in an hour of need. The address was deliberately smudged to prevent a quick identification of the genuine occupant and so proof of the letter’s forgery. The location of the letter-dropped behind the desk-seemed staged.
Vasili protested the letter’s authenticity.
– It would be negligent not to fully investigate the Kiev lead.
Though Leo had no doubts about the letter being a forgery he wondered if it wouldn’t be shrewd to send Vasili to Kiev as a precautionary measure, to protect against any possible allegation that he’d ignored evidence. He dismissed the idea: it didn’t matter how he conducted the investigation, if he failed to find the suspect his career was over.
He returned his attention to the file. According to the records, Brodsky was friends with a man called Mikhail Sviatoslavich Zinoviev, who had been discharged from the Red Army suffering chronic frostbite. Near death, several of his toes had been amputated: he’d been nursed back to health and given a discharge from military service. Brodsky had performed the operation. Leo’s finger ran along the document, searching for a current address.
Kimov.
Leo turned to his men, catching Vasili’s sour expression.
– We’re leaving.
Thirty Kilometres North of Moscow
15 February
The roads out of Moscow were covered with icy mulch and despite the truck’s tyres being fitted with snow chains their speed had rarely risen above twenty-five kilometres per hour. Wind and snow gusted around them with such ferocity it seemed as if they had some personal stake in Leo not reaching his destination. The windscreen wipers, attached to the roof of the front cabin struggled to keep even the smallest patch of window clear. With visibility less than ten metres the truck pushed forward. It was nothing less than desperation on Leo’s part to attempt a journey in these conditions.
Hunched forward with maps spread across his lap, Leo was seated beside Vasili and their driver. All three of them were dressed as though they were outside-coats, gloves, hats. The steel cabin with its steel roof and steel floor was heated only by the residual warmth from the rattling engine. But at least the cabin offered some protection from the weather. In the back his nine heavily armed agents travelled in no such luxury. The ZiS-151 trucks had tarpaulin roofs which cold air and even snow whipped through. Since temperatures could fall to minus thirty, all rear compartments of the ZiS-151s were fitted with wood-burning stoves bolted to the floor. These pot- bellied contraptions were able to warm only those within touching distance of them, forcing the men to huddle and regularly rotate position. Leo had sat there many times himself: after every ten minutes the two nearest the stove reluctantly moved away from the heat, relegated to the coldest position at the furthest ends of the benches while the rest of the team shuffled up.
For the first time in his career Leo could sense dissent among his team. The reason wasn’t the discomfort or the lack of sleep. His men were used to tough conditions. No, there was something else. Perhaps it was the fact that the mission could have been avoided. Perhaps they had no confidence in the Kimov lead. Yet he’d asked his men for their confidence before and he’d been given it. Tonight he felt hostility, resistance. Aside from Vasili he wasn’t used to it. He pushed the thoughts aside. Right now his popularity was the least of his concerns.
If his theory proved correct, if the suspect was in Kimov, then Leo thought it likely that he’d be on the move at first light, whether on his own or aided by his friend. Leo was taking a chance betting that they’d get to the village in time. He’d decided against deploying the local militia stationed at Zagorsk, the nearest major town, since they were in his opinion amateurish, ill-disciplined and undertrained. Even the local MGB divisions weren’t to be trusted with such an operation. Already alert to the fact he was a wanted man, Brodsky was unlikely to surrender. He might fight to the death. He needed to be taken alive. His confession was of paramount importance. Furthermore his escape had embarrassed Leo personally and he was determined to make amends, determined that he should be the one to make the arrest. This wasn’t merely a matter of pride. Nor was it merely that his career depended upon success. The consequences ran deeper than that. Failure in such a high-profile espionage case might result in claims that Leo had deliberately sabotaged the investigation. Failure to recapture the suspect would further implicate him. His loyalty would be called into question.
Check on Those we Trust.
No one was exempt from that rule, not even those who enforced it.
