— May I have that back, please?
For the first time the man’s voice had become agitated. Why was this paper so important to him? Aron studied the page. It was a clipping from several years ago, the ink had faded. There was no text, no copy — that had all been cut away so that it was impossible to tell which newspaper it had come from. All that remained was a photograph taken during the Great Patriotic War. It showed the burning wreck of a panzer. Russian soldiers stood with guns triumphantly pointing into the air, dead German soldiers at their feet. It was a victory photo, a propaganda photo. With his deformed upper lip Aron understood all too well why this photo had been printed in a newspaper. The Russian soldier at the centre of the photo was a handsome man with a winning smile.
Moscow
10 July
Leo’s face was swollen, tender to touch. His right eye remained closed, hidden beneath folds of puffy skin. There was intense pain down the side of his chest as though he’d broken several ribs. He’d been given basic medical assistance at the scene of the crash, but as soon as it had been ascertained that his life wasn’t in danger he’d been loaded into a truck under armed guard. On the journey back to Moscow he’d felt each bump in the road like a punch in the gut. Without painkillers on the journey he had passed out several times. His guards had woken him by prodding him with the barrels of their guns, fearful of him dying on their watch. Leo had spent the journey alternating between feverish heat and freezing cold. These injuries, he accepted, were merely the beginning.
The irony of ending up here — secured to a chair in a basement interrogation cell in the Lubyanka — hadn’t escaped his attention. A guardian of the State had become its prisoner, a not uncommon reversal of fortunes. This is what it felt like to be an enemy of his country.
The door opened. Leo raised his head. Who was this man with sallow skin and yellow-stained teeth? He was a former colleague, he remembered that much. But he couldn’t remember the man’s name.
— You don’t remember me?
— No.
— I’m Dr Zarubin. We’ve met on a couple of occasions. I visited you when you were ill not so many months ago. I’m sorry to see you in this predicament. I say that not as a criticism of the action being taken against you; that is just and fair. I simply mean that I wish you hadn’t done it.
— What have I done?
— You’ve betrayed your country.
The doctor felt Leo’s ribs. Each touch caused him to clench his teeth.
— Your ribs aren’t broken, as I was told. They’re bruised. No doubt it’s painful. But none of your injuries require surgery. I’ve been ordered to clean up the cuts and change the dressings.
— Treatment before torture, a quirk of this place. I once saved a man’s life only to bring him here. I should have let Brodsky drown in that river.
— I don’t know this man of whom you speak.
Leo fell silent. Anyone could regret their actions once the tables had been turned. He understood, more clearly than ever, that his only chance of redemption had slipped through his fingers. The killer would continue to kill, concealed not by any masterful brilliance but by his country’s refusal to admit that such a man even existed, wrapping him in perfect immunity.
The doctor finished patching up Leo’s injuries. Such assistance was intended to guarantee full sensitivity to the torture which would follow. Make them better so they could be hurt to a greater extent. The doctor leaned down and whispered into Leo’s ear.
— I’m now going to tend to your wife. Your pretty wife, she’s tied up next door. Quite helpless, and it’s your fault. Everything I’m going to do to her is your fault. I’m going to make her hate the day she ever loved you. I’m going to make her say it aloud.
As though it had been spoken in a foreign language it took a while for Leo to comprehend what was being said to him. He had no grudge against this man. He’d barely recognized him. Why was he threatening Raisa? Leo tried to stand up, lunging for the doctor. But his chair was secured to the floor and he was secured to the chair.
Dr Zarubin pulled back, like a man who’d put his head too close to a lion’s cage. He watched Leo strain against his restraints, his veins bulging in his neck, his face red, his eye pathetically swollen. It was intriguing — like watching a fly trapped under a glass. This man didn’t understand the nature of his predicament.
Helplessness
The doctor picked up his case and waited for the guard to open the door. He expected Leo to call out after him, perhaps threaten to kill him. But on that front, at least, he was disappointed.
He walked down the basement corridor, a matter of metres, arriving at the adjacent cell. The door was opened. Zarubin entered. Raisa was seated and secured in exactly the same way as her husband. The doctor was excited by the prospect of her recognizing him and recognizing that she should have accepted his offer. If she had, she would’ve been safe. She was evidently not the skilled survivor he’d taken her for. She had extraordinary beauty, something she’d failed to capitalize on, opting instead for fidelity. Perhaps she believed in an afterlife, a heaven where her loyalty would be rewarded. It had no value here.
Convinced that he’d find her regret stimulating, he expected her to beg:
Help me.
She’d accept any conditions now: he could ask anything of her. He could treat her like filth and she’d willingly accept it and plead for more. She’d submit to him completely. The doctor opened the grate on the wall. Although the grate appeared to be part of a ventilation system, in fact it was designed to carry sound from one cell to another. He wanted Leo to listen to every word.
Raisa stared up at Zarubin, watching as he struck a look of pantomime sadness, no doubt trying to communicate a sense of pity, as if to say:
If only you’d accepted my offer.
He put his case down and began examining her even though she had no injuries.
— I need to study every part of you. For my report, you understand.
Raisa had been taken without any fuss. The restaurant had been surrounded: agents had entered and secured her. As she’d been escorted out, Basarov had shouted with predictable malice that she deserved whatever punishment she got. Tied up in the back of a truck, given no information, she had no idea what had happened to Leo until she overheard an officer say they’d got him. She guessed, from the satisfaction in his voice, that Leo had at least attempted to escape.
She tried to remain looking straight ahead as the doctor’s hands crept across her body, as though he wasn’t there. But she couldn’t help stealing glances at him. His knuckles were hairy, his nails perfectly clean and carefully cut. The guard behind her began to laugh, a childish laugh. She concentrated on the idea that her body was out of his reach and no matter what he did, he wouldn’t be able to lay a finger on her. It was an impossible idea to sustain. His fingers moved up the inside of her leg with awful and deliberate slowness. She felt tears in her eyes. She blinked them away. Zarubin moved closer: his face close to hers. He kissed her cheek, sucking her skin into his mouth as though about to take a bite.
The door opened. Vasili entered. The doctor pulled back, stood up, stepping back. Vasili was annoyed.