– What is your name?
– Try again. Trust me. He’s coming out of it. Try again. Please.
Leo stepped closer. He was close enough to reach out and touch his brow.
– What is your name?
His lips moved.
– Anatoly.
– Who are you working with?
He was no longer shaking. His eyes rolled forward.
– Who are you working with?
There was silence for a moment. And then he spoke, faint, hurried-as a man might speak in his sleep.
– Anna Vladislovovna. Dora Andreyeva. Arkadi Maslow. Matthias Rakosi.
Vasili reached for his notepad, scribbling down the names, asking:
– Recognize any of those names?
Yes, Leo recognized those names: Anna Vladislovovna: her cat is going blind. Dora Andreyeva: her dog refuses to eat. Arkadi Maslow: his dog has broken its front leg. The seed of doubt, sitting dormant and undigested in the pit of Leo’s stomach, cracked open.
Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky was a vet.
Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky was nothing more than a vet.
17 February
Dr Zarubin put on his mink-fur-lined hat, picked up his leather bag and nudged his way off the crowded tramcar, half-heartedly apologizing. The pavement was icy and, stepping down, he held on to the side of the tramcar for support. He felt old suddenly; unsteady on his feet, fearful of slipping over. The tramcar pulled away. He looked around, hoping this was the right stop-the eastern outskirts were a district he knew vaguely. But it proved a simple matter to get his bearings-his destination dominated the grey winter skyline. On the opposite side of the road stretching many hundreds of metres above him and above everything else was a set of four U-shaped apartment blocks arranged in pairs with each block positioned as if one were the reflection of the other. The doctor marvelled at this modern design, home to thousands of families. This wasn’t just a housing project. It was a monument to a new era. No more privately owned one- or two-storey properties. Those were gone, flattened, smashed to brick dust, and in their place stood perfectly formed, government-designed and owned apartments, each painted grey and stacked up and up and side by side. Nowhere had he seen exactly the same shapes repeated so many times in so many directions, each apartment a perfect facsimile of the next. The thick layer of snow which capped the roof of each building was as though God had drawn a white line and said no further, the rest of the sky is mine. That, Zarubin thought, was their next challenge: the rest of the sky. It certainly didn’t belong to God. Somewhere in one of these four buildings was apartment 124-the home of MGB officer Leo Stepanovich Demidov.
Earlier this morning the doctor had been briefed by Major Kuzmin on the details of Leo’s sudden departure. He’d left at the beginning of a crucial interrogation, claiming to feel feverish and unable to continue his duties. The major was concerned by the timing of the departure. Was Leo really sick? Or was there another reason for his absence? Why had he given assurances that he was well enough to work only to change his mind after being set the task of interrogating the suspect? And why had he attempted to interview the traitor alone? The doctor had been dispatched to investigate the authenticity of Leo’s illness.
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?
