Moskva (33 page)

The bed was a mess. One of them, probably Sveta, had had the decency to strip the bottom sheet and put it on the cotton cycle in the Candy in the kitchen. It had been spun but was still damp when Tom got back to his flat around noon. So he looped it between two chairs like a makeshift tent, and that made him think of Charlie, which didn’t help.

The rest of the flat was suspiciously clean.

Everything in the kitchen had been washed and put away. The bath had been wiped down and was free of suds. That said, both Tom’s towels and his bathmat were sodden, most of the loo roll was gone, his champagne had been drunk and the bottle was missing. So they’d either taken it as a souvenir or dumped it with the rubbish outside.

Talking to Caro had thrown him.

Much of his protective anger was gone and without it he felt unshelled, rolled by events through the grit of his misery. In part through desperation, in part because he couldn’t put it off any longer, he made himself a jug of coffee using the real Colombian he’d brought from London, ripped open a fresh packet of papirosa and borrowed the cracked saucer from under the cactus for an ashtray. Then he put Beziki’s file on his living-room table, laid the photographs out like cards, with their backs to him, and began with the bank statements.

Beziki had kept money in the Bahamas.

The idea that a Soviet gangster would have a Western bank
account stunned Tom but it was the truth. The man had also had accounts in Prague, Budapest and West Berlin. The money he had with the Royal Bahaman was several times Tom’s salary. He checked the figure again to be sure. And having made sure, he slid that bank book and that one only into his pocket, leaving the others where they were.

It was slow going sorting through the rest.

Beziki’s handwriting was atrocious and he’d kept all the accounts himself.
You would, wouldn’t you?
Tom thought. This wasn’t simply extortion and money laundering. This was extortion and money laundering in a country where both were punishable by death.

From a land deed on file it looked as if he’d owned a farm in Latvia and a vineyard in Georgia. Tom hadn’t even known private citizens could own land in the USSR. Account books for the farm and vineyard came next. Money in and money out, money loaned to neighbours and money repaid, rates of interest, new loans opened, old loans closed. A list of restaurants and companies in Moscow, Leningrad and Tbilisi came after that. Money loaned and money repaid. Sometimes, increasingly often, simply money paid in. Money went in monthly, the same sums every time. Occasional red dashes indicated a sum not paid. An occasional line through a name indicated an account closed. It was dark by the time Tom finished with the bank statements, land deeds and the flimsy little account books with their spidery notation, obviously written by someone who came to literacy late.

A brown envelope held pages torn from notebooks, mixed in with badly typed forms and reports, some so old they related to the secret police in the days, immediately after the Revolution, when it was still known as the Cheka. Most were later, though.

They all related to the Tsaritsyn Monastery.

It took Tom an entire packet of papirosa to translate the comments about traitors, kulaks, recidivists and duty done, and work out what was actually being said. In the late twenties and early thirties, in the aftermath of a failed kulak rebellion, the monastery had been a clearing house for those involved, the families of those involved, those who might have known those involved.

The net widened.

The numbers killed ran into hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands. Brothers were forced to kill brothers, sons their fathers, daughters their mothers. Those who refused died with those they refused to kill. The descriptions were cold, almost clinical. The state was diseased.

Stalin’s purges were at their height.

They had a duty to reduce the contagion.

Two supposedly trustworthy locals carried out the work of organizing the slaughter. An ex-officer of the Imperial Veterinary Service, Pavel Nikolayevich Dennisov, and his ex-sergeant, Aslam Arkanovitch Kyukov. In time they had proved themselves untrustworthy and had been dispatched in their turn.

Tom read the two names again.

To find a Dennisov or a Kyukov might mean nothing.

To find both, linked like this … He needed to see what else, if anything, he could discover about the place. The last piece of paper was a newspaper clipping, yellow with age, ripped in two and glued together. The monastery was to be bulldozed and an orphanage built on its ruins.

Tom almost left it there, but then he made himself start on the photographs.

The first showed Gabashville’s boy dead in the ruined
house. The curtain covering him had been yanked back and camera flash bleached his features.

The next showed him post autopsy, the Y-shaped incision across his chest sewn clumsily shut, the bullet wounds clearly visible. The photograph was official, or copied from an official one. Autopsy notes were glued to the back.

