As soon as the first wave of arrests had begun news of a purge must have spread throughout their ranks. The secret meeting places—no longer a secret—were abandoned. But this desperate countermeasure had been to no avail. There was the list. The seals around their world had broken. Nesterov didn’t need to catch anyone in a sexually compromising act. Seeing their names in print, one after the other, and realizing that their ranks had been broken, most of the men succumbed to the pressure of this betrayal. Like U-boats which had for so long remained unseen under the water’s surface, suddenly they found all their positions had been given away. As they were forced to the surface they were presented with a choice, not much of a choice but a choice all the same: they could reject the charges of sodomy and face public prosecution, certain conviction, imprisonment, etcetera. Or they could identify the homosexual among them responsible for this terrible crime, the murder of a young boy.
As far as Leo could ascertain, Nesterov seemed to believe that all these men suffered from a sickness of some kind. While some were sick in the mildest sense, plagued by feelings for other men as a normal person might be racked by persistent headaches, others were dangerously ill, symptoms which expressed themselves in the need for young boys. This was homosexuality in its most extreme form. The murderer was one such man.
When Leo had shown photos of the crime scene, photos of the young boy with his guts cut open, all the suspects had reacted in exactly the same way—they were horrified, or at least they appeared to be. Who could’ve done such a thing? It wasn’t one of them, it wasn’t anyone they knew. None of them had any interest in boys. Many of them had children of their own. Every man was resolute: they knew of no killer among them and they wouldn’t protect him if they did. Nesterov had expected a prime suspect within a week. After a week they had nothing to show for their work except a longer list. More names were added, some merely out of spite. The list had become a brutally effective weapon. Members of the militia were adding the names of their enemies onto it, claiming the person had been mentioned in confession. Once a name was on the list it was impossible to claim innocence. So the number in custody had grown from a hundred to nearly one hundred and fifty men.
Frustrated with the lack of progress, the local MGB had suggested they take over the interrogations, shorthand for the use of torture. To Leo’s dismay Nesterov had agreed. Despite floors flecked with blood there’d been no breakthrough. Nesterov had been left with little choice but to initiate prosecutions against all one hundred and fifty men, hoping this would make one of them speak. It wasn’t enough that they were humiliated and disgraced and tortured: they needed to understand that they would lose their lives. They would, if the judge was so instructed, receive twenty-five years for political subversion rather than a mere five years for sodomy. Their sexuality was considered a crime against the very fabric of this nation. Faced with this prospect, three men cracked and began pointing the finger. However, none of them had picked the same person. Refusing to accept that his line of investigation was flawed, Nesterov considered himself up against a kind of perverse, criminal solidarity—honor among deviants.
Exasperated, Leo had approached his superior officer:
—These men are innocent.
Nesterov had stared at him, puzzled:
—All these men are guilty. The question is which one is also guilty of murder.
RAISA WATCHED AS LEO KICKED the heels of his boots together. Dirty chunks of snow fell to the floor. He stared down, unaware that she was in the room. She found his disappointment impossible to bear. He’d believed, sincerely believed, that his investigation stood a chance. He’d pinned his hopes on a fanciful dream of redemption: a final act of justice. It was an idea she’d mocked that night in the forest. But it had been mocked far more cruelly by the turn of events. In the pursuit of justice he’d unleashed terror. In the pursuit of a killer, one hundred and fifty men would lose their lives, if not literally, then on every other level—they’d lose their families, their homes. And she realized, seeing her husband’s hunched shoulders and drawn face, that he never did anything without believing in it. There was nothing cynical or calculating about him. If this was true then he must also have believed in their marriage: he must have believed it was built on love. Steadily all the fantasies he’d created—about the State, about their relationship—had been shattered. Raisa was envious of him. Even now, even after everything that had happened, he was still able to hope. He still wanted to believe in something. She stepped forward, sitting beside him on the bed. Tentatively, she took his hand. Surprised, he looked at her but said nothing, accepting the gesture. And together they watched as the snow began to melt.
30 MARCH
ORPHANAGE 80 was a five-story brick building with faded white lettering painted on the side: WORK HARD LIVE LONG. On the roof there was a long line of chimney stacks. The orphanage had once been a small factory. Dirty rags hung across the barred windows, making it impossible to see inside. Leo knocked on the door. No response. He tried the handle. It was locked. Moving to the windows, he tapped on the glass. The rags were jerked back. The face of a young girl appeared for little more than a second, an apparition of filth, before the rags fell back into place.
Leo was accompanied by Moiseyev, a militia officer whom Leo had pegged as little more than a uniformed thug.
After a long wait the main door opened. An elderly man with a fistful of brass keys stared at the two officers. Seeing their uniforms his expression changed from irritation to deference. He dropped his head slightly:
—What can I do for you?
—We’re here about the murdered boy.
The main hall of the orphanage had once been the factory floor. All the machinery had been cleared and it had been converted into a dining room, not by the addition of tables and chairs, for there were none, but by the fact that the entire floor was covered with children all sitting cross-legged, pressed up against each other and trying to eat. Every child clutched a wooden bowl filled with what appeared to be a watery cabbage soup. However, it seemed only the eldest children had spoons. The rest either sat waiting for a spoon or drank straight from the bowl. Once a child had finished, they licked the spoon from top to bottom before passing it on to the next child.
This was Leo’s first experience of a State orphanage. He stepped closer, surveying the room. It was difficult to guess how many children there were—two hundred, three hundred—aged from four to fourteen. None of the children paid Leo any attention: they were too busy eating or watching their neighbors, waiting for a spoon. No one spoke. All that could be heard was the scraping of bowls and slurping. Leo turned to the elderly man.
—Are you the director of this institution?
The director’s office was on the first floor, looking out over a factory floor covered with children as though they were being mass-produced. In the office were several teenage boys, older than the children downstairs. They were playing cards on the director’s desk. The director clapped his hands:
—Continue this in your room, please.
The boys stared at Leo and Moiseyev. Leo could only suppose that their irritation came from being told what to do. They had intelligent eyes, experience beyond their years. Without a word they moved together, like a pack of wild dogs, collecting up their cards, their matches—used as wagers—and filed out.
Once they’d left, the director poured himself a drink and gestured for Leo and Moiseyev to take a seat. Moiseyev sat down. Leo remained standing, studying the room. There was a single metal filing cabinet. The bottom drawer had been dented by a kick. The top drawer was partially open and crumpled documents jutted out at all angles:
—There was a young boy murdered in the forest. You’ve heard about this?
—Some other officers were here showing me photos of the boy, asking if I knew who he was. I’m afraid I don’t.
—But you couldn’t say for sure if you were missing any children?
The director scratched his ear:
—There are four of us looking after three hundred or so children. The children come and go. New ones arrive all the time. You must forgive our failings regarding the paperwork.
—Do any of the children in this facility resort to prostitution?
—The older ones do whatever they want. I can’t keep tabs on them. Do they get drunk? Yes. Do they prostitute themselves? Quite possibly, although I don’t sanction it, I’m not involved in it, and I certainly don’t profit from it. My job is to make sure they have something to eat and somewhere to sleep. And considering my resources I do that very well. Not that I expect any praise.
The director showed them upstairs toward the sleeping areas. As they passed a shower room he commented:
—You think that I’m indifferent to the children’s welfare? I’m not, I do my best. I make sure they wash once a week, I make sure they’re shaved and deloused once a month. I boil all their clothes. I will not have lice in my orphanage. You go to any other orphanage and the children’s hair will be alive with them, their eyebrows thick with them. It’s disgusting. Not here. Not that they thank me for it.
—Would it be possible to speak to the children on our own? They might be intimidated by your presence.
The director smiled:
—They won’t be intimidated by me. But by all means . . .
He gestured to the flight of stairs:
—The older ones live on the top floor. It’s very much their fiefdom up there.
The upstairs bedrooms, tucked under the roof, contained no bedframes, just the occasional thin mattress on the floor. The older children evidently took their lunch at a time which suited them; no doubt they’d already eaten and taken the best of the food.
Leo stepped into the first room on the landing. He caught sight of a girl hiding behind the door and saw a glint of metal. She was armed with a knife. Seeing his uniform she slipped the knife away, the blade disappearing into the folds of her dress.
—We thought you were the boys. They’re not allowed in here.
Some twenty girls, at a guess, aged between fourteen and sixteen, stared at Leo with hardened faces. Leo’s mind was thrown back to his promise to Anatoly Brodsky that the two daughters were safe in the care of a Moscow orphanage. It had been an empty, ignorant assurance. Leo understood that now. Brodsky had been right. Those two girls would’ve been better on their own, looking after each other.
—Where do the boys sleep?
The older boys, some of whom had been in the director’s office, were huddled at the back of their room, waiting, expecting them. Leo entered the room and knelt down, placing an album of photographs on the floor in front of them:
—I’d like you to look through these photos, tell me if any of these men have ever approached you, offered you money in return for sexual favors.
None of the boys moved or gave any indication that his supposition was correct:
—You haven’t done anything wrong. We need your help.
Leo opened the album, slowly turning the pages of photographs. He reached the end. The audience of teenagers had stared at the photos but given no reaction. He turned back through. There was still no reaction from the boys. He was about to shut the album when a boy from the back of the group reached out and touched one of the photos.
—This man propositioned you?
—Pay me.
—He paid you?
—No, you pay me and I’ll tell you.
Leo and Moiseyev clubbed together, offering the boy three rubles. The boy flicked through the album, stopping at a page and pointing to one of the photos:
—The man looked like that man.
—So it wasn’t this man?
—No, but similar.
—Do you know his name?
—No.
—Can you tell us anything about him?
—Pay me.
Moiseyev shook his head, refusing to pay any more:
—We could arrest you for profiteering.
