Child 44 - Страница 50

Short of breath, shouting for her son, calling his name into the face of the bathers, her eyes filled with tears. People circled her with their dumb, unconcerned eyes. She begged them to help her.

— He’s only five years old. He’s been taken. We have to find him.

A stern-looking woman tried to take hold of her.

— He’ll be here somewhere.

— You don’t understand: he’s in terrible danger.

— From what?

She pushed the woman out of the way, turning around and around, calling his name. Suddenly she felt a man’s strong hands on her arms.

— My little boy’s been taken. Please help me look for him.

— Why don’t you calm down?

— No, he’ll be killed. He’ll be murdered. You have to help me find him.

The man laughed.

— No one is going to be killed. He’s quite safe.

She began to struggle but the man wouldn’t let her go. Surrounded by pitying faces, she tried to break free.

— Let go of me! I need to find my son.

Nesterov pushed through the crowd, breaking through to his wife. He’d found his youngest son playing in the tall reeds and was now carrying both his children. The man let go of his Inessa’s arm. She took hold of Vadim, clutching his head as though it were fragile and might break. They stood together as a family, surrounded, hostile faces all around. Why had they behaved like that? What was wrong with them? Efim whispered:

— Let’s go.

They left the crowd, hurriedly collecting their stuff and heading to the car. There were only four other cars parked by the dirt road. The rest of the bathers had arrived by tram. Nesterov started the engine, driving off.

On the beach a thin woman with a touch of grey in her hair watched as the car disappeared. She’d made a note of the number plate, having decided this was a family that needed investigating.

Moscow

5 July

Until yesterday, if Leo had been arrested, there was nothing directly linking Raisa to his unauthorized investigation. She could have denounced him and there might have been a chance she’d survive. That was no longer true. On a train nearing Moscow, travelling under false papers, their guilt was indivisible.

Why had Raisa boarded the train, accompanying Leo? It went against her governing principle — survival. She was accepting an immeasurable risk when an alternative presented itself to her. She could’ve stayed in Voualsk and done nothing or, to be safer still, she could’ve betrayed Leo and hoped that this betrayal would have secured her future. It was an unpleasant strategy, hypocritical and despicable, but she’d done many unpleasant things in the name of survival, including marrying Leo, a man she’d loathed. What had changed? This wasn’t about love. Leo was now her partner, not in the straightforward marital sense. They were partners in this investigation. He trusted her, listened to her — not as a courtesy but as an equal. They were a team, sharing a common goal, united behind a purpose more important than either of their lives. Energized, excited, she didn’t want to return to her former subsistence existence, wondering how much of her soul she’d have to slice off and sell in order to survive.

The train came to a stop at Yaroslavavski Vokzal. Leo was all too aware of the significance of returning here, travelling across the very train tracks where Arkady’s body had been found. They were returning to Moscow for the first time since their exile four months ago. They had no official business here. Their lives and investigation depended on being undiscovered. If they were caught they would die. The reason for their venture was a woman called Galina Shaporina, a woman who’d seen the killer, an eyewitness who could describe this man, put an age on him, flesh him out — make him real. Currently neither Leo nor Raisa had any idea of what kind of man they were searching for. They were clueless as to whether he was old or young, lean or heavy, scruffy or well dressed. In short, he could be almost anyone.

In addition to speaking to Galina, Raisa had proposed talking to Ivan, her colleague from school. He was well read in censored Western material and had access to restricted publications, magazine articles, newspapers and unauthorized translations. He might be aware of case studies about comparable crimes from abroad: random, multiple, ritualized murders. Raisa knew only about such crimes in the barest of detail. She’d heard about an American, Albert Fish, who’d murdered children and eaten them. She’d heard stories about a Frenchman, Dr Pettiot, who, during the Great Patriotic War, had lured Jews to his cellar offering safety, and then killed them, burning their bodies. She had no idea whether this was merely Soviet propaganda about the decay of Western civilization, killers depicted as products of a flawed society and perverse politics. From the point of view of their investigation a determinist theory was useless. It meant that the only suspect they could be looking for was a foreigner, someone whose character had been determined by living in a capitalist society. But clearly the killer was moving around the country with ease; he spoke Russian and charmed children. This was a killer operating within the fabric of their country. Everything they knew or had been told about this type of crime was either false or irrelevant. They had to unlearn every presumption and start afresh. And Raisa believed that Ivan’s access to sensitive information was crucial to re-educating themselves.

