran a twenty-four-hour production line. There were shift workers but not many people around. The grounds were vast. Several thousand people must be employed here, Leo reckoned as many as ten thousand–bookkeeping, cleaning, shipments and the production line itself. With the additional split between day- and night-workers he doubted if anyone would recognize him as a stranger. He walked calmly, purposefully, as if he belonged here, making his way towards the largest of the buildings. Two men exited, smoking, heading in the direction of the front gates. Maybe they’d finished for the night. They saw him and paused. Unable to ignore them Leo waved, moving towards them.

—I’m a
tolkach
working for the car factory in Voualsk. I was meant to arrive much earlier but my train was delayed. Where’s the administrative building?

—It doesn’t have a separate building. The main office is inside, on one of the upper floors. I’ll take you there.

—I’m sure I’ll find it.

—I’m not in any rush to get home. I’ll take you there.

Leo smiled. He couldn’t refuse. The two men said goodbye to each other and Leo followed his unwanted escort into the main assembly plant.

Stepping inside Leo briefly forgot himself–the sheer size, the high roof, the noise of the machinery–all creating a sense of wonder normally reserved for religious institutions. But, of course, this was the new church, the people’s cathedral, and a sense of awe was almost as important as the machines it produced. Leo and this man walked side by side, making idle conversation. Leo was suddenly glad of his escort; it meant no one looked twice at them. All the same, he wondered how he was going to get rid of him.

They took the stairs off the main factory floor, climbing up towards the administrative department. The man said.

—I don’t know how many people are going to be there. They don’t normally work night shifts.

Leo still didn’t have a clear idea of what he was going to do next. Could he bluff his way through? It seemed unlikely considering the sensitive information he needed, they wouldn’t just give it to him no matter what excuse he came up with. If he’d still had his State Security identification card, it would’ve been easy.

They turned a corner. The corridor leading to the office had views over the factory floor. Whatever Leo decided to do he’d be visible to the workers below. The man knocked on the door. Everything now depended on how many people were inside. The door was opened by an older man, a bookkeeper perhaps, dressed in a suit, with sallow skin and a bitter expression.

—What do you want?

Leo peered over the bookkeeper’s shoulder. The office was empty.

Leo swung around, punching his escort in the stomach, causing him to double up. Before the bookkeeper had time to react Leo had his hand tight around the old man’s neck.

—Do as I say and you’ll live, understand?

He nodded. Leo slowly released his neck.

—Close all the blinds. And remove your tie.

Leo pulled the younger man, who was still wheezing inside. He shut the door, locking it behind him. The bookkeeper took off his tie, throwing it to Leo before moving to the windows, shutting out the view over the factory. Using the tie, Leo secured the young man’s hands behind his back, all the time keeping his eye on the bookkeeper. He doubted if there was a weapon or alarm in here, there was nothing worth stealing. With the blinds closed the man turned back to Leo.

—What do you want?

—The employment records.

Baffled but obedient, the man unlocked the filing cabinet. Leo moved forward, standing beside him.

—Stay there, don’t move and keep your hands on top of the cabinet.

There were thousands and thousands of files, extensive documentation not just for the current work force but for people who’d left.
Tolkachs
weren’t supposed to exist, since their necessity implied some fault in distribution and production. It was unlikely they’d be listed under that title.

—Where are the files on your
tolkachs?

The old man opened up a cabinet, taking out a thick file. The front was marked
RESEARCHERS
, a cover. As far as Leo could tell there were five
tolkachs
currently on the payroll. Nervous–their entire investigation rested on these documents–he checked the employment history of these men. Where had they been sent and when? If these dates corresponded to the murders he would have found the killer, at least in his own mind. If it was enough of a match he’d go to the man and confront him–he was sure face to face, confronted with his crime, the killer would crack. He ran his finger down the list, comparing it to the dates and places held in his memory. The first list didn’t match. Leo paused for a moment, wondering about his own powers of recall. But the three dates he couldn’t forget were the murders in Voualsk and the murder in Moscow. This
tolkach
had never been there or anywhere along the Trans-Siberian railway line. Leo opened the second file, ignoring the personal information and moving to the employment record. This person had only started working last month. Leo pushed the files aside, opening the third file. It didn’t match. There were only two files left. He flicked to the fourth.

Voualsk, Molotov, Vyatka, Gorky–a row of towns which followed the train line west towards Moscow. Moving south from Moscow, there were the towns of Tula and Orel. Now into the Ukraine, Leo saw the towns of Kharkov and Gorlovka, Zaporoshy and Kramatorsk. In all these towns there had been murders. He shut the file. Before he studied the personal details he’d check the fifth file. Barely able to concentrate he ran his finger down the list. There were some cross-references but no perfect fit. Leo returned to the fourth file. He flicked to the front page, staring at the small black-and-white photo. The man was wearing glasses. His name was Andrei.

