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 shortsighted. His awkward, shy little brother—murderer of at least forty-four 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 toward 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 toward 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:
—What’s worrying you?
—The other occupants of that house.
—You saw this man’s face. We’ve seen the photo. You can slip in and kill him while he sleeps.
—I can’t do that.
—Leo, he deserves nothing more.
—I have to be sure. I have to talk to him.
—He’s only going to deny it. The longer you speak to him, the harder it becomes.
—That might be true. But I won’t kill him in his sleep.
They’d been given a knife by Sarra. Leo offered it to Raisa:
—I won’t be using this.
Raisa refused to take it.
—Leo, this man killed over forty children.
—And I will kill him for it.
—What if he defends himself? He must have a knife. Maybe even a gun. He might be strong.
—He’s no fighter. He’s clumsy, shy.
—Leo, how do you know that? Take the knife. How can you kill him with your bare hands?
Leo gave her the knife, pressing the handle into her hand:
—You forget: this is what I was trained to do. Trust me.
It was the first time he’d ever asked for her trust.
—I do.
There was no future for them, no hope of escape, no hope of being together much beyond the events of tonight. Raisa realized that some part of her wanted this man not to be at home, she wanted him to be away on some trip. Then they’d have a reason to stay together, evading capture for at least another couple of days, before returning to finish the job. Ashamed of this thought, she pushed it aside. How many people had risked their lives so that they might be here? She kissed Leo, willing him to succeed, willing that man dead.
Leo moved toward the house, leaving Raisa hidden. The plan was already agreed. She was to remain set back from the house, watching and waiting. If the man tried to escape she’d intercept him. If something went wrong, if Leo failed for whatever reason, she’d make a separate attempt on the man’s life.
He reached the door. There was a dim light inside. Did that mean someone was awake? He tentatively pushed on the door, which swung open. Before him was a kitchen area, a table, a stove. The light came from an oil lamp: a flame flickered inside a sooty glass bulb. He stepped into the house, moving through the kitchen into the adjoining space. To his surprise there were only two beds. In one of the beds two young girls slept together. Their mother slept in the second bed. She was alone: there was no sign of Andrei. Was this his brother’s family? If so, then was it his family too? Was this his sister-in-law? Were these his nieces? No, there might be another family downstairs. He turned. A cat was staring at him, two cool green eyes. Its coat was black and white. Though it was better fed than the cat in the forest, the cat they’d hunted and killed, it was the same colors, the same kind. Leo felt as if he was in a dream, with fragments of the past all around him. The cat squeezed through a second door, going downstairs. Leo followed.
The narrow stairway led down to a basement illuminated by a dim light. The cat descended the stairs and turned out of sight. From the top step most of the room was concealed. All Leo could see was the edge of another bed. It was empty. Was it possible Andrei wasn’t home? Leo moved down the stairs, trying not to make any noise.
Reaching the bottom, he peered around the corner. A man was seated at a table. He wore thick square glasses, a clean white shirt. He was playing cards. He looked up. Andrei didn’t seem surprised. He stood up. From where Leo was standing he could see on the wall behind his brother, as though flowering out of his brother’s head, a collage of newspaper clippings taped up, the same photo over and over again, the photo of him—Leo, standing, triumphant, beside the smoking wreck of a panzer, the hero of the Soviet Union, the poster boy of triumph.
—Pavel, what took you so long?
His little brother gestured at the empty seat opposite him.
Leo felt powerless to do anything except obey, aware that he was no longer in control of the situation. Far from being alarmed or caught off guard, far from stumbling over his words or even running away, Andrei seemed prepared for this confrontation.
In contrast Leo was disoriented, confused: it was hard not to follow his brother’s instructions.
Leo sat down. Andrei sat down. Brother opposite brother: reunited after more than twenty years. Andrei asked:
—You knew it would be me from the beginning?
—The beginning?
—From the first body you found?
—No.
—What body did you find first?
