It was past nine o’clock when Korolev finished combining his notes on the autopsy and the crime scene into a report for General Popov. While the autopsy had thrown up some interesting possibilities, not least that the dead woman was a foreigner, the forensic investigation team had come up with very little, as Semionov had predicted. There were fingerprints all over the room, but the fingermarks that were bloody had all turned out either to have been made by gloves, probably leather, or had belonged to the dead woman. They’d begin fingerprinting the Komsomol members who frequented the church in the morning, but the head of the forensic team thought it unlikely that they would come up with anything useful, especially as they had taken several hundred impressions from the sacristy alone. Korolev cursed under his breath as he finished writing and then began to read from the beginning for mistakes.
He took his time, considering the available facts from every angle. As he read, he began to form in his mind a very loose picture of the murderer and, indeed, of the victim. Nothing substantial, just feelings and impressions, but he’d been an investigator long enough to know intuition should never be ignored. Even though it was hard for him to be definite, he was beginning to think the killing showed an element of forethought that was unusual. For a start, the murderer’s wearing of gloves and the lack of any forensic data indicated a care and detachment not present in the violent sexual murders he’d investigated previously. Usually the murderer was caught up in the fever of the moment and therefore careless. He might try to clear up evidence afterward, but by that stage he was in a state of elation, fear or shock, and his efforts were affected accordingly. This fellow seemed to be different. Yes, there was blood, gore and lots of unpleasant detail, but there was very little evidence. He’d been careful and, as if to confirm Korolev’s supposition, there were no signs of rape. There was torture, clearly, but the use of electricity, the way the body parts had been arranged and the deliberate nature of the injuries made him wonder whether the mutilations hadn’t some significance outside the violent act itself. He was even beginning to suspect that the mutilations might be a smokescreen and that the murder might have a motive beyond the obvious.
He rubbed his eyes as he finished and looked at his watch. It had been a full day and it was time he made his way home. He smiled at the thought. His cousin’s partitioned room had been tiny with only enough space for a bed for Mikhail and a mattress on the floor for Korolev, their clothes hanging from nails on the wall. They’d listened at night to their neighbors whispered squabbles and even quieter lovemaking, whispering in turn to each other as they passed a bottle backward and forward. At least in the new apartment there would be space, far above the norm for the Moscow district, and a degree of privacy that most citizens only saw in films, and foreign films at that. He felt like pinching himself.
Zhenia would have liked it, he thought. His ex-wife had given up their old room in the Presnaya district a year or so after the divorce and returned to her people in Zagorsk. She’d never much liked Moscow, but as one of the first Soviet-educated female engineers, the capital had offered her opportunities for advancement, as well as the excitement of being at the center of a Revolution that was transforming history itself. Indeed, she’d been a poster girl for the new revolutionary society and why she’d chosen Korolev, when half the men in Moscow had been after her, had been a mystery to him. After three years of marriage it had been to her as well. It hadn’t helped that he’d been an investigator, of course not, but then she’d worked even longer hours. They’d met in bed like strangers sometimes, and from one of those encounters Yuri had been conceived. The thought of Yuri saddened him; he hadn’t seen the boy for six months. She had a new man now, a doctor, and it worried him. How long would it be before Yuri started calling the stranger “Papa?” Would he even remember Korolev the next time they met?
Korolev put the handwritten pages in order, wrote a request for four copies, then took out his hat from the bottom drawer of the desk in preparation for the walk home. Zagorsk was just too damned far away-but he’d make the trip in the spring, no matter what.
On the way out he stopped on the first floor and knocked at a wooden window, which guarded the all-female typing pool as though it were an Ottoman harem. A moment passed before the panel slid back and a tired female face peered out at him. He couldn’t remember seeing her before and he watched her examine his epaulettes, noticing the slight stiffening of posture that they brought.
“Yes, Captain? Something urgent?”
“A report for the general. He needs it for tomorrow morning. Four copies altogether.”
“Four copies.” The woman flicked back her gray-streaked brown hair from her eyes as she examined the papers. The gesture was almost sensuous. “Captain Korolev,” she read. “That’s you?”
“Yes.”
“Eight o’clock in the morning?”
“Thank you.” He thought he saw the ghost of a smile lighten her features. “One thing, though. It’s not one for an inexperienced typist. It’s a murder, a young woman-not very pleasant. Probably best to give it to someone who’s been here a bit longer.”
She took a quick look at the first page, raised her eyebrows and nodded her head gravely in agreement, then smiled before sliding the panel shut.
