In front of him stood the statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky, in the centre of Lubyanka Square, framed by a patch of grass and circled by traffic. Leo knew Dzerzhinsky’s story by heart. Every agent knew his story by heart. As the first leader of the Cheka, the name of the political police created by Lenin after the overthrow of the Tsarist regime, Dzerzhinsky was the forefather of the NKVD. He was a role model. Training manuals were littered with quotes attributed to him. Perhaps his most famous and often referenced speech described how.
An officer must train his heart to be Cruel.
Cruelty was enshrined in their working code. Cruelty was a virtue. Cruelty was necessary. Aspire to Cruelty! Cruelty held the keys that would unlock the gates to the perfect State. If being a Chekist was akin to following a religious doctrine then cruelty was one of their central commandments.
Leo’s education had been centred on his athleticism, his physical prowess — a fact that had so far helped rather than hindered his career, giving him the guise of a man who could be trusted in the way that a scholar was to be suspected. But it did mean that he was forced to devote at least one night a week writing out in laborious longhand all the quotes that an agent should know by heart. Burdened with a poor memory, a condition exacerbated by his drug use, he was not a bookish man. However, an ability to recall key political speeches was essential. Any slips showed a lack of faith and dedication. And now, after three days away, as he approached the doors to the Lubyanka and looked back at Dzerzhinsky’s statue, he realized that his mind was patchy — phrases came back to him but not in their entirety and not in their correct order. All he could remember exactly, out of the thousands and thousands of words, out of the entire Chekist bible of axioms and principles, was the importance of cruelty.
Leo was shown into Kuzmin’s office. The major was seated. He indicated that Leo should take the chair opposite.
— You’re feeling better?
— Yes, thank you. My wife told me that you visited.
— We were concerned about you. It’s the first time you’ve been ill. I checked your records.
— I apologize.
— It wasn’t your fault. You were brave, swimming in that river. And we’re glad you saved him. He’s provided some critical information.
Kuzmin tapped a thin black file at the centre of his desk.
— In your absence Brodsky confessed. It took two days, two camphor shock treatments. He was remarkably stubborn. But in the end he broke. He gave us the name of seven Anglo-American sympathizers.
— Where is he now?
— Brodsky? He was executed last night.
What had Leo expected? He concentrated on keeping his expression still, as though he’d just been told it was cold outside. Kuzmin picked up the black file, handing it to Leo.
— Inside you have the full transcript of his confession.
Leo opened the file. His eyes caught the first line.
I — Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky — am a spy.
Leo flicked through the typed pages. He recognized the pattern, opening with an apology, expressing regret before describing the nature of his crime. He’d seen this template a thousand times. They varied only in the details: the names, the places.
— Would you like me to read it now?
Kuzmin shook his head, handing him a sealed envelope.
— He named six Soviet citizens and one Hungarian man. They’re collaborators working with foreign governments. I’ve given six of the names to other agents. The seventh name is yours to investigate. Considering you’re one of my best officers I’ve given you the hardest. Inside that envelope you have our preliminary work, some photographs and all the information we currently hold on the individual, which, as you will see, is not very much. Your orders are to collect further information and if Anatoly was right, if this person is a traitor, you’re to arrest them and bring them here, the usual process.
Leo ripped open the envelope, pulling out several large black-and-white photographs. They were surveillance photographs taken at some distance from across a street.
They were photographs of Leo’s wife.
Same Day
Raisa was relieved to be nearing the end of the day. She’d spent the past eight hours teaching exactly the same lesson to all her year groups. Normally she taught compulsory political studies but this morning she’d received instructions posted to the school from the Ministry of Education ordering her to follow the enclosed lesson plan. It seemed these instructions had been sent to every school in Moscow and were to be implemented with immediate effect, ordinary lessons could resume tomorrow. The instructions stipulated that she spend the day discussing with each class how much Stalin loved his country’s children. Love itself was a political lesson. There was no more important love than the Leader’s Love, and consequently, one’s Love for the Leader. As part of that Love, Stalin wanted all of his children, no matter how old they were, to be reminded of certain basic precautions which they should make part of their daily life. They were not to cross roads without looking twice, they were to be careful when travelling on the metro and finally, and this was to be emphasized particularly, they were not to play on the railway tracks. Over the past year there had been several tragic accidents on the railways. The safety of the State’s children was paramount. They were the future. Various faintly ridiculous demonstrations had been given. Each class had concluded with a short quiz to make sure all the information had been absorbed.
Who loves you most? Correct answer: Stalin.
Who do you love most? Correct answer: see above
(wrong answers to be logged).
What should you never do? Correct answer:
play on the railway tracks.
Raisa could only presume that the reason behind this latest edict was that the Party was worried about population levels.
As a rule her classes were tiring, perhaps more so than other subjects. Whereas there was no expectation that students should clap the completion of every mathematical equation there was an expectation that every pronouncement she made regarding Generalissimo Stalin, the state of the Soviet Union or the prospects for worldwide revolution be met with applause. Students were competitive with each other, none of them wanting to seem less dedicated than their neighbour. Every five minutes the class would come to a halt as the children rose to their feet, stamping their shoes on the floor or banging their desks with their fists, and Raisa was duty bound to stand and join in. In order to stop her hands chafing, she clapped in a fashion whereby her palms would barely touch, gliding over each other in the imitation of enthusiasm. Initially she’d suspected that the children enjoyed this raucous behaviour and exploited any opportunity to interrupt a class. She’d come to realize this was not the case. They were afraid. Consequently discipline was never a problem. She rarely needed to raise her voice and never made threats of any kind. Even from the age of six the children understood that to disrespect authority, to speak out of turn, was to take your life into your own hands. Youth provided no protection. The age at which a child could be shot for their crimes, or their father’s crimes, was twelve. That was a lesson Raisa wasn’t allowed to teach.