Child 44 (11 page)

—For a time I worked in a Gulag, near the city of Molotov. The hospital was full of people pretending to be mentally ill. They would do anything to get out of work. They would run around like animals, screaming obscenities, tearing their clothes off, masturbating in full view, defecating on the floor, anything and everything to convince me they were deranged. You could trust none of it. My job was to identify who was lying and who was genuine. There were numerous academic tests but prisoners quickly caught on and this information was shared and soon everyone knew how to behave in order to cheat the system. For example a prisoner who thought he was Hitler or a horse or something equally and obviously outlandish was almost certainly pretending to be insane. And so prisoners stopped pretending to be Hitler and became much more subtle and sophisticated in their deceptions. In the end there was only one way of getting to the truth.

He filled a syringe with thick yellow oil, then positioned it on a steel tray and carefully cut away part of the prisoner’s shirt, tying a rubber tourniquet around the top of his arm in order to expose a wide blue vein which popped up. Hvostov addressed the prisoner:

—I hear you have some medical knowledge. I’m about to inject camphor oil into your bloodstream. Do you understand what that will do to you?

—My medical experience is limited to helping people.

—This can help people too. It can help the deluded. It will induce a seizure. While you are in this seizure you will be unable to lie. In fact you will not have the ability to do very much at all. If you are able to speak you will only be able to speak the truth.

—Then go ahead. Inject your oil. Hear what I have to say.

Hvostov addressed Leo.

—We’ll use a rubber gag. This is to stop him biting off his tongue during the most intense part of the seizure. However, once he calms down we can safely remove the gag and you may ask your questions.

Vasili picked up a scalpel and began using the tip to clean his fingernails, wiping the line of dirt on the side of coat. Once he was done he put the scalpel down and reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette. The doctor shook his head.

—Not in here, please.

Vasili put the cigarette away. The doctor inspected the syringe–there was a yellow dewdrop of oil at the needle’s tip. Satisfied, he sank the needle into Brodsky’s vein.

—We need to do this slowly. Too quick and he’ll suffer an embolism.

He pushed down on the plunger and the treacle-thick yellow oil moved from the syringe into the prisoner’s arm.

The effects did not take long. Suddenly all intelligence left Anatoly Brodsky’s eyes: they rolled back in his head and his body began to shake as if the chair he was strapped to was charged with a thousand volts. The needle was still in his arm and only a small fraction of the oil had been injected.

—And now we inject a little more.

Another five millilitres was injected and bubbles appeared at the corners of Brodsky’s mouth, small white bubbles.

—And now we wait, we wait, we wait, and now we inject the rest.

Hvostov injected the remaining oil, pulling the needle out and pressing a cotton pad against the entry point on the arm. He stepped back.

Brodsky was less like a human and more like a machine gone wrong, an engine pushed past its limits. His body was pulling against the restraints in a way that suggested that there was some external force acting upon him. There was a crack. A bone in his wrist snapped as it jerked against the restraint. Hvostov peered at the injury, which was already swelling up:

—That’s not unusual.

He said, glancing at his watch:

—Wait a little longer.

Two separate streams of foam dribbled down from either side of the prisoner’s mouth, running underneath his chin and dripping onto his legs. The vibrations were slowing down.

—OK. Ask your questions. See what he says.

Vasili stepped forward and untied the rubber gag. Brodsky vomited foam and saliva onto his lap. Vasili turned around with an incredulous look.

—What the fuck is he going to tell us like this?

—Try.

—Who are you working with?

In response the man’s head slumped against the restraint. He gurgled. Blood ran out of his nose. Hvostov used a tissue to wipe away the blood.

—Try again.

—Who are you working with?

Brodsky’s head rolled to the side, like a puppet, a doll: lifelike, capable of motion, but not actually alive. His mouth opened and shut, his tongue extended–the mechanical imitation of speech but there was no sound.

—Try again.

—Who are you working with?

—Try again.

Vasili shook his head, turning to Leo.

—This is stupid. You try.

Leo’s back was pressed against the wall, as though trying to move as far away as possible. He stepped forward.

—Who are you working with?

A noise came from Brodsky’s mouth. It was ridiculous, comical, like a baby’s spluttering. Hvostov crossed his arms and peered into Brodsky’s eyes.

—Try again. Ask simple questions to start off with. Ask him his name.

—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?

She handed the doctor his glass.

—Would you like sugar?

—Jam would be nice.

She reached for the top shelf. As she did the back of her shirt lifted up revealing a patch of pale, perfect skin. Zarubin felt his mouth go dry. She took down a jar of dark purple jam, unscrewing the lid and offering him a spoon. He scooped out a clump of jam and placed it on his tongue, sipping the hot tea, feeling the jam dissolve. With a deliberate intensity he stared into her eyes. Made aware of his desire, she blushed. He watched as the flush of red spread around her neck.