He walked home, keeping to the main thoroughfares and maintaining a good pace. There were the usual queues outside the late-night shops and tired groups of workers, covered from head to toe in grime, were making their way back to their hostels, passing their replacements, only a little cleaner, heading in the opposite direction. There were students, hands bunching threadbare coats around their throats, and, even this close to the Kremlin, beggars with the dead eyes of the starving. There were more of them recently-despite it being a criminal offense with a five-year ticket attached. Yet, for all the people, there was not much noise. The rumble of a truck passing drowned out what little conversation there was. It was as if the citizens suspected they were being listened to, and Korolev suspected they might have a point.
Turning a corner, Korolev saw two men with the strange pigeon walk that marked them out as belonging to the caste of Thieves. They recognized him for what he was as well, but showed no obvious reaction, except that one made a comment to the other as they walked by. Of all the people he’d passed they were the only ones who seemed relaxed. The Party believed in the principle of re-education for criminals, and so hooligans and bandits were receiving political lectures rather than lengthy sentences. What was more, Korolev, as a policeman, suspected the only real education the Thieves received in the Zone, as the camp and prison system was known, was from other Thieves. And the leniency to professional criminals meant Soviet cities weren’t as safe as they should be.
It was a different story for political prisoners, of course-they were punished to the full extent of the law.
Still, the streets seemed quiet tonight, perhaps because it was cold, certainly below freezing point. He looked up at the dark sky lurking above the street lights and wondered if it would snow. He turned the corner of the Lubianka and, as usual, scanned the street ahead for trouble. It was more out of habit than from a perception of risk-after all, any sane criminal would stay well clear of the NKVD headquarters-so he was surprised when he saw black cars pulled up outside the Dzherzhinskaya Metro station and a crowd that swirled and jostled with excitement.
As he approached, the several hundred people seemingly laying siege to the station entrance appeared all the stranger. Perhaps it was a terrorist attack or an accident. He quickened his pace and patted his holster, checking the gun was secured in case there was rough stuff ahead, but the crowd seemed in a good mood, even cheering, as they surged forward and backward. A line of Chekists and Red Army soldiers, faces pale under the street lights, had joined elbows to hold the ever-growing number of citizens away from a convoy of black cars that was parked in front of the large illuminated M marking the station entrance. The line looked as though it would be brushed aside at any moment, but, despite the number of people, and Korolev estimated there were now close to a thousand souls waving thin hands and red handkerchiefs, he had the sense that the situation was under control.
The shouting slackened for a moment as the gleaming door of one of the limousines opened and a familiar face, pitted by smallpox and bedecked with a thick mustache, emerged, black eyes taking everything in. It was a powerful gaze, as sure of itself as a champion boxer’s, and Korolev felt his own hand rising in salute. He joined in the growl of approval, which built into a roar that sent the hairs on the back of his neck shivering as his fist clenched above his head.
“Stalin! Stalin! Stalin!” the crowd cheered and Korolev bellowed along with them. Bulky Chekists gathered round the General Secretary, but they seemed small beside him, as though the world had to adjust to his scale because he clearly wasn’t that tall, maybe five foot three. It must be the presence of the man, Korolev thought, and then found himself shouting Stalin’s name again as the great man smiled at the crowd, his mustache curling upward. He touched his arm stiffly to his military cap in acknowledgment, but only as if to say, “You aren’t cheering me, you’re cheering my position in the Party, and I accept the adulation on that basis alone.”
One of his bodyguards leaned to whisper in Stalin’s ear and the General Secretary nodded in agreement, then smiled at the crowd once again before disappearing into the Metro station. Other men stepped out of the cars now: Ezhov, Molotov, Budyonny with his cavalryman’s twirling mustache, Ordzhonikidze, Mikoyan. It seemed as though half the Politburo had decided to take the Metro home. They smiled blearily from behind the collars of their greatcoats and leather jackets and followed Stalin inside. Some of them seemed a little unsteady on their feet, as though they’d been drinking. Their waves and salutes were friendly also, similarly dismissive of the adulation: “We’re all workers for the Revolution together, Comrades, no need to make a fuss.” And when the last of them had disappeared inside the crowd wanted to follow them, but the Chekists held firm and exhorted them to be patient, to give the leaders some room.
“Stand back, Citizens!” a man with a loudhailer instructed and the crowd reluctantly complied, stepping back as the Chekist cordon advanced. Now that Stalin had gone, they turned to each other and discussed what they’d seen-enthusiastic, like children. Korolev skirted the crowd, hearing snatches of conversation as he moved past.
