Tom Smith - Child 44

— It’ll bite your arm off.

The boy pulled back. The soldier led the dogs away, repeating his order that the boy return to his house. Leo pulled himself back up, pressing himself flat against the underside of the truck. They owed that boy their lives.

Raisa had no idea how long she’d been tied under the truck. It felt like an impossibly long time. She’d listened as the soldiers carried out their search: furniture was kicked over, pots upturned, objects smashed. She’d heard the dogs barking and seen the explosion of light as flares were fired. The soldiers were returning, moving back to the trucks. Orders were being shouted. The dogs were loaded into the back of her truck. They were about to leave.

Excited, she realized the plan had worked. Then the engine started. The axle shuddered. In a couple of seconds it would start spinning. She was still tied to it. She had to get free. But her wrists were bound and it was difficult to untie the knots, her hands were numb, her fingers unresponsive. She was struggling. The last of the soldiers were in the truck. The villagers were crowding round the trucks. Raisa still wasn’t free. The trucks were about to drive off. She leaned forward, using her teeth, tugging at the knot. It came undone and she dropped to the ground, landing with a thump on her back, a noise masked by the sound of the engines. The truck drove off. She was in the middle of the road. In the light of the village she’d be seen by the soldiers sitting at the back of the truck. There was nothing she could do.

The villagers moved forward, clustering. As the truck drove off, leaving Raisa on the road, they surrounded her. Looking back the soldiers saw nothing unusual. Raisa was hidden amongst the villagers’ legs.

Raisa waited, still on the road, curled up. Finally a man offered his hand. She was safe. She stood up. Leo wasn’t there. He wouldn’t have risked letting go until the trucks were in the dark. She guessed he was worried about being seen by the driver of the third truck. Perhaps he’d wait until they were turning. But she wasn’t worried. He’d know what to do. All of them waited in silence. Raisa took the young boy’s hand, the boy who’d helped them. And before long they could hear a man running towards them.

Same Day

Despite the many hundreds of soldiers and agents now searching for the fugitives, Vasili was convinced that none of them would succeed. Although the odds were heavily weighted in the State’s favour, they were chasing a man who’d been trained to avoid detection and survive in hostile territory. There was a belief in some quarters that Leo and Raisa must have had assistance, either from treacherous guards or from people waiting at a designated location on the railway line who’d orchestrated the breakout. This had been contradicted by the confessions of the prisoners who’d been travelling in Leo’s carriage. They’d declared, under duress, that they’d escaped alone. That wasn’t what the guards wanted to hear — it embarrassed them. So far the search had focused on possible approach routes towards the Scandinavian border, the northern coastline and the Baltic Sea. It was taken for granted that Leo would try and cross into another country, probably using a fishing boat. Once in the West he’d connect with senior government figures who’d gladly aid and shelter him in exchange for information. For this reason his capture was considered a matter of the highest urgency. Leo had the potential to inflict untold damage on Soviet Russia.

Vasili dismissed the idea that Leo’s escape had been assisted. There was simply no way anyone could have known which train the prisoners would be on. The process of getting them on a Gulag transport had been hurried, improvised and last-minute. He’d pushed it through without the proper paperwork or procedure. The only person who could’ve helped them escape was him. This meant that there was a chance, no matter how ridiculous the notion, that he’d be blamed. It seemed that Leo had the potential to ruin him after all.

So far none of the search groups had found any trace of them. Neither Leo nor Raisa had any family or friends in that area of the country — they should be alone, in rags, penniless. When he’d last spoken to Leo the man hadn’t even known his own name. Evidently he’d regained his wits. Vasili had to figure out where Leo was going: that was the best way to trap him rather than searching the countryside at random. Having failed to recapture his own denounced brother, he must succeed in capturing Leo. He wouldn’t survive another failure.

Vasili didn’t believe that Leo had any interest in fleeing to the West. Would he return to Moscow? His parents lived here. But his parents couldn’t help him and they’d lose their life if he turned up on their doorstep. They were now under armed surveillance. Perhaps he’d want revenge, perhaps he’d turn up to kill Vasili? He mulled over this idea briefly, flattered by it, before rejecting it. He’d never felt anything personal about Leo’s dislike of him. There was no way he’d risk his wife’s life for an act of revenge. Leo had an agenda and it was rooted in the pages of this captured case file.

Vasili studied the stack of documents accumulated over the past months by both Leo and the local militia officer whom he’d convinced to help him. There were photos of murdered children, witness statements. There were court documents about convicted suspects. During his interrogation Leo had denounced this work. Vasili knew that denunciation was a lie. Leo was a believer and he believed in this fanciful theory. But what exactly did they believe? A single killer was responsible for all these motiveless murders — murders spread over many hundreds of kilometres in over thirty different locations? Aside from the theory itself being bizarre, it meant they could be heading anywhere. Vasili could hardly pick one of these locations and wait. Frustrated, he re-examined the map marked with each alleged murder, numbered chronologically.

Vasili’s finger tapped the number. He picked up the phone.

— Bring me Officer Fyodor Andreev.

Since Vasili had been promoted he’d been rewarded with his own office — a small space, admittedly, but one of which he was immensely proud as if each square metre had been personally conquered during a military campaign. There was a knock on the door. Fyodor Andreev entered, now one of Vasili’s subordinates: a youngish man, loyal, hardworking and not too bright, perfect virtues in a subordinate. He was nervous. Vasili smiled, gesturing for Fyodor to sit down.

— Thank you for coming. I need your help.

— Certainly, sir.

— You’re aware that Leo Demidov is a fugitive?

— Yes, sir, I’ve heard.

— What do you know of the reasons behind Leo’s arrest?

— Nothing.

— We believed that he was working for Western governments, collecting information — spying. But that turns out not to be true. We were wrong. Leo wouldn’t tell us anything during his interrogation. Now, belatedly, I’ve found out that he was working on this.

Fyodor stood up, staring at the case file on the table. He’d seen these documents before. They’d been taped to Leo’s chest. Fyodor was beginning to sweat. He leaned forward, as though examining these papers for the first time, trying to hide the fact that he was trembling. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Vasili had moved and was now standing beside him, staring down at the pages, as though they were working together, partners. Vasili’s finger slid across the map, slowly, reaching Moscow and tapping:

Fyodor felt sick. He turned his head to see Vasili’s face close to his own.