Tom Rob Smith_Leo Demidov_01

by Child 44

  It was quite clear: if Leo said she was guilty then this would end well for both him and his parents. That was guaranteed. It was the only safe thing to do. If this was a test of Leo’s character then Raisa would also be spared. And she would never need to know. If she was a spy then these men already had the evidence and were waiting to see if Leo was working with her. If she was a spy then he should denounce her, she deserved to die. The only course of action was to denounce his wife.

  Major Kuzmin began the proceedings:

  —Leo Stepanovich, we have reason to believe your wife is working for foreign agencies. You personally are not suspected of any crimes. This is the reason we’ve asked you to investigate the allegations. Please tell us what you have found.

  Leo had the confirmation he was looking for. Major Kuzmin’s offer was clear. If he denounced his wife he’d have their continued confidence. What had Vasili said?

  If you survive this scandal you’ll one day be running the MGB. I’m sure of it.

  Promotion was a sentence away.

  The room was silent. Major Kuzmin leaned forward:

  —Leo?

  Leo stood up, straightened the jacket of his uniform:

  —My wife is innocent.

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  WEST OF THE URAL MOUNTAINS

  THE TOWN OF VOUALSK

  13 MARCH

  THE CAR ASSEMBLY LINE switched over to the late shift. Ilinaya stopped work and began scrubbing her hands using a bar of black, rancid-smelling soap: the only kind available if any was available at all. The water was cold, the soap wouldn’t lather—it simply disintegrated into greasy shards—but all she could think about were the hours between now and the beginning of her next shift. She had her night planned out. First, she’d finish scraping the oil and metal filings from under her fingernails. Then she was going home, changing her clothes, daubing some color on her cheeks before heading to Basarov’s, a restaurant near the railway station.

  Basarov’s was popular with people visiting on business, officials stopping over before they continued their journey on the Trans-Siberian Railway east or west. The restaurant served food—millet soup, barley kasha, and salted herring—which Ilinaya thought was terrible. More importantly, it served alcohol. Since it was illegal to sell alcohol in public without selling food, meals were a means to an end, a plate of food was a permit to drink. In reality the restaurant was little more than a pickup joint. The law that no individual was to be sold more than one hundred grams of vodka was ignored. Basarov, the manager and namesake of the restaurant, was always drunk and often violent, and if Ilinaya wanted to ply her trade on his premises he wanted a cut. There was no way she could pretend she was drinking there for the fun of it while sneaking off with the occasional paying customer. No one drank there for the fun of it; it was a transient crowd, no locals. But that was an advantage. She couldn’t get work off the locals anymore. She’d been sick recently—sores, redness, rashes, that kind of thing. A couple of regulars had come down with more or less the same symptoms and bad-mouthed her around town. Now she was reduced to dealing with people who didn’t know her, people who weren’t staying in town for long and who wouldn’t find out they were pissing pus until they reached Vladivostok or Moscow, depending on which way they were traveling. She didn’t take any pleasure from the idea of passing on some kind of bug even if they weren’t exactly nice people. But in this town seeing a doctor about a sexually transmitted infection was more dangerous than the infection itself. For an unmarried woman it was like handing in a confession, signed with a smear. She’d have to go to the black market for treatment. That required money, maybe a lot of money, and right now she was saving for something else, something far more important—her escape from this town.

  By the time she arrived the restaurant was crowded and the windows steamed up. The air stank of makhorka, cheap tobacco. She’d heard drunken laughter fifty paces before stepping through the door. She’d guessed soldiers. She’d guessed right. There were often some kind of military exercises taking place in the mountains and off-duty personnel were normally directed here. Basarov catered specifically for this sort of clientele. He served watered-down vodka, claiming, if anyone complained and they often did, that it was a high-minded attempt to limit drunkenness. There were frequent fights. Even so, she knew that for all his talk about how hard his life was and how terrible his customers were, he made a tidy profit, selling the undiluted vodka he skimmed off. He was a speculator. He was scum. Just a couple of months ago she’d gone upstairs to pay him his weekly cut and, through a crack in his bedroom door, caught sight of him counting out ruble note after note after note which he stored in a tin box tied shut with string. She’d watched, hardly daring to breathe, as he wrapped his box in a cloth before hiding it in his chimney. Ever since then she’d dreamed of stealing that money and making a break for it. Of course Basarov would snap her neck for sure if he caught up with her, but she figured that if he ever discovered his tin box was empty his heart would give out right there, by his chimney place. She was pretty sure his heart and that box were one and the same thing.

  By her reckoning the soldiers were going to be drinking for another couple of hours. At the moment all they were doing was groping her, a privilege they weren’t paying for unless you counted free vodka as payment, which she did not. She surveyed the other customers, convinced she could earn a little extra money before the soldiers started clocking on. The military contingent took up the front tables, relegating the remaining customers to the back. These customers were sitting on their own—just them and their drinks and their plates of untouched food. No doubt about it: they were looking for sex. There was no other reason to hang around.