“He wasn’t tall, was he? But strong-like an ox.”
“Did you see his pipe? I smoke a pipe myself. I wonder what brand he uses?”
Korolev maneuvered past them, feeling the same pride as his fellow Muscovites at the leadership’s decision to come out among them.
He was nearly clear when he felt his elbow taken in a strong grip and he turned to find himself facing Staff Colonel Gregorin.
“Captain Korolev, are you only going home now? Working late on the investigation, were you?” Gregorin pulled a cigarette case out of his uniform’s breast pocket; at some stage it had received a large dent and it opened stiffly. Gregorin saw his interest and closed the lid to tap his finger in the middle of the circular mark.
“A bullet. It saved my life-now it’s my good-luck charm. If it weren’t for the case, there would only have been a dead Corporal Gregorin rather than a live Staff Colonel Gregorin. I consider it a useful reminder of the arbitrariness of fate. And doctors tell us smoking weakens the chest…”
Gregorin chuckled at the well-worn joke and Korolev responded with an awkward smile. The colonel had taken him by surprise and he took the offered cigarette happily, relieved to have something to do with his hands. He reached into his pocket for the matches he habitually carried, but Gregorin stopped him, cracking open a lighter and moving the two of them away from the crowd.
“Comrade Stalin decided to visit the Metro on a whim. He’s seen it in construction, and was at the opening, of course, but he wanted to experience it like an ordinary citizen. A spontaneous thought, so we were all called out at a moment’s notice to provide security. A great responsibility.”
He pointed to a black car parked on the street about thirty meters further along the street, “Can I give you a lift home? It will save you the walk.”
Korolev nodded, feeling he should participate in the conversation, but finding himself at a loss for words.
“Good. Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky, isn’t it? Oh don’t look so alarmed, it’s my business to know about those who interest me, whether for professional or personal reasons. It’s a good building-you’ll like your neighbors. Babel lives upstairs. Do you know him? The writer? If not, you should make it your business to do so-a citizen has a duty to be cultured these days.”
“I know of him, yes,” Korolev managed to say, recalling the writer’s all-too-vivid descriptions of the war against the Poles.
“I can introduce you, if you’d like. He may be useful to you. In fact, I’ll make it a point to do so. He’ll enjoy you, two veterans of the war in Poland -I can see you gossiping away like old women. Maybe he’ll write about you. Who knows?”
“What could a man like Comrade Babel see in a humble Militia investigator like me, Colonel? And, for that matter, what is your interest?”
Gregorin opened the driver’s door of a black Emka and Korolev saw humor flash in his dark brown eyes. The colonel’s authority hung easily about him and his thick black hair, swarthy skin and strong features made Korolev wonder if he might be a Georgian, like Stalin, although there was no clear accent when he spoke. He carried himself like an athlete. Not a wide or tall man, but he looked as though he could handle himself.
“You underestimate yourself, Comrade,” Gregorin said, when Korolev was sitting in the car. “I didn’t choose you to lecture tomorrow for no reason-you get results. It will do our students no harm to learn a thing or two from such an effective investigator. And General Popov recommended you-he thinks highly of your abilities.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” Korolev said.
“So, tell me. How’s the case going? Making any progress?”
“It’s in its early stages. We haven’t much to go on just yet, but there are some indications. I’ve written up an initial report-I’ll bring it along tomorrow morning.”
“Good. As it happens, it’s a fortuitous coincidence that you’re working on this case.”
“Why, Colonel?”
“Because the higher echelons have asked me to provide a State Security oversight.”
Sitting back in to the driver’s seat, the colonel exhaled a perfect smoke ring, which hung round and still for a moment before gradually disintegrating. Gregorin observed the smoke ring with satisfaction.
“But why? The case has no political element, does it?” Korolev was mystified as to why the NKVD would be interested in a simple murder, albeit a nasty one. But then he remembered the possibility that the girl was a foreigner. He answered his own question in a whisper.
“Oh-but it does have a political element. The dead girl. She has foreign fillings, and her clothes…”
He let his voice trail off. He didn’t want to criticize Soviet clothes in front of an NKVD staff colonel, but her clothes were clearly of a better quality than anything the USSR could produce.
Gregorin leaned forward, the smile slipping from his face. “What’s this about the girl? Have you established her identity?”
“Not yet, Colonel, but we think there’s a possibility she may not have been a Soviet citizen.”
