Child 44 - Страница 14

Despite the fact that Leo was indoors he was still wearing his outdoor attire, including leather gloves and a long woollen overcoat. He was shivering. When he stood still the floor seemed to rock from side to side. Dizzy spells came over him, lasting for several seconds. He felt as if he was going to collapse. He hadn’t eaten in two days yet the thought of food made him sick. Even so he stubbornly refused to consider the possibility he was ill: he was a little cold certainly, tired perhaps, but that would pass. In the post-amphetamine crash, he just needed to sleep. There was no way he could take a day off. Not today, not when there was the matter of Anatoly Brodsky’s interrogation.

Interrogations were technically not part of his duties. The MGB had specialists who did nothing but interview suspects, moving from cell to cell, extracting confessions with professional indifference and personal pride. They were motivated, like most employees, by simple things such as the prospect of a performance-related-pay bonus, rewarded if the suspect signed promptly and unconditionally without amendments. Leo knew a little of their methods. He knew none of them personally. Interrogators formed something of a clique, working as a team, often sharing the same suspects, combining their particular gifts to attack resilience from a variety of different angles. Brutal, articulate, disarming: all of these qualities had their place. Outside of work these men and women ate together, walked together, shared stories and compared methods. Though they looked more or less like anyone else it was for some reason relatively easy for Leo to point them out. Many of their more extreme operations were confined to the basement, where they were able to control environmental elements such as heat and light. In contrast, Leo’s role as investigator meant he spent most of his time either upstairs or outside. The basement was a world he rarely descended to, a world he’d closed his eyes to, a world he preferred to keep under his feet.

After a short wait Leo was called in. Unsteady, he entered Major Kuzmin’s office. Nothing in this room was accidental: everything had been meticulously planned and positioned. The walls were decorated with framed black-and-white photos, including one in which Stalin was shaking Kuzmin’s hand, a photo taken at the Leader’s seventieth birthday. Surrounding these were a selection of framed propaganda posters collected from different decades. Leo supposed the age range was intended to suggest that Kuzmin had always occupied this office even during the purges of the 1930s, which was not the case, he had been in army intelligence. There was a poster of a plump white rabbit in a cage. EAT MORE RABBIT MEAT! There were three powerful red figures smashing their red hammers against the heads of sulky-looking unshaven men. FIGHT LAZY WORKERS! There were three smiling women heading into a factory. TRUST YOUR SAVINGS TO US! The US in the last poster didn’t refer to the three smiling women but rather to the national savings account. There was a poster of a bulbous man dressed in a suit and top hat carrying two bags brimming with money. CAPITALIST CLOWNS! There were blocky images of docks, ship-building, railways, smiling workers, angry workers and a fleet of locomotives all in honour of Lenin. BUILD! These posters were rotated regularly and Kuzmin was fastidious about showing off his extensive collection. Equal care was spent on his book collection. His shelves were stocked with all the appropriate titles whilst his copy of The History of the All-Union Communist Party: Short Course, the text ushered in by Stalin himself, rarely left his desk. Even the waste-paper basket contained only rigorously selected items. Everyone from the lowliest clerk to the highest-ranking officer understood that if you genuinely wanted to dispose of something you sneaked it out, discreetly getting rid of it on the way home.

Kuzmin stood by the window overlooking Lubyanka Square. He was squat and wearing, as he tended to do, a uniform one size too small for his frame. His glasses were thick and often slid down his nose. In short he was a ridiculous-looking man and not even the supreme power of life and death had bestowed upon him any gravitas. Although, as far as Leo was aware, Kuzmin no longer took part in interrogations it was rumoured that in his day he’d been something of an expert, preferring to use his small, fat hands. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe.

Leo sat down. Kuzmin remained standing by the window. He preferred to pose questions whilst looking outside. This was because he believed, and often reminded Leo, that outward displays of emotion should be treated with extreme scepticism unless the person was unaware that he or she was being observed. He’d become adept at appearing to gaze out at the view whilst actually watching people in the reflection. The usefulness of this trick was significantly reduced by the fact that almost everyone, including Leo, was aware they were being watched. And anyway very few people lowered their guard inside the Lubyanka.

