floor he darted to the right, grabbing hold of the nearest office door. It was unlocked, as Nesterov had promised. He entered, locking the door behind him just as the agents ran up the stairs.
Leo waited in the gloom. All the blinds had been closed so that no one from outside could see in. He could hear the clump of footsteps. There were at least four agents on this stairway. He was tempted to remain in this room, behind this locked door, in temporary safety. The windows opened out onto the main square. He glanced out. There was a ring of men outside the main entrance. He pulled away from the window. He had to reach the ground floor and the back. He unlocked the door, peering out. The corridor was empty. Shutting the door behind him he moved to the stairway. He could hear an agent’s voice below him. Leo ran to the next stairway. He couldn’t see or hear anyone. As soon as he began running, shouting broke out on the top floor: they’d found Nesterov.
A second wave of agents entered the building, alerted by the calls of their colleagues. It was too much of a risk going down another flight of steps, and abandoning Nesterov’s plan, Leo remained on the first floor. He only had moments of confusion to exploit before the men organized themselves into search teams. Unable to reach the ground floor, he ran along the corridor, entering the toilet, a room facing out onto the back of the building. He opened the window. The window was high up, narrow, barely wide enough to squeeze through. The only way he’d fit was if he clambered head first. Checking outside, he couldn’t see any officers. He was maybe five metres above the ground. He pulled his body through the window, hanging above the ground, supported by his feet. There was nothing to grab onto. He’d have to let himself fall, protecting his head with his hands.
He hit the ground with his palms, his wrists snapping back. He heard a shout, looked up. An agent was at the top-floor window. Leo had been spotted. Ignoring the pain in his wrists, he stood up, running towards the side street where the car was meant to be parked. Shots rang out. Puffs of brick dust exploded to the side of his head. He dropped down, crouching, still running. More shots rang out, pinging off the street. He turned the corner out of the line of fire.
The car was there, parked, ready. He clambered in, slotting the key in the ignition. The engine spluttered and died. He tried again. It wouldn’t start. He tried again- please -this time it started. Putting the car into gear, he pulled out, accelerating, careful not to let the tyres screech. It was crucial that the agents following didn’t see the car. He’d be one of the few cars on the streets. Since it was a militia vehicle, hopefully any officers who saw it would presume he was on their side whilst they continued their search on foot.
There was no traffic. Leo was driving too fast, too ragged, heading out of the city. Nesterov was wrong: he couldn’t drive all the way to Rostov. For a start it was several hundred kilometres, he didn’t have anywhere near enough petrol and he had no way of getting any more. More importantly, once they figured out that he’d taken a car they’d shut down all the roads. He had to get as far away as he could then dump the car, conceal it and slip into the countryside, before boarding a train. As long as they didn’t find the abandoned car his chances were much better without it.
He accelerated onto the only major connecting road which led in and out of the town, travelling west. He checked the rear-view mirror. If they were going to organize a comprehensive search of the nearby buildings, believing him to be on foot, then he might have at least an hour or so head start. He increased his speed, reaching the car’s top speed of eighty kilometres per hour.
Up ahead there were men standing on the road clustered around a parked car: a militia car. It was a roadblock. They’d taken no chances. If the road west was blocked so was the road heading east. They’d closed down the entire town. His only hope now lay in punching through the roadblock. He’d pick up enough speed, smash into the car positioned across the road. The car would be knocked aside. He’d have to control the impact. With their car damaged, they wouldn’t be able to pursue him immediately. It was desperate, shortening his advantage to a matter of minutes.
The agents up ahead began firing. Bullets hit the front of the car, sparking against the metal. A bullet punctured the windscreen. Leo lowered himself behind the steering wheel, no longer able to see the road. The car was in position: he just had to hold steady. Bullets continued smashing through the windscreen. Fragments of glass showered down. He was still on course-braced for the collision.
The car lurched down and to the side. Sitting back up in the seat, Leo tried to maintain control but the car veered left, pulling away from him. The tyres had been shot out. There was nothing he could do. The car flipped onto its side, the window smashing. He was thrown against the door, millimetres from the road, skidding, sparks flaring up. The front smashed into the other car, spinning Leo’s car around. It rolled onto the roof, running off the road into the verge. Leo was tossed from the door to the roof where he lay huddled as the car finally came to a stop.
Leo opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he could move and he couldn’t muster the strength to find out. He was staring up at the night sky. His thoughts moved slowly. He was no longer in the car. Someone must have dragged him out. A face appeared above him, blocking the stars, looking down at him. Concentrating, Leo focused on the man’s face.
It was Vasili.
Rostov-on-Don
Same Day
Aron had been under the impression that a job in the militia might be exciting or at least more exciting than working on a kolkhoz. He’d always known it didn’t pay very well but the upside was that competition wasn’t fierce. When it came to looking for work he’d never been a strong candidate. There was nothing wrong with him. In fact, he’d done well at school. However, he’d been born with a deformed upper lip. That’s what the doctor had told him-it was deformed and there was nothing he could do. It looked as though a portion of his upper lip had been cut away and the remaining bits stitched together so that the lip went up in the middle, revealing a portion of his front teeth. The overall result was a permanent sneer. Although this made no difference to his ability to work it certainly made a difference to his ability to get a job. The militia had seemed like the perfect solution, they were hungry for applicants. They’d bully him, make comments behind his back-he was used to that. He’d put up with it all just as long as he got to use his brain.
Yet here he was, in the middle of the night, sitting in the bushes, getting bitten by bugs, watching a bus shelter for signs of unusual activity.
Aron hadn’t been told why he was sitting here or what unusual activity might possibly mean. As one of the youngest members of the department, only twenty years old, he wondered if this was some kind of initiation ritual-a test of loyalty, to see if he could follow orders. Obedience was valued more than anything else.
So far the only person around was a girl at the nearby bus stop. She was young, maybe fourteen or fifteen, but she was trying to look older. She seemed drunk. Her shirt was unbuttoned. He watched her straighten her skirt and play with her hair. What was she doing at the bus stop? There were no buses until the morning.
A man approached. He was tall, wearing a hat and long coat. His glasses had lenses as thick as glass bottoms. Carrying a smart case, he stood by the timetable, reading it with his finger. As though the girl was some kind of scantily clad spider, waiting in the corner she immediately got up, moving towards him. He continued reading the timetable as the girl circled him, touching his case, his hand, his jacket. The man seemed to ignore these advances until finally he looked away from the timetable, studying the girl. They spoke. Aron couldn’t hear what they were saying. The girl disagreed with something, shaking her head. Then she shrugged. They were in agreement. The man turned around and seemed to stare straight at Aron, looking right at the undergrowth beside the shelter. Had the man seen him? It didn’t seem likely-they were in light, he was in shadow. Both the man and girl began walking towards him, straight towards the place where he was hiding.
Aron was confused, checking his position-he was completely hidden. They couldn’t have seen him. Even if they had, why were they walking towards him? They were only metres away. He could hear them talking. He waited, crouched into the undergrowth, only to find that they’d walked straight past him, heading into the trees.
Aron stood up.
– Stop!
The man froze, his shoulders hunched up. He turned around. Aron did his best to sound authoritative.
– What are you two doing?
The girl, who didn’t seem at all afraid or concerned, answered:
– We were going for a walk. What happened to your lip? It’s really ugly.
Aron flushed with embarrassment. The girl was staring at it with obvious disgust. He paused for a moment, composing himself.
