sheets and then crumpling them slightly, in imitation of how he’d found them. He replaced all Raisa’s clothes, folding and stacking them, conscious that he couldn’t remember the exact order in which he’d pulled them out. An approximation would have to do.
As he lifted a cotton shirt a small object fell out, hitting his foot and rolling onto the floor. Leo bent down and picked it up. It was a copper rouble coin. He tossed it onto the top of his bedside cabinet. On impact the coin split in two, the separate halves rolling off opposite sides of the cabinet. Perplexed, he approached the cabinet. He knelt down and retrieved the two halves. The inside of one had been hollowed out. When slotted together it looked like an ordinary coin. Leo had seen one of these before. It was a device for smuggling microfilm.
21 February
Present at Leo’s deposition were Major Kuzmin, Vasili Nikitin and Timur Raphaelovich-the officer who’d taken Leo’s place during Anatoly Brodsky’s interrogation. Leo knew him only in passing: an ambitious man of few words and much credibility. The discovery that Raphaelovich was prepared to vouch for everything in the confession including the reference to Raisa was devastating. This man was no lackey of Vasili. Raphaelovich didn’t respect or fear him. Leo wondered whether Vasili could’ve inserted Raisa’s name into the confession. He had no sway over Raphaelovich, no leverage, and according to their rank he would’ve been the subordinate officer during the interrogation. For the past two days Leo had been working under the assumption this had been an act of revenge by Vasili. He’d been mistaken. Vasili wasn’t behind this. The only person who could’ve organized the fabrication of such a confession backed up with such a high-ranking witness was Major Kuzmin.
It was a set-up, orchestrated by none other than his mentor, the man who’d taken Leo under his wing. Leo had ignored his advice regarding Anatoly Brodsky and now he was being taught a lesson. What had Kuzmin told him?
Sentimentality can blind a man.
This was a test, an exercise. The issue under scrutiny here was Leo’s suitability as an officer: it had nothing to do with Raisa, nothing at all. Why appoint the husband of a suspect to investigate his wife unless the primary concern was how the husband would conduct himself during that investigation? Hadn’t Leo been the one who’d been followed? Hadn’t Vasili come to check whether he was searching the apartment properly? He wasn’t interested in the contents of the apartment: he was interested in Leo’s approach. It all made sense. Vasili had goaded him yesterday, told him to denounce his wife, precisely because he hoped that Leo would do exactly the opposite and stand up for her. He didn’t want Leo to denounce Raisa. He didn’t want him to pass this test-he wanted him to put his private life above the Party. It was a trick. All he had to do was show Major Kuzmin that he was willing to denounce his wife, prove that his loyalties were absolutely with the MGB, prove his faith was unquestioning, prove that his heart could be cruel-if he did this then they’d all be safe: Raisa, his unborn child, his parents. His future with the MGB would be assured and Vasili would be an irrelevance.
Yet wasn’t this a presumption? What if the traitor was, as he’d confessed to being, a traitor? What if he’d somehow been working with Raisa? Perhaps he’d spoken the truth. Why was Leo so sure that this man was innocent? Why was he so sure his wife was innocent? After all, why did she befriend a dissident literature teacher? What was that coin doing in their apartment? Hadn’t the six other names listed in the confession been arrested and all been successfully interrogated? The list was proven and Raisa was on the list. Yes, she was a spy and here in his pocket was the copper coin, the evidence to prove it. He could place the coin on the desk and recommend that both she and Ivan Zhukov be taken in for questioning. He’d been played a fool. Vasili was right: she was a traitor. She was pregnant with another man’s child. Hadn’t he always known that she’d been unfaithful to him? She didn’t love him. He was sure of that. Why risk everything for her-a woman who was cold to him, a woman who at best tolerated him? She was a threat to everything he’d worked for, everything he’d won for his parents and for himself. She was a threat to the country, a country Leo had fought to defend.
It was quite clear: if Leo said she was guilty then this would end well for both him and his parents. That was guaranteed. It was the only safe thing to do. If this was a test of Leo’s character then Raisa would also be spared. And she would never need to know. If she was a spy then these men already had the evidence and were waiting to see if Leo was working with her. If she was a spy then he should denounce her, she deserved to die. The only course of action was to denounce his wife.
Major Kuzmin began the proceedings.
– Leo Stepanovich, we have reason to believe your wife is working for foreign agencies. You personally are not suspected of any crimes. This is the reason we’ve asked you to investigate the allegations. Please tell us what you have found.
Leo had the confirmation he was looking for. Major Kuzmin’s offer was clear. If he denounced his wife he’d have their continued confidence. What had Vasili said?
If you survive this scandal you’ll one day be running the MGB. I’m sure of it.
Promotion was a sentence away.
The room was silent. Major Kuzmin leaned forward.
– Leo?
Leo stood up, straightened the jacket of his uniform.
– My wife is innocent.
THREE WEEKS LATER
West of the Ural Mountains the Town of Voualsk
13 March
The car-assembly line switched over to the late shift. Ilinaya stopped work and began scrubbing her hands using a bar of black rancid-smelling soap, the only kind available if any was available at all. The water was cold, the soap wouldn’t lather-it simply disintegrated into greasy shards-but all she could think about were the hours between now and the beginning of her next shift. She had her night planned out. First, she’d finish scraping the oil and metal filings from under her fingernails. Then she was going home, changing her clothes, daubing some colour on her cheeks before heading to Basarov’s, a restaurant near the railway station.
Basarov’s was popular with people visiting on business, officials stopping over before they continued their journey on the Trans-Siberian railway east or west. The restaurant served food-millet soup, barley kasha and salted herring-all of which Ilinaya thought was terrible. More importantly it served alcohol. Since it was illegal to sell alcohol in public without selling food, meals were a means to an end, a plate of food was a permit to drink. In reality the restaurant was little more than a pick-up joint. The law that no individual was to be sold more than one hundred grams of vodka was ignored. Basarov, the manager and namesake of the restaurant, was always drunk and often violent and if Ilinaya wanted to ply her trade on his premises he wanted a cut. There was no way she could pretend she was drinking there for the fun of it whilst sneaking off with the occasional paying customer. No one drank there for the fun of it; it was a transient crowd, no locals. But that was an advantage. She couldn’t get work off the locals any more. She’d been sick recently-sores, redness, rashes, that kind of thing. A couple of regulars had come down with more or less the same symptoms and bad-mouthed her around town. Now she was reduced to dealing with people who didn’t know her, people who weren’t staying in town for long and who wouldn’t find out they were pissing pus until they reached Vladivostok or Moscow, depending on which way they were travelling. She didn’t take any pleasure from the idea of passing on some kind of bug even if they weren’t exactly nice people. But in this town seeing a doctor about a sexually transmitted infection was more dangerous than the infection itself. For an unmarried woman it was like handing in a confession, signed with a smear. She’d have to go to the black market for treatment. That required money, maybe a lot of money, and right now she was saving for something else, something far more important-her escape from this town.
By the time she’d arrived the restaurant was crowded and the windows steamed up. The air stank of makhorka, cheap tobacco. She’d heard drunken laughter fifty paces before stepping through the door. She’d guessed soldiers. She’d guessed right. There were often some kind of military exercises taking place in the mountains and off-duty personnel were normally directed here. Basarov catered specifically for this sort of clientele. He served watered-down vodka, claiming, if anyone complained and they often did, that it was a high-minded attempt to limit drunkenness. There were frequent fights. Even so, she knew that for all his talk about how hard his life was and how terrible his customers were, he made a tidy profit, selling the undiluted vodka he skimmed off. He was a
