Child 44 - Страница 17

From a medical standpoint the doctor supposed, even before an examination, that Leo’s poor health was due to his prolonged exposure to icy water, possibly pneumonia exacerbated by his use of narcotics. And if this was the case, if he was genuinely sick, then Zarubin was to behave as a doctor and facilitate his recovery. If, however, he was feigning sickness for whatever reason then Zarubin was to behave as an MGB officer and dope him with a powerful sedative, which he would administer by pretending it was a medicine or tonic. Leo would be bedridden for twenty-four hours preventing him from escape and giving the major time to decide how best to proceed.

According to the steel floor plan affixed to a concrete pillar at the base of the first building apartment number 124 was located in the third block on the fourteenth floor. The elevator, a metal box with space for two, or four if you didn’t mind snuggling against each other, rattled its way up to the thirteenth floor where it paused briefly, as though taking a breath, before making up the final distance. Zarubin needed both hands to pull the stiff grate sideways. At this height the wind over the exposed concrete walkway brought tears to his eyes. He glanced out at the panorama over the tatty fringes of a snow-covered Moscow before turning left and arriving at apartment 124.

The door was opened by a young woman. The doctor had read Leo’s file and knew that he was married to a woman called Raisa Gavrilovna Demidova: twenty-seven years old, a schoolteacher. The file hadn’t mentioned that she was beautiful. She was, notably so, and it should’ve been in the file. These things mattered. He hadn’t prepared himself for it. He had a weakness for beauty; not the ostentatious, self-regarding kind. His preference was for understated beauty. Here was such a woman: it wasn’t that she’d made no effort over her appearance, on the contrary, she’d made every effort to appear unremarkable, to play down her beauty. Her hair, her clothes were styled in the most common of fashions, if they could be called fashions at all. Evidently she did not seek the attention of men, a fact which made her all the more attractive to the doctor. She would be a challenge. In his younger years the doctor had been a womanizer, legendary in fact among certain social circles. Inspired by the memories of his previous successes he smiled at her.

Raisa glimpsed a set of stained teeth, no doubt yellow from years of heavy smoking. She smiled in response. She’d expected the MGB to send someone even though they’d given no warning and she waited for this man to introduce himself.

— I’m Doctor Zarubin. I’ve been sent to look in on Leo.

— I’m Raisa, Leo’s wife. You have identification?

The doctor took off his hat, found his card and presented it.

— Please: call me Boris.

There were candles burning in the apartment. Raisa explained that there was only intermittent power at the moment — there was a recurrent problem with the electricity on all floors above the tenth. They suffered periodic blackouts, sometimes lasting for a minute, sometimes for a day. She apologized, she didn’t know when the power might be coming back on. Zarubin made what seemed to be a joke.

— He’ll survive. He’s not a flower. As long as he’s kept warm.

She asked if the doctor wanted a drink: something hot perhaps since it was cold outside. He accepted her offer: touching the back of her hand as she took his coat.

In the kitchen, the doctor leant against the wall, his hands in his pockets, watching as she prepared tea.

— I hope the water is still hot.

She had a pleasant voice, soft and calm. She brewed loose leaves in a small pot before pouring it into a tall glass. The tea was strong, almost black, and once the glass was half full she turned to him.

— How strong do you like it?

— As strong as you can make it.

— Like this, then?

— Perhaps just a little more water.

As she topped it up with water from the samovar, Zarubin’s eyes drifted down her body, roaming over the outline of her breasts, her waist. Her clothes were dowdy — a grey cotton dress, thick stockings, a knitted cardigan over a white shirt. He wondered why Leo hadn’t used his position to dress her in foreign tailored luxuries. But even mass-produced garments and coarse material didn’t make her any less desirable.

— Tell me about your husband.

— He has a fever. He claims to feel cold when he’s hot. He’s shaking. He refuses to eat.

— If he has a fever it’s best that he doesn’t eat for the time being. However, his lack of appetite might also be due to his use of amphetamines. Do you know anything about this?

