And then there was the other bundle of papers, lying on the table, mouldering and congealed. Those he hadn't even begun to look at.
He pulled on O'Brian's gloves and leaned forwards. He ran his forefinger experimentally through the grey spores on the top sheet. There was writing underneath. He rubbed again and the letters NKVD appeared.
'Zinaida,' he said.
She was sitting behind O'Brian's desk, turning the pages of the notebook, her notebook. At the sound of her name she looked up.
KELSO borrowed her tweezers to peel away the outer layer of paper. It came off like dead skin, flaking here and there, but cleanly enough for him to make out some of the words on the page underneath. It was a typed document, a surveillance report of some kind by the look of it, dated 24 May 1951, signed by Major I. T. Mekhlis of the NKVD.
... summary of finding to the 23rd instant ... Anna Mikhailovna Safanova, born 27.2.32 ... Maxim Gorky Academy... reputation (see attached). Health: good... diptheria, aged 8yrs. 3 mths.. . Rubella, l0yrs. 1 mth. . . No family history of genetic disorder Party work: outstanding... Pioneers . . Komsomol .
Kelso peeled back more layers. Sometimes they came away singly, sometimes fused in twos or threes. It was painstaking work. Through the glass partition he caught occasional glimpses of O'Brian, lugging suitcases across the outer office to the elevator doors, but he was too absorbed to pay much attention. What he was reading was as full a record of a nineteen-year-old girl's life as it was possible for a secret police force to compile. There was something almost pornographic about it. Here was an account of every childhood ailment, details of her blood group (0), the state of her teeth (excellent), her height and weight and hair-colour (light auburn), her physical aptitude ('in gymnastics she displays a particularly high aptitude . . .'), mental abilities ('overall, in the 90th percentile . . . '), ideological correctness ('the firmest grasp of Marxist theory . . .
interviews with her doctor, coach, teachers, Komsomol group leader, school friends.
The worst that could be said about her was that she had, perhaps 'a slightly dreamy temperament' (Comrade Oborin) and 'a certain tendency to subjectivity and bourgeois sentimentalism rather than objectivity in all her personal relations' (Elena Satsanova). Against a further criticism from the same Comrade Satsanova, that she was 'na:ive,' a marginal comment had been appended, in red penciclass="underline" 'Good!' and, later, 'Who is this old bitch?' There were numerous other underlining’s, exclamation marks, queries and marginalia:
'Ha ha ha', And so?', Acceptable!'
Kelso had spent enough time in the archives to recognise this hand and style. The jagged scrawl was Stalin's. There was no question of it.
After half an hour he put the papers back in their original order and took off his gloves. His hands felt claw-like, raw and sweaty. He was suddenly overcome with self-disgust.
Zinaida was watching him.
'What do you think happened to her?'
'Nothing good.'
'He brought her down from the north to screw her?'
'That's one way of putting it.' 'Poor kid.'
'Poor kid,' he agreed.
'So why did he keep her book?'
'Obsession? Infatuation?' He shrugged. "Who's to say. He was a sick man by then. He only had twenty months to live. Maybe she described what happened to her, then thought better of it, and tore out the pages. Or, more likely, he got hold of her book and ripped them out himself. He didn't like people knowing too much about him.'
'Well, I can tell you one thing: he didn't screw her that night.'
Kelso laughed. And how do you know that?'
'Easy. Look.' She opened the notebook. 'Here on the twelfth of May, she's got "the usual trouble of this time", right? On the tenth of June, on the train, it's "the worst of days to travel". Well, you can work it out for yourself, can't you? There's exactly twenty-eight days between the two. And twenty-eight days after the tenth of June is July the eighth. 'Which is the last entry.
Kelso stood slowly and went over to the desk. He peered over her shoulder at the childish writing.
'What are you talking about?'
'She was a regular girl. A regular little Komsomol girl.'
Kelso absorbed this information, put the gloves back on, took the book from her, flicked between the two pages. Well, now, this was crazy, wasn't it? This was sick. He could barely bring himself to acknowledge the suspicion that was forming in the back of his mind. But why else would Stalin have been so interested in whether or not she had had rubella, of all things? Or whether her family had any history of congenital disorders?
'Tell me,' he said, quietly, 'when would she have been fertile?'
'Fourteen days later. On the twenty-second.'
AND suddenly she couldn't get out of there fast enough.
She pushed her chair back from the desk and stared at the notebook with revulsion.
'Take the damned thing,' she said. 'Take it. Keep it.'
She didn't want to touch it again. She didn't even want to see it.
It was cursed
In a couple of seconds she had her bag over her shoulder and was flinging open the door and Kelso had to scramble to catch up with her as she strode across the office towards the elevators. O'Brian came out of an editing suite to see what was going on. He was in a heavy waterproof jacket with two pairs of binoculars slung around his thick neck. He started to follow them but Kelso waved him back.
'I'll handle this.'
She was standing in the corridor, her back to him.
'Listen Zinaida,' he said. The lift door opened and he stepped in after her. 'Listen. It's not safe for you out there -'
Almost immediately the car stopped and a man got in -heavy-set, middle-aged, black leather coat and a black leather cap. He stood between them, glanced at Zinaida, then at Kelso, sensing the edge to their silence. He looked straight ahead and stuck out his chin, smiling slightly. Kelso could tell what he was thinking: a lovers' tiff well that was fine, they’d get over it.
When they reached the ground floor he stood back politely to let them out first and Zinaida clattered quickly across the marble in her knee-length boots. A security guard pressed a switch to unlock the doors.
'You,' she said, zipping up her jacket, 'should worry about yourself It was just after four. People were beginning to leave from work. In the offices across the road Kelso could see the green glow of computer screens. A woman had shrunk herself into a doorway and was talking into a mobile phone. A motorcyclist went past, slowly.
'Zinaida, listen.' He grabbed her arm, stopping her from walking away. She wouldn’t look at him. He pulled her close to the wall. 'Your father died badly, do you understand what I'm saying? The people who did it - Mamantov and his people - they're after this notebook. They know there's something important about it - don't ask me how. If they realise your father had a daughter - and they're bound to because Mamantov used to have access to his file - well, think about it. They're going to come after you.'
And they killed him for that?'
'They killed him because he wouldn't tell them where it was. And he wouldn't tell them where it was because he wanted you to have it.
'But it wasn't worth dying for. The stupid old fool.' She glared at him. Her eyes were wet for the first time that day. 'Stupid stubborn old fool.'
'Is there someone you can stay with? Family?'
'My family are dead.'
A friend maybe?'
'Friend? I've got this, remember?' She lifted the flap of her bag, showing him her father's pistol.
Kelso said, as calmly as he could, At least give me your address, Zinaida. Your phone number -'
She looked at him suspiciously. 'Why?'
'Because I feel responsible.' He glanced around. This was madness, talking in the street. He felt in his pocket for a pen, couldn't find any paper, tore the side off a pack of cigarettes. 'Come on, write it for me. Quickly.'