Leo appreciated that such material would be of benefit but equally he was also keen to reduce their interaction to as few people as possible. Their primary objective was speaking to Galina Shaporina, Ivan was secondary. Leo wasn’t entirely convinced that he was worth the risk. However, he was aware that his evaluation was tainted by personal factors. Was he jealous of Ivan’s relationship with his wife? Yes, he was. Did he want to share their investigation with Ivan? Not for a second.

Leo glanced out of the window, waiting for everyone to disembark. Train stations were patrolled by undercover and uniformed agents. All major transport junctions were deemed to be vulnerable as points of infiltration. There were armed checkpoints on the roads. Ports and harbours were under constant surveillance. Nowhere was layered in more levels of protection than Moscow. They were attempting to sneak into the most heavily policed city in the country. Their only advantage was that Vasili had little reason to suppose they’d be reckless enough to embark on such a venture. About to step off the train, Leo turned to Raisa.

— If you happen to catch their eye, a guard or anyone else, even someone who appears to be a civilian, don’t immediately look away. Don’t smile or make any gestures. Just hold eye contact and then look at something else.

They stepped down onto the platform, neither of them carrying much luggage. Large bags were more likely to draw attention. Walking briskly, they had to stop themselves from rushing. Leo was thankful that the station was busy. All the same he could feel his shirt collar becoming damp with sweat. He tried to reassure himself that there was almost no chance any of the agents here were looking for them. They’d already been careful to shake any possible surveillance back at Voualsk. They’d established that they were going on a walking holiday in the mountains. Applications had to be made for vacations. Because of their limited status they’d only been able to get a couple of days. Under extreme time pressure, they’d set off into the forest, trekking in a loop, making sure they weren’t being followed. Once they were confident they were alone they’d returned to the forest near the station. They’d changed out of their muddy clothes, buried them and their camping equipment, and sat waiting for the train to Moscow to arrive. They’d boarded it at the last minute. Should all go according to plan they’d collect the eyewitness report, return to Voualsk, slip into the forest, retrieve their equipment and change back into their muddy clothes. They’d re-enter the town from one of the northern forest trails.

They were almost at the exit when a man behind them called out:

— Papers.

Without hesitating, Leo turned. He didn’t smile or try to appear relaxed. The officer they were dealing with was State Security. But Leo didn’t recognize him. That was fortunate. He handed over his papers. Raisa handed over hers.

Leo studied the man’s face. He was tall, stocky. His eyes were slow, his movements sluggish. This was nothing more a routine stop and search. However, routine or not, the papers he now examined were fake and at best only a passable imitation. In his days as an agent Leo would never have been fooled by them. Nesterov had helped provide them, doctoring them with Leo’s assistance. They’d worked hard but the more they’d worked the more he’d become conscious of their weakness: the scratches on the paper, the points where the ink bled, the double lines where it had been stamped twice. He now wondered how he could’ve put his faith in these documents and realized he hadn’t — he’d hoped they wouldn’t be checked.

Raisa watched the agent pore over the writing and realized the man could barely read. He was trying to hide this fact by pretending to be extremely thorough. But she’d seen too many children struggle with the same problem not to be able to spot the signs. The man’s lips moved as his eyes scanned the lines. Aware that if she gave any indication of knowing his weakness he’d almost certainly lash out, she maintained her look of fear. She reasoned he’d appreciate being feared: it would soothe any anxiety that he might be feeling. Sure enough the agent checked on their expressions, not because he had some suspicion regarding the document but because he was worried they’d become less afraid of him. Satisfied that he was still a man to be feared, he slapped the documents against the palm of his hand, making it clear that he was weighing them up, that he still had power over their lives.