In the communal corridor outside Nikolai’s apartment were the remains of the speech. Seeing the ripped pages, glancing at the words, Leo drew his gun. Behind him, Timur did the same. Paper scrunching underfoot, Leo reached out, taking hold of the door handle. The apartment was unlocked. He nudged open the door, the two of them stepping into the empty living area. There was no sign of a disturbance. The doors to the other rooms were closed except for one-the bathroom door.
The bath was full to the rim, the bloody water’s surface broken only by the emergence of Nikolai’s head and the island of his plump, hairy stomach. His eyes and mouth were open, as if amazed that an angel and not a demon had welcomed him to death. Leo crouched beside his former mentor, a man whose every lesson he had spent the past three years trying to unlearn. Timur called out:
– Leo…
Noting his deputy’s tone, Leo stood up, following him to the adjacent bedroom.
The two girls appeared to be sleeping, the blankets pulled over their bodies up to their necks. Had it been night, the stillness of the room would’ve felt natural. But it was midday and sunlight was pushing through the gaps in the curtains. Both girls were facing the walls, their backs turned to each other. The eldest daughter’s long glossy hair was spread over the pillow. Leo swept it back, touching her neck. The faintest trace of warmth remained, preserved under the thick comforter that she’d been lovingly tucked under. There was no sign of any injury on her body. The younger daughter, no more than four years old, was positioned identically. She was cold. Her small body had lost its warmth quicker than that of her sister’s. Leo closed his eyes. He could’ve saved these girls.
Next door, Nikolai’s wife, Ariadna, was arranged, as her daughters had been, in a semblance of sleep. Leo had known her a little. Seven years ago, after an arrest, Nikolai used to insist that Leo eat with him. No matter how late, Ariadna had always made dinner, offering hospitality and civility after Leo and Nikolai’s mutual savagery. The dinners had been intended as demonstration of the value of domestic space where the details of their bloody employment did not exist, where they could maintain the illusion of being nothing more than an ordinary loving husband. Sitting at her dressing table, Leo regarded the ivory bone hairbrush, perfumes and powders-luxuries that Ariadna had accepted as payment for her unquestioning devotion. She hadn’t realized that ignorance wasn’t a choice: it was a condition of her existence. Nikolai wouldn’t tolerate his family in any other form.
Never tell your wife anything.
As a young officer Leo had interpreted that warning, whispered to him after he’d made his first arrest, as referring to the need for caution and secrecy, a lesson in not trusting even those closest to him. But that was not what Nikolai had meant at all.
Unable to stay in the apartment any longer, Leo stood up, unsteady on his feet. Leaving the bodies behind, he hurried to the communal hallway, leaning against the wall, breathing deeply and staring down at the remains of Khrushchev’s speech, delivered and positioned outside Nikolai’s front door with lethal intent. Returning home last night, Nikolai had read a small fraction; most of it was still untouched in the box. One page had been shredded. Had Nikolai believed he could destroy these words? If that thought had crossed his mind, the accompanying letter would’ve ended that hope. The speech was to be copied and distributed. The inclusion of the official letter was a message to Nikolai that the secrets of his past were no longer his to control.
Leo glanced at Timur. Before joining the homicide department he’d been a militia officer, arresting drunks and thieves and rapists. The militia had not been excluded from making politicized arrests. However, Timur had been fortunate, no such demands had been placed on him, at least not that he’d ever admitted to Leo.
A man who rarely lost control of his emotions, Timur was visibly angry:
– Nikolai was a coward.
Leo nodded. It was true. He’d been too scared to face disapproval. Nikolai’s life was his family. He couldn’t live without them. He couldn’t die without them either.
Leo picked up a page from the speech, regarding it as if it were a knife or a gun-the most effective of murder weapons. He’d read the speech this morning, after it had been delivered to him. Shocked at the outspoken attack, it had taken Leo very little time to realize that if he’d been sent the speech, Nikolai would have too. The intended target was clear: the people responsible for the crimes described.
The clump of footsteps filled the stairway. The KGB had arrived.
KGB officers entered the apartment, regarding Leo with open contempt. No longer one of them, he’d turned his back on their ranks. He’d refused a job in order to run his homicide department, a department they’d been lobbying to shut down since its inception. Prizing loyalty above all else, in their eyes he was the worst of things- a traitor.
Taking charge was Frol Panin, Leo’s superior officer from the Interior Ministry, the office of Criminal Investigations. Some fifty years old, Panin was handsome, well tailored, charming. Though Leo had never seen a Hollywood movie, he imagined Panin was the type of man they’d cast. Fluent in several languages, he was a former ambassador who’d survived Stalin’s reign by remaining abroad. It was rumored that he didn’t drink, that he exercised daily and had his hair cut once a week. In contrast to many officials who prided themselves on their modest background and indifference to anything as bourgeois as appearances, Panin was brazenly immaculate. Soft-spoken, polite, he was a new breed of official who no doubt approved of Khrushchev’s speech. Behind his back he was frequently badmouthed. It was claimed that no man as effete as him would have lasted under Stalin. His hands were too soft, his nails too clean. Leo was sure that Panin would have accepted it as a compliment.
Panin briskly studied the crime scene before addressing the KGB officers:
– No one leaves the building. Head count all the other apartments, check them against residential records and make sure every person is accounted for. No one goes to work; those who have already left, bring in for questioning. Interview everyone-find out what they saw or heard. If you suspect they’re lying, or holding back, take them into a cell and ask them again. No violence, no threats, just make them understand that our patience has limits. If they do know something…
Panin paused, adding:
– We’ll deal with that on an individual basis. Also, I want a cover story. Agree the details among yourselves but no mention of murder. Is that understood?
Thinking better of giving them responsibility for a plausible lie, he continued:
– These four citizens were not murdered. They were arrested, taken away. The children have been sent to an orphanage. Begin to sow talk of their subversive attitudes. Use the people you have at your disposal in nearby communities. It is imperative no one catches sight of the bodies when they’re taken out. Clear the street if you have to.
It was better that society believe an entire family had been arrested, never to be seen again, rather than know that a retired MGB officer had murdered his family.
Panin turned to Leo:
– You met Nikolai last night?
– He phoned around midnight. I was surprised. I hadn’t spoken to him in over five years. He was upset, drunk. He wanted to meet me. I agreed. I was tired. It was late. He was incoherent. I told him to go home and we’d talk when he was sober. That was the last I saw of him. When he got home, he found Khrushchev’s speech on his doorstep. It was put there as part of a campaign against him, instigated, I believe, by the same people who put the speech on my doorstep this morning.
– Have you read the speech?
– Yes, it’s the reason I came here. It seemed too much of a coincidence that it was delivered to me at the same time as Nikolai getting in touch.
Panin turned, staring at Nikolai in the bloody bathwater:
– I was in the Kremlin Palace when Nikita Khrushchev delivered the speech. Several hours and no one moved, silence, disbelief. Only a very small number of people worked on it, select members of the Presidium. No warning was given. The Twentieth Congress began with ten days of unremarkable talks. Delegates were still applauding Stalin’s name. On the last day, the foreign delegates were getting ready to go home. We were called in for a closed session. Khrushchev showed a certain relish for the task. He’s passionate about admitting the mistakes of the past.
– To the entire country?
– He argued that these words couldn’t go beyond the confines of the hall or it would damage our nation’s reputation.
Leo failed to keep the anger out of his voice:
– Then why are there millions of copies in circulation?
– He lied. He wants people to read it. He wants people to know that he was the first person to say sorry. He’s taken his place in history. He’s the first man to criticize Stalin and not be executed. The notice that it is not to be printed in the press was a concession to those who opposed the speech. Of course, the stipulation is absurd in the context of the wider distribution plans.
– Khrushchev rose up under Stalin.
Panin smiled:
– We are all guilty, yes? And he feels it. He’s confessing, selectively. In many ways, it’s an old-fashioned denunciation. Stalin is bad: I’m good. I’m right: they’re wrong.
– Nikolai, myself, we are the people he’s telling everyone to hate. He is making monsters of us.
– Or showing the world the monsters we really are. I include myself in that, Leo. It is true for everyone who was involved, everyone who made the system tick. We’re not talking about a list of five names. We’re talking about millions of people, all of them either actively involved or complicit. Have you considered the possibility the guilty might outnumber the innocent? That the innocent might be a minority?
Leo glanced at the KGB officers examining the two daughters.
– The people who sent this speech to Nikolai must be caught.
– What leads do you have?
Leo opened his notepad, taking out the folded sheet of paper retrieved from Moskvin’s printing press.
Under torture, Eikhe
Panin examined it while Leo retrieved a page from Nikolai’s copy of the speech. He pointed at a line: Under torture, Eikhe was forced to sign a protocol of his confession prepared in advance by the investigative judges.
Spotting the duplication of the three words, Panin asked:
– Where did the first sheet come from?
– From a printing press, run by a man called Suren Moskvin, retired from the MGB. I’m sure the speech was delivered to him. His sons claim that he had an official contract with the State to print ten thousand copies. But I can find no evidence of that contract. I don’t believe it existed: it was a lie. He was told it was a State contract and then he was given the speech. He worked through the night, typesetting it; by the time he got to these words, he’d decided to kill himself. They gave him the speech knowing the effect it would have, just as they gave it to Nikolai, just as they gave it to me. Yesterday, Nikolai said he was being sent photographs of the people that he’d arrested. Moskvin was also harassed with photographs of the people he’d come into contact with.
Leo took out the modified volume of Lenin’s text, holding up the arrest photo glued into the front instead of Lenin.
– I’m sure one person connects all three of us-Suren, Nikolai, and myself-someone recently released from imprisonment, a relative of a…
Leo paused before adding the word:
– … A victim.
Timur asked:
– How many people did you arrest as an MGB officer?
Leo considered. On occasions, he arrested entire families-six people in one night.
– Over three years… many hundreds.
Timur couldn’t hide his surprise. The number was high. Panin remarked:
– And you think the perpetrator would send a photograph?
– They’re not afraid of us, not anymore. We’re afraid of them.
Panin clapped his hands, calling together the various officers:
– Search this apartment. We’re looking for a batch of photographs.
Leo added:
– Nikolai would’ve hidden them carefully. It was essential that his family never find them. He was an agent so he was good at hiding things and good at knowing where people might look.
Systematically searching every room, the luxurious apartment Nikolai had spent years furnishing and decorating took two hours to dismantle. In order to search under the beds and rip up the floorboards, the bodies of his murdered children and wife were heaped in the center of the living room, wrapped in bedlinens. Around them, wardrobes were smashed, mattresses torn open. No photos were found.
Frustrated, Leo stared at Nikolai in the bath of bloody water. Struck by a thought, he stepped up to the bath and without taking off his shirt sank his arm into the water. He felt Nikolai’s hand. His fingers were locked around a thick envelope. He’d been clutching it when he died. The paper had become soft and broke apart as soon as Leo touched it, the contents floating to the surface. Timur and Panin joined him, watching as one by one the faces of men and women rose up from the bloody bottom of the bath. Soon a film of photographs, hundreds of overlapping faces, bobbed up and down. Leo’s eyes darted from old women to young men, the mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. He recognized none of them. Then one face caught his eye. He picked it out of the water. Timur asked:
– You know this man?
Yes, Leo knew him. His name was Lazar.