Tom Rob Smith_Leo Demidov_01

by Child 44

  There was a joke, popular among officers, who could tell it with impunity. A man and his wife were asleep in bed when they were woken by a sharp knock on the door. Fearing the worst, they got up, kissed each other good-bye:

  I love you, wife.

  I love you, husband.

  Having said their good-byes they opened the front door. Standing before them was a frantic neighbor, a corridor full of smoke and flames as high as the ceiling. The man and his wife smiled with relief and thanked God: it was just the building on fire. Leo had heard variations on this joke. Instead of a fire there were armed bandits, instead of armed bandits there was a doctor with terrible news. In the past he’d laughed, confident that it would never happen to him.

  His wife was pregnant. Did that fact change anything? It might change the attitude of his superiors to Raisa. They’d never liked her. She’d never given Leo any children. In these times it was expected, demanded that couples have children. After the millions who’d died fighting, children were a social obligation. Why had Raisa not become pregnant? The question had dogged their marriage. The only conclusion was that there was something wrong with her. The pressure had been cranked up recently: questions asked with greater frequency. Raisa was seeing a doctor regularly in order to address the issue. Their sexual relations were pragmatic, motivated by external pressures. The irony didn’t escape Leo that just as his superiors got what they wanted—Raisa pregnant—they wanted her dead. Perhaps he could mention that she was pregnant? He dismissed the idea. A traitor was a traitor, there were no exonerating circumstances.

  Leo showered. The water was cold. He got changed and made a breakfast of oatmeal. He had no desire to eat and watched it harden in the bowl. Raisa entered the kitchen, sat down, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. He got up. Neither of them spoke as he waited for the oatmeal to warm up. He put a bowl before her. She said nothing. He made a glass of weak tea, placed it on the table alongside the jar of jam:

  —I’ll try to be home a little earlier.

  —You don’t have to change your routine for me.

  —I’ll try anyway.

  —Leo, you don’t have to change your routine for me.

  Leo shut the front door. It was dawn. From the edge of the walkway he could see people waiting for the tramcar hundreds of meters down below. He made his way to the elevator. Once it had arrived he pressed the button for the top floor. On the thirtieth floor, the top floor, he stepped out of the elevator and walked down the passageway to the service door at the end marked NO ENTRY. The lock had been smashed a long time ago. It led to a flight of stairs that in turn led to the roof. He’d been here before, when they’d first moved in. Facing west you could see the city. Facing east you could see the edge of the countryside where Moscow broke apart and gave way to snow-covered fields. Four years ago, admiring this view, he’d thought himself one of the luckiest men alive. He was a hero—he had the newspaper clipping to prove it. He had a powerful job, a beautiful wife. His faith in the State had been unquestioning. Did he miss that feeling—complete, unswerving confidence? Yes, he did.

  He took the elevator down to the fourteenth floor, returning to his apartment. Raisa had gone to work. Her breakfast bowl sat unwashed in the kitchen. He took off his jacket and boots, warmed his hands, ready to begin his search.

  Leo had organized and overseen the searches of many houses, apartments, and offices. They were treated competitively by those who worked in the MGB. Stories were swapped about the extraordinary thoroughness which officers demonstrated in order to prove their dedication. Precious objects were smashed, portraits and works of art cut from the frames, books ripped apart, entire walls knocked down. Even though this was his home and these were his things, Leo proposed to treat the search no differently. He ripped off the bed linen, pillowcases, and sheets, turning the mattress upside down and feeling it carefully, every square inch, like a blind man reading braille. Paper documents could be stitched into a mattress, becoming invisible to the eye. The only way to locate these secret stashes was by touch. Finding nothing, he moved to the shelves. He went through every book, checking if anything had been placed inside them. He found one hundred rubles, just under a week’s wages. He looked at the money, wondering what it could mean until remembering that the book belonged to him and this money was his own, a secret stash. Another agent might have declared it proof that the owner was a speculator. Leo put the money back. He opened the drawers, looking down at Raisa’s neatly folded clothes. He picked up each garment, feeling and shaking it before dropping it in a heap on the floor. When all the drawers were emptied he checked the backs and sides. Finding nothing, he turned, studying the room. He pressed himself against the walls, running his fingers along them to see if there was the outline of a safe or a hollow. He took down the framed newspaper clipping, the photo of himself beside the burning panzer. It was peculiar to think of that moment, surrounded by death, as happier times. He took the frame apart. The slip of newspaper floated to the floor. Putting the photo and the frame back together, he turned the bed on its side, leaning it against the wall. He got onto his knees. The floorboards were securely screwed down. He retrieved a screwdriver from the kitchen and took up every floorboard. Underneath there was nothing but dust and pipes.

