Leo agreed.
— Voualsk has the car assembly plant. There are no other significant industries here other than the lumber mills. But there are lots of factories in Rostov.
Nesterov knew both locations better than Leo.
— The car factory and the Rostelmash share close ties.
— What is the Rostelmash?
— A tractor factory, enormous, the biggest in the USSR.
— Do they share components?
— The tyres for the GAZ-20 come from there while engine components are shipped south in exchange.
Could that be the connection? The murders followed the train lines up from the south and across into the west, point to point. Running with this theory, Leo remarked.
— If the car plant sends deliveries to the Rostelmash factory then that factory must employ a tolkach. Someone travels here to make sure the car plant fulfils its quota obligations.
— There have only been two child-murders here and they were recent. The factories have been working together for some time.
— The murders in the north of the country have been the most recent. That means he’s just got this job. Or that he’s only just been posted along this route. We need the employment records at Rostelmash. If we’re right, by cross-referencing those records with the locations of these murders we’ll have the man.
They were close. If they weren’t being hunted, if they had the freedom to act at their leisure, they could’ve discovered the killer’s name by the end of the week. But they didn’t have a week, or the support of the State. They had four minutes. It was eleven past nine. Leo had to leave. He took one document — the list of murders, compiled with dates and locations. That was all he needed. Having folded it into his pocket he moved to the door. Nesterov stopped him. He was holding his gun. Leo took hold of the weapon, delaying for a moment. Nesterov saw this hesitation and remarked:
— Or my family will die.
Leo struck him across the side of his head, splitting the skin and sending him to his knees. Still conscious, he looked up.
— Good luck, now hit me properly.
Leo raised the gun. Nesterov closed his eyes.
Hurrying into the corridor, Leo reached the stairs only to realize he’d forgotten the car keys. They were on the table. He turned around, ran back down the corridor into the office, stepping over Nesterov, grabbing the keys. He was late — nine fifteen, agents were entering the building. Leo was still in the office, exactly where they wanted him. He ran out, down the corridor, down the stairs. He could hear footsteps coming up towards him. Reaching the third 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.