  Ilinaya straightened her dress, ditched her glass, and made her way through the soldiers, ignoring the pinches and remarks until she found herself at one of the back tables. The man sitting there was maybe forty, maybe a little younger. It was hard to tell. He wasn’t handsome, but she reckoned he’d probably pay a little more because of that. The better-looking ones sometimes got it into their heads money wasn’t necessary, like the arrangement might be mutually pleasurable. She sat down, sliding her leg up against his thigh and smiling:

  —My name is Tanya.

  It helped, at times like these, to think of herself as someone else.

  The man lit a cigarette and put his hand on Ilinaya’s knee. Not bothering to buy her a drink, he tipped half his remaining vodka into one of the many dirty glasses surrounding him and pushed it toward her. She toyed with the glass, waiting for him to say something. He finished his drink, showing no sign of wanting to talk. Trying not to roll her eyes, she pushed for a little conversation:

  —What’s your name?

  He didn’t reply, reaching into his jacket pocket, rummaging around. He pulled out his hand, his fist clenched shut. She understood this was a game of sorts and that she was expected to play along. She tapped his knuckles. He turned his fist upside down, slowly extending his fingers, one by one . . .

  In the middle of his palm was a small nugget of gold. She leaned forward. Before she could get a good look he closed his hand and slipped it back into his pocket. He still hadn’t said a word. She studied his face. He had bloodshot, boozy eyes and she didn’t like him at all. But then she didn’t like many people and certainly none of the men she slept with. If she wanted to get fussy she might as well call it quits, marry one of these locals, and resign herself to staying in this town forever. The only way she was going to return to Leningrad, where her family lived, where she’d lived all her life until being ordered to move here, to a town she’d never even heard of, was if she could save up enough money to bribe the officials. Without any high-ranking, powerful friends to authorize the transfer, she needed that gold.

  He tapped her glass, uttering his first word:

  —Drink.

  —First you pay me. Then you can tell me what to do. That’s the rule, that’s the only rule.

  The man’s face fluttered as if
she’d tossed a stone onto the surface of his expression. For a moment she saw something beneath his bland, plump appearance, something unpleasant, something which made her want to look away. But the gold kept her looking at him, kept her in her seat. He took the nugget from his pocket, offering it. As she reached out and picked it from his sweaty palm he closed his hand, trapping her fingers. It didn’t hurt but her fingers were trapped all the same. She could either surrender to his grip or pull her hand out without the gold. Guessing what was expected, she smiled and laughed like a helpless girl, letting her arm go slack. He released his grip. She took the nugget and stared at it. It was the shape of a tooth. She stared at the man:

  —Where did you get it?

  —When times are tough, people sell whatever they’ve got.

  He smiled. She felt sick. What kind of currency was this? He tapped the glass of vodka. That tooth was her ticket out of here. She finished her drink.

  ILINAYA STOPPED WALKING:

  —You work in the mills?

  She knew he didn’t but there weren’t any houses around here except mill-worker houses. He didn’t even bother to reply.

  —Hey? Where are we going?

  —We’re almost there.

  He’d led her to the railway station on the edge of town. Though the station itself was new it was set in among one of the oldest districts, made up of ramshackle one-room huts with tin roofs and thin wood walls, lined up side by side along sewage-stinking streets. These huts belonged to the lumber mill workers, who lived five or six or seven to a room, no good for what they had in mind.

  It was freezing cold. Ilinaya was sobering up. Her legs were getting tired.

  —This is your time. The gold buys you one hour. That’s what we agreed. If you take away the time I need to get back to the restaurant that leaves you twenty minutes from now.

  —It’s around the back of the station.

  —There’s just forest back there.

  —You’ll see.

  He pressed forward, reaching the side of the station and pointing into the darkness. She pushed her hands into her jacket pockets, caught up with him, squinting in the direction he was pointing. She could see train tracks disappearing into the forest and nothing else:

  —What am I looking at?

  —There.

  He was pointing at a small wooden cabin to one side of the railway track not far from the edge of the forest:

  —I’m an engineer. I work on the railways. That’s a maintenance cabin. It’s very private.

  —A room is very private.

  —I can’t bring you back where I’m staying.

  —I know some places we could’ve gone.

  —It’s better like this.

  —Not for me it isn’t.

  —There was one rule. I pay you, you obey. Either give me back my gold, or do as I say.

  Nothing about this was good except for the gold. He stretched out his hand, waiting for the gold to be returned. He didn’t seem angry or disappointed or impatient. Ilinaya found this indifference comforting. She began walking toward the cabin:

  —Inside you get ten minutes, agreed?

  No reply—she’d take that as a yes.

  The cabin was locked but he had a set of keys and after fumbling for the right one struggled with the lock:

  —It’s frozen.

  She didn’t respond, turning her head to the side and sighing to indicate her disapproval. Secrecy was one thing and she’d already presumed he was married. But since he didn’t live in this town she couldn’t understand what his problem was. Perhaps he was staying with family or friends; perhaps he was a high-ranking Party member. She didn’t care. She just wanted the next ten minutes over.