  He went into the kitchen, washed the dirt off his hands. There was, at last, warm water. He spent a leisurely amount of time lathering the small bar of soap: scrubbing his skin even after all the dirt had gone. What was he trying to wash off his hands? The betrayal, no—he had no interest in metaphors. He was washing his hands because they were dirty. He was searching his apartment because it had to be done. He mustn’t overthink.

  There was a knock on the front door. He rinsed his hands, which were covered from wrist to elbow in cream-colored soap suds. There was a second knock. With water dripping from his arms he moved into the hallway, calling out:

  —Who is it?

  —It’s Vasili.

  Leo closed his eyes, feeling his heart rate quicken and trying to control the surge of anger. Vasili knocked again. Leo stepped forward, opened the door. Vasili was accompanied by two men. The first was a young officer Leo didn’t recognize. He had soft features and paper-pale skin. He stared at Leo with expressionless eyes, like two glass marbles pushed into a ball of dough. The second officer was Fyodor Andreev. Vasili had selected these men carefully. The man with the pale skin was his protection, no doubt strong, a good shot or quick with a knife. He’d brought Fyodor along for spite.

  —What is it?

  —We’re here to help. Major Kuzmin sent us.

  —Thank you, but I have the investigation under control.

  —I’m sure you do. We’re here to assist.

  —Thank you, but that’s not necessary.

  —Come on, Leo. We’ve traveled a long way. And it’s cold out here.

  Leo stepped aside, letting them in.

  None of the three men took off their boots, which were encrusted with ice, chunks of which dropped from their soles, melting into the carpet. Leo shut the door, aware that Vasili was here to bait him. He wanted Leo to lose his temper. He wanted an argument, an ill-considered comment, anything to strengthen his case.

  Leo offered his guests tea or vodka if they preferred. Vasili’s love of drink was well known, but it was considered the most minor of vices if a vice at all. He dismissed Leo’s offer with a shake of his head and glanced into the bedroom:

  —What have you found?

  Without waiting for a reply Vasili entered the room, staring at the upturned mattress:

  —You’ve not even cut it open.

  He leaned down, drawing his knife, ready to slice open the mattress. Leo caught hold of his hand:

  —There’s a way to feel for items stitched into the material. You don’t have to cut it.

  —So you’re going to put the place back together again?

  —That’s right.

  —You still think your wife is innocent?

  —I’ve found nothing to sugg
est otherwise.

  —May I give you some advice? Find another wife. Raisa is beautiful. But there are many beautiful women. Maybe you’d be better off with one who wasn’t quite so beautiful.

  Vasili reached into his pocket, pulling out a set of folded photographs. He offered them to Leo. They were photographs taken of Raisa outside the school with Ivan, the literature teacher.

  —She’s fucking him, Leo. She’s a traitor to you and the State.

  —These were taken at the school. They’re both teachers. Of course it’s possible to take photographs of them together. It proves nothing.

  —Do you know his name?

  —Ivan, I think.

  —We’ve had an eye on him for some time.

  —We have our eye on lots of people.

  —Perhaps you’re a friend of his also?

  —I’ve never met him. I’ve never spoken to him.

  Seeing the heap of clothes on the floor, Vasili bent down and picked up a pair of Raisa’s undergarments. He rubbed them between his fingers, crumpling them into a ball, placing them under his nose and never taking his eyes off Leo. Instead of feeling anger at this provocation, Leo contemplated his deputy in a way that he’d never bothered to before. Who exactly was this man that hated him so much? Was he motivated by professional jealousy or by raw ambition? Watching him now, sniffing Raisa’s clothes, Leo realized there was something personal about this hatred.

