HE OPENED HIS EYES. He wasn’t sure if he could move and he couldn’t muster the strength to find out. He was staring up at the night sky. His thoughts moved slowly. He was no longer in the car. Someone must have dragged him out. A face appeared above him, blocking the stars, looking down at him. Concentrating, Leo focused on the man’s face.
It was Vasili.
ROSTOV-ON-DON
SAME DAY
ARON HAD BEEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION that a job in the militia might be exciting, or at least more exciting than working on a kolkhoz. He’d always known it didn’t pay very well, but the upside was that competition wasn’t fierce. When it came to looking for work he’d never been a strong candidate. There was nothing wrong with him. In fact, he’d done well at school. However, he’d been born with a deformed upper lip. That’s what the doctor had told him—it was deformed and there was nothing he could do. It looked as though a portion of his upper lip had been cut away and the remaining bits stitched together so that the lip went up in the middle, revealing a portion of his front teeth. The overall result was that he seemed to be permanently sneering. Although this made no difference to his ability to work, it certainly made a difference to his ability to get a job. The militia had seemed like the perfect solution, they were hungry for applicants. They’d bully him, make comments behind his back—he was used to that. He’d put up with it all just as long as he got to use his brain.
Here he was, in the middle of the night, sitting in the bushes, getting bitten by bugs, watching a bus shelter for signs of:
Unusual activity
Aron hadn’t been told why he was sitting here or what unusual activity might possibly mean. As one of the youngest members of the department, only twenty years old, he wondered if this was some kind of initiation ritual—a test of loyalty, to see if he could follow orders. Obedience was valued more than anything else.
So far the only person around was a girl at the nearby bus stop. She was young, maybe fourteen or fifteen, but she was trying to look older. She seemed drunk. Her shirt was unbuttoned. He watched her straighten her skirt and play with her hair. What was she doing at the bus stop? There were no buses until the morning.
A man approached. He was tall, wearing a hat and long coat. He wore thick frame glasses and carried a smart case. He stood by the timetable, reading it with his finger. As though the girl were some kind of scantily clad spider, waiting in the corner, she immediately got up, moving toward him. He continued reading the timetable as the girl circled him, touching his case, his hand, his jacket. The man seemed to ignore these advances until finally he looked away from the timetable, studying the girl. They spoke. Aron couldn’t hear what they were saying. The girl disagreed with something, shaking her head. Then she shrugged. They were in agreement. The man turned around and seemed to stare straight at Aron, looking right at the undergrowth beside the shelter. Had the man seen him? It didn’t seem likely—they were in light, he was in shadow. Both the man and girl began walking toward him, straight toward the place where he was hiding.
Aron was confused, checking his position—he was completely hidden. They couldn’t have seen him. Even if they had, why were they walking toward him? They were only meters away. He could hear them talking. He waited, crouched in the undergrowth, only to find that they’d walked straight past him, heading into the trees.
Aron stood up:
—Stop!
The man froze, his shoulders hunched up. He turned around. Aron did his best to sound authoritative:
—What are you two doing?
The girl, who didn’t seem at all afraid or concerned, answered:
—We were going for a walk. What happened to your lip? It’s really ugly.
Aron flushed with embarrassment. The girl was staring at it with obvious disgust. He paused for a moment, composing himself:
—You were going to have sex, in a public place. You’re a prostitute.
—No, we were going for a walk.
The man added, his voice pathetic, barely audible:
—No one has done anything wrong. We were just having a conversation.
—Let me see your papers.
The man stepped forward, fumbling for his papers in his jacket. The girl hung back, nonchalant: no doubt she’d been stopped before. She didn’t seem fazed. He checked the man’s papers. The man was called Andrei. The papers were in order.
—Open your case.
Andrei hesitated, sweating profusely. He’d been caught. He’d never imagined this would happen: he’d never imagined his plan would fail. He lifted the case, opening the buckle. The young officer peered in, his hand tentatively searching through. Andrei stared down at his shoes, waiting. When he looked up the officer was holding his knife, a long knife with a serrated blade. Andrei felt close to tears.
—Why do you carry this?
—I travel a lot. Often I eat on trains. I use the knife to cut salami. Cheap, tough salami, but my wife refuses to buy any other kind.
Andrei did use the knife for lunch and dinner. The officer found half a stick of salami. It was cheap and tough. The edge was rough. It had been cut by the same knife.
Aron lifted out a glass jar with a sealed top. The jar was clean and empty.
—What’s this for?
—Some of the component parts I collect, as samples, are fragile, some are dirty. This jar is useful for my work. Listen, Officer, I know I shouldn’t have gone off with this girl. I don’t know what came over me. I was here, checking the times for the buses tomorrow, and she approached me. You know how it is—with urges. One came over me. But look in the pocket of the case, you’ll find my Party membership card.
Aron found the card. He also found a photograph of the man’s wife and two daughters.
—My daughters. There’s no need to take this any further, is there, Officer? The girl is the one to blame: I would’ve been on my way home by now otherwise.
A decent citizen momentarily corrupted by a drunken girl, a reprobate. This man had been polite: he hadn’t stared at Aron’s lip or made any disparaging comments. He’d treated him as an equal even though he was older with a better job and a member of the Party. He was the victim. She was the criminal.
Having felt the net close around him, Andrei realized he was almost free. The photograph of his family had proved invaluable on numerous occasions. He sometimes used it to persuade reluctant children that he was a man who could be trusted. He was a father himself. In his trouser pocket he could feel the coarse length of string. Not tonight; he’d have to exercise patience in the future. He could no longer kill in his hometown.
Aron was about to let the man go, putting the card and photograph back, when he caught sight of something else in the case: a slip of newspaper folded in half. He pulled it out, opening it up.
Andrei was unable to watch this idiot with his revolting lip touch that piece of paper with his dirty fingers. He could barely stop himself from snatching it from his hands:
—May I have that back, please?
For the first time the man’s voice had become agitated. Why was this paper so important to him? Aron studied the page. It was a clipping from several years ago, the ink had faded. There was no text, no copy—that had all been cut away so that it was impossible to tell which newspaper it had come from. All that remained was a photograph taken during the Great Patriotic War. It showed the burning wreck of a panzer. Russian soldiers stood with guns triumphantly pointing into the air, dead German soldiers at their feet. It was a victory photo, a propaganda photo. With his deformed upper lip Aron understood all too well why this photo had been printed in a newspaper. The Russian soldier at the center of the photo was a handsome man with a winning smile.
MOSCOW
10 JULY
LEO’S FACE WAS SWOLLEN, tender to touch. His right eye remained closed, hidden beneath folds of puffy skin. There was intense pain down the side of his chest as though he’d broken several ribs. He’d been given basic medical assistance at the scene of the cras
h, but as soon as it had been ascertained that his life wasn’t in danger he’d been loaded into a truck under armed guard. On the journey back to Moscow he’d felt each bump in the road like a punch in the gut. Without painkillers on the journey he had passed out several times. His guards had woken him by prodding him with the barrels of their guns, fearful of him dying on their watch. Leo had spent the journey alternating between the feverish heat and freezing cold. These injuries, he accepted, were merely the beginning.
The irony of ending up here—secured to a chair in a basement interrogation cell in the Lubyanka—hadn’t escaped Leo’s attention. A guardian of the State had become its prisoner, a not uncommon reversal of fortunes. This is what it felt like to be an enemy of his country.
The door opened. Leo raised his head. Who was this man with sallow skin and yellow-stained teeth? He was a former colleague, he remembered that much. But he couldn’t remember the man’s name.
—You don’t remember me?
—No.
