Vasili dismissed the idea that Leo’s escape had been assisted. There was simply no way anyone could have known which train the prisoners would be on. The process of getting them on a Gulag transport had been hurried, improvised and last-minute. He’d pushed it through without the proper paperwork or procedure. The only person who could’ve helped them escape was him. This meant that there was a chance, no matter how ridiculous the notion, that he’d be blamed. It seemed that Leo had the potential to ruin him after all.
So far none of the search groups had found any trace of them. Neither Leo nor Raisa had any family or friends in that area of the country — they should be alone, in rags, penniless. When he’d last spoken to Leo the man hadn’t even known his own name. Evidently he’d regained his wits. Vasili had to figure out where Leo was going: that was the best way to trap him rather than searching the countryside at random. Having failed to recapture his own denounced brother, he must succeed in capturing Leo. He wouldn’t survive another failure.
Vasili didn’t believe that Leo had any interest in fleeing to the West. Would he return to Moscow? His parents lived here. But his parents couldn’t help him and they’d lose their life if he turned up on their doorstep. They were now under armed surveillance. Perhaps he’d want revenge, perhaps he’d turn up to kill Vasili? He mulled over this idea briefly, flattered by it, before rejecting it. He’d never felt anything personal about Leo’s dislike of him. There was no way he’d risk his wife’s life for an act of revenge. Leo had an agenda and it was rooted in the pages of this captured case file.
Vasili studied the stack of documents accumulated over the past months by both Leo and the local militia officer whom he’d convinced to help him. There were photos of murdered children, witness statements. There were court documents about convicted suspects. During his interrogation Leo had denounced this work. Vasili knew that denunciation was a lie. Leo was a believer and he believed in this fanciful theory. But what exactly did they believe? A single killer was responsible for all these motiveless murders — murders spread over many hundreds of kilometres in over thirty different locations? Aside from the theory itself being bizarre, it meant they could be heading anywhere. Vasili could hardly pick one of these locations and wait. Frustrated, he re-examined the map marked with each alleged murder, numbered chronologically.
Vasili’s finger tapped the number. He picked up the phone.
— Bring me Officer Fyodor Andreev.
Since Vasili had been promoted he’d been rewarded with his own office — a small space, admittedly, but one of which he was immensely proud as if each square metre had been personally conquered during a military campaign. There was a knock on the door. Fyodor Andreev entered, now one of Vasili’s subordinates: a youngish man, loyal, hardworking and not too bright, perfect virtues in a subordinate. He was nervous. Vasili smiled, gesturing for Fyodor to sit down.
— Thank you for coming. I need your help.
— Certainly, sir.
— You’re aware that Leo Demidov is a fugitive?
— Yes, sir, I’ve heard.
— What do you know of the reasons behind Leo’s arrest?
— Nothing.
— We believed that he was working for Western governments, collecting information — spying. But that turns out not to be true. We were wrong. Leo wouldn’t tell us anything during his interrogation. Now, belatedly, I’ve found out that he was working on this.
Fyodor stood up, staring at the case file on the table. He’d seen these documents before. They’d been taped to Leo’s chest. Fyodor was beginning to sweat. He leaned forward, as though examining these papers for the first time, trying to hide the fact that he was trembling. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Vasili had moved and was now standing beside him, staring down at the pages, as though they were working together, partners. Vasili’s finger slid across the map, slowly, reaching Moscow and tapping:
Fyodor felt sick. He turned his head to see Vasili’s face close to his own.
— Fyodor, we know Leo came to Moscow recently. I now believe that rather than spying, this journey was in fact part of his investigation. You see, he believes that a murder took place here. Your son was murdered, am I correct?
— No, sir. He was killed in an accident. He was cut down by a train.
— Leo was sent to deal with the matter?
— Yes, but—
— And at the time you believed that the boy was murdered, am I right?
— At the time, I was upset, it was very difficult…
— So, when Leo came back to Moscow to investigate, it wasn’t your child that he was interested in?
— No, sir.
— How do you know?
— Sir?
— How do you know what Leo was or wasn’t interested in?
Vasili took a seat, glancing at his fingernails, pretending to be hurt.
— Fyodor, you obviously have a very low opinion of me.
— That’s not true, sir.
— You must understand that if Leo is right, if there is a child-murderer, then he needs to be caught. I want to help Leo. Fyodor, I have children of my own. It is my duty as a father and as an officer to stop these terrible crimes. This supersedes any personal animosity that exists between Leo and myself. If I wanted Leo dead, I would simply do nothing. At the moment everyone considers both him and his wife to be spies. They will be shot on sight and I fear their investigation will be lost. More children will die. However, if I had all the facts, I might be able to persuade my superiors to call off the man hunt. If I don’t, what chance do Leo and Raisa have?
— None.
Vasili nodded, pleased with the confirmation. It was true, then: Leo was convinced that there was one man responsible for all these deaths. Vasili continued.
— My point exactly, they have no money; they’re hundreds of kilometres from their destination.
— Where did they escape?
Fyodor’s second mistake, revealing that he too believed Leo would be intent on catching this killer. All Vasili needed now was the destination itself. He pointed east of Moscow, the train lines, and watched as Fyodor’s eyes moved from that position, across the map, southwards. Leo was heading south. But Vasili still needed a name. Coaxing Fyodor, he remarked:
— The majority of the murders are taking place in the south.
— Just from glancing at this map…
Fyodor paused. It was possible to tip Vasili off without incriminating himself. They could then jointly petition their superior officers to change their mind about Leo and Raisa. Fyodor had been looking for a way to help them. This was it: he’d turn them from villains into heroes. When they’d met in Moscow, Leo had mentioned that a militia officer had travelled to Rostov to confirm that the city was the most probable location of the killer. Fyodor pretended to scrutinize the papers.