  —May I take a look around the rest of your apartment?

  Fearing a trap of some kind, Leo replied:

  —I’ll come with you.

  —No, I’d prefer to do it by myself.

  Leo nodded. Vasili moved off.

  Hardly able to breathe, his throat constricted with anger, Leo stared at the upturned bed. He was surprised by a soft voice beside him. It was Fyodor:

  —You’d do all this. Search through your wife’s clothes, turn your bed upside down, rip up your own floorboards—pull your own life apart.

  —We should all be prepared to submit to such searches. Generalissimo Stalin—

  —I’ve heard this too. Our Leader said even his apartment could be searched if need be.

  —Not only can we all be investigated, we must all be investigated.

  —And yet you would not investigate the death of my son? You would investigate your wife, yourself, your friends, your neighbors, but you would not take a look at his body? You would not spare an hour to see how his stomach was cut open, and how he died with dirt shoved in his mouth?

  Fyodor was calm, his voice soft—his anger was no longer raw. It had turned to ice. He could speak in this fashion to Leo—openly, frankly—because he knew Leo was no longer a threat.

  —Fyodor, you didn’t see his body either.

  —I spoke to the old man who found his body. He told me what he saw. I saw in the old man’s eyes, his shock. I spoke to the eyewitness, the woman you scared away. A man was holding my son’s hand, leading him along the tracks. She saw that man’s face. She could describe him. But no one wants her to speak. And now she’s too afraid to. My boy was murdered, Leo. The militia made all the witnesses change their statements. This I expected. But you were my friend. And you came to my home and instructed my family to keep our mouths shut. You threatened a grieving family. You read us a fiction and told us to commit those lies to our hearts. Instead of looking for the person who killed my son, you placed the funeral under scrutiny instead.

  —Fyodor, I was trying to help you.

  —I believe you. You were telling us the way to survive.

  —Yes.

  —And in some ways I’m grateful. Otherwise, the man who murdered my son would also have murdered me and my family. You saved us. That is why I’m here, not to gloat, but to return the favor. Vasili is right. You must sacrifice your wife. Don’t bother looking for any evidence. Denounce her and you’ll survive. Raisa is a spy, it’s been decided. I’ve read Anatoly Brodsky’s confession. It’s written in the same black ink as my son’s incident report.

  No, Fyodor was wrong. He was angry. Leo reminded himself that he had a simple objective—to investigate his wife and report his findings. His wife was innocent.

  —I’m convinced the traitor’s remarks concerning my wife were motivated by revenge and nothing more. So far my investigation supports that.

  Vasili had reentered the room. It was impossible to tell how much of their conversation he’d heard. He answered:

  —Except that the other six names he listed have all been arrested. And all six have already confessed. Anatoly Brodsky’s information has proved invaluable.

  —Then I’m pleased I was the one who apprehended him.

  —Your wife was named by a convicted spy.

  —I’ve read his confession and Raisa’s name is the last on the list.

  —The names weren’t given in order of importance.

  —I believe he added it out of spite. I believe he wanted to hurt me personally. It is unlikely to fool anyone, an obvious, desperate trick. You’re welcome to help with my search—if that is why you’ve come round. As you can see . . .

  Leo gestured at the ripped-up floorboards.

  —I’ve been thorough.

  —Give her up, Leo. You need to be realistic. On the one hand you have your career, your parents—on the other hand you have a traitor and a slut.

  Leo glanced at Fyodor. His face showed no sign of pleasure, no malicious relish. Vasili continued:

  —You know she’s a slut. That is why you had her followed before.

  Leo’s anger was displaced by shock. They’d known. They’d known all along.

  —Did you think that was a secret? We all know. Denounce her, Leo. End this. End the doubt; end the niggling questions at the back of your mind. Give her up. We’ll go drinking together afterwards. By the end of the night you’ll have another woman.

  —I’ll report my findings tomorrow. If Raisa is a traitor, I’ll say so. If she’s not, I’ll say so.

  —Then I wish you luck, comrade. If you survive this scandal you’ll one day be running the MGB. I’m sure of it. And it would be an honor to work under you.

  At the front door Vasili turned:

  —Remember what I said. Your life and the lives of your parents are being weighed against hers. It’s not a difficult decision.

