by Child 44
—No, there’s nothing more.
At the door to the apartment Fyodor shook Leo’s hand:
—We’re all very upset. Forgive us any outbursts.
—They’ll pass unrecorded. But, as I said, this ends here.
Fyodor’s face stiffened. He nodded. As though the words were bitter he forced them out:
—My son’s death was a terrible accident.
Leo walked down the stairs, breathing deeply. The atmosphere in that room had been suffocating. He was glad to be done, glad the matter had been resolved. Fyodor was a good man. Once he came to terms with his son’s death the truth would be easier to accept.
He paused. There was the sound of someone behind him. He turned around. It was a boy, no more than seven or eight years old:
—Sir, I am Jora. I’m Arkady’s older brother. May I speak to you?
—Of course.
—It’s my fault.
—What was your fault?
—My brother’s death: I threw a snowball at him. I’d packed it with stones and dirt and grit. Arkady was hurt, it hit him in the head. He ran off. Maybe it made him dizzy, maybe that’s why he couldn’t see the train. The dirt they found in his mouth: that was my fault. I threw it at him.
—Your brother’s death was an accident. There’s no reason for you to feel any guilt. But you did well telling me the truth. Now go back to your parents.
—I haven’t told them about the snowball with dirt and the mud and the stones.
—Perhaps they don’t need to know.
—They’d be so angry. Because that was the last time I ever saw him. Sir, we played nicely most of the time. And we would’ve played nicely again, we would’ve made up, we would’ve been friends again, I’m sure of it. But now I can’t make it up to him, I can’t ever say sorry.
Leo was hearing this boy’s confession. The boy wanted forgiveness. He’d begun to cry. Embarrassed, Leo patted his head, muttering, as though they were the words of a lullaby:
—It was no one’s fault.
THE VILLAGE OF KIMOV
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY KILOMETERS NORTH OF MOSCOW
SAME DAY
ANATOLY BRODSKY hadn’t slept in three days. He was so tired that even the most basic tasks required concentration. The barn door in front of him was locked. He knew he’d have to force it open. Even so the idea seemed far-fetched. He simply didn’t have the energy. Snow had begun to fall. He looked up at the night sky; his mind drifted and when he eventually remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing, snow was settling on his face. He licked the flakes across his lips and realized that if he didn’t get inside he was going to die. Concentrating, he kicked the door. The hinges shook, the door remained shut. He kicked again. Timbers splintered. Encouraged by that sound he summoned the last sparks of energy and aimed a third kick at the lock. The wood cracked, the door swung back. He stood at the entrance, adjusting to the gloom. On one side of the barn there were two cows in an enclosure. On the other side there were tools, straw. He spread some of the coarse sacks on the frozen ground, buttoned up his coat, and lay down, crossing his arms and closing his eyes.
FROM HIS BEDROOM WINDOW MIKHAIL ZINOVIEV could see that the barn door was open. It was swaying backwards and forwards in the wind and snow was swirling into his barn. He turned around. His wife was in bed, asleep. Deciding not to disturb her, he quietly put on his coat, his felt boots, and went outside.
The wind had picked up, whipping loose snow off the ground and flinging it into Mikhail’s face. He raised his hand, sheltering his eyes. As he approached the barn, glancing through his fingers he could see the lock had been smashed, the door kicked open. He peered inside and after adjusting to the absence of moonlight he saw the outline of a man lying on the ground against the straw. Without any clear sense of what he was about to do, he entered the barn, took hold of a pitchfork, stepped up to the sleeping figure, raising the prongs above the man’s stomach, ready to jab down.
Anatoly opened his eyes and saw snow-covered boots centimeters from his face. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the man looming over him. The prongs of a pitchfork were directly above his stomach, quivering. Neither man moved. Their breath formed a mist in front of their faces which appeared and disappeared. Anatoly didn’t try to grab the pitchfork. He didn’t try to move out of the way.
They remained like this, frozen midframe, until a feeling of shame overcame Mikhail. He gasped as though he’d been punched in the stomach by some invisible force, dropping the pitchfork harmlessly to the ground, sinking to his knees:
—Please forgive me.
Anatoly sat up. The adrenaline had jolted him awake but his body ached. How long had he been asleep? Not long, not long enough. His voice was hoarse, his throat dry:
—I understand. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have asked for your help. You have your family to think of. I’ve put you in danger. It is I who should be asking for your forgiveness.
Mikhail shook his head:
—I was afraid. I panicked. Forgive me.
Anatoly glanced out at the snow and darkness. He couldn’t leave now. He wouldn’t survive. Of course he couldn’t allow himself to sleep. But he did still need shelter. Mikhail was waiting for an answer, waiting for forgiveness:
—There’s nothing to forgive. You’re not to blame. I might have done the same.
—But you’re my friend.
—I’m still your friend and I’ll always be your friend. Listen to me: I want you to forget that tonight ever happened. Forget that I ever came here. Forget that I ever asked for your help. Remember us as we were. Remember us as the best of friends. Do this for me and I shall do the same for you. By first light I’ll be gone. I promise. You’ll wake up and continue your life as normal. I assure you no one will ever know I was here.
Mikhail’s head dropped: he wept. Until tonight he’d believed he would’ve done anything for his friend. That was a lie. His loyalty, his bravery, his friendship had all been proved paper-thin—they’d ripped at the first serious test.
When Anatoly had arrived unannounced that evening, Mikhail had seemed understandably surprised. Anatoly had traveled to the village without any warning. All the same he’d been welcomed warmly, offered food, drink, a bed. Only once his hosts had heard the news that he was making his way north to the Finnish border did they finally understand the reason for the sudden arrival. He’d never mentioned that he was wanted by the State Security police, the MGB. He didn’t need to. They understood. He was a fugitive. As that fact became clear the welcome had evaporated. The punishment for aiding and abetting a fugitive was execution. He knew this but had hoped his friend would be prepared to accept the risk. He’d even hoped his friend might travel north with him. The MGB weren’t looking for two people, and what’s more Mikhail had acquaintances in towns all the way to Leningrad, including Tver and Gorky. True, it was an enormous amount to ask, but Anatoly had once saved Mikhail’s life, and though he’d never considered it a debt that ever needed to be repaid, that was only because he’d never thought he’d need to call it in.
During their discussion it had become apparent that Mikhail wasn’t prepared to take that kind of risk. In fact, he wasn’t prepared to take any kind of risk. His wife had frequently interrupted their conversation, asking to speak with her husband in private. At each interruption she’d glared at Anatoly with unmasked venom. Circumstances demanded prudence and caution as a part of everyday life. And there was no denying he’d brought danger to his friend’s family, a family he loved. Lowering his expectations sharply, he had told Mikhail that he wanted nothing more than a night’s sleep in their barn. He’d be gone by tomorrow morning. He’d walk to the nearest railway station, the same way he’d arrived. In addition it’d been his idea to smash the lock to the barn. In the unlikely event that he was caught the family could claim ignorance and pretend there’d been an intruder. He’d believed that these precautions had reassured his hosts.
Unable to watch
his friend cry, Anatoly leaned close:
—There’s nothing to feel guilty about. We’re all just trying to survive.
Mikhail stopped crying. He looked up, wiping his tears away. Realizing that this would be the last time they would ever see each other, the two friends hugged.
Mikhail pulled back:
—You’re a better man than me. Good luck.
He stood up, leaving the barn and taking care to shut the door, kicking up some snow to wedge it in position. He turned his back on the wind and trudged toward the house. Killing Anatoly and reporting him as an intruder would have guaranteed the safety of his family. Now he’d have to take his chances. He’d have to pray. He’d never thought of himself as a coward, and during the war, when it had been his own life at stake, he’d never behaved as one. Some men had even called him brave. But having a family had made him fearful. He was able to imagine far worse things than his own death.
