Child 44

The two officers returned with planks ripped from the fence. They cleared an area of ground, kicking aside the snow and laying timbers across the frozen soil. Upon these timbers they positioned the strips of cotton. Building around these strips they balanced thin wooden shards, creating a pyramid formation. One of the officers took out his lighter, tipping the fluid over the cotton. The flint sparked, the cotton caught light, began to burn. The wood smouldered. But it was damp and refused to catch. Smoke spiralled upwards. Leo couldn’t feel any heat. The wood was taking too long to dry out. He ripped the lining from the inside of the jacket, adding this to the fire. If it went out they’d both die.

Between them they only had one lighter remaining. The officer carefully pulled the components apart and tipped the last of the lighter fuel over the struggling fire. The flames grew, aided by a crumpled cigarette carton and shredded cigarette papers. All the officers were on their knees, stoking the fire. The timbers began to burn.

Anatoly opened his eyes, staring at the flames in front of him. The wood was crackling in the heat. Despite his desire to die the warmth felt wonderful on his skin. As the flames grew and the embers glowed red, he realized with muddled emotions that he was going to survive.

Leo sat, his gaze concentrated on the fire’s centre. Steam rose from his clothes. Two of the officers, keen to recover his approval, carried on collecting firewood. The third officer stood guard. Once there was no danger of the fire burning out, Leo ordered one of the men to return to the house and make preparations for their return to Moscow. Addressing his prisoner, Leo asked:

– Are you well enough to walk?

– I used to go fishing with my son. At night we’d build fires just like this and sit around them. He didn’t much like to fish but I think he enjoyed the fires. Had he not died he would’ve been roughly the same age as you are now.

Leo said nothing. The prisoner added:

– If it’s all right with you, I’d like to stay a little longer.

Leo added some more wood to the fire. They could wait a little longer.

On the walk back none of the men spoke. The distance Leo had covered in less than thirty minutes took them almost two hours to retrace. Each footstep seemed heavier and heavier as the methamphetamines disappeared from his system. Only the fact of his success sustained him now. He’d return to Moscow having proved himself, having recovered his status. He’d stood on the brink of failure and stepped back from it.

Nearing the farmhouse Anatoly began to wonder how they’d found him. He realized that he must have mentioned his friendship with Mikhail to Zina. She’d betrayed him. But he felt no anger towards her. She was only trying to survive. No one could begrudge her that. Anyway, it was irrelevant. All that mattered now was convincing his captors that Mikhail was innocent of any collaboration. He turned to his captor.

– When I arrived last night the family told me to leave. They wanted nothing to do with me. They threatened to call the authorities. That’s why I was forced to break into their barn. They thought I’d gone. The family has done nothing wrong. They’re good people, hard-working people.

Leo tried to imagine what had really happened last night. The traitor had sought his friend’s help but that help had not been forthcoming. It was not much of an escape plan. It was certainly not the escape plan of a competent spy.

– I have no interest in your friends.

They reached the perimeter of the farm. Just ahead of them, lined up on their knees outside the entrance to the barn, were Mikhail Zinoviev, his wife and their two young daughters. Their hands were tied behind their backs. They were shivering, freezing cold in the snow. It was obvious they’d been positioned like this for some time. Mikhail’s face was battered. There was blood dripping from his smashed nose; his jaw hung at an awkward angle. It was broken. The officers were in a loose, uncertain ring around them. Vasili stood directly behind the family. Leo stopped walking, about to speak, when Vasili uncrossed his arms, revealing his gun. He lined up the muzzle and fired a shot into the back of Zinoviev’s head. The sound rang out. The man’s body fell forward into the snow. His wife and daughters remained motionless, staring at the body before them.