I should have realized it’s been hard for you too.

For you
too
. He’d given no thought to how grim it was for Caro.

Other, older photographs followed. An old man with a young boy. Two serious and thickset women on a fur rug in front of a fire with a wall of books behind. A girl, with ribs like a rack of lamb, with a girl younger still. A poster above the bed showed the older girl in
Giselle
.

Tom went back to the first and looked more closely.

Not at what was being shown, an old man in a leather chair, smoking a cigar, while a naked boy knelt in front of him. He looked at the background: high ceiling and tall windows, paintings of windblown steppes and photographs of men in uniform. The commissar’s generation or the one below.

And if it wasn’t taken in the House of Lions, then it had been somewhere similar. There were a handful of others like this, some old, some new. One showed a young, smiling Vladimir Vedenin. There was a photograph of his father too, smiling across a cafe table at a young blonde girl Tom found unsettlingly familiar.

If the photograph hadn’t been old, he would have said he’d seen her recently.

Trying to work out where gave Tom such a headache he washed down a handful of codeine with bad East German beer, and topped the painkillers off with a couple of sleeping pills. Then he made himself drink a pint of water against
tomorrow’s hangover and went to bed early, betting against sleep. He lost.

When the phone rang at dawn, Tom ignored it. He ignored it again when he was down to the dregs of his morning coffee and Beziki’s photographs were spread untidily across the table in a fan in front of him. The same boys, the same old men, the same girl across a cafe table. If he stopped now, he’d find excuses to avoid looking at the last few.

The photographs in this envelope were older than the rest, smaller in format and taken with a 35mm fixed-lens camera, a good one. There were twenty-four shots, with the negatives included. The two yellowing strips of celluloid were so friable their perforated edges had begun to break away.

The first photograph showed the Reichstag, the streets around it bombed back to ruins, seven very young soldiers and a boy clutching a sniper’s rifle in the foreground. The men had forage caps, the boy a cloth
budenovka
with the flaps tied up. It wasn’t hard to recognize Beziki in the skinny urchin grinning for the camera.

In the second, a smiling officer pointed at a newspaper. It showed a blonde girl with complicated plaits proudly clutching a sniper rifle. The four or five photographs after that had the same snapshot feel. Young men pointing at Berlin street signs, or drinking from beer steins. Young men astride captured BMWs, grinning from the seats of an open-topped Mercedes, sitting fully clothed in a row of enamel baths holding champagne bottles. There was one of Kyukov, with his arm round a German girl, whose eyes were flat and smile tight. Another of the same girl naked in a tub, with suds too thin to hide her breasts. A photograph taken at her family flat, showing an old man, a small boy, the girl from the tub
and a hollow-faced woman who might be her mother. They sat at a table laden with rations. Kyukov stood behind the girl, grinning from under his forage cap. The photographs changed after that.

Everything changed. The buildings were different, the skies less grey.

Tom couldn’t work out if it was a different city a few months later or simply a different part of Berlin. The smiles were gone, replaced by sullen anger. The baby-faced boy looked haunted. The jackets of the other officers no longer hung open. There were no girls, no motorbikes, no champagne bottles. Their senior officer – who Tom knew was Sveta’s grandfather – looked thoughtful, more than thoughtful, brooding.

The last eight photographs told a dark story.

The baby-faced lieutenant was bare-chested and tied to a chair. He had a gash across his upper chest and a forage cap stuffed in his mouth. His lips were broken, his face bruised and one of his ears bleeding. In the next photograph, he had a second gash. His eyes were wide, he was straining against his ropes, flesh bulging between twists of hemp as he struggled to break free. A sliver of Russian uniform stepped out of the photograph as another stepped in. In the photograph that came next, those entering and leaving the picture were gone but there was a third cut, deep enough for flesh to gape. Butchery, pure and simple.

So it went on, photograph by photograph, cut by cut. In the second to last, the man was dead, or as good as. The blood on the floor had already started to congeal. He’d long since pissed himself. On the back of each photograph was a smudged thumbprint. It took Tom a while to realize each one was different.

The last photograph …

Tom looked at it. He looked at it for a long time.

