by Child 44
Her father pulled his socks off and stretched his toes. He stood up, the bed rising with him, and fired up the lamp, which gave out a weak light. He walked toward the chest. Nadya could hear the top of the chest being opened but couldn’t see what he’d taken out. He must have left the lid open because she didn’t hear it close. What was her father doing? Now he was sitting in one of the chairs, tying something around his foot. It was a strip of rubber. Using string and rags, he seemed to be making some kind of homemade shoe.
Aware of something behind her, Nadya turned her head and saw the cat. It had seen her too, its back was arched, its fur stuck out. She didn’t belong down here. It knew that much. Scared, she turned to see if her father had noticed. He dropped to his knees, his face appearing in the gap under the bed. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t dare move. He said nothing, standing up, lifting the entire bed upright, exposing her curled up in a ball.
—Stand up.
She couldn’t move her arms, her legs—her body didn’t seem to be working.
—Nadya.
Hearing her name, she stood up.
—Step away from the wall.
She obeyed, stepping toward him, her head down, staring at her father’s one bare foot and his other foot wrapped in rags. He lowered the bed, putting it back in position.
—Why are you down here?
—I wanted to know what you do down here.
—Why?
—I want to spend more time with you.
Andrei could feel that urge again—they were alone in the house. She shouldn’t have come down here: he’d told her that for her own sake. He was a different person. He was not her father. He stepped away from his daughter until his back was pressed against the wall, as far from her as the room would allow.
—Father?
Andrei raised a finger to his lips.
Control yourself.
But he could not. He took his glasses off, folding them up and putting them in his pocket. When he looked at her again she was nothing more than a blurred outline, no longer his daughter—just a child. Indistinct, fuzzy, that shape could be any child he chose to imagine.
—Father?
Nadya stood up, walking right up to her father and taking his hand:
—Don’t you like spending time with me?
She was too close now, even without his glasses on. He could see her hair, her face. Wiping his brow, he put his glasses back on.
—Nadya, you have a younger sister—why don’t you like playing with her? When I was your age, I spent all my time with my brother.
—You have a brother?
—Yes.
—Where is he?
Andrei pointed at the wall, the photos of the Russian soldier.
—What’s his name?
—Pavel.
—Why doesn’t he visit us?
—He will.
ROSTOV OBLAST
EIGHT KILOMETERS NORTH OF ROSTOV-ON-DON
16 JULY
THEY WERE SEATED on an elektrichka, traveling toward the outskirts of the city, edging closer to their destination—the center of Rostov-on-Don. The truck driver hadn’t betrayed them. He’d taken them through several checkpoints and dropped them at the town of Shakhty, where they’d spent the night with the driver’s mother-in-law, a woman called Sarra Karlovna, and her family. Sarra, in her fifties, lived with some of her children, including a daughter who was married with three children of her own. Sarra’s parents also lived in the apartment, a total of eleven people in three bedrooms; a different generation in each bedroom. For the third time Leo had told the story of his investigation. Unlike the towns in the north, they’d already heard of these crimes—the child murders. According to Sarra there were few people in this oblast who weren’t aware of the rumors. Even so, they knew no facts. When confronted with the estimated number of victims the room had fallen silent.
It had never been a question of whether or not they’d agree to help: this extended family had immediately set about making plans. Leo and Raisa had decided to wait until dusk before traveling into the city since there’d be fewer people at the factory at night. There was also a greater chance the killer would be at home. It had also been decided that they shouldn’t travel alone. For this reason they were now accompanied by three small children and two energetic grandparents. Leo and Raisa were playing the parts of a mother and father while the real mother and father remained in Shakhty. This semblance of a family was a precautionary measure. If the hunt for them had reached Rostov, if the State had guessed that their objective wasn’t to flee the country, then they’d be looking for a man and woman traveling together. It had proved impossible for either of them to change their appearance to any significant degree. They’d both cut their hair short, they’d been given a new set of clothes. Even so, without the family surrounding them, they would’ve been easy to spot. Raisa had expressed concerns about using the children, worried she was putting them in danger. It had been decided that if something should go wrong, if they were caught, then the grandparents would claim that Leo had threatened them and that they feared for their lives if they didn’t help.
The train stopped. Leo glanced out of the window. The station was busy: he could see several uniformed officers patrolling the platform. The seven of them got off the train. Raisa was carrying the smallest child, a young boy. All three children had been instructed to behave boisterously. The older two boys understood the nature of the deception and played their part, but the youngest was confused and merely stared at Raisa, his lips downturned, sensitive to danger and no doubt wishing he was at home. Only the most observant of officers would suspect that this family was a fraud.
There were guards dotted around the platform and concourse, too many for an ordinary day in an ordinary station. They were looking for someone. Though Leo tried to reassure himself that there were many people being hunted and arrested, his gut told him that they were looking for them. The exit was fifty paces away. Concentrate on that. They were almost there.
Two armed officers stepped in front of them:
—Where are you traveling from and where are you traveling to?
For a moment Raisa couldn’t speak. The words evaporated. In order not to appear frozen, she moved the young boy from one arm to the other arm and laughed:
—They get so heavy!
Leo stepped in:
—We’ve just visited her sister. She lives in Shakhty. She’s getting married.
The grandmother added:
—To a man who’s a drunk: I disapprove. I told her not to do it.
Leo smiled, addressing the grandmother:
—You want her to marry a man that only drinks water?
—That would be better.
The grandfather nodded before adding:
—He can drink, but why does he have to be so ugly?
Both grandparents laughed. The officers did not. One of them turned to the little boy:
—What’s his name?
The question was directed at Raisa. Once again her mind went blank. She couldn’t remember. Nothing was coming to her. Plucking a name from her memory:
—Aleksandr.
The boy shook his head.
—My name is Ivan.
Raisa laughed.
—I like to tease him. I’m always getting the brothers’ names muddled and it drives them mad. This young man I’m carrying is Ivan. That is Mikhail.
That was the middle child’s name. Raisa now remembered that the eldest was called Aleksei. But for her lie to work he would have to pretend his name was Aleksandr.
—And my eldest boy is called Aleksandr.
The boy opened his mouth to contradict her, but the grandfather quickly stepped in and rubbed his head affectionately. Annoyed, the boy shook his head:
—Don’t do that. I’m not a child anymore.
Raisa struggled not to let her relief show. The officers stepped out of their way and she led her imitation family out of the station.
Once th
ey were out of sight of the station they bade farewell to the family, splitting up. Leo and Raisa got into a taxi. They’d already given Sarra’s family all the information pertaining to their investigation. If Leo and Raisa failed for whatever reason, if the murders continued, then the family would inherit the investigation. They’d organize others in an attempt to find this man, making sure that if any one group failed there would be another ready to take their place. He mustn’t be allowed to survive. Leo appreciated that it was a mob execution, no court, no evidence or trial—an execution based upon circumstantial evidence—and that in trying to exact justice they were forced to imitate the very system they were up against.
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 where the killer lived. If the killer wasn’t home, if he was traveling, 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 toward 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 toward 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 good-bye 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 toward 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, as 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 workforce 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 that 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. 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 toward 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 drinki
ng 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 manhunt, then his slate would be wiped clean.
He dropped his cigarette stub on the carpet, watched it smolder 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 traveling as a couple. They might have parted ways. One of them might be dead. Or they might be traveling 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.