Gregorin gave an abrupt nod of his head and motioned with his cigarette for Korolev to continue. He listened without interruption as Korolev told him all he knew about the girl and her death.
“Is that all? Anything else?” he asked when Korolev had finished.
“That’s it, so far.”
“Very interesting. The higher echelons were correct.”
“So it does have a political element?”
“Yes, I believe it does.”
“But, if that’s so, surely it will be taken over by State Security.”
Gregorin blew on the tip of his cigarette, the orange glow lighting his face for a moment. He looked pensive.
“There’s certainly a political element, that’s true. But it’s still a murder.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s not necessarily a problem. Just investigate the matter as if it were an ordinary case. That’s all we ask of you. Understanding is something you should leave to us.”
“But what is the political element, Comrade Colonel? Can I at least be permitted to know that?” Korolev couldn’t help a note of frustration entering his voice.
Gregorin’s mouth was a straight black line in the faint glow from the street lights. He regarded Korolev in silence and then he smiled, again relaxed. He turned back to look out of the window at the thinning crowd.
“What I’m about to tell you is secret. Understood?”
“As you wish,” Korolev said, and wondered what the hell he’d got himself into this time.
“Very well-you’ll be aware of the State’s ongoing efforts to raise finances for the current Five Year Plan, yes? I’m sure you, like most workers, lend a proportion of your salary in the form of State bonds to assist in the struggle to achieve the plan’s objectives. Every citizen has tightened their belt for the greater good. And we’re on target to achieve those objectives.”
The belt on the colonel’s shiny leather jacket didn’t look as though it was tighter than it should be, but Korolev held his tongue.
“It’s a question of survival,” Korolev said.
“Indeed it is, and if we’re to withstand the enemies of socialism, the State needs money to acquire the technology and to buy the weapons to defend what we’ve achieved since 1917. Borrowing money abroad is difficult, of course-why would capitalists lend money to a Revolution that seeks to bring about their end? So we have to earn the foreign money we need. We go hungry so that we can sell our wheat to whoever pays the best price-a temporary situation, of course, but vital until recently. Now, as Comrade Stalin says, things are getting better. We’re turning the corner.”
“I often remember those words of his,” Korolev said.
“Well, one way we raise finance is through the sale of confiscated assets, such as works of art, jewelry, precious books and other valuables. The sales are managed by the Ministry of State Security-the NKVD, as it happens. Recently, however, we’ve become aware that there is a certain amount of ‘leakage’; items have been showing up in Europe or America that should still be here in Moscow. We know some of the people involved and it’s possible your victim is connected to this conspiracy. In fact, based on your description of her, I’m sure of it.”
Korolev thought for a moment, digesting the information and coming to a conclusion. “But that means…” He stopped himself in mid-sentence. Gregorin exhaled smoke calmly.
“We’re investigating it, of course. No family, not even State Security’s, is without an ugly member. Arrests have been made. But this is murder and that’s an interesting development. It smacks of desperation.”
“Do you know who she was?”
“She could be one of two possible candidates. With a bit of luck, I’ll be able to tell you for definite tomorrow. If you have photographs of the dead woman, that will help.”
“And you’re sure it’s one of these two because?”
Gregorin looked at his watch and shook his head. “Nearly ten o’clock. I’d better get you home. You have a busy day ahead of you.”
He turned on the ignition and the car engine started immediately. Korolev was impressed-he’d heard the Emka’s starter motor was unreliable.
“It’s a good car, this. You see? Another great achievement of the Soviet State. We needed to produce our own automobiles, so we put our minds to it. We devoted the necessary finance, manpower and expertise and then we achieved the objective. That’s the Bolshevik way.”
Gregorin paused while he concentrated on overtaking a slow-moving line of military trucks that was trundling along Dzherzhinsky Street, heavy canvas sides flapping.
“That’s what we want you to do: put your mind to catching the murderer and devote all your resources and efforts to that aim. Investigate every lead, question every suspect, leave no stone unturned-treat it as you would an ordinary crime. We don’t think the traitors know about our own investigation, so to do anything else might alert them. Understood? It’s possible that the killing really was the work of a madman-but it’s more probable it’s the work of these saboteurs and the mutilation and torture are just a smokescreen. Pursue your investigation vigorously and perhaps you’ll distract attention from our own inquiries.”
“I always investigate to the best of my ability,” Korolev said, feeling a little offended.
Five minutes later, Gregorin pulled up outside Number 4 Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky and switched off the car’s engine. He turned to Korolev. “Bring the autopsy photographs tomorrow, please. They’ll help me identify her for you.”
