That caused a whimper in response. When State Security knew your name, there was rarely a pleasant outcome.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ murmured one of the others.
‘I really don’t like Christians,’ said Dmitri. ‘So you keep your bastard prayers to yourself.’
But the big man, the stranger, spoke in a deep, easy voice. ‘Good evening, gospadin Shtemenko. It is nice to meet you at last.’
So. Gospadin instead of tovarisch; mister instead of comrade.
‘Cosmopolitanism,’ said Dmitri, ‘is a crime against the state.’
‘You think I deserve the firing-squad for good manners? For offering politeness?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I think your mother would not have approved of your attitude to the Church. Perhaps even you, Lieutenant Shtemenko, could learn to accommodate the needs of others.’
My mother!
And then, because the man’s words were intended to invoke uncoordinated rage, Dmitri went cold and emotionless. This would be a professional criminal, with excellent information, therefore highly placed.
Dmitri gestured towards the railway sleepers with his chin.
‘Stealing the people’s property. This hardly accommodates their needs.’
‘And such selfishness’ - the voice was almost gentle - ‘did not exist in your village?’
Dmitri ignored this.
‘As you said, Vadim Sergeiev, the railway property is valuable because of the economic scissors.’
It was often in Pravda and Izvestiya these days, both newspapers - the Truth and the News - reporting the current twin trends of high and increasing prices for manufactured goods and raw materials against low, falling prices for the simple goods that the proletariat were trying to sell. The graphs looked like open scissors, sure enough.
From his left pocket, Dmitri drew a pair of black, heavy, battered scissors.
‘Um.’ The big man looked surprised. Then his face tensed. ‘You don’t have reinforcements. That’s why I’m willing to talk. I’m Alexei Krymov and I—’
Dmitri pulled his revolver from his right-hand pocket.
‘Reinforcements,’ he said.
The name of Krymov was familiar. He was big-time, and an arrest would be spectacular. On the other hand, any bribe he might offer would be substantial.
‘Put that weapon away, Lieutenant.’
‘You should not have mentioned her.’ Dmitri meant his mother. ‘You are a bad person, tovarisch Krymov.’
The revolver bucked, simultaneously with the crash of sound. Krymov dropped like a stack of dead sticks.
‘Please, sir—’ Vadim Sergeiev was on his knees in the snow, tears on his face. ‘My son wrote an essay on Darwinism at school, that’s why he’s in trouble and I need the money to, to ease his way . . .’
‘To bribe a teacher?’
Contradicting Lysenkoism meant turning against a doctrine beloved of Josef Stalin, the genetic basis for the agricultural plans designed to bring food to an ever-hungrier people.
‘Technically, but my son’s ideas could produce actual crops that—’
Again, the crash and the recoil came together.
‘It’s only a few years,’ said Dmitri to the two cowering survivors, ‘since we were a feudal society that was almost fully illiterate. Within a decade, fifty per cent of the proletariat will be able to read and write.’
‘Yes, comrade.’
‘We agree,’ said the other. ‘We didn’t mean to go up against the state. It was just that we were hungry and—’
Two more bangs, one bullet each. Two more corpses splayed and tangled on the snow.
‘Freedom of the people,’ said Dmitri, ‘is inevitable.’
Then he pocketed his revolver, and transferred the heavy scissors to his right hand.
‘Scissor economics,’ he added.
Only dead things were here, piles of bone and cooling meat, no longer bearing minds to appreciate his humour.
He took the little finger of each left hand, leaning down to force the blades through bone, then put all four trophies in his pocket along with the scissors. From their wallets he took the dead men’s money - pitifully little, apart from Krymov - not from greed but because whoever found the bodies would rob them anyway, so why should he not benefit?
After all, he was the one who had just carried out his part in purifying the proletariat, was he not?
That’s right.
His internal voice mocked him, while far off in the distance he could hear a nine-note sequence that sometimes haunted him, particularly when he remembered the village and his fifteenth birthday; and if that bastard Krymov weren’t already dead, Dmitri would shoot him now, because no one should mention his mother, no one should even know.
He fired again, and the Krymov-thing’s coat leaped; the dead meat inside did not.
Wasting bullets.
And causing noise. Moving back into shadow, he made his away across the tracks, away from the station proper. He would take a roundabout route home, checking behind him all the way - he was a professional, unlike those idiots - and check that no one was inside his rooms before putting his four treasures in the secret part of his pantry, along with the others.
Not that he was intending to eat them, though they were stored so close to food.
Mother.
That was a thought to push away, to force from his mind.
No.
But sometimes - like now, when the dark shadows twisted in their diabolic ways, off beyond the edge of his vision - the other voices came back too, the voices of traumatized innocence remembering the before-times.
Mother, and the taste like bacon.
Whimpering, he pushed on. Snow was falling heavily now, hiding his tracks, cold on his face, because he could not be crying. That had been leached from him four years before, when hell descended on a starving world.
Most of the village had perished, and there had been no food, no other food; and those who survived shared the secret they could never talk about, not among themselves and never to strangers.
He had never eaten her fingers. It seemed important to remember that.
I’m sorry.
All around in the night, snow caked Moscow’s grand old buildings, creating beauty.
At the same time in Zürich, Gavriela was trying to insert her front-door key into the lock. It took several iterations of zeroing in by feel, and then she had success - except that, as she pushed the door, it rattled but did not open. Solid bolts were in place.
Frau Pflügers has locked me out.
Thanks to the Glühwein, Gavriela wasn’t thinking clearly. That was clear. Or maybe it wasn’t, maybe the world had grown fuzzy while she wasn’t looking, because you never knew what happened out of your—
‘My dear girl.’ Frau Pflügers, old-fashioned oil lamp in hand, was standing there. ‘I thought you were in bed, or I’d never have locked up.’
‘I met some people.’
‘Come in, come in. So, were there young gentlemen present?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Did it sound as if I was criticizing?’ Frau Pflügers slid the bolts home. ‘Never mind. Were you making new friends?’
‘Actually, I think I was.’
Inge, Elke and Petra. They were excellent company; but they lived life in a way Gavriela could not afford to keep up with.
‘Then we’ll celebrate with some nice hot chocolate in the kitchen, before you go to bed.’
‘I couldn’t ask you to—’
‘The range is still hot, and I’d appreciate the company.’
‘In that case, thank you.’
Out back, Gavriela stood and watched as Frau Pflügers heated a saucepan of milk. Gavriela found herself fascinated with the looping currents inside the liquid, the columns of steam that rose then broke apart: a gentle form of turbulence. Then she realized Frau Pflügers was watching her, smiling.