  He crouched down, cupped his hands around the padlock, and breathed on it. The key slipped in, the lock clicked open. She remained outside. If there wasn’t going to be any light the deal was off and she’d keep the gold to boot. She’d already given this guy more than enough time. If he wanted to waste it on an expedition to nowhere that was up to him.

  He stepped into the cabin, disappearing into the darkness. She heard the sound of a match being struck. Light flickered from the heart of a hurricane lamp. The man cranked up the lamp and hung it from a crooked hook sticking out from the roof. She peered inside. The cabin was filled with spare track, screws, bolts, tools, and timber. There was a smell of tar. He began clearing one of the workstations. She laughed:

  —I’ll get splinters in my bum.

  To her surprise he blushed. Improvising, he spread his coat across the work surface. She stepped inside:

  —A perfect gentleman . . .

  Normally she’d take off her coat, maybe sit on the bed and roll down a stocking, make a performance of it. But with no bed and no heating all she planned on allowing him to do was to lift up her dress. She’d keep the rest of her clothes on:

  —Hope you don’t mind if my jacket stays on?

  She shut the door, not expecting it would make much difference to the temperature, which was almost as cold inside as it was out. She turned around.

  The man was much closer than she remembered. She caught sight of something metallic coming toward her—she didn’t have time to work out what it was. The object connected with the side of her face. Pain shot through her body from the point of impact, traveling down her spine to her legs. Her muscles went slack; her legs slumped as though her tendons had been snipped. She fell back against the cabin door. Her eyesight blurred, her face felt hot, there was blood in her mouth. She was going to pass out, lose consciousness, but she fought against it, forcing herself to stay awake, focusing on his voice:

  —You do exactly as I say.

  Would submission satisfy this man? Shards of broken tooth dug into her gum and convinced her otherwise. She didn’t feel like believing in his mercy. If she was going to die in a town she hated, a town she’d been transferred to by compulsory State writ, one thousand seven hundred kilometers from her family, then she’d die scratching this bastard’s eyes out.

  He grabbed her arms, no doubt expecting any resistance to have evaporated. She spat a mouthful of blood and phlegm in his eyes. He must have been surprised because he let go. She felt the door behind her and pushed against it—the door swung open and she fell into the snow outside, onto her back, staring up at the sky. He grabbed at her feet. She kicked frantically, trying to get out of reach. He grabbed hold of one foot, pulling her back into the cabin. She concentrated, taking aim: her heel caught his jaw. The contact was good, his head flicked round. She heard him cry out. He lost his grip. She rolled onto her stomach, got up, and ran.

  Staggering blindly, it took her a couple of seconds to realize she’d run straight out from the cabin, away from town, away from the station and down the railway tracks. Her instincts had been to get away from him. Her instincts had let her down. She was running away from safety. She checked behind. He was chasing her. Either she continued in this direction or turned back toward him. There was no way she could get around him. She tried to scream but her mouth was full of blood. She choked, spluttered, breaking her rhythm and losing some of the distance between them. He was catching up.

  Suddenly the ground began to vibrate. She looked up. A freight train was approaching, hurtling toward them, plumes of smoke rushing out of the high iron front. She raised her arms, waving. But even if the driver saw her there was no stopping in time with barely five hundred meters between them. There were only seconds before a collision. But she didn’t step off the tracks, continuing toward the train, running faster—intent on throwing herself under it. The train gave no sign of slowing. There was no screech of metal brakes, no whistle. She was so close the vibrations almost shook her to her feet.

  The train was about to smash into her. She flung herself to the side, off the tracks into the thick snow. The engine and wagons roared past, rocking the snow off the tips of the nearby trees. Breathless, she peered behind her, hoping her pursuer had been cut down, crushed under the train, or trapped on th
e other side of the tracks. But he’d held his nerve. He’d jumped to her side and was lying on the snow. He stood up, staggering toward her.

  She spat the blood from her mouth and cried out: calling for help, desperate. This was a freight train, there was no one to hear or see her. She got up and ran, reaching the edge of the woods, not slowing down, smashing through the branches that jutted out. Her plan was to loop around and double back onto the tracks toward town. She couldn’t hide here: he was too close, there was too much moonlight. Even though she knew it would be better to remain focused on running, she gave in to temptation. She had to look. She had to know where he was. She turned around.

  He was gone. She couldn’t see him. The train was still thundering past. She must have lost him when she entered the forest. She changed direction, running back toward the town, toward safety.

  The man stepped out from behind a tree, catching hold of her waist. They crashed down into the snow. He was on top of her, ripping at her jacket and shouting. She couldn’t hear him over the sound of the train. All she could see were his teeth and tongue. Then she remembered: she’d prepared for this moment. She reached into her coat pocket, feeling for a chisel, stolen from work. She’d used it before but only as a threat, only to show she could fight if fighting was required. She clutched the wooden handle. She’d get one chance at this. As he put his hand up her dress she brought the metal tip into the side of his head. He sat upright, clutching his ear. She sliced at him again, cutting the hand that clutched his ear. She should have struck again and again, she should have killed him, but her desire to get away was too strong. She scrambled backward on all fours like an insect, still holding the bloody chisel.