“I have some questions,” Korolev began, but Gregorin shook his head.
“Perhaps tomorrow. Sleep well, Comrade.”
Gregorin’s eyes were shadowed in the weak light, but Korolev didn’t imagine they were anything other than cold. He stepped out of the car and watched the colonel drive away, knowing people were looking down from behind closed curtains. No one liked a car that had State Security written all over it to show up in front of their house this late at night, even if this time it had deposited a resident instead of taking one away. He made a silent apology to his new neighbors as he entered the building, feeling his tiredness with each step. He would think about what the staff colonel had said in the morning-there was nothing to be gained by worrying about it now. Reaching the door of the apartment, he rooted in his pocket for the key and then had a clear image of it sitting on the bed in his room, where he’d left it that afternoon. He cursed his stupidity and checked his pockets once again. He looked at his watch, past ten o’clock-he hoped Citizeness Koltsova would still be awake. He patted his coat one last time and then knocked gently, waiting for a response that didn’t come. He knocked again, but this time with more force. There was a pause and then the sound of a door opening inside the apartment, footsteps and finally a woman’s voice, suspicious but calm.
“Who is it?”
“I apologize, Citizeness. I’m your new neighbor. Korolev. I left my key inside this morning. On the bed. I know it’s very late.” He sensed people listening from the other apartments and lowered his voice. “Could you let me in?”
The door inched open and he found himself staring down the black barrel of a revolver. He took a step back.
“Captain Korolev?” Her voice asked and he lifted his eyes from the gun’s muzzle to find a pair of equally daunting blue eyes staring at him with unreadable intent.
“Yes,” he agreed.
The gun dropped a few inches, not that he felt any more comfortable with it pointing at his lower stomach. “I’m sorry about the time,” he managed to say.
She was really quite beautiful, a narrow but firm jaw line below razor-sharp cheekbones and then short, bobbed hair that shone in the light from the hallway. If it hadn’t been for the gun he would have enjoyed looking at her. “I’m not normally forgetful, you can be assured.”
“I should hope not,” she responded, looking him up and down with a quizzical expression, as though not entirely sure how he fitted into her world. Her scowl relaxed, very slowly, into a smile as firm and uncompromising as a Pravda editorial and he found himself breathing again. She opened the door wider, slipped the revolver into her dressing-gown pocket and extended her hand.
“Comrade Korolev, we’re pleased to have a member of the Moscow Criminal Investigation Division in the building; Luborov told me about you. Welcome. The gun wasn’t loaded. You have to be careful in Moscow, even in a building such as this. So many bandits around. Although, of course, I’m sure that’s not your fault.”
In fact, judging by the way she raised her eyebrows, it seemed she wasn’t sure of this at all. Korolev shrugged his shoulders in apology, took the offered hand and wasn’t surprised to discover her grip was as strong as a man’s.
“Thank you,” he said. “I hope you’ve a permit for the gun-there are severe penalties.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he didn’t like the sound of them. Still, pulling a piece on your neighbor wasn’t the way to start sharing a flat together either.
“Of course I do,” she said, with a protective pat of her pocket. She perhaps spoke a little too quickly, however.
“Natasha,” she called along the corridor, “it’s Comrade Korolev, our new neighbor, come and meet him.”
A small face appeared and disappeared in a doorway behind her. Koltsova laughed, her face lighting up for a moment, as though a switch had been turned on. Her skin seemed to glow when she laughed. She turned back to Korolev and smiled. “She’s a little shy, Comrade, and she doesn’t like uniforms. Do you wear it all the time?”
He shook his head. “No. Not at all, hardly. Normally I wear ordinary clothes. Just today, you see, and only because I absolutely had to wear a uniform. It was an exception. In fact the moths have been at it, it’s so long since I’ve worn it. Look.”
He showed her the sleeve of his uniform jacket and was rewarded with a smile that seemed to express pity rather than empathy. He tried to collect himself, but his mouth had already opened.
“You see I’m a detective. Criminal. I mean I’m a detective who catches criminals, of course. A detective criminal would be absurd.” He put his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes for a moment hoping he would be somewhere else when he opened them. “I apologize, Comrade. I’ve had a long day.”
“Come in, Comrade Captain Korolev,” she said, with a resigned tone to her voice. She followed him into the communal kitchen. “Welcome to your new home.”
