Tom Smith - Child 44

— We’re here.

The train pulled into the station. They collected their cases, stepping down onto the platform. It was colder than Moscow — the temperature had dropped by at least a couple of degrees. They stood like two evacuee children arriving in the country for the first time, staring at their unfamiliar surroundings. They’d been given no instructions. They knew no one. They didn’t even have a number to call. No one was waiting for them.

The station building was empty except for a man seated at the ticket booth. He was young, not much more than twenty. He watched them intently as they entered the building. Raisa approached him.

— Good evening. We need to get to the headquarters of the militia.

— You’re from Moscow?

— That’s right.

The man opened the door of his ticket booth, stepping out onto the concourse. He pointed out of the glass doors towards the street outside.

— They’re waiting for you.

One hundred paces from the station entrance was a militia car.

Passing a snow-capped stone carving of Stalin’s profile, chiselled into a slab of rock like a fossilized impression, Raisa and Leo moved towards the car, a GAZ-20, no doubt one of the cars produced by this town. As they got closer they could see two men sitting in the front. The door opened, one of the men stepped out, a middle-aged man with broad shoulders.

— Leo Demidov?

— Yes.

— I’m General Nesterov, head of Voualsk’s militia.

Leo wondered why he’d bothered to meet them. Surely Vasili had given instructions to make the experience as unpleasant as possible? But it didn’t matter what Vasili had said — the arrival of a former MGB agent from Moscow was going to put the militia on their guard. They wouldn’t believe that he was merely here to join their ranks. They almost certainly suspected an ulterior agenda and presumed that, for whatever reason, he’d be reporting back to Moscow. The more Vasili had tried to convince them otherwise, the more suspicious they would’ve become. Why would an agent travel hundreds of kilometres to join a small-scale militia operation? It didn’t make sense — in a classless society the militia were near the bottom of the heap.

Every schoolchild was taught that murder, theft and rape were symptoms of a capitalist society, and the role of the militia had been ranked accordingly. There was no need to steal and no violence between citizens because there was equality. There was no need for a police force in a Communist state. It was for this reason that the militia were nothing more than a lowly subsection of the Ministry of the Interior: poorly paid, poorly respected — a force comprised of secondary-school dropouts, farm workers kicked off the kolkhoz , discharged army personnel and men whose judgement could be bought with a half bottle of vodka. Officially the USSR’s crime rates were close to zero. The newspapers frequently pointed out the vast sums of money the United States of America was forced to waste on crime prevention with its need for gleaming police cars and police officers in crisp, clean uniforms visible on every street corner, without which its society would crumble. The West employed many of their bravest men and women fighting crime, citizens who could’ve better spent their time building something. None of that manpower was squandered here: all that was needed was a ragtag group of strong but otherwise useless men who were good for nothing more than breaking up drunken brawls. That was the theory. Leo had no idea what the real crime statistics were. He had no desire to find out since those who knew were probably liquidated on a regular basis. Factory production figures filled Pravda ’s front page, the middle pages and the back pages too. Good news was the only news worth printing — high birth rates, mountain-top train lines and new canals.

Taking this into account, Leo’s arrival was a striking anomaly. A post in the MGB held more blat , respect, more influence, more material benefit than almost any other job. An officer wouldn’t voluntarily step down. And if he was disgraced, why hadn’t he simply been arrested? Even disavowed from the MGB, he still carried its shadow — potentially a valuable asset.

Nesterov carried their cases to the car as effortlessly as if they’d been empty. He loaded them into the boot, before opening the back door for them. Inside, Leo watched his new superior officer as he climbed into the front passenger seat. He was too large, even for this impressive vehicle. His knees came up near his chin. There was a young officer seated behind the wheel. Nesterov didn’t bother to introduce him. In similar fashion to the MGB there were drivers responsible for each vehicle. Officers weren’t given their own car and didn’t drive themselves. The driver put the car into gear, pulling out into an empty road. There wasn’t another car in sight.

Nesterov waited a while, no doubt not wanting to seem like he was interrogating his new recruit, before glancing at Leo in the rear-view mirror and asking:

— We were told three days ago that you were coming here. It’s an unusual transfer.

— We must go where we’re needed.

— No one has been transferred here for some time. I certainly made no request for any additional men.

— The output of the factory is considered a high priority. You can never have too many men working to ensure the security of this town.

Raisa turned towards her husband, guessing that his enigmatic answers were deliberate. Even demoted, even tossed out of the MGB, he was still making use of the fear it instilled. In their precarious circumstances it seemed a sensible thing to do. Nesterov asked:

— Tell me: are you to be a syshchik , a detective? We were confused about the orders. They said no. They said you were to be an uchastkovyy , which is a significant demotion in responsibility for a man of your status.

— My orders are to report to you. I leave my rank in your hands.

There was silence. Raisa supposed the general didn’t like having the question pushed back at him. Uncomfortable with the situation he gruffly added:

— For the moment you’ll stay in guest accommodation. Once an apartment has been found it will be assigned to you. I should warn you that there’s a very long waiting list. And there’s nothing I can do about that. There are no advantages to being a militsioner.

The car stopped outside what appeared to be a restaurant. Nesterov opened the boot, picking up the cases and depositing them on the pavement. Leo and Raisa stood, awaiting instructions. Addressing Leo, Nesterov said:

— Once you’ve taken your cases to your room please come back to the car. Your wife doesn’t need to come.

Raisa suppressed her irritation at being spoken about as if she wasn’t present. She watched as Leo, mimicking Nesterov, picked up both their cases. She marvelled at this bravado but decided against embarrassing him. He could struggle with her case if he wanted to. Walking just in front she pushed open the door, entering the restaurant.

Inside it was dark, the shutters were closed and the air stank of stale smoke. Last night’s dirty glasses cluttered the table. Leo put the cases down and knocked on one of the greasy tabletops. The silhouette of a man appeared at the door.

— We’re not open.

— My name is Leo Demidov. This is my wife, Raisa. We’ve just arrived from Moscow.

— Danil Basarov.

— I’ve been told by General Nesterov you have accommodation for us.

— You mean the room upstairs?

— I don’t know, yes, I suppose.