Tom Smith - Child 44

Leo stood up, taking the gun from Vasili’s hand. Blood snaked from the corner of Vasili’s mouth. He was still alive but his eyes were no longer calculating, plans were no longer being formed. He raised a hand, placing it on Leo’s shoulder, as if saying goodbye to a friend, before collapsing. This man, whose whole being had been bent on Leo’s persecution, was dead. But Leo felt neither relief nor satisfaction. All he could think about was the one task he had left to perform.

Raisa got up, standing beside Leo. Andrei remained where he was. No one did anything. Slowly, Leo raised the gun, taking aim, just above the bridge of his brother’s glasses. In the small room there was barely a foot between the barrel of the gun and his brother’s head.

A voice cried out:

— What are you doing?

Leo turned. Nadya was at the bottom of the stairs. Raisa whispered:

— Leo, we don’t have much time.

But Leo couldn’t do it. Andrei said:

— Brother, I want you to.

Raisa reached out, put her hand around Leo’s hand. Together they pulled the trigger. The gun fired, recoiled. Andrei’s head jerked back and he fell to the floor.

At the sound of the shot, armed officers stormed the house, running down the stairs. Raisa and Leo dropped the gun. The lead officer stared at the body of Vasili. Leo spoke first, his hand shaking. He pointed to Andrei — his little brother.

— This man was a murderer. Your superior officer died trying to apprehend him.

Leo picked up the black case. With no idea if his guess would prove correct, he opened it. Inside there was a glass jar lined with paper. He unscrewed the lid, tipping the contents onto the table, onto his game of cards. It was the stomach of his brother’s last victim, wrapped in an edition of Pravda . Leo added, his voice almost inaudible:

— Vasili died a hero.

As the officers moved around the table, examining this gruesome discovery, Leo stepped back. Nadya was staring at him, her father’s fury in her eyes.

18 July

Leo stood before Major Grachev in the office where he’d refused to denounce his wife. Leo didn’t recognize the major. He hadn’t heard of him. But he wasn’t surprised that someone new was in charge. No one lasted long in the upper echelons of the State Security force and four months had passed since he’d stood here. This time there was no chance that they’d be punished with unsupervised exile or sent to the Gulags. Their executions would happen here, today.

Major Grachev said:

— Your previous superior was Major Kuzmin, a Beria appointee. Both have been arrested. Your case now falls to me.

In front of him was the battered case file confiscated in Voualsk. Grachev flicked through the pages, the photographs, the statements, the court transcripts.

— In that basement we found the remains of three stomachs, two of which had been cooked. They’d been taken from children, although we’re still trying to find out who these victims might be. You were right. Andrei Sidorov was a murderer. I’ve reviewed his background. It seems he was a collaborator with Nazi Germany and was mistakenly released back into society after the war instead of being correctly processed. That was an unpardonable error on our part. He was a Nazi agent. They sent him back with instructions to take revenge on us for our victory over the Fascists. That revenge has taken the form of these terrible attacks on our children; they targeted the very future of Communism. More than that, it was a propaganda campaign. They wanted our people to believe our society could produce such a monster when in fact he was corrupted and educated by the West, transformed by his time away from home and then returned with a poisoned, foreign heart. I notice that not one of these murders took place before the Great Patriotic War.

He paused, looking at Leo.

— Was this not your thinking?

— That was exactly my thinking, sir.

Grachev offered his hand.

— Your service to your country has been remarkable. I’ve been instructed to offer you a promotion, a higher grade of position within the State Security organs, there’s a clear route to a political role if you should want it. We’re in new times, Leo. Our leader Khrushchev considers the problems you faced in your investigation part of the unpardonable excesses of Stalinist rule. Your wife has been released. Since she assisted you in hunting this foreign operative any question of her loyalty has now been answered. Both your records will be wiped clean. Your parents will have their old apartment back. If that is not available, then they will have a better one.

Leo remained silent.

— You have nothing to say?

— That is a very generous offer. And I’m honoured. You understand that I acted without any thought of promotion or power. I merely knew this man had to be stopped.

— I understand.

— But I would like permission to turn down your offer. And instead make a request of my own.

— Go on.

— I want to take charge of a Moscow homicide department. If such a department does not exist I would like to create it.

— What need is there of such a department?

— As you already said yourself, murder will become a weapon against our society. If they cannot spread their propaganda through conventional means, they will use unorthodox means. I believe crime will become a new front in our struggle with the West. They will use it to undermine the harmonious nature of our society. When they do, I want to be there to stop it.

— Go on.

— I would like General Nesterov transferred to Moscow. I would like him to work with me in this new department.

Grachev considered the request, nodding solemnly.

Raisa was waiting outside, staring up at the statue of Dzerzhinsky. Leo exited the building and took her hand, a brazen display of affection no doubt scrutinized by those staring out of the Lubyanka. He didn’t care. They were safe, at least for the time being. That was long enough; that was as long as anyone could possibly hope for. He glanced up at Dzerzhinsky’s statue and realized that he couldn’t remember a single thing that man had ever said.

25 July

Leo and Raisa were seated in the director’s office of Orphanage 12, located not far from the zoo. Leo glanced at his wife and asked:

— What’s taking so long?

— I don’t know.

— Something’s wrong.

Raisa shook her head:

— I don’t think so.

— The director didn’t like us very much.

— He seemed OK to me.

— But what did he think of us?

— I don’t know.

— Do you think he liked us?

— It doesn’t really matter what he thinks. It matters what they think.

Leo stood up, restless, saying:

— He has to sign off on it.

— He’ll sign the papers. That’s not the issue.

Leo sat down again, nodding.

— You’re right. I’m nervous.

— So am I.

— How do I look?

— You look fine.

— Not too formal?

— Relax, Leo.

The door opened. The director, a man in his forties, entered the room.

— I’ve found them.

Leo wondered if that was just a turn of phrase or whether he’d literally searched the building. The man stepped aside. Standing behind him were two young girls, Zoya and Elena, the daughters of Mikhail Zionoviev. It had been several months since they’d witnessed their parents’ execution in the snow outside their home. In that time the physical change was dramatic. They’d lost weight, their skin had lost colour. The younger girl, Elena, only four years old, had a shaved head. The elder girl, Zoya, ten years old, had her hair cropped short. They’d almost inevitably been infested with lice.