An easier job this time, he thought to himself, as Tesak [1] the Thief began to tell him what he wanted to hear. Straightforward even. You just knew where you were with fellows like Tesak. He might puff out his chest, threaten and swear, but at the end of the day Tesak only believed in one thing and that was Tesak. So when he was really in trouble, when he faced the choice between oblivion and survival, he was always going to choose survival. After all, if there was an afterlife, someone like Tesak wasn’t going to heaven-that was for sure.
They tied the Thief between two metal pillars, arms and legs spread wide, and then it was just him and Tesak, already feeling the pain of being hung up like a drying skin. At first there’d been the usual bravado; the fellow had thought he was just another cop looking for information. He could take a beating and had told him so. He’d even spat at him. But his swagger had begun to leave him when the gauntlets and the apron appeared and, by the time he opened his box of tricks, Tesak wasn’t looking quite so confident.
“We live in a modern world,” he said to Tesak as he cut open his shirt, button by button. The buttons fell onto the concrete floor one by one, bouncing and rolling across the hard surface.
“That’s a new fucking shirt, flatfoot.” Tesak was indignant, yes, but it was the indignation of a frightened man. So far, so good. Now was the time to establish the rules of engagement, so he stepped back a pace, looked Tesak in the eye, and then put his entire body into a back-fisted slap that spun Tesak’s head hard against his upstretched arm. He had Tesak’s attention after that.
“As if I care about your shirt. The very thought. Let’s be clear-from now on you will only speak in answer to a question. Understand?”
Tesak just looked at him, a little confused from the blow to the head perhaps, but quiet now. He stepped closer once again, close enough to detect the stale alcohol on Tesak’s breath. The Thief’s eyes were now completely focused on the knife as it slowly climbed toward his midriff.
“Now, what do these tattoos mean?” he asked, looking at the rough blue etchings on the man’s chest. He touched the blade to the skin underneath the ranked profiles of Marx, Lenin and Stalin staring across Tesak’s chest from beneath a Soviet flag. “You’re not telling me you’re a Bolshevik, are you, Tesak?”
“Not me. No way. That’s so no firing squad will ever put Tesak in some shallow flower bed. Reds like you don’t take potshots at your big men, do you? See? Not unless you want to end up in the same place.”
“You think I give a damn about Marx?” he said and then, taking hold of Tesak’s neck for purchase, sliced Marx away with one clean cut. Then he punched him twice to stop the roar of pain. The comment about Marx was textbook, of course. Sudden changes in the expected parameters of a situation undermined defenses. Tesak hung there whimpering, looking down at the bubbling rawness of his chest. He took the opportunity to gag him, whispering to him, as he did so.
“And I’m no flatfoot either. Tell me what I need to know and I’ll make your death easy.” Tesak’s eyes bulged as he lifted the blade once again. “If not?” he continued, and to answer his own question he sliced Lenin away. Now Stalin alone stared across the mangled chest. Tesak was struggling desperately against the ropes and so he took the mason’s hammer from his bag and hit his kneecaps hard, one after the other. Tesak mewled through the gag, but hung limply now that his legs couldn’t support him.
“As I said, we live in a modern world, and one of the glories of Soviet power is the progress we’ve made in the field of electricity. Such a useful thing-and we’re leading the world when it comes to electricity, you know. Every household will have a little Lenin’s lamp soon, dazzling the peasants with four hundred watts of light at the flick of a switch. You’ll have read about it in the paper.” He considered the likelihood of the Thief being able to read for a moment. “Or perhaps not.”
He picked up the prod and showed it to Tesak.
“Anyway, every Soviet citizen should experience the reality of electricity. Theory is all well and good, but practical application is the thing.”
Then he’d attached the prod to the battery and he’d been surprised at how much noise Tesak had made, even through the gag. So he did know something about electricity. There were always surprises.
After a few minutes work, he’d removed the gag and the whimpering Thief had bargained for his life, as was to be expected.
“What have you got to offer me? Money? I don’t want your money. Love? I don’t need it. What have you got for me? Come now, Tesak, you know what I want. Where have they hidden it?”
“I don’t know. Count Kolya is the only one who knows. He’s the one you want. I didn’t even know it was real-I thought it was a fucking copy, believe me, Comrade.”
“The pig’s no comrade to the goose, Tesak. You call me citizen.”
The Thief was hanging limply in the ropes, the bloody remnants of the clothes that had been cut away from him bunched around his ankles and shoulders. He looked ready. One final push perhaps. He almost felt sympathy for the Thief, but then he hardened his heart and put the gag back in place.
<a l:href="#_ftnref1">[1]</a> Hatchet