—I’m Doctor Zarubin. We’ve met on a couple of occasions. I visited you when you were ill not so many months ago. I’m sorry to see you in this predicament. I say that not as a criticism of the action being taken against you; that is just and fair. I simply mean that I wish you hadn’t done it.
—What have I done?
—You’ve betrayed your country.
The doctor felt Leo’s ribs. Each touch caused him to clench his teeth:
—Your ribs aren’t broken, as I was told. They’re bruised. No doubt it’s painful. But none of your injuries require surgery. I’ve been ordered to clean up the cuts and change the dressings.
—Treatment before torture, a quirk of this place. I once saved a man’s life only to bring him here. I should have let Brodsky drown in that river.
—I don’t know this man of whom you speak.
Leo fell silent. Anyone could regret their actions once the tables had been turned. He understood, clearer than ever, that his only chance of redemption had slipped through his fingers. The killer would continue to kill, concealed not by any masterful brilliance but by his country’s refusal to even admit that such a man existed, wrapping him in perfect immunity.
The doctor finished patching up Leo’s injuries. Such assistance was intended to guarantee full sensitivity to the torture which would follow. Make them better so they could be hurt to a greater extent. The doctor leaned down and whispered into Leo’s ear:
—I’m now going to tend to your wife. Your pretty wife, she’s tied up next door. Quite helpless, and it’s your fault. Everything I’m going to do to her is your fault. I’m going to make her hate the day she ever loved you. I’m going to make her say it aloud.
As though it had been spoken in a foreign language, it took a while for Leo to comprehend what was being said to him. He had no grudge against this man. He’d barely recognized him. Why was he threatening Raisa? Leo tried to stand up, lunging for the doctor. But his chair was secured to the floor and he was secured to the chair.
Doctor Zarubin pulled back, like a man who’d put his head too close to a lion’s cage. He watched Leo strain against his restraints, his veins bulging in his neck, his face red, his eye pathetically swollen. It was intriguing—like watching a fly trapped under a glass. This man didn’t understand the nature of his predicament:
Helplessness
The doctor picked up his case and waited for the guard to open the door. He expected Leo to call out after him, perhaps threaten to kill him. But on that front, at least, he was disappointed.
He walked down the basement corridor, a matter of meters, arriving at the adjacent cell. The door was opened. Zarubin entered. Raisa was seated and secured in exactly the same way as her husband. The doctor was excited by the prospect of her recognizing him and recognizing that she should have accepted his offer. If she had, she would’ve been safe. She was evidently not the skilled survivor he’d taken her for. She had extraordinary beauty, something she’d failed to capitalize on, opting instead for fidelity. Perhaps she believed in an afterlife, a heaven where her loyalty would be rewarded. It had no value here.
Convinced that he’d find her regret stimulating, he expected her to beg:
Help me.
She’d accept any conditions now: he could ask anything of her. He could treat her like filth and she’d willingly accept it and plead for more. She’d submit to him completely. The doctor opened the grate on the wall. Although the grate appeared to be part of a ventilation system, in fact it was designed to carry sound from one cell to another. He wanted Leo to listen to every word.
Raisa stared up at Zarubin, watching as he struck a look of pantomime sadness, no doubt trying to communicate a sense of pity, as if to say:
If only you’d accepted my offer.
He put his case down and began examining her even though she had no injuries.
—I need to study every part of you. For my report, you understand.
Raisa had been taken without any fuss. The restaurant had been surrounded: agents had entered and secured her. As she’d been escorted out Basarov had shouted with predictable malice that she deserved whatever punishment she got. Tied up in the back of a truck, given no information, she had no idea what had happened to Leo until she overheard an officer say they’d gotten him. She guessed, from the satisfaction in his voice, that Leo had at least attempted to escape.