When the entryphone buzzed, he ignored it, as he’d ignored the house phone earlier. By the time there was an actual knock at his door he’d translated the splashes of semi-literate Russian on the plank held by Dennisov and his rather long-haired, disconcertingly beautiful Tartar friend.

The Tsaritsyn Boys.

Four German teenagers hung from the tree that formed the last photograph’s centrepiece. A second plank, nailed to its trunk, stated that they’d been executed for the horrific murder of a Soviet officer.

Dennisov looked pious. Kyukov was grinning.

‘All right, all right … I’m coming.’

Flipping Beziki’s file shut, Tom headed for the hallway.

The Tsaritsyn Boys.
Beziki had talked of the orphanage there. Built, it seemed, on the ruins of a monastery where a massacre had happened.

Tom expected it to be one of the other Sad Sam residents at the door; they were all expats with not enough scope to do their jobs and too much time on their hands. Unless, of course, it was whoever lived directly below wanting to complain about whatever noise Sveta and Dennisov had made. Tom imagined they’d probably made some. Instead, he opened the door to Mary Batten from the embassy, looking furious.

‘Fox …’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Is your telephone broken?’

‘No, definitely not. It’s been ringing.’

‘Then why the bloody hell didn’t you answer it?’ Pushing her way in without being invited, she glanced through to his bedroom before tossing her satchel on to the only decent chair in the living room.

‘Alex’s?’ she asked, looking at the Amstrad.

Tom nodded.

‘We’ll be wanting it back.’ She wrinkled her nose at the papirosa filters overflowing from a saucer on the table and
opened the window without asking. Ice-cold air cut into the smoky room.

She tossed a package on to the table. ‘This came for you.’

‘What is it?’

‘Look at the docket.’

Only Caro’s father would use the diplomatic mail to transport ‘Divorce Papers’ and mark them ‘Deliver Immediately’. Ripping the package open, Tom extracted a folded compliment slip with the House of Lords oval at the top.
Apparently this is your price for divorcing my daughter in a civilized fashion.

‘Deal with that later,’ Mary said. ‘I’m here about something else.’

Extracting from her satchel something that looked like an oscilloscope, she unfolded a four-way antenna, connected a battery, flicked a switch and glared at Tom.

‘Just what the
fuck
did you think you were doing?’ She jabbed her finger at him. ‘You were
seen
leaving Gabashville’s offices. Understand? I mean, Christ, have you completely lost your senses?’

‘What do you mean I was –’

‘You were followed.’

‘By an old woman?’

‘I doubt it. You were seen leaving Gabashville’s offices. He’s dead, you know. Of course you fucking know. Christ, Fox … I gather you came straight to the embassy, had two telephone conversations and left again. Which is about as stupid as you can get.’

‘I left you a note,’ he said.

‘What note?’

‘Alex’s boyfriend worked for Vedenin.’

‘Oh shit …’ She stared at Tom. ‘
Worked?
’

‘He’s dead. I think Vladimir killed him, then took Alex.’

Mary looked so appalled Tom imagined she must be working out how to tell the ambassador. ‘Go on,’ she said.

‘When Vladimir’s father realized, he panicked. The cult house was set dressing. The soldiers were meant to go in, find Alex and return her. Only someone took Alex and left Beziki’s son in her place. That’s why Vedenin was so shocked. He wasn’t expecting bodies.’

‘You think that someone was Vladimir?’

You don’t know him!
Tom remembered Vladimir’s anguished shout at the lake. ‘Yes. But he was working for someone else. Not Beziki. My guess is Beziki took her after Vladimir died. Now, of course, he’s dead too.’

‘How much of this can you prove?’

‘None of it.’

‘Why would Vladimir kill Alex’s boyfriend?’

‘They’d been lovers.’

Mary put her head in her hands. When she looked up, took a deep breath and fixed her gaze on Tom, he knew it wasn’t good. In fact, he knew what Mary intended to say before she said it.

‘You’re out of this. Now more than ever. Moscow can keep this out of their papers until hell freezes over. We don’t have that luxury.’

Reaching into her pocket, she put a buff envelope on his table.

