Voualsk, Molotov, Vyatka, Gorky — a row of towns which followed the train line west towards Moscow. Moving south from Moscow, there were the towns of Tula and Orel. Now into the Ukraine, Leo saw the towns of Kharkov and Gorlovka, Zaporoshy and Kramatorsk. In all these towns there had been murders. He shut the file. Before he studied the personal details he’d check the fifth file. Barely able to concentrate he ran his finger down the list. There were some cross-references but no perfect fit. Leo returned to the fourth file. He flicked to the front page, staring at the small black-and-white photo. The man was wearing glasses. His name was Andrei.
Same Day
Vasili sat on his hotel bed, smoking, dumping ash on the carpet and drinking straight from the bottle. He was under no illusions: if he didn’t hand his superior officers the fugitives Leo and Raisa, they would almost certainly look upon the death of Fyodor Andreev with unkind eyes. That had been the deal they’d struck before he’d left Moscow. They’d believe his story about Fyodor working with Leo, they’d believe that when Fyodor had been presented with the truth he’d tried to attack Vasili, only if he brought them Leo. The MGB were embarrassed at their inability to catch this unarmed, penniless married couple who seemed to have melted away. If Vasili could catch them they were prepared to forgive him any sin. Officials were preparing for the fact that Leo was already abroad in the clutches of Western diplomats. Their own foreign agents had been briefed. Photos of Leo and his wife had already been sent out to embassies across the world. Plans to assassinate them were being drawn up. If Vasili could save them the trouble of launching an expensive and diplomatically complicated international man hunt, then his slate would be wiped clean.
He dropped his cigarette stub on the carpet, watched it smoulder for a moment before crushing it under his heel. He’d been in contact with the State Security in Rostov, a ragtag bunch. He’d given them photos. He’d told the officers that they should bear in mind Leo might have grown a beard or cropped his hair short. They might not be travelling as a couple. They might have parted ways. One of them might be dead. Or they might be travelling in a group, assisted by others. Officers should pay little attention to paperwork, all of which Leo knew how to fake. They should detain anyone they considered even remotely suspicious. Vasili would make the final decision as to whether to release them or not. With thirty men in total he’d set up a series of checkpoints and random searches. He’d ordered every officer to log all incidents, no matter how trivial, in order that he’d be able to check them himself. These reports were brought to him, day and night.
There had been nothing so far. Would this prove another opportunity for Leo to humiliate him? Perhaps that idiot Fyodor had been wrong. Maybe Leo was heading somewhere completely different. If that was the case then Vasili was dead.
There was a knock on the door.
— Come in.
A red-faced young officer stood to attention holding a sheet of paper. Vasili gestured for him to give it to him.
Rostelmash factory. Administrative section.
Two men attacked, employment files stolen.
Vasili got to his feet.
— He’s here.
Same Day
They stood side by side, fifty paces from the front door. Leo glanced at his wife. She was unaware of this madness that had descended upon him. He felt giddy: as though he’d ingested some narcotic. He half expected that the feeling would fade and normality would return, there’d be another explanation and that this wouldn’t be the house belonging to his little brother.
Andrei Trofimovich Sidorov.
But that was his little brother’s name.
Pavel Trofimovich Sidorov.
And that had been his own name, until he’d shed his childhood identity as a reptile sheds its skin. The small photo on the employment file had confirmed it was Andrei. The features were the same — a lost expression. The glasses were new. But that’s why he’d been so clumsy, he was short-sighted. His awkward, shy little brother — murderer of at least 44 children. It made no sense and yet it made perfect sense: the string, the ground-up bark, the hunt. Forced to concentrate on the memories he’d banished, Leo recalled teaching his little brother how to make a string snare, he’d told him to gnaw on the bark of trees to suppress hunger. Had those lessons become the template for some kind of psychotic frenzy? Why hadn’t Leo made the connections before? No, it was ridiculous to have expected him to. Any number of children had been taught the same lessons and shown how to hunt. Upon seeing the victims these details hadn’t registered any deeper into Leo’s mind. Or had they? Had he chosen this path or had it chosen him? Had this been the reason he’d been drawn into the investigation when there was every reason to look the other way?
When he’d seen his brother’s name printed in black and white Leo had been forced to sit down, staring at the file, checking the dates, checking and rechecking. He’d been in shock, oblivious to the dangers around him. It wasn’t until he noticed the bookkeeper sidestepping towards the phone that he snapped back. He’d secured the bookkeeper to a chair, disabled the phone and locked both men in the office, gagging them. He had to get out. He had to pull himself together. But going down the corridor he hadn’t even been walking straight, lurching from side to side. He’d felt dizzy. Having made it outside, his thoughts still scrambled, his world still upside down, he’d instinctively turned towards the main gates, too late realizing that it would’ve been far safer to climb over the fence as he’d done before. But he’d been unable to change direction; the guards had seen him approach. He’d have to walk right past them. He’d begun to sweat. They’d let him go unchallenged. Once in the taxi he’d told the driver the address, ordering him to hurry. He’d been shaking, his legs, his arms — he’d been unable to stop. He’d watched as Raisa had studied the file. She now knew the story of his brother: she knew his first name but not their full name. He’d watched her reaction as she studied the papers. She hadn’t put the two together, she hadn’t guessed. How could she? He’d been incapable of telling her.
That man is my brother.
There was no way of knowing how many people were inside his brother’s house. The other inhabitants posed a problem. They were almost certainly unaware of the nature of this man, this killer, unaware of his crimes — surely part of the reason he murdered away from home. His little brother had created a split identity, his home life and his life as a killer, just as Leo had cleaved his own identity in two, the boy he’d been and the boy he’d become. Leo shook his head: he had to stay focused. He was here to kill this man. The question was how to get past the other occupants. Neither he nor Raisa had a gun. Raisa sensed his hesitation and asked: