Of course, the subject matter of the film was tricky: the murder of the ten-year-old Pioneer Pavlik Morozov by his family when he betrayed them as wreckers was an event that could be looked at in different ways. As far as the Party was concerned, the message was clear – even the youngest citizen owed loyalty not to themselves or their family, but only to the State and the Party – even to the point of death. Some citizens, however, and Korolev was one of them, might just harbour the suspicion that the brat had got what was coming to him. So it would be important for the director of such a film to make sure that the correct message was received by all, and that might be a difficult proposition. It seemed this was also the opinion of the author of the report. Concerns have been raised at the highest levels which have led to constructive criticism being passed on to Nikolai Sergeevich Savchenko by GUKF Director Belakovsky and others in explicit and forthright terms. Such criticism has resulted in the reshooting of several scenes and the hiring of Isaac Emmanuilovich Babel to assist in rewriting parts of the scenario to place the political aspects of the case at the heart of the film. However, it would appear that N.S. Savchenko has persisted in his failure to address the Morozov incident correctly and has proved unable to show it as an unequivocal example of selfless socialist heroism. Furthermore the changes made by I.E. Babel have not reflected the direction required by the Party. Instead the story is fragmented, portrays sympathy to the traitors and appears ambivalent about Soviet Power. Comrade Belakovsky has made repeated efforts to persuade N.S. Savchenko of the necessity of developing the film within the bounds of socialist realism rather than bourgeois concepts of dramatic and psychological drama. It is to be feared that, following his visit to the United States, N.S. Savchenko is no longer capable, or willing, to portray the murder of Pavlik Morozov within the correct socialist parameters.
Korolev let out a quiet whistle. He didn’t understand exactly what this fellow was going on about, but he understood enough to work out that Savchenko was in trouble up to his neck, as was Korolev’s friend Babel. Korolev pulled out his notebook and made some notes, not convinced any of this was relevant to the case, but not prepared to discount it either. If whoever had written the report was of the opinion that Savchenko’s approach to the film was causing concern amongst Party members involved in the production, then that meant there had been tension, and possibly fear, amongst the cast and crew. If criticism like this was being voiced publicly, it could be as lethal as an aimed bullet. And if the girl had been the subject of criticism, it could be the reason for her suicide.
There was more to be read, including a brief note on Babel, which he took a moment to peruse, pleased to see that Ezhov himself considered the writer politically reliable, if recently unproductive, but by now the aircraft’s vibration was beginning to make him feel unwell and so he returned the papers to the envelope and turned to look out of the window, not without a further twinge of nervousness.
They were flying over a forest that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see but at such low altitude that Korolev was able to make out individual branches, and the snow that weighed them down. The sense of speed was quite terrifying as the long shadow of the aeroplane raced across the snow-dusted treetops in the flat winter sun. They were following a long straight road which was completely deserted until a cart drawn by two horses appeared beneath them. Korolev caught a glimpse of the terrified face of the peasant as he turned to see what devil was pursuing him, and how the horses seemed to lift in their traces as the plane roared over them. And then they were gone, vanished far behind them.
Soviet Power, Korolev thought to himself. It had a way of coming up on you when you least expected it.
Chapter Four
Korolev managed something approximating sleep for a good part of the journey, although he joined the other passengers to stretch their legs at Kursk, and by the time they landed in Odessa he was almost used to the strange experience that was flying.
He took his bag from the youth who was emptying the cargo hold and made his way over to the small wooden airport building, the word ODESSA attached to its roof in-between two obligatory red stars. Several small trucks and a couple of black cars were parked haphazardly in its vicinity and a small crowd of people stood around it, waiting for the passengers, he presumed. It wasn’t difficult to spot Major Mushkin.
He was a tall man, just over six feet, and if he wasn’t wearing a uniform as such, there wasn’t much doubt that he was a Chekist. Certainly every citizen within viewing distance had Mushkin marked, even though no one seemed to be looking in his direction. In fact, that was just it. Everyone was ignoring the burly man from State Security so pointedly that he stood out like a palm tree on an iceberg.
And of course it didn’t help that the major’s gaze was like a searchlight sweeping the crowd as he flicked the worker’s flat cap he carried against his thigh like a whip to the rhythm of a tune only he could hear. Korolev watched him reach for a cigarette case from the pocket of his double-breasted leather trench coat, then bring one the contents to his mouth. He was about to light it when he became aware of Korolev and, as their eyes met, Korolev felt a shiver run down his spine as every instinct told him that the fellow was bad news. Very bad news.
The strangest thing, he thought as he approached, was that the major was almost good looking. The nicotine-stained blond hair that he’d pushed back from his pale forehead was beginning to whiten around the ears, but was still thick, if a little tangled. His features were regular enough – a broad jaw, high cheekbones and a straight nose – and would have been pleasing on another man. But the major’s face had a weary, cynical cast to it that Korolev suspected must be permanent, and it robbed him of any attractiveness or warmth.
‘Major Mushkin?’ Korolev asked, holding out a hand in greeting.
‘Korolev,’ Mushkin said, ignoring the hand. ‘My car’s over here. We’ll talk on the way.’
‘Comrade Mushkin?’ It was Belakovsky’s voice. ‘Are you here to meet us?’
The major turned and looked at Belakovsky for a long moment. ‘No,’ he said eventually.
Belakovsky’s eyes swivelled towards Korolev, remembering him, before turning back to Mushkin with an apologetic smile.
‘Of course, I’m sorry – when I saw you standing here…’
‘Yes, you jumped to a conclusion.’ Mushkin spoke the words like a threat.
‘Excuse me, Comrade, my mistake. Please forgive me.’ Belakovsky turned away and, nodding to Lomatkin, walked quickly round the corner of the building in the journalist’s company. Mushkin looked at Korolev for a reaction, which Korolev was careful not to provide.
‘Well, now you’ve met Belakovsky. You’ll see more of him. Lomatkin his sidekick as well, no doubt.’
The car rattled along a road so straight it could have been laid out with a ruler, although after months of freezing temperatures the surface had nothing of the same regularity. Not that Mushkin allowed that to affect his speed, manoeuvring round only the bigger pot-holes and leaving the car’s suspension to deal with the rest – a task that Korolev’s bruised body told him was beyond it. It was a good fifteen years since he’d travelled through the Ukraine, but he remembered the steppe all too well and the flat landscape extended unremittingly to the horizon. Rodinov had told him it would be warmer than Moscow, which it was, but only by a couple of degrees and ice still clogged the streams and lakes and scatterings of snow marked each variation in the relentless flatness.