‘Official,’ she said. ‘Immediate effect. You’re on sick leave. Sir Edward doesn’t expect to see you at the embassy. You have no authority to talk to anyone about Alex on his behalf. I need to think about what you’ve just said. In the meantime, the Soviets will deal direct with me.

‘One final point. This isn’t Northern Ireland. You can’t just go around killing people. You’re damned lucky Gabashville was a recidivist. They’re going to chalk his death up to suicide. In return? God knows what they’ll want …’

‘Mary. It was suicide.’

‘So you say.’

‘Tell them to check the revolver. My fingerprints aren’t on it.’

She stared at him.

‘Could you do something for me?’ Tom asked.

‘Why the hell would I do that?’

‘There’s an old guide to Imperial Russia in the embassy library. I’m hoping there’s a reference to a monastery in Tsaritsyn. Since I’m banned from Maurice Thorez Embankment, could someone deliver it?’

‘This is to do with your report?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t remember that earlier.’

Tom thought of pointing out that it had been Sir Edward who had dragged him into the hunt for Alex. He thought of saying it and decided not to bother. Four boys, Alex’s age, hanging from an oak tree. He knew that photograph was going to haunt him. When Mary glanced at Beziki’s file under its saucer of papirosa butts and said, ‘What’s in there?’ Tom shrugged and stood, edging her towards the door.

‘Nothing to concern you,’ he said.

Neither of them bothered with goodbyes.

The enclosed are due for release next Jan under rules covering confidential papers relating to the British takeover of what became our sector in Berlin. They are to be returned to me and only to me. Understand that I am doing this only because my daughter has asked me to, and in hope that you will give her a civilized divorce …

Without bothering to read them, Tom put the forms face down in a drawer in the bedroom, under an airline blanket left by the previous occupant. Then he boiled some pasta, drained it over the sink, tipped a small jar of Heinz Italian Sauce on top and shovelled the food into his mouth without
tasting it, or even noticing that he hadn’t, and went back to what else was in the envelope.

Accompanying the forms for his divorce was a large white envelope that had the seal of the House of Lords embossed on the flap. Its glue strips were shiny and unused. A second envelope, inside the first, was the familiar buff of official envelopes everywhere. A torn stamp glued across its flap as a security seal showed George VI looking like a slightly nervous accounts clerk.

Attached was a compliment slip from Century House, 100 Westminster Bridge Road. A note, typed on a manual typewriter and unsigned, reminded Caro’s father that the enclosed were originals and should be returned to Kew rather than Chancery Lane, and were not to leave his possession under any circumstances. Also, the director would be interested to know what had brought papers as obscure as these to his lordship’s attention …

Inside were several sheets of paper, the first typed on flimsy, using a manual typewriter that needed its ribbon changing. The paper was headed
Office of the Administrator, British Sector, Berlin.
It suggested the Soviets be reassured that the accompanying files would not be acted upon.

There were, inevitably, no accompanying files.

It was the
Parteiadler
, the Nazi eagle above the swastika, perching over the words
Polizeistation
on the sheet below that made Tom blink. The page was filled with tiny, impossibly neat script. Someone had crossed the eagle through. Not scrubbed it out, simply crossed it through. The sheet below that looked to be a translation of the German.

On 24 July 1945, Frau Elsa von Wiesen arrived at the station and asked me to speak to the English on her behalf, as she didn’t know their language and the soldiers who guarded the
doors to their HQ were, in her words, fools. She had a notebook belonging to her traitorous son-in-law Dr Schultz. She insisted that the English would want it. I was to tell them that. (Frau von Wiesen was the wife of a high-ranking Party member and has not adjusted well to the change in her situation.)

I gave her son-in-law’s name to the English lieutenant to whom I have been making my daily report. An hour later he appeared at the police station with a translator, told me to get into his Jeep and ordered me to guide them to Dr Schultz’s house immediately.

Frau von Wiesen’s actual statement was missing, destroyed perhaps, or simply not included. Its translation was typed on flimsy using the same machine as before; its ink ribbon still needed changing.

She opened by saying she’d hidden the biggest of her son-in-law’s notebooks because she didn’t want the Bolsheviks to get it. He hadn’t dared confront her, as he didn’t want the Bolsheviks to know it was missing. She would give it to the English if they promised to investigate her granddaughter’s murder.

I knew something was wrong. I knew they were lying. They’d hung her from her heels like a slab of meat and …
Having read the first line of the next paragraph, Tom made do with skimming the rest and felt his guts tighten.

Hadn’t even cut her down …

Yes, I’m certain …

One stab …

According to Frau von Wiesen, her granddaughter had not been raped and strangled by Nazis or newly freed foreign workers as Colonel Milov insisted. She’d been skinned alive and hung by her heels by one of his staff. Either he or one of the others had then stabbed her, a single thrust to the heart.
Her neck was unbroken. Far from being raped, she had died a virgin.

Tom hardly dared think about how the old woman might have discovered that.

Her daughter and grandson had gone to live in Moscow with her traitorous son-in-law, who was meant to be a brilliant scientist. But if he was so brilliant, why hadn’t he saved the Fatherland? She’d refused to go with them, even though her daughter had begged. She’d noticed that her son-in-law didn’t beg. He didn’t even try to change her mind. She’d always suspected he was a Bolshevik really. She wouldn’t have been surprised to discover he was a Jew.

Lots of people were, you know.

The lieutenant had asked what made her think it was Soviet soldiers and not any one of the thousands of newly released foreign workers, most of them intent on revenge, who had done this? The simplicity of her answer made Tom lurch in his chair. She had watched her granddaughter being taken to the stables by one of the Russians. It was too dark to say which. He’d been thin, looked young. They all looked young to her. Why hadn’t she gone to help?

Dear God, what was he? An idiot?

Had he no idea what had been happening?

Did he think for a minute Colonel Milov’s man wouldn’t simply shoot her and then outrage the little fool anyway? Better to go with one Russian and pretend it was willingly and hope he’d protect her from the others. How was she to know he’d torture her granddaughter like that? There’d been no noise, no sound.

She was certain. She’d left her window open.

No one screamed. No one came running. When the Russian came out later, he’d joked with one of the others who was sitting on a deckchair in the garden, getting drunk. That
one had set off towards the stables, changed his mind and returned to his chair and his bottle.

No, she couldn’t describe him either.

Small, thin, young. They all looked like starved rats. Except their colonel – he was built like a manual labourer, squat and ugly. Spoke like one too. No, of course she didn’t speak Russian.

His voice. His accent. His manner.

A letter on crisp white paper from the Cavendish Laboratory in Cambridge thanked the British Administrator for the diary and asked if there was any chance of talking to Dr Schultz direct. An apologetic note in reply regretted that would be impossible. The last note was on half-size official flimsy.

Whoever had typed it hadn’t bothered with an HQ address or a date more specific than Sept 1945.
There it was.
Tom felt a thrill of excitement as he skimmed the page. The officer had examined the evidence and talked extensively to his Soviet counterpart, in the eyes of his CO perhaps too extensively. There was no merit in Frau von Wiesen’s story. It was a crude attempt to smear Britain’s allies and the Soviets’ original conclusion that Dr Schultz’s daughter had been raped and murdered by newly released forced workers was a sound one and should stand.

He would inform Frau von Wiesen of this decision.

Tom understood why the decision to take the notebook and sweep everything else under the carpet had been made. He might not agree with it but he understood.

The Soviets were our allies, the Germans our enemies.

The war with Japan was not yet over. Half of Europe was a morally bankrupt wilderness hovering on the edge of anarchy; the UK and America’s alliance with Soviet Russia was already fraying and what action could the Administrator have taken
anyway? Moscow was unlikely to offer up a handful of its victorious troops on the say-so of an elderly card-carrying Nazi who happened to be the mother-in-law of a nuclear scientist they’d kidnapped, offered refuge to, protected …

But was that the sole reason for the decision?

The only person who could answer that was the man who’d written and initialled the note,
EJSM. Edward James Stought Masterton …
How many other British officers had there been in Berlin in 1945 with those initials?

Maybe Sir Edward wasn’t stunned into inactivity by the disappearance of his stepdaughter. Maybe fear was behind his icy control. Maybe Tom had things entirely back to front.

Sir Edward knew exactly what he was facing.