Reaching the house, he took off his boots and coat and went to the bedroom. Opening the door, he was startled by a figure at the window. His wife was awake, staring out at the barn. Hearing him enter she turned around. Her small frame gave no indication of her capacity to lift and carry and cut, to work twelve-hour days, to hold her family together. She didn’t care that Anatoly had once saved her husband’s life. She didn’t care about their history, their friendship. Loyalty and indebtedness were abstracts. Anatoly was a threat to their safety. That was real. She wanted him gone, as far away from her family as possible, and at this precise moment she hated him—this gentle decent friend whom she’d once loved and treasured as a guest—more than anyone else alive.
Mikhail kissed his wife. Her cheek was cold. He took her hand. She stared up at him, noticing that he’d been crying:
—What were you doing outside?
Mikhail understood her eagerness. She hoped that he’d done what was necessary. She hoped he’d put his family first and killed that man. That would be the right thing to do.
—He left the barn door open. Anyone could’ve seen it. I shut it.
He could feel his wife’s grip slacken, feeling her disappointment. She thought him weak. She was right. He had neither the strength to murder his friend nor the strength to help him. He tried to find some words of comfort:
—There’s nothing to worry about. No one knows he’s here.
MOSCOW
SAME DAY
THE TABLE HAD BEEN SMASHED, the bed turned upside down, the mattress shredded, pillows torn apart and floorboards ripped up, yet so far the search of Anatoly Brodsky’s apartment yielded no clue as to his whereabouts. Leo crouched down to examine the fireplace. Stacks of papers had been burnt. There were layers of fine ash where correspondence had been heaped and set alight. Using the muzzle of his gun, he raked the remains hoping to find some fragment untouched by fire. The ashes fell apart—everything was burnt and black. The traitor had escaped. Leo was to blame. He’d given this man, a stranger, the benefit of the doubt. He’d presumed he was innocent; the kind of mistake a novice might make.
Better to let ten innocent men suffer than one spy escape.
He’d disregarded a fundamental principle of their work: the presumption of guilt.
Despite accepting responsibility, Leo couldn’t help but wonder that if he hadn’t been forced to waste the entire day dealing with the accidental death of that little boy, would Brodsky have escaped? Meeting relatives, stamping out hotheaded rumors—this wasn’t the work of a senior MGB officer. Instead of personally running a surveillance operation he’d agreed to sideline himself, untangling what amounted to little more than a personal affair. He should never have said yes. He’d become complacent about the threat posed by this man Brodsky—his first serious misjudgment since joining State Security. He was aware that few officers ever got an opportunity to make a second mistake.
He hadn’t thought much of the case: Brodsky was educated, with some competence in the English language, dealing with foreigners on a regular basis. This was grounds for vigilance, but, as Leo had pointed out, the man was a respected vet in a city with very few trained vets. Foreign diplomats had to take their cats and dogs to someone. Furthermore, this was a man who’d served in the Red Army as a field doctor. His background was impeccable. According to his military records, he’d volunteered, and despite not being technically qualified as a doctor, despite his expertise being injured animals, he’d worked in several field hospitals and subsequently received two commendations. The suspect must have saved hundreds of lives.
Major Kuzmin had quickly guessed the reason for his protégé’s reservations. During Leo’s own military career he’d been treated by field doctors for numerous injuries and clearly some kind of war camaraderie was holding him back. Kuzmin reminded Leo that sentimentality could blind a man to the truth. Those who appear the most trustworthy deserve the most suspicion. Leo recognized it as a play on Stalin’s well-known aphorism:
Trust but Check.
Stalin’s words had been interpreted as:
Check on Those we Trust.
Since those who weren’t trusted were scrutinized with the same vigor as those who were, it meant that there was, at least, a kind of equality.
The duty of an investigator was to scratch away at innocence until guilt was uncovered. If no guilt was uncovered then they hadn’t scratched deep enough. In the case of Brodsky the question wasn’t whether foreign diplomats met with him because he was a vet but rather had this suspect become a vet in order that foreign diplomats could openly meet with him? Why did he establish his practice within walking distance of the American embassy? And why—shortly after he opened this practice—did several employees from the American embassy obtain pets? Finally, why was it that the pets of foreign diplomats seemed to require more frequent attention than pets belonging to a typical citizen? Kuzmin had been the first to agree that there was a comical aspect to all of this, and it was precisely this disarming quality that had made him uneasy. The innocence of the circumstances felt like a brilliant disguise. It felt like the MGB was being laughed at. There were few more serious crimes than that.