Cutting the threat short, Leo took out the last of his money, giving it to the boy.
—That’s all I have.
—He works at the hospital.
SAME DAY
LEO DREW HIS GUN. They were on the top floor of Apartment Building 7: apartment 14 was at the end of the corridor. They’d been given the address by staff at the hospital. The suspect was off sick and had been for the past week, a length of time which would have meant, if all the MGB officers hadn’t been busy with their interrogations, that he would’ve almost certainly been questioned. It turned out that the beginning of his sickness corresponded with the first wave of arrests against the town’s homosexual population.
Leo knocked on the door. There was no response. He called out, stating their name and rank. There was no reply. Moiseyev lifted his boot, ready to kick at the lock. The door opened.
Seeing the guns pointed at him, Doctor Tyapkin raised his hands and stepped back. Leo barely recognized him. This was the same man who’d helped him with the examination of the girl’s body, the prestigious doctor transferred from Moscow. His hair and eyes were wild. He’d lost weight. His clothes were rumpled. Leo had seen men broken by worry; he’d seen how their muscles lost shape and strength as if they’d been eaten up by fear.
Leo pushed the door open with his foot, surveying the apartment.
—Are you alone?
—My youngest son’s here. But he’s asleep.
—How old is he?
—Four months.
Moiseyev stepped in, smashing the metal butt of his gun against Tyapkin’s nose. Tyapkin dropped to his knees, blood running into his cupped hands. Moiseyev, the ranking officer, ordered Leo:
—Search him.
Moiseyev began searching the apartment. Leo crouched down, helping Tyapkin to his feet, bringing him into the kitchen where he sat him down on a chair.
—Where’s your wife?
—Buying food . . . she’ll be back soon.
—The hospital said you were sick.
—That’s true, in a way. I heard about the arrests. I knew it was only a matter of time before you came to me.
—Tell me what happened.
—I was mad, there’s no other explanation for it. I didn’t know his age. He was young. Maybe fifteen or sixteen. I didn’t want someone who’d talk to me or someone who’d tell anyone else about me. I didn’t want to have to meet them again. Or see them. Or speak to them. I wanted anonymity. I reasoned no one would ever listen to an orphan. His word would count for nothing. I could give him a little money and that would be the end. I wanted someone invisible—can you understand?
Having completed a cursory search, Moiseyev reentered the room and holstered his gun. He grabbed Tyapkin’s broken nose, twisting the fractured bone right and left, causing him to scream in pain. A baby awoke in a nearby room and began to cry:
—You fuck these boys then kill them?
Moiseyev let go of Tyapkin’s nose. The doctor dropped to the floor, curling up into a ball. It was some time before he could manage to speak:
—I didn’t have sex with him. I didn’t go through with it. I couldn’t go through with it. I asked him, I paid him, but I couldn’t do it. I walked away.
—Get to your feet. We’re leaving.
—We have to wait till my wife comes back—we can’t leave my son alone.
—The kid will survive. Get to your feet.
—At least let me stop the bleeding.
Moiseyev nodded:
—Leave the bathroom door open.
Tyapkin left the kitchen and lurched to the bathroom, leaving a bloody handprint on the door, which remained open as instructed. Moiseyev surveyed the apartment. Leo could tell he was jealous. The doctor had a pleasant home. Tyapkin ran the water in the sink, pressing a towel against his nose and speaking, his back turned to them:
—I’m very sorry for what I did. But I never killed anyone. You must believe me. Not because I think my reputation can be salvaged. I know I’m ruined. But someone else murdered that
boy, someone who must be caught.
Moiseyev was becoming impatient:
—Come on.
—I wish you the best of luck.
Hearing those words, Leo ran into the room, spinning Tyapkin round. Embedded in his arm was a syringe. Tyapkin’s legs went slack. He fell. Leo caught him, laying him down on the floor, pulling the syringe out of his arm. He checked his pulse. Tyapkin was dead. Moiseyev stared down at the body:
—That makes our job easier.
Leo looked up. Tyapkin’s wife had returned. She was standing at the entrance to the apartment, holding her family’s groceries.
1 APRIL
ALEKSANDR CLOSED THE TICKET OFFICE. As far as he was aware Nesterov had been true to his word. The secret of his sexual activities had been contained. None of the customers glanced at him oddly. None of them whispered about him. His family hadn’t shunned him. His mother still loved him. His father still thanked him for his hard work. They were both still proud of him. The price for this status quo had been the names of over one hundred men, men who’d been rounded up while Aleksandr continued selling tickets, answering passenger queries, and dealing with the day-to-day running of a station. His life had returned to normal. His routine was almost identical. He ate dinner with his parents, took his father to hospital. He cleaned the station, read the papers. However, he no longer went to the movies. In fact, he no longer went into the center of town at all. He was fearful of who he might meet, perhaps a militia officer who would smirk knowingly at him. His world had shrunk. But it had shrunk when he’d given up his dream of being an athlete, and he told himself he’d adjust just as he’d adjusted before.