— If it’s to do with his work I know nothing.

— Have you noticed any changes in him?

— He skips meals, he’s out all night. But then his work demands that. I’ve noticed that after working long stretches he tends to become a little absent-minded.

— He forgets things?

She handed the doctor his glass.

— Would you like sugar?

— Jam would be nice.

She reached for the top shelf. As she did the back of her shirt lifted up revealing a patch of pale, perfect skin. Zarubin felt his mouth go dry. She took down a jar of dark purple jam, unscrewing the lid and offering him a spoon. He scooped out a clump of jam and placed it on his tongue, sipping the hot tea, feeling the jam dissolve. With a deliberate intensity he stared into her eyes. Made aware of his desire, she blushed. He watched as the flush of red spread around her neck.

— Thank you.

— Perhaps you’d like to get on with the examination?

She screwed the lid back on the jar, leaving it on the side and stepping towards the bedroom. He didn’t move.

— I’d like to finish my tea first. There’s no rush.

She was forced to return. Zarubin pursed his lips and blew across the surface. The tea was hot and sweet. She was flustered. He was enjoying making her wait.

The windowless bedroom was hot, the air stale. Zarubin knew from the smell alone that the man lying in bed was ill. To his surprise he felt something like disappointment. Pondering what underlay this feeling he sat down on the bed, beside Leo. He took his temperature. It was high but not dangerously so. He listened to Leo’s chest. He could hear nothing out of the ordinary. Leo wasn’t suffering from tuberculosis. There were no indications that this was anything more than a cold. Raisa stood beside him, watching. The doctor could smell soap on her hands. He liked being this close to her. He took a brown glass bottle from his bag and measured out a spoonful of thick green liquid.

— Please lift his head.

She helped her husband into a sitting position. Zarubin tipped the liquid down his throat. Once he’d swallowed she lowered Leo’s head onto the pillow.

— What was that for?

— It’s a tonic — to help him sleep.

— He needs no help with that.

The doctor didn’t reply. He couldn’t be bothered to think up a lie. The drug administered in the guise of a medicine was in fact the doctor’s own creation: a combination of a barbiturate, a hallucinogenic and, to disguise the taste, flavoured sugar syrup. Its purpose was to incapacitate the body and mind. Administered orally, in less than an hour the muscles went first — becoming slack, relaxed to the point where even the slightest movement felt like unimaginable hard work. The hallucinogenic kicked in shortly after.

An idea had taken hold of Zarubin: it had taken shape in the kitchen when Raisa had blushed and crystallized into a plan the moment he’d smelt soap on her hands. If he reported that Leo wasn’t sick, that he was faking his leave of absence, then he would almost certainly be arrested and interrogated. With all the other doubts surrounding his behaviour there would be a heavy weight of suspicion. He’d most probably be imprisoned. His wife, his beautiful wife, would end up alone and vulnerable. She’d be in need of an ally. Zarubin’s status within the State Security forces matched or even surpassed Leo’s and he felt sure he could offer an acceptable, comfortable alternative. Zarubin was married but he could take her as a mistress. He was convinced that Raisa’s survival instinct was highly tuned. Yet all things considered there might be a less complicated way of getting what he wanted. He stood up.

— Can we speak in private?

In the kitchen, Raisa crossed her arms. There was a furrow in her brow — a tiny crinkle in her otherwise perfect pale skin. Zarubin wanted to run his tongue along it.

— Will my husband be OK?

— He’s suffering from a fever. And I would be prepared to say that.

— You would be prepared to say what?

— I’d be prepared to say that he was genuinely sick.

— He is genuinely sick. You just said so yourself.

— Do you understand why I’m here?

— Because you’re a doctor and my husband is ill.

— I’ve been sent to discover if your husband is genuinely ill or if he’s merely trying to avoid work.

— But it’s obvious that he’s sick. Doctor or not, anyone could see that.

— Yes, but I’m the one who’s here. I’m the one who decides. And they’ll believe what I say.