  Leo shut the door.

  Listening to them walk away, he noticed his hands were shaking. He returned to the bedroom, surveying the mess. He replaced all the floorboards, screwing them back down. He made the bed, carefully straightening all the sheets and then crumpling them slightly, in imitation of how he’d found them. He replaced all Raisa’s clothes, folding and stacking them, conscious that he couldn’t remember the exact order in which he’d pulled them out. An approximation would have to do.

  As he lifted a cotton shirt a small object fell out, hitting his foot and rolling onto the floor. Leo bent down and picked it up. It was a copper ruble coin. He tossed it onto the top of his bedside cabinet. On impact the coin split in two, the separate halves rolling off opposite sides of the cabinet. Perplexed, he approached the cabinet. He knelt down and retrieved the two halves. The inside of one had been hollowed out. When slotted together it looked like an ordinary coin. Leo had seen one of these before. It was a device for smuggling microfilm.

  21 FEBRUARY

  PRESENT AT LEO’S DEPOSITION were Major Kuzmin, Vasili Nikitin, and Timur Raphaelovich—the officer who’d taken Leo’s place during Anatoly Brodsky’s interrogation. Leo knew him only in passing: an ambitious man of few words and much credibility. The discovery that Raphaelovich was prepared to vouch for everything in the confession, including the reference to Raisa, was devastating. This man was no lackey of Vasili. Raphaelovich didn’t respect or fear him. Leo wondered whether Vasili could’ve inserted Raisa’s name into the confession. He had no sway over Raphaelovich, no leverage, and according to their rank he would’ve been the subordinate officer during the interrogation. For the past two days Leo had been working under the a
ssumption this had been an act of revenge by Vasili. He’d been mistaken. Vasili wasn’t behind this. The only person who could’ve organized the fabrication of such a confession backed up with such a high-ranking witness was Major Kuzmin.

  It was a setup, orchestrated by none other than his mentor, the man who’d taken Leo under his wing. Leo had ignored his advice regarding Anatoly Brodsky and now he was being taught a lesson. What had Kuzmin told him?

  Sentimentality can blind a man.

  This was a test, an exercise. The issue under scrutiny here was Leo’s suitability as an officer: it had nothing to do with Raisa, nothing at all. Why appoint the husband of a suspect to investigate his wife unless the primary concern was how the husband would conduct himself during that investigation? Hadn’t Leo been the one who’d been followed? Hadn’t Vasili come to check whether he was searching the apartment properly? He wasn’t interested in the contents of the apartment: he was interested in Leo’s approach. It all made sense. Vasili had goaded him yesterday, told him to denounce his wife precisely because he hoped that Leo would do exactly the opposite and stand up for her. He didn’t want Leo to denounce Raisa. He didn’t want him to pass this test—he wanted him to put his private life above the Party. It was a trick. All he had to do was show Major Kuzmin that he was willing to denounce his wife, prove that his loyalties were absolutely with the MGB, prove his faith was unquestioning, prove that his heart could be cruel—if he did this then they’d all be safe: Raisa, his unborn child, his parents. His future with the MGB would be assured and Vasili would be an irrelevance.

  Yet wasn’t this a presumption? What if the traitor was, as he’d confessed to being, a traitor? What if he’d somehow been working with Raisa? Perhaps he’d spoken the truth. Why was Leo so sure that this man was innocent? Why was he so sure his wife was innocent? After all, why did she befriend a dissident literature teacher? What was that coin doing in their apartment? Hadn’t the six other names listed in the confession been arrested and all been successfully interrogated? The list was proven and Raisa was on the list. Yes, she was a spy and here in his pocket was the copper coin, the evidence to prove it. He could place the coin on the desk and recommend that both she and Ivan Zhukov be taken in for questioning. He’d been played a fool. Vasili was right: she was a traitor. She was pregnant with another man’s child. Hadn’t he always known that she’d been unfaithful to him? She didn’t love him. He was sure of that. Why risk everything for her—a woman who was cold to him, a woman who at best tolerated him. She was a threat to everything he’d worked for, everything he’d won for his parents and for himself. She was a threat to the country, a country Leo had fought to defend.