Having considered the case and noted his mentor’s observations, Leo made the decision that instead of arresting the suspect outright they would have him followed, reasoning that if this citizen was working as a spy then it was an opportunity to discover who he was working with and arrest them all in one swoop. Though he never said as much, he was uncomfortable making an arrest without more evidence. Of course that was a qualm he’d lived with throughout his professional life. He’d made many arrests knowing only the citizen’s name and address and the fact that someone mistrusted them. A suspect’s guilt became real as soon as they became a suspect. As for evidence, that would be acquired during their interrogation. But Leo was no longer a lackey who merely followed orders, and he’d decided to make use of his authority and do things a little differently. He was an investigator. He’d wanted to investigate. He had little doubt that he’d eventually arrest Anatoly Brodsky, he just wanted proof; some sign of guilt other than mere conjecture. In short, he wanted to feel okay about arresting him.
As part of the surveillance operation Leo had taken the day shift, following the suspect during the hours of eight in the morning through to eight in the evening. For three days he’d observed nothing out of the ordinary. The suspect worked, ate lunch out, and went home. In short he seemed a good citizen. Perhaps it had been this innocuous appearance which had dulled Leo’s senses. When, this morning, he’d been pulled aside by an irate Kuzmin, briefed on the Fyodor Andreev situation—the dead boy, the hysterical reaction—and ordered to fix it immediately, he didn’t protest. Instead of putting his foot down and pointing out that he had far more important things to do, he’d acquiesced. With hindsight how ridiculous it all seemed. How frustrating that he was conversing with relatives, coaxing children, while this suspect, this traitor was making his escape, making a mockery of Leo. The agent delegated to maintain watch had idiotically thought nothing of the fac
t that there hadn’t been a single customer at the veterinary practice all day. It wasn’t until dusk that the agent had become suspicious and entered, intending to pose as a customer. He’d found the premises empty. A back window had been pried open. The suspect could’ve escaped at any time, most probably in the morning, soon after he’d arrived.
Brodsky is gone.
When Leo had heard those words he’d felt sick: he’d called an emergency meeting with Major Kuzmin at his home address. Leo now had the proof of guilt he’d been looking for but he no longer had the suspect. To his surprise his mentor had seemed gratified. The traitor’s behavior validated his theory: their business was mistrust. If an allegation contained only one percent truth it was better to consider the entire allegation true than to dismiss it. Leo was instructed to catch this traitor at all costs. He was not to sleep, eat, rest, he was not to do anything until that man was in their custody where—as Kuzmin had smugly pointed out—he should have been three days ago.
Leo rubbed his eyes. He could feel a knot in his stomach. At best he seemed naïve, at worst incompetent. He’d underestimated an opponent and, feeling a sudden, uncharacteristic burst of anger, he considered kicking the upturned table. He had decided against it. He had trained himself to keep his feelings locked out of view. A junior officer hurried into the room, probably keen to help, to prove his dedication. Leo waved him away, wanting to be alone. He took a moment to calm down, staring out of the window at the snow which had begun to fall over the city. He lit a cigarette, blowing smoke on a pane of glass. What had gone wrong? The suspect must have sighted the agents tailing him and then planned his escape. If he was burning documents, that meant he was keen to conceal material relating to his espionage or his current destination. Leo was sure that Brodsky had an escape plan, a way to get out of the country. He had to find some fragment of this plan.
The neighbors were a retired couple in their seventies who lived with their married son, his wife, and their two children. A family of six in two rooms, not an unusual ratio. All six of them were sitting in their kitchen side by side with a junior officer standing behind them for the purpose of intimidation. Leo could see that they understood that they were all implicated in another man’s guilt. He could see their fear. Dismissing this observation as irrelevant—he’d been guilty of sentimentality once already—he walked up to the table: