He had no idea which of these farms belonged to Mikhail Zinoviev. Since a military truck parked in the road took away any element of surprise, Leo jumped out, drew his gun, and moved toward the nearest house. Though the amphetamines hadn’t yet taken hold, he already felt more awake, sharpened as his brain prepared itself for the inevitable narcotic surge. He approached the porch, checking his weapon.
Before he’d even knocked on the door an elderly woman with leatherlike skin appeared. She was wearing a blue patterned dress with white sleeves and an embroidered shawl wrapped around her head. She didn’t care for Leo, or his gun, his uniform, or his military truck. She was fearless and made no attempt to hide the lines of disdain carved into her brow.
—I’m looking for Mikhail Sviatoslavich Zinoviev. Is this his farmhouse? Where is he?
As though Leo were speaking a foreign language she cocked her head to one side and made no response. It was the second time in two days that an elderly woman had squared up to him, held him in open contempt. There was something about these women which made them untouchable; his authority meant nothing to them. Fortunately the stalemate was broken when the woman’s son, a man with a strong build and nervous stammer, hurried out of the house:
—Excuse her. She’s old. What can I do for you?
Once again sons made excuses for their mothers.
—Mikhail Sviatoslavich. Where is he? Which is his farm?
Realizing that Leo wasn’t interested in arresting them, that he and his family were safe for another day, the son was greatly relieved. He gladly pointed out his friend’s farm.
Leo returned to the truck. His men had assembled. He split the team into three groups. They’d advance on the house from different sides, one from the front and back while the third team would approach and surround the barn. Each man was armed with a 9mm Stechkin APS automatic pistol devised specially for use by the MGB. In addition one man in each group carried an AK47. They were ready for a pitched battle, if it came to that.
—We take the traitor alive. We need his confession. If you’re in any doubt, any doubt at all, you don’t fire.
Leo repeated this command with particular emphasis to the group headed by Vasili. Killing Anatoly Brodsky would be a punishable offense. Their own safety was secondary to the life of the suspect. In response Vasili took command of his group’s AK47:
—Just to be sure.
In an attempt to limit Vasili’s potential to sabotage this operation, Leo gave them the least important area to secure:
—Your group will search the barn.
Vasili moved off. Leo grabbed his arm:
—We take him alive.
Halfway toward the house the men divided into three groups, breaking off in different directions. Neighbors stole glances from their windows then disappeared inside. Thirty paces from the door Leo paused, allowing the other two groups to get in position. Vasili’s team encircled the barn while the third group arrived at the back of the house, all of them waiting for Leo’s signal. There was no sign of life outside. A whisper of smoke rose from the chimney. Ragged cloth hung in front of the small windows. It was impossible to see into the rooms. Except for the click of AK47 safety catches there was silence. Suddenly a young girl stepped out from a small rectangular building, the pit toilet, set back from the main house. She was humming; the sound carried across the snow. The three officers nearest Leo swung round, training their guns on her. The little girl froze, terrified. Leo raised his hands:
—Don’t shoot!
He held his breath, hoping not to hear the report of machine-gun fire. No one moved. And then the girl broke into a run, sprinting toward the house as fast as she could, screaming for her mother.
Leo felt the first amphetamine kick—his fatigue evaporated. He leapt forward, his men followed, moving in on the house like a noose tightening around a neck. The little girl threw open the front door, scampered inside. Leo was only seconds behind, hitting the front door with his shoulder, raising his gun, and barging into the house. He found himself inside a small, warm kitchen surrounded by the smell of breakfast. There were two young girls—the elder was maybe ten years old and the younger four—standing by a small fire. Their mother, a stout, tough-looking woman who looked like she could swallow bullets and spit them back out, was in front of them, shielding them with one hand on each of their chests. A man in his forties entered from the back room. Leo turned to him:
—Mikhail Sviatoslavich?
—Yes?
—My name is Leo Stepanovich Demidov, officer of the MGB. Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky is a spy. He’s wanted for questioning. Tell me where he is.
—Anatoly?
—Your friend. Where is he? And don’t lie.
—Anatoly lives in Moscow. He works as a vet. I haven’t seen him for years.
—If you tell me where he is I will forget that he ever came here. You and your family will be safe.
Mikhail’s wife directed her husband a glance: she was tempted by the offer. Leo felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He’d been right. The traitor was here. Without waiting for an answer, he gestured for his men to begin searching the house.
VASILI ENTERED THE BARN, gun raised, finger against the trigger. He stepped toward the pile of straw, the only place to hide, high enough to conceal a man. He fired several short bursts. Wisps of straw flew up. Smoke rose from the barrel of his gun. The cows behind him snorted, shuffled away, kicking the ground. But no blood seeped out. There was no one here, they were wasting their time. He went outside, slung the machine gun over his shoulder, and lit a cigarette.
Alarmed by the sound of gunfire, Leo ran out of the house. Vasili called to him:
—There’s no one here.
Buzzing with narcotic energy, Leo hurried toward the barn, his jaw clamped tight.
Annoyed at being ignored, Vasili tossed the cigarette into the snow, watching as it melted down to the ground:
—Unless he can disguise himself as a cow he’s not in there. Maybe you should shoot them just in case.
Vasili glanced around for laughter and the men obliged. He wasn’t deluded: he recognized that none of them thought he was funny. Far better than that, their laughter was an indication that the balance of power had begun to shift. Their allegiance to Leo was weakening. Maybe it was the exhausting journey. Maybe it had been Leo’s decision to let Brodsky remain free when he should’ve been arrested. But Vasili wondered if it had something to do with Fyodor and the death of his little boy. Leo had been sent to clear that matter up. Many of the men here were Fyodor’s friends. If there was resentment it could be mined, manipulated.
Leo bent down, examining the tracks in the snow. There were fresh boot prints; some belonged to his officers, but underneath those were a set leading out from the barn and heading to the fields. He stood up and entered the barn. Vasili called out after him:
—I’ve searched there already!
Ignoring him, Leo touched the smashed lock on the door: he saw the grain sacks spread on the ground and returned outside, staring in the direction of the fields:
—I want three men to follow me, the fastest three. Vasili, you’ll remain here. Continue searching the house.
He took off his heavy winter jacket. Without meaning it as an intentional snub he gave it to his deputy. Unimpeded, able to run, he began following the tracks toward the fields.
The three agents who’d been ordered to follow didn’t bother removing their coats. Their superior officer was asking them to run through the snow without their jackets when he couldn’t even bother to examine the body of their colleague’s dead son. A boy’s death had been dismissed as though it were a trifle. The men certainly weren’t going to catch pneumonia, not in blind obedience to a man whose authority might be coming to an end, a man who had no interest in looking after them. All the same, Leo was still their superior officer, for the moment at least, and after exchanging looks with Vasili the three men began sluggishly jogging in an imitation of obedience, following a man who w
as already several hundred meters ahead of them.
Leo was picking up speed. The amphetamines focused him: nothing else existed except the tracks in the snow, the rhythm of his steps. He was incapable of stopping or slowing, incapable of failure, incapable of feeling the cold. Even though he guessed the suspect had at least an hour’s head start, that fact didn’t concern him. The man had no idea he was being followed, he’d almost certainly be walking.
Up ahead was the crest of a gentle hill and Leo hoped that from the top he’d be able to see the suspect. Reaching the top he paused, surveying the landscape around him. There were snow-covered fields in every direction. Some distance ahead was the edge of a dense forest but before that, a kilometer away, downhill, there was a man shuffling through the snow. This was no farmer or laborer. It was the traitor. Leo was sure of it. He was making his way north on course toward the forest. If he managed to reach the trees he’d be able to hide. Leo had no dogs to track him. He checked over his shoulder—his three agents were lagging. Some tie between him and them had snapped. They couldn’t be counted on. He’d have to catch the traitor himself.
As though some sixth sense had alerted him, Anatoly stopped walking and turned around. There, running down the small hill toward him, was a man. There could be no doubt that this was an officer of the State. Anatoly had been certain that all evidence connecting him to this remote village had been destroyed. For this reason he stood for a moment, doing nothing at all, mesmerized by the sight of his pursuer. He’d been found. He felt his stomach heave, his face flush red, and then, realizing this man meant death, he spun around and began running toward the woods. His first few steps were clumsy and panicked, staggering sideways into the deeper snowdrifts. He quickly understood that his coat was a hindrance. He pulled it off, dropping it on the ground, running for his life.
Anatoly no longer made the mistake of glancing behind him. He was concentrating on the woods ahead. At this rate he was going to reach them before his pursuer could catch up. The woods offered a chance to disappear, to hide. And if it came to a fight he’d have a better chance in there, where there were branches and stones, than unarmed and out in the open.
Leo increased his speed, pushing himself harder, sprinting as though on a running track. Some part of his mind remembered that the terrain was treacherous and running at this speed precarious. But the amphetamines made him believe anything was possible—he could leap this distance between them.
Suddenly Leo lost his footing, sliding to the side before tumbling facedown into a snowdrift. Dazed, buried in snow, he rolled onto his back, wondering if he was hurt while staring up at the pale blue sky. He felt no pain. He got up, brushing the snow off his face and hands, regarding with cool detachment the cuts on his hands. He looked for the figure of Brodsky, expecting to see him disappearing into the edge of the forest. But to his surprise the suspect had also stopped running. He was standing still. Confused, Leo hurried forward. He didn’t understand—just as escape seemed possible this man seemed to be doing nothing at all. He was staring at the ground in front of him. Barely a hundred meters now separated them. Leo drew his gun, slowing to a walk. He took aim, knowing full well he couldn’t risk a shot from this range. His heart was pounding, two thumps for each footstep. Another surge of methamphetamine energy: the roof of his mouth went dry. His fingers trembled with an excess of energy, sweat seeped down his back. There were barely fifty paces between them. Brodsky turned around. He wasn’t armed. He had nothing in his hands; it was as though he’d suddenly and inexplicably given up. Leo continued forward, closer and closer. Finally he could see what had stopped Brodsky. There was an ice-covered river some twenty meters wide in between him and the woods. It hadn’t been visible from the hill, hidden under a blanket of heavy snow which had settled across the frozen surface. Leo called out:
—It’s over!
Anatoly considered this remark, turned back toward the forest, and stepped out onto the ice. His footsteps were unsteady, sliding across the smooth surface. The ice sheet creaked under his weight, barely holding him. He didn’t slow down. Step after step after step, the ice was beginning to crack—black, crooked lines formed on the surface, crisscrossing and fanning out from underneath his feet. The faster he moved the faster the lines appeared, multiplying in all directions. Icy water seeped up through the joints. He pressed forward: he was at the middle of the river, another ten meters to go to the other side. He looked down at dark, freezing water flowing beneath him.
Leo reached the edge of the riverbank, holstered his gun, stretched out his hand:
—The ice won’t hold. You won’t reach the woods.
Brodsky stopped and turned:
—I’m not trying to reach the woods.
He raised his right leg and with a sudden movement brought his boot crashing down, splintering the surface and puncturing through to the river underneath. Water rushed up, the ice broke apart, and he fell through.
Completely numb, in shock, he allowed himself to sink: looking up at the sunlight. Then, feeling the pull upwards, he kicked himself downstream, away from the break in the ice. He had no intention of surfacing. He’d disappear into this dark water. His lungs were beginning to sting and already he could feel his body fighting his decision to die. He kicked himself further downstream, swimming as far away from the light as possible, away from any chance of survival. Finally his natural buoyancy lifted him to the surface; instead of air his face rose up against a solid sheet of ice. The slow-moving current dragged him farther downstream.
THE TRAITOR WASN’T GOING TO SURFACE; no doubt he was swimming away from the air hole in an attempt to kill himself and protect his accomplices. Leo hurried down the riverbank, estimating where under the ice he might be. He unfastened his heavy leather belt and gun, dropped them on the ground, and stepped out onto the frozen river, his boots slipping across the surface. Almost immediately the ice began to strain. He kept moving, trying to keep his footsteps light, but the ice was splintering and he could feel it sinking under his weight. Reaching the middle of the river he crouched down, frantically brushing away the snow. But the suspect was nowhere to be seen—just dark water all around. Leo moved farther downstream but fracture lines were chasing his every step, surrounding him from all sides. Water began to swell, the cracks came together. He looked up to the sky, filling his lungs, bracing himself as he heard a snap.
The ice collapsed.
Although he didn’t feel the full extent of the cold, doped up on amphetamines, he knew he had to move fast. At this temperature he had a matter of seconds. He spun around. There were shafts of light where the ice had broken in two places, but beyond that the water was dark, shielded from the sun by a dense canopy of snow. He pushed away from the bottom, heading downstream. Unable to see anything, he swam farther and farther, blindly groping right and left. His body was screaming for air. In response he increased his speed, kicking harder, pulling himself faster through the water. Soon he’d have no choice but to turn back or die. Realizing he wouldn’t get a second chance, and that returning empty-handed might mean death, he took another stroke downstream.
His hand brushed something: material, cloth, a trouser leg. It was Brodsky, lank against the ice. But as though his touch brought him back to life he started struggling. Leo swam underneath him, gripped him around the neck. The pain inside his chest was sharp. He had to get back to the surface. With one arm around the suspect’s neck he tried punching the ice above him, but his blows glanced off the smooth hard surface.
Brodsky stopped moving. Concentrating, overriding every impulse in his body, he opened his mouth, filling his lungs with freezing water, welcoming death.
Leo focused on the shafts of sunlight upstream. He kicked hard, propelling them both toward the light. His prisoner was motionless, unconscious. Lightheaded, Leo couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He took another kick—felt sunlight across his face—pushed upward. The two men broke the water’s surface.
Leo gasped and gasped again. But Br
odsky wasn’t breathing. Leo pulled him toward the riverbank, smashing his way through the fractured chunks of ice. His feet touched the riverbed. He pulled himself up onto the bank, dragging his prisoner with him. Their skin was pale blue. Leo couldn’t stop shaking. In contrast the suspect remained perfectly still. Leo opened the man’s mouth, tipping the water out, blowing air into his lungs. He pushed down on his chest, blew air into his lungs, pushed down on his chest, blew air into his lungs:
—Come on!
Brodsky spluttered back into consciousness, doubling over and vomiting up the icy water that filled his stomach. Leo didn’t have time to feel relief. They had minutes before they’d die from hypothermia. He stood up. He could see his three officers in the near distance.
The men had spotted Leo disappearing into the river and realized that their superior officer had been right all along. In a split second the balance of power shifted away from Vasili and back to Leo. Their disgruntled feelings toward his handling of Fyodor now meant nothing. The only reason they’d felt safe enough to let their emotions poke through had been their expectation that this operation would fail and Leo would be relieved of his power. That was not the case: his position would be stronger than ever. They were running as fast as they could; their lives depended on it.
Leo dropped down to the prisoner’s side. Brodsky’s eyes were closing—he was drifting back into unconsciousness. Leo hit him across the face, it was essential he remain awake. He hit him again. The suspect opened his eyes but almost immediately began to close them again. Leo hit him again and again and again. They were running out of time. He stood up, calling to his men:
—Hurry!
His voice was becoming softer, his energy sapping as finally the cold caught up with him and his chemical invincibility began to melt away. The drugs had passed their peak. An extraordinary fatigue was repossessing his body. His officers arrived:
—Take off your jackets. Get a fire started.