If Brodsky wasn’t in Kimov, if Leo was wrong, then Vasili would be the first in line with a testimonial detailing how his superior officer disregarded the promising Kiev lead. Sensing his weakness, others in the directorate, like animals circling a wounded prey, would almost certainly come forward to denounce him as a poor leader while Vasili positioned himself as Leo’s logical successor. In the hierarchies of the State Security, fortunes could change overnight. For both men much depended upon the location of this traitor.
Leo glanced across at his deputy, a man both handsome and repulsive in equal measure-as if his good looks were plastered over a rotten centre, a hero’s face with a henchman’s heart. There were just the tiniest visible fractures in his attractive facade, appearing at the corners of his mouth, a slight sneer that, if you knew how to interpret it, hinted at the dark thoughts lying beneath his good looks. Perhaps sensing that he was the subject of attention, Vasili turned and smiled a thin, ambiguous smile. Something pleased him. Leo knew immediately that something must be wrong.
He checked the map. With a population of less than a thousand, Kimov was a speck of dust on the Soviet canvas. He’d warned the driver not to expect any road signs. Even at fifteen kilometres per hour this village would appear and disappear in the time it would take to change gear. Yet as Leo ran his finger over the road markings he began to suspect that they’d missed their turning. They were still travelling north when they should be travelling west. Since it was nearly impossible to take any kind of bearings based upon the surrounding landscape he calculated where they were in terms of kilometres. They were too far north. The driver had overshot the mark.
– Turn around!
Leo noticed that neither the driver nor Vasili seemed surprised by the request. The driver mumbled:
– But we didn’t see the exit.
– We’ve missed it. Stop the truck.
The driver gently slowed, pumping the brake in short bursts in order to avoid sliding on the ice. The truck came to a gradual stop, Leo jumped out and in blizzard conditions began to direct the driver through an awkward U-turn, the ZiS-151 being almost as wide as the road. The turn was halfway complete, with the truck at right angles to the road, when the driver seemed to ignore Leo’s instructions, reversing too far and too fast. Leo ran forward banging on the door but it was too late. One of the back tyres ran off the road. It was spinning uselessly in a snow drift. Leo’s anger was tempered by his growing suspicions regarding this driver, who seemed to exhibit an improbable level of incompetence. Vasili had organized the truck, the driver. Leo opened the cabin door, shouting over the wind:
– Get out!
The driver stepped out. By now the officers in the back had also jumped out to survey the situation. They glared at Leo with disapproval. Was this annoyance at the delay, the mission itself, irritation with his leadership? He couldn’t understand it. He ordered one of the other men to take the wheel whilst the entire team, including Vasili, pushed the truck out of the snow. The tyre spun, spraying dirty slush up their uniforms. Finally the snow chains caught the road and the truck lurched forward. Leo sent the disgraced driver to sit in the back. That kind of mistake was more than enough to warrant a written report and a Gulag sentence. Vasili must have guaranteed the driver immunity, a guarantee that would only hold up if Leo failed. Leo wondered how many other members of his team had more invested in his failure than his success. Feeling alone, isolated within his own unit, he took the wheel. He’d drive. He’d navigate. He’d get them there. He could trust no one. Vasili got in beside him, wisely opting to say nothing. Leo put the truck in gear.
By the time they were on the correct road, travelling west, on an approach to Kimov the storm had passed. A weak winter sun began to rise. Leo was exhausted. Driving through the snow had drained him. His arms and shoulders were stiff, his eyelids heavy. They were passing through the rural heartlands-fields, forests. Turning into a gentle valley he saw the village: a cluster of wooden farmhouses, some on the road, some set back, all with square bases and high triangular roofs, a vista that hadn’t changed for a hundred years. This was old Russia: communities built around bucket wells and ancient myths, where the health of cattle was decided by the grace of the Dvorovoi, the yard spirit, where parents told their children that if they misbehaved spirits would steal them and turn them into bark. The parents had been told the stories as children and they’d never grown out of them, spending months
