‘He had the same surname as a dead man.’
The dead man was Sergei Mironovitch Kirov.
‘The hero of the Leningrad Party. He was killed in 1934 or thereabouts.’
‘Who killed him?’
‘Yagoda. When he was brought to trial in March of 1938, Yagoda was accused of setting up the Kirov murder. In time more or less everyone of importance was accused of the same thing, but in Yagoda’s case the accusation was probably true. The point was that Kirov’s murder was the excuse for bumping off the leading elements of the Leningrad Party. That was Stalin’s object — Yagoda was just an instrument.’
Stalin, he said, had attended the lying in state of S.M. Kirov and wept over the bier like a Mafia boss. ‘Was my father related to the other Kirov?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it possible?’
‘Maybe. But you don’t understand me. It didn’t matter. There were people who could make it possible. Yezhov for example.’ Yezhov had been Yagoda’s successor.
‘It’s March 1938.’ They had stopped for a few minutes. The General lit another cigarette and smoked it while studying the burning end. He took a glass of vodka and threw it back in one. He said neither that he wanted to stop nor wanted to continue, and Kirov suspected that both propositions were simultaneously true. Then the old man resumed. ‘S.M. Kirov is already dead. Your dad is in the Lefortovo prison. Yezhov has plotted with Stalin and done for his old boss Yagoda. He’s in charge of NKVD and he conducts the interrogation of your dad personally.’
He did not say how he knew this.
‘Yezhov was a clever bastard. He understood these things — how they looked — how they could be made to look. He made your father an offer. But first he told him a story. He said that it wasn’t him — Yezhov — that had ordered your father’s arrest. It was Yagoda! That insane monster, not content with the criminal murder of the virtuous S.M. Kirov, was conducting a vendetta against all surviving members of the dead hero’s family. In fact, so Yezhov tells it, your father’s arrest is positive proof that Yagoda was involved in the murder of S.M. Kirov since why would an innocent man be persecuting the victim’s relatives?’
‘Offer,’ Kirov interrupted. ‘You said “offer”.’
‘In exchange for his life, your father gave evidence against his old friend Genrik Yagoda, who was duly convicted and shot.’
The irony in the General’s tone was a deliberate cruelty, a penalty for ignoring the warning about the past and its dangers. But now he softened and became Uncle Kolya again. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It didn’t matter whether your father gave evidence or not. Yagoda was a dead man from the moment he became too powerful. That was Stalin’s way. He knew that the chief danger to him came from those closest to him. So he had Yagoda killed and afterwards he did for Yezhov and replaced him with Beria. If the Old Man hadn’t died first, he would have killed Beria. It’s the way things were done.’
‘Who really ordered my father’s arrest — Yagoda or Yezhov?’
‘Who cares?’
‘Yagoda must already have been in prison when my father was arrested. How could he have given the order?’
‘Smart boy. So Yezhov’s story didn’t make sense, so events were in the wrong order — so what? In this country it’s possible to invert time.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bogdanov had been shopping in one of the city’s squares where a market had sprung up selling fruit and vegetables. Wagons with number plates from Baku and the South were doing a trade in fresh produce from the tailboards. They were selling tomatoes at thirty copecks a kilo, aubergines at fifty copecks, and even watermelons and grapes. But this wasn’t a free market: the stuff was being sold at the low state-controlled price. It was part of the system set up by the new Moscow Party organisation. The old system had been brought low when KGB and the police had blown the rackets at GUM and the main food shops. In part it was a product of Radek’s work in breaking up the meat ring in the Ukraine. In part it was simply inexplicable.
‘By the way,’ Bogdanov continued, ‘did you know that Scherbatsky’s been arrested?’ He threw a tomato across. ‘Here, try, they’re not too bad.’
Kirov examined the fruit. It was a shade overripe but better than was normally available. He bit into it and closed his eyes to the flavour, imagining — whatever. It was a good day.
‘So,’ he answered, ‘what’s Scherbatsky been arrested for? Not the Chinese watch?’
Bogdanov grinned. ‘I never did believe that story. No, it was over something else. It seems,’ he strung himself out full length and grunted as his muscles tensed and relaxed, ‘that he has a cousin who works for a construction combine. Nice business. Lots of opportunities. The cousin supplies materials na leva for any of his friends and acquaintances who want to build a dacha — for a price, of course.’
‘And?’
‘So what else is to tell? The cousin approaches Scherbatsky and asks whether he knows anyone who would like a helping hand in the matter of building materials. Scherbatsky talks to his friends and puts them in contact with his cousin. And on the way Scherbatsky acquires a dacha of his own, which is not entirely explained by his salary. All of which is just the ordinary way of doing business in this fine country of ours, so that we are left asking: what’s so special this time? I’ll tell you,’ he said, and the humour had gone from his voice. ‘What’s so special is that we have a new Moscow Party Secretary who finds the housing programme in a shambles through the activities of Scherbatsky and his relatives. This makes the Comrade Party Secretary cross, and also his boss, Lemonade Joe Gorbachev. They wish action. Do I hear you say that Scherbatsky is a member of KGB? “So what?” says the Comrade Party Secretary, and we all agree — who the hell are KGB anyway? Let’s arrest one of those damned Chekists — Scherthingummy will do.’ Bogdanov paused. He looked at the paper bag that lay open on his desk with the fruit visible. ‘Fuck their tomatoes,’ he murmured.
‘And Scherbatsky?’
Bogdanov gave a melancholy smile. ‘Scherbatsky is taking a long holiday in a cold climate. Ten years — if his Chinese watch lasts that long.’
Antipov called personally to deliver the remains of Viktor Gusev’s supply of antibiotics.
‘Have you run any tests on them?’ Kirov asked.
‘No. We thought you would want them exactly as they were. Untouched.’
‘Thought we might be suspicious if you opened the package?’ said Bogdanov. Antipov gave a go-to-hell grunt. ‘No need to be coy,’ Bogdanov comforted him. ‘Since our little misunderstanding we’re all friends; we can talk about these things.’
‘Are you having any luck in tracing Gusev’s contacts?’ Kirov asked.
The policeman preferred his question. ‘It’s a slow business. Gusev knew a lot of people, he was that kind of guy. We’ve had a few suspects in for interrogation, but you know how it is.’
‘No rough stuff,’ Bogdanov fed him the words.
‘Some of Gusev’s friends are important people.’
‘Not so accident-prone, huh?’ Bogdanov took a carton out of the box and spun it in his fingers, reading the label.
‘We’ve made a list of names,’ Antipov volunteered. ‘You want the list?’
‘Give me the list,’ said Kirov.
When Antipov was gone, Kirov unpacked the box. The drugs were in vials and bottles, still in their individual cartons. The seals appeared intact. There was an inventory signed by Antipov as investigating officer and the consignment matched with the exception of the items withdrawn and provided to the Butyrka for use on Gusev. Kirov had the carton which had contained the latter; the prison doctor had retrieved it from the rubbish. It too tallied with the inventory and made it complete.