Same Day

Vasili sat on his hotel bed, smoking, dumping ash on the carpet and drinking straight from the bottle. He was under no illusions: if he didn’t hand his superior officers the fugitives Leo and Raisa, they would almost certainly look upon the death of Fyodor Andreev with unkind eyes. That had been the deal they’d struck before he’d left Moscow. They’d believe his story about Fyodor working with Leo, they’d believe that when Fyodor had been presented with the truth he’d tried to attack Vasili, only if he brought them Leo. The
MGB
were embarrassed at their inability to catch this unarmed, penniless married couple who seemed to have melted away. If Vasili could catch them they were prepared to forgive him any sin. Officials were preparing for the fact that Leo was already abroad in the clutches of Western diplomats. Their own foreign agents had been briefed. Photos of Leo and his wife had already been sent out to embassies across the world. Plans to assassinate them were being drawn up. If Vasili could save them the trouble of launching an expensive and diplomatically complicated international man hunt, then his slate would be wiped clean.

He dropped his cigarette stub on the carpet, watched it smoulder for a moment before crushing it under his heel. He’d been in contact with the State Security in Rostov, a ragtag bunch. He’d given them photos. He’d told the officers that they should bear in mind Leo might have grown a beard or cropped his hair short. They might not be travelling as a couple. They might have parted ways. One of them might be dead. Or they might be travelling in a group, assisted by others. Officers should pay little attention to paperwork, all of which Leo knew how to fake. They should detain anyone they considered even remotely suspicious. Vasili would make the final decision as to whether to release them or not. With thirty men in total he’d set up a series of checkpoints and random searches. He’d ordered every officer to log all incidents, no matter how trivial, in order that he’d be able to check them himself. These reports were brought to him, day and night.

There had been nothing so far. Would this prove another opportunity for Leo to humiliate him? Perhaps that idiot Fyodor had been wrong. Maybe Leo was heading somewhere completely different. If that was the case then Vasili was dead.

There was a knock on the door.

—Come in.

A red-faced young officer stood to attention holding a sheet of paper. Vasili gestured for him to give it to him.

Rostelmash factory. Administrative section.

Two men attacked, employment files stolen.

Vasili got to his feet.

—He’s here.

Same Day

They stood side by side, fifty paces from the front door. Leo glanced at his wife. She was unaware of this madness that had descended upon him. He felt giddy: as though he’d ingested some narcotic. He half expected that the feeling would fade and normality would return, there’d be another explanation and that this wouldn’t be the house belonging to his little brother.

Andrei Trofimovich Sidorov.

But that was his little brother’s name.

Pavel Trofimovich Sidorov.

And that had been his own name, until he’d shed his childhood identity as a reptile sheds its skin. The small photo on the employment file had confirmed it was Andrei. The features were the same–a lost expression. The glasses were new. But that’s why he’d been so clumsy, he was short-sighted. His awkward, shy little brother–murderer of at least 44 children. It made no sense and yet it made perfect sense: the string, the ground-up bark, the hunt. Forced to concentrate on the memories he’d banished, Leo recalled teaching his little brother how to make a string snare, he’d told him to gnaw on the bark of trees to suppress hunger. Had those lessons become the template for some kind of psychotic frenzy? Why hadn’t Leo made the connections before? No, it was ridiculous to have expected him to. Any number of children had been taught the same lessons and shown how to hunt. Upon seeing the victims these details hadn’t registered any deeper into Leo’s mind. Or had they? Had he chosen this path or had it chosen him? Had this been the reason he’d been drawn into the investigation when there was every reason to look the other way?

When he’d seen his brother’s name printed in black and white Leo had been forced to sit down, staring at the file, checking the dates, checking and rechecking. He’d been in shock, oblivious to the dangers around him. It wasn’t until he noticed the bookkeeper sidestepping towards the phone that he snapped back. He’d secured the bookkeeper to a chair, disabled the phone and locked both men in the office, gagging them. He had to get out. He had to pull himself together. But going down the corridor he hadn’t even been walking straight, lurching from side to side. He’d felt dizzy. Having made it outside, his thoughts still scrambled, his world still upside down, he’d instinctively turned towards the main gates, too late realizing that it would’ve been far safer to climb over the fence as he’d done before. But he’d been unable to change direction; the guards had seen him approach. He’d have to walk right past them. He’d begun to sweat. They’d let him go unchallenged. Once in the taxi he’d told the driver the address, ordering him to hurry. He’d been shaking, his legs, his arms–he’d been unable to stop. He’d watched as Raisa had studied the file. She now knew the story of his brother: she knew his first name but not their full name. He’d watched her reaction as she studied the papers. She hadn’t put the two together, she hadn’t guessed. How could she? He’d been incapable of telling her.

That man is my brother.

There was no way of knowing how many people were inside his brother’s house. The other inhabitants posed a problem. They were almost certainly unaware of the nature of this man, this killer, unaware of his crimes–surely part of the reason he murdered away from home. His little brother had created a split identity, his home life and his life as a killer, just as Leo had cleaved his own identity in two, the boy he’d been and the boy he’d become. Leo shook his head: he had to stay focused. He was here to kill this man. The question was how to get past the other occupants. Neither he nor Raisa had a gun. Raisa sensed his hesitation and asked:

—What’s worrying you?

—The other occupants of that house.

—You saw this man’s face. We’ve seen the photo. You can slip in and kill him while he sleeps.

—I can’t do that.

—Leo, he deserves nothing more.

—I have to be sure. I have to talk to him.

—He’s only going to deny it. The longer you speak to him, the harder it becomes.