— Who is it?
— It’s Vasili.
Leo closed his eyes, feeling his heart rate quicken and trying to control the surge of anger. Vasili knocked again. Leo stepped forward, opened the door. Vasili was accompanied by two men. The first was a young officer Leo didn’t recognize. He had soft features and paper-pale skin. He stared at Leo with expressionless eyes, like two glass marbles pushed into a ball of dough. The second officer was Fyodor Andreev. Vasili had selected these men carefully. The man with the pale skin was his protection, no doubt strong, a good shot or quick with a knife. He’d brought Fyodor along for spite.
— What is it?
— We’re here to help. Major Kuzmin sent us.
— Thank you, but I have the investigation under control.
— I’m sure you do. We’re here to assist.
— Thank you, but that’s not necessary.
— Come on, Leo. We’ve travelled a long way. And it’s cold out here.
Leo stepped aside, letting them in.
None of the three men took off their boots, which were encrusted with ice, chunks of which dropped from their soles, melting into the carpet. Leo shut the door, aware that Vasili was here to bait him. He wanted Leo to lose his temper. He wanted an argument, an ill-considered comment, anything to strengthen his case.
Leo offered his guests tea or vodka if they preferred. Vasili’s love drink was well known, but it was considered the most minor of vices if a vice at all. He dismissed Leo’s offer with a shake of his head and glanced into the bedroom.
— What have you found?
Without waiting for a reply Vasili entered the room, staring at the upturned mattress.
— You’ve not even cut it open.
He leant down, drawing his knife, ready to slice open the mattress. Leo caught hold of his hand.
— There’s a way to feel for items stitched into the material. You don’t have to cut it.
— So you’re going to put the place back together again?
— That’s right.
— You still think your wife is innocent?
— I’ve found nothing to suggest otherwise.
— May I give you some advice? Find another wife. Raisa is beautiful. But there are many beautiful women. Maybe you’d be better off with one who wasn’t quite so beautiful.
Vasili reached into his pocket, pulling out a set of folded photographs. He offered them to Leo. They were photographs taken of Raisa outside the school with Ivan, the literature teacher.
— She’s fucking him, Leo. She’s a traitor to you and the State.
— These were taken at the school. They’re both teachers. Of course it’s possible to take photographs of them together. It proves nothing.
— Do you know his name?
— Ivan, I think.
— We’ve had an eye on him for some time.
— We have our eye on lots of people.
— Perhaps you’re a friend of his also?
— I’ve never met him. I’ve never spoken to him.
Seeing the heap of clothes on the floor, Vasili bent down and picked up a pair of Raisa’s underpants. He rubbed them between his fingers, crumpling them into a ball, placing them under his nose and never taking his eyes off Leo. Instead of feeling anger at this provocation Leo contemplated his deputy in a way that he’d never bothered to before. Who exactly was this man who hated him so much? Was he motivated by professional jealousy or by raw ambition? Watching him now, sniffing Raisa’s clothes, Leo realized there was something personal about this hatred.
— May I take a look around the rest of your apartment?
Fearing a trap of some kind, Leo replied:
— I’ll come with you.
— No, I’d prefer to do it by myself.
Leo nodded. Vasili moved off.
Hardly able to breathe, his throat constricted with anger, Leo stared at the upturned bed. He was surprised by a soft voice beside him. It was Fyodor.
— You’d do all this. Search through your wife’s clothes, turn your bed upside down, rip up your own floorboards — pull your own life apart.
— We should all be prepared to submit to such searches. Generalissimo Stalin—
— I’ve heard this too. Our Leader said even his apartment could be searched if need be.
— Not only can we all be investigated, we must all be investigated.
— And yet you would not investigate the death of my son? You would investigate your wife, yourself, your friends, your neighbours but you would not take a look at his body? You would not spare an hour to see how his stomach was cut open, and how he died with dirt shoved in his mouth?
Fyodor was calm: his voice soft — his anger was no longer raw. It had turned to ice. He could speak in this fashion to Leo — openly, frankly — because he knew Leo was no longer a threat.
— Fyodor, you didn’t see his body either.
— I spoke to the old man who found his body. He told me what he saw. I saw in the old man’s eyes his shock. I spoke to the eyewitness, the woman you scared away. A man was holding my son’s hand, leading him along the tracks. She saw that man’s face. She could describe him. But no one wants her to speak. And now she’s too afraid to. My boy was murdered, Leo. The militia made all the witnesses change their statements. This I expected. But you were my friend. And you came to my home and instructed my family to keep our mouths shut. You threatened a grieving family. You read us a fiction and told us to commit those lies to our hearts. Instead of looking for the person who killed my son, you placed the funeral under scrutiny instead.
— Fyodor, I was trying to help you.
— I believe you. You were telling us the way to survive.
— Yes.
— And in some ways I’m grateful. Otherwise, the man who murdered my son would also have murdered me and my family. You saved us. That is why I’m here, not to gloat, but to return the favour. Vasili is right. You must sacrifice your wife. Don’t bother looking for any evidence. Denounce her and you’ll survive. Raisa is a spy, it’s been decided. I’ve read Anatoly Brodsky’s confession. It’s written in the same black ink as my son’s incident report.
No, Fyodor was wrong. He was angry. Leo reminded himself that he had a simple objective — to investigate his wife and report his findings. His wife was innocent.
— I’m convinced the traitor’s remarks concerning my wife were motivated by revenge and nothing more. So far my investigation supports that.
Vasili had re-entered the room. It was impossible to tell how much of their conversation he’d heard. He answered:
— Except that the other six names he listed have all been arrested. And all six have already confessed. Anatoly Brodsky’s information has proved invaluable.
— Then I’m pleased I was the one who apprehended him.
— Your wife was named by a convicted spy.
— I’ve read his confession and Raisa’s name is the last on the list.