She tried to remain looking straight ahead as the doctor’s hands crept across her body, as though he wasn’t there. But she couldn’t help stealing glances at him. His knuckles were hairy, his nails perfectly clean and carefully cut. The guard behind her began to laugh, a childish laugh. She concentrated on the idea that her body was out of his reach and no matter what he did, he wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on her. It was an impossible idea to sustain. His fingers moved up the inside of her leg with awful and deliberate slowness. She felt tears in her eyes. She blinked them away. Zarubin moved closer: his face close to hers. He kissed her cheek, sucking her skin into his mouth as though about to take a bite.
The door opened. Vasili entered. The doctor pulled back, stood up, stepping back. Vasili was annoyed:
—She’s not injured. There’s no need for you to be here.
—I was just making sure.
—You may leave.
Zarubin took his case and left. Vasili closed the grate. He crouched down beside Raisa, observing her tears:
—You’re strong. Maybe you think you can hold out. I understand your desire to stay loyal to your husband.
—Do you?
—You’re right. I don’t. My point is it would be better for you if you told me everything immediately. You think I’m a monster. But do you know who I learned that particular line from? Your husband, that’s what he used to tell people before they were tortured—some of them in this very room. He meant it sincerely, if that matters.
Raisa stared at this man’s handsome features and wondered, as she had in the train station all those months ago, why he appeared ugly. His eyes were dull, not lifeless or stupid, but cold.
—I’ll tell you everything.
—But will that be enough?
LEO SHOULD HAVE BEEN conserving his strength until there was an opportunity to act. That moment wasn’t now. He’d seen many prisoners waste their energy banging fists against doors, shouting, relentlessly pacing their tiny cells. At the time he’d wondered why they couldn’t see the futility of their actions. Now that he was in that same predicament he finally appreciated how they felt. It was as if his body were allergic to this confinement. It had nothing to do with logic or reasoning. He simply couldn’t sit and wait and do nothing. Instead, he strained against his restraints until his wrists began to bleed. Some part of him actually believed he might be able to break these chains even though he’d seen a hundred men and women secured to them and not once had they broken. Lit up with the notion of a great escape, he ignored the fact that this kind of hope was as dangerous as any torture they could inflict.
&nb
sp; Vasili entered, gesturing for the guard to place a chair opposite Leo. The guard obeyed, positioning it just outside of Leo’s reach. Vasili stepped forward, picking up the chair and moving it closer. Their knees were almost touching. He stared at Leo, taking in the way his whole body was straining against his restraints:
—Relax, your wife is unharmed. She’s next door.
Vasili waved the guard toward the grate. He opened it. Vasili called out:
—Raisa: say something to your husband. He’s worried about you.
Raisa’s voice could be heard like a faint echo:
—Leo?
Leo pulled back, relaxing his body. Before Leo could answer the guard slammed the grate shut. Leo looked at Vasili.
—There’s no need to torture either of us. You know how many sessions I’ve seen. I understand there’s no point in holding out. Ask me any question, I’ll answer.
—But I already know everything. I’ve read the files you collected. I’ve spoken to General Nesterov. He was very keen that his children shouldn’t grow up in an orphanage. Raisa has confirmed all his information. I only have one question for you. Why?
Leo didn’t understand. But his fight was gone. He just wanted to say whatever it was this man wanted to hear. He spoke like a child addressing a teacher:
—I’m sorry. I mean no disrespect. I don’t understand. You’re asking why . . . ?
—Why risk the little you had, the little we allowed you to keep, for this fantasy?
—You’re asking about the murders?
—The murders have all been solved.
Leo didn’t reply.
—You don’t believe that, do you? You believe that someone or some group of people are randomly murdering Russian boys and girls up and down this country for no reason at all?
—I was wrong. I had a theory. It was wrong. I retract it fully. I’ll sign a retraction, a confession, an admission of guilt.
—You realize you’re guilty of the most serious act of anti-Russian agitation. It feels like Western propaganda, Leo. That I could understand. If you’re working for the West then you’re a traitor. Maybe they promised you money, power, the things you had lost. That I could at least understand. Is this the case?
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