Winter of the World (Century Trilogy 2)

shrewd, and had a knack of thinking one step ahead of Volodya, who strove to emulate his forethought. He did not subscribe to the orthodox military view that army organization was about shouting and bullying, yet he was merciless with incompetent people. Volodya respected him and feared him.

‘This might be tremendously useful information,’ Lemitov said when he had read the translation.

‘Might be?’ Volodya did not see any reason for doubt.

‘It could be disinformation,’ Lemitov pointed out.

Volodya did not want to believe that, but he realized with a surge of disappointment that he had to acknowledge the possibility that Werner had been caught and turned into a double agent. ‘What kind of disinformation?’ he asked dispiritedly. ‘Are these false names, to send us on a wild goose chase?’

‘Perhaps. Or they might be the real names of genuine volunteers, Communists and socialists who have escaped from Nazi Germany and gone to Spain to fight for freedom. We could end up arresting real antiFascists.’

‘Hell.’

Lemitov smiled. ‘Don’t look so miserable! The information is still very good. We have our own spies in Spain – young Russian soldiers and officers who have “volunteered” to join the International Brigades. They can investigate.’ He picked up a red pencil and wrote on the sheet of paper in small, neat handwriting. ‘Well done,’ he said.

Volodya took that for dismissal and went to the door.

Lemitov said: ‘Did you meet Markus today?’

Volodya turned back. ‘There was a problem.’

‘I guessed, by your mouth.’

Volodya told the story. ‘So I lost a good source,’ he finished. ‘But I don’t know what I could have done differently. Should I have told the NKVD about Markus and warned them off?’

‘Fuck, no,’ said Lemitov. ‘They’re completely untrustworthy. Never tell them anything. But don’t worry, you haven’t lost Markus. You can get him back easily.’

‘How?’ Volodya said uncomprehendingly. ‘He hates us all now.’

‘Arrest Irina again.’

‘What?’ Volodya was horrified. Had she not suffered enough? ‘Then he’ll hate us even more.’

‘Tell him that if he doesn’t continue to co-operate with us, we’ll interrogate her all over again.’

Volodya desperately tried to hide his revulsion. It was important not to appear squeamish. And he could see that Lemitov’s plan would work. ‘Yes,’ he managed to say.

‘Only this time,’ Lemitov went on, ‘tell him we’ll put the lighted cigarettes up her cunt.’

Volodya felt as if he might vomit. He swallowed hard and said: ‘Good idea. I’ll pick her up now.’

‘Tomorrow is soon enough,’ said Lemitov. ‘Four in the morning. Maximum shock.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Volodya went out and closed the door behind him.

He stood in the corridor for a moment, feeling unsteady. Then a passing clerk looked strangely at him and he forced himself to walk away.

He was going to have to do this. He would not torture Irina, of course: the threat would be enough. But she would surely think she was going to be tortured all over again, and that would terrify her out of her wits. Volodya felt that in her place he might go insane. He had never imagined, when he joined the Red Army, that he might have to do such things. Of course the army was about killing people, he knew that; but torturing girls?

The building was emptying, lights were being switched off in offices, men with hats on were in the corridors. It was time to go home. Returning to his office, Volodya called the military police and arranged to meet a squad at three-thirty in the morning to arrest Irina. Then he put on his coat and went to catch a tram home.

Volodya lived with his parents, Grigori and Katerina, and his sister Anya, nineteen, who was still at university. On the tram he wondered if he could talk to his father about this. He imagined saying: ‘Do we have to torture people in Communist society?’ But he knew what the answer would be. It was a temporary necessity, essential to defend the revolution against spies and subversives in the pay of the capitalist imperialists. Perhaps he could ask: ‘How long will it be before we can abandon such dreadful practices?’ Of course his father would not know, nor would anyone else.

On their return from Berlin, the Peshkov family had moved into Government House, sometimes called The House on the Embankment, an apartment block across the river from the Kremlin, occupied by members of the Soviet elite. It was a huge building in the Constructivist style, with more than five hundred flats.

Volodya nodded at the military policeman at the door, then passed through the grand lobby – so large that, some evenings, there was dancing to a jazz band – and went up in the elevator. The apartment was luxurious by Soviet standards, with constant hot water and a phone, but it was not as pleasant as their home in Berlin.

His mother was in the kitchen. Katerina was an indifferent cook and an unenthusiastic housekeeper, but Volodya’s father adored her. Back in 1914, in St Petersburg, he had rescued her from the unwelcome attentions of a bullying policeman, and he had been in love with her ever since. She was still attractive at forty-three, Volodya guessed, and while the family had been on the diplomatic circuit she had learned how to dress more stylishly than most Russian women – though she was careful