— Congratulations, Leo. I knew you’d get him. The experience was a valuable lesson for you.

Leo nodded.

— Are you ill?

Leo paused. Evidently he looked worse than he imagined.

— It’s nothing. A cold perhaps but it will pass.

— My guess is that you’re annoyed with me for having taken you off the Brodsky case to make you deal with Fyodor Andreev. Am I correct? You think Fyodor was an irrelevance and I should’ve left you to continue the operation against Brodsky.

He was smiling, something amused him. Leo concentrated, sensing danger.

— No, Major, I’m not annoyed. I should’ve arrested Brodsky immediately. It was my fault.

— Yes, but you did not arrest him immediately. So, in those circumstances, was I wrong to take you off the case of the spy and make you speak to a grieving father? That is my question.

— I had only thought about my own failure to arrest Brodsky immediately.

— That’s evasive of you. My point is simply this: Fyodor’s family wasn’t a trivial issue. It was a corruption within the very MGB itself. One of your men had become twisted by grief and unwittingly made himself and his family enemies of the State. While I’m pleased you caught Brodsky, I considered your work with Fyodor the more important.

— I understand.

— Then we come to the matter of Vasili Nikiyin.

It was inevitable that his actions would be reported. Vasili wouldn’t hesitate to try and use them against him. Leo couldn’t presume on Kuzmin’s support or guess which aspect of the incident concerned him the most.

— You pointed a gun at him? And then you hit him? He says you were out of control. He says you were taking narcotics. They’ve made you irrational. He’s pushing for your suspension. He’s upset, you understand.

Leo understood perfectly: the executions were not the issue here.

— I was ranking officer and I gave an order. Vasili disobeyed. How can I maintain the line of command, how can any of us maintain command, if orders are ignored? The system collapses. Perhaps it’s my military background. In military operations disobedience and insubordination are punishable by death.

Kuzmin nodded. Leo had chosen his defence wisely — the principles of military decorum.

— You’re right, of course. Vasili is hot-headed. He admits as much. He disobeyed an order. This is true. But he was enraged by the family’s collaboration. I’m not condoning what he did, you understand. We have a system in place for such violations. They should’ve been brought here. And Vasili has been appropriately reprimanded. As for the drugs—

— I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. And they are supplied to me by the doctors here.

— They don’t concern me in the least. I told you to do whatever it takes, which I suppose extends to taking whatever it takes. But I wish to give you a word of warning. Hitting a fellow officer gets you noticed. People will quickly forget that your reasons were sound. As soon as Vasili lowered his gun that should’ve been the end of it. If you wished to punish him further you should have reported his insubordination to me. You took justice into your own hands. That is not acceptable. That is never acceptable.

— I apologize.

Kuzmin moved away from the window. Standing by Leo’s side, he put a hand on his shoulder.

— Enough of all that. Consider the matter closed. I have a different challenge for you: Brodsky’s interrogation. I want you to handle it personally. You may call on whoever you like to assist you — a specialist interrogator — but I want you to be present when he cracks. It’s important that you see this man for who he really is, particularly since you were duped by his apparent innocence.

It was an unusual request. Kuzmin noted Leo’s surprise.

— It will be good for you. We should measure a man by what they’re prepared to do themselves. Not by what they’re prepared to have others do for them. Do you have any objection?

— None.

Leo stood up, straightening his jacket.

— I’ll begin immediately.

— One last thing: I want you and Vasili to work together on this.

There were three types of cell. There were the holding cells: square rooms, a floor covered with straw, with enough space for three adult men to lie side by side. There were always five men in any one cell, packed so tightly that one man couldn’t scratch himself without the others also moving, a human jigsaw of limbs. Since there was no latrine, space also had to be made for the bucket which the men were obliged to use in each other’s company. Once it was brimming prisoners were made to carry it to the nearest drain and told that if they spilled even the smallest drop they would be shot. Leo had listened to the guards discussing the prisoners’ comical expressions of concentration as they stared at the quivering level of faeces and urine, a level which decided whether they lived or died. Barbarity, certainly, but barbarity for a reason, barbarity for the greater good.