—Larisa Petrova, Voualsk.
—A young girl, I remember her.
—And Arkady, Moscow?
—There were several in Moscow.
Several—he used the word so casually. If there were several, then they’d all been covered up:
—Arkady was murdered in February this year, on the railway tracks.
—A small boy?
—He was four years old.
—I remember him too. They were recent. I had perfected my method by then. Yet you still didn’t know it was me? The earlier murders weren’t as clear. I was nervous. You see, I couldn’t be too obvious. It needed to be something only you would recognize. I couldn’t just have written my name. I was communicating with you, and only you.
—What are you talking about?
—Brother, I never believed you were dead. I always knew you were alive. And I have only ever had one desire, one ambition . . . to get you back.
Was that anger in Andrei’s voice or affection or both emotions together? Had his only ambition been to get him back or get back at him? Andrei smiled, it was a warm smile—wide and honest—like he’d just won at cards.
—Your stupid, clumsy brother was right about one thing. He was right about you. I tried telling our mother that you were alive. But she wouldn’t pay any attention to me. She was sure someone had caught you, killed you. I told her that wasn’t true, I told her you’d run away, with our catch. I promised to find you, and when I did I wouldn’t be angry, I’d forgive you. She wouldn’t listen. She went mad. She would forget who I was and pretend that I was you. She’d call me Pavel and ask me to help her, as you used to help her. I would pretend to be you, since that was easier, since that made her happy, but as soon as I made a mistake she’d realize I wasn’t you. She’d become furious, she’d hit me and hit me until all her anger was gone. And then she’d mourn for you again. She never stopped crying over you. Everyone has a reason to live. You were hers. But you were mine too. The only difference between us was that I was sure you were alive.
Leo listened, like a child seated in front of an adult in rapt silence as the world was explained. He could no more lift his hands, stand up—do anything—than he could interrupt. Andrei continued:
—While our mother let herself fall to pieces, I looked after myself. Luckily for me the winter was coming to an end and things slowly got a little better. Only ten people survived from our village, eleven including you. Other villages were completely dead. When the spring came and the snows thawed, they stank, entire villages were rotting and diseased. You couldn’t go near them. But in the winter they were quiet, peaceful, perfectly still. And all through that time I went hunting through the forest, every night, on my own. I followed tracks. I searched for you and called your name, shouted it out to the trees. But you did not return.
As though his brain were slowly digesting the words, breaking them down, Leo asked—his voice hesitant:
—You killed those children because you thought I’d left you?
—I killed them so you would find me. I killed them to make you come home. I killed them as a way of talking to you. Who else would’ve understood the clues from our childhood? I knew you’d follow them to me, just as you’d followed the footprints in the snow. You’re a hunter, Pavel, the best hunter in the world. I didn’t know whether you were militia or not. When I saw that photo of you, I spoke to the staff of Pravda. I asked for your name. I explained that we’d been separated and that I thought your name was Pavel. They said Pavel wasn’t your name and that your details were classified. I begged them to tell me which division you were fighting in. They refused to even answer that. I was a soldier too. Not like you, not a hero, not the elite. But I understood enough to realize you must have been a special force. I knew from the secrecy regarding your name that there was a strong chance you’d either be in the military or the State Security or the government. I knew you’d be an important person, you couldn’t be anything else. You’d have access to the information regarding these murders. Of course, that didn’t necessarily matter. If I killed enough children, in enough places, I was sure you’d come across my work, whatever your occupation. I was sure you’d realize it was me.
Leo leaned forward. His brother seemed so gentle, his reasoning was so careful. Leo asked:
—Brother, what happened to you?
—You mean after the village? The same thing that happened to everyone: I was conscripted into the army. I lost my glasses in battle, stumbled into German hands. I was caught. I surrendered. When I returned to Russia, having been a prisoner of war, I was arrested, interviewed, beaten. They threatened to send me to prison. I told them, how could I be a traitor when I could hardly see? For six months I had no glasses. The world beyond my own nose was a blur. And every child I saw was you. I should’ve been executed. But the guards used to laugh at me bumping into things. I used to fall over all the time, just as I did as a child. I survived. I was too stupid and clumsy to be a German spy. They called me names, beat me, and let me go. I returned here. Even here I was hated and called a traitor. But none of that bothered me. I had you. I concentrated my life on a single task—bringing you back to me.
—So you started murdering?
—I started in this area first. But after six months I had to consider the fact that you might be anywhere in the country. That’s why I got a job as a tolkach, so that I could travel. I needed to leave the signs spread across the whole of our country, signs for you to follow.
—Signs? These were children.
—First I killed animals, catching them as we caught that cat. But it didn’t work. No one paid any attention. No one cared. No one noticed. One day a child stumbled across me in the forest. He asked what I was doing. I explained I was leaving bait. The boy was the same age as you were when you left me. And I realized that child would make a far better bait. People would notice a dead child. You would understand the significance. Why do you think I killed so many children in the winter months? So you’d follow my tracks through the snow. Didn’t you follow my boot prints deep into the forests, just like you followed the cat?
Leo had been listening to his brother’s soft voice as if it were a foreign tongue he could barely understand:
—Andrei, you have a family. I saw your children upstairs, children just like the children you’ve killed. You have two beautiful girls. Can you not understand that what you’ve done is wrong?
—It was necessary.
—No.
Andrei banged the table with his fists, furious:
—Don’t take that tone with me! You have no right to be angry! You never bothered to look for me! You never came back! You knew I was alive and you didn’t care! Forget about stupid clumsy Andrei! He’s nothing to you! You left me behind with a crazy fucking mother and a village full of rotting bodies! You have no right to judge me!
Leo stared at his brother’s face, twisted with anger, suddenly transformed. Was this the face the children saw? What had his brother been through? What impossible horrors? But the time for pity and understanding had long since been passed. Andrei wiped the sweat from his brow:
—It was the only way I could make you find me, the only way I could get your attention. You could’ve looked for me. But you didn’t. You cut me out of your life. You put me out of your mind. The happiest moment of my life was when we caught that cat, together, as a team. When we were together I never felt the world was unfair, even when we had no food, even when it was bitterly cold. But then you went away.
—Andrei, I didn’t leave you. I was taken. I was hit over the head by a
man in the woods. I was put in a sack and carried away. I would never have left you.
Andrei was shaking his head:
—That’s what our mother said. But it’s a lie. You’d betrayed me.
—I almost died. That man who took me, he was going to kill me. They were going to feed me to their son. But when we arrived at the house, their son had already died. I had a concussion. I couldn’t even remember my own name. It took me weeks to recover. By that time I was already in Moscow. We’d left the country behind. They had to find food. I remembered you. I remembered our mother. I remembered our life together. Of course I did. But what was I supposed to do? I had no choice. I had to move on. I’m sorry.
Leo was apologizing.
Andrei picked up the cards and shuffled them:
—You could’ve looked for me when you were older. You could’ve made some effort. I haven’t changed my name. I would’ve been easy to find, particularly for a man in power.
That was true, Leo could’ve found his brother; he could’ve sought him out. He’d tried to bury the past. And now his brother had murdered his way back into his life:
—Andrei, I spent my whole life trying to forget the past. I grew up afraid to confront my new parents. I was afraid to remind them of the past because I was afraid to remind them of the time when they’d wanted to kill me. I used to wake up every night—sweating, terrified—worried that they might have changed their minds and that they might want to kill me again. I did everything in my power to make them love me. It was about survival.
—You always wanted to do things without me, Pavel. You always wanted to leave me behind.
—Do you know why I’ve come here?
—You’ve come to kill me. Why else would a hunter come? After you kill me, I’ll be hated and you’ll be loved. Just like it has always been.
—Brother, I’m considered a traitor for trying to stop you.
Andrei seemed genuinely surprised: