‘Why am I doing this?’ Bogdanov asked. Kirov passed the papers from the back seat. Bogdanov dropped his speed to a crawl, laid the papers on the passenger seat, opened the two sheets and glanced over them. He grunted and said, ‘What is Yatsin getting at? Murder? He thinks that Yakovlevitch was knocked on the head by his “friends”?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And “heart failure” — what are we supposed to read into that? Poison? Is that the way we do it these days?’
‘It’s happened before,’ Kirov answered, but Bogdanov wasn’t interested in history, not the Doctor’s Plot or any other plot. And, he had to remind himself, the Doctor’s Plot was just a fabrication by Stalin and Beria. There was no plot. There were no poisoners.
They parked like last time in the clearing between Viktor Gusev’s dacha and old man Dubanov’s cottage. The old man’s pig was rooting in the trees at the edge. It paused, treated them to its glittering stare, squealed, and its curly-tailed rump vanished into the shadows. They remained for a moment in the car and watched to see if the landscape would suddenly jump. Finally Bogdanov produced some aspirins from the glove compartment and took a couple for his hangover. He offered the bottle to Kirov, and, remembering what happened last time, murmured, ‘I hope we’re alone this time. I’m getting too old for the rough stuff.’
They took the muddy path towards the cottage. Around them the forest creaked and crepitated and the invisible pig grunted bad-temperedly. The mist hung in shabby patches. The cottage with its wood pile, chicken run and privy stood in mud and slatternly disorder. Kirov rapped on the door. There was no reply.
Bogdanov went round to the rear, leaving Kirov to peer through the windows. Then from the privy a querulous voice said, ‘Sod off!’
They waited. The voice repeated, ‘Sod off!’ several times, then after a couple of minutes the door creaked open and old man Dubanov, bagged in rags and furs and holding the seat of his pants, came out grumbling, ‘Can’t even crap in peace and quiet.’ He identified them and giving a sly grin of welcome said, ‘What do you know — my favourite Chekists!’
‘Hello, grandad,’ Kirov answered.
‘Hello, grandad, hello, grandad,’ the old man repeated with the same sly amusement. Then: ‘Where’s my present, son?’
‘I’ve got some tobacco for you.’ Kirov held out a package.
Dubanov showed surprise, then complacency. He murmured, ‘You’re a dutiful boy,’ and took the gift. He suggested they go inside. ‘And bring your friend. I don’t want his ugly mug frightening the pig.’
They entered the crowded room, breathing in the fug of woodsmoke and the old man’s pipe. Dubanov cleared the rubbish off a couple of chairs and invited them to sit. He took a position for himself by the iron stove and squatted into his clothes like a frozen pigeon into its plumped-up feathers.
‘So,’ he drawled, ‘what brings you back? I didn’t expect to see you two again.’
‘Has anyone else been to see you?’ Kirov was guessing. The I-know-something-that-you-don’t-know look in the other’s eyes had to mean something. It vanished and the old man moved uncomfortably and patted his feathers.
‘Another couple of Chekists. They wanted to know what you two had been after. I told them to sod off — same as I’m telling you.’
‘You told them to go away?’ Kirov said sceptically. Behind his bluff Dubanov struck him as a frightened man. Like me. That was a new thought. Kirov tested it for accuracy.
Bogdanov reached for the parcel placed by his feet and passed it to Kirov. The latter opened it and displayed the contents to the old man. The porcelain figure of a shepherdess.
‘One of a pair,’ said Kirov. He had not previously examined the figure closely and now he could see the coyly modelled girl holding a lamb in a setting of rococo garlands of flowers. It made him think of Mozart, and a snatch of melody went through his head.
‘You had the other one,’ Bogdanov said bluntly. ‘I saw it.’
‘You broke it!’ Dubanov retorted.
‘Let’s say my hands slipped.’
‘But that isn’t the point, is it?’ Kirov intervened reasonably. ‘You went into Viktor Gusev’s dacha before the other … Chekists arrived. You stole the companion figure of the shepherd. Why not both? Were you carrying too much to hold both figures? What else, Semyon Kuzmich — what else did you take?’
The old man murmured and grumbled. His face was alive with fear, hatred — memories. He stood up and went to the corner of the room, returning with two empty bottles. He offered them to his visitors. Bogdanov snatched them. They once held perfume.
‘Scent! What did you want with scent?’
‘I drank it,’ Dubanov answered crankily. ‘It’s OK. Have you ever tried it? I took the full bottles of booze and when I’d finished with those I drank the scent. Oh, and I also took some cans of food.’
‘Nothing else?’ Kirov asked patiently. He had been fooled once by the old man’s cunning. How to get at Dubanov? The old man claimed to be a hero. He had served five years in Kolyma. How? Nobody survived five years in Kolyma.
Except the stool pigeons.
‘I have to get something from the car.’ Kirov stood up slowly. He told Bogdanov to wait. ‘Talk to Semyon Kuzmich. I’ll be gone about five minutes.’ He turned and moved to the door, lifted the latch and looked out onto the mist and the old man’s pig, which was lying belly-down in the mud and grinning philosophically.
‘Wait.’
Kirov continued to examine the pig. Bogdanov cracked his knuckles.
‘Wait!’ the old man pleaded.
‘Yes?’ Kirov let the door close. He turned to Dubanov and assumed again his expression of mildness and understanding.
‘Damn you, I’ll get it — get it — understand?’ Dubanov was on his feet and again burrowing in the liner and rubbish, and complaining bitterly. ‘I don’t know why I took it — don’t need it — can’t use it.’ He emerged clutching something to his chest. ‘I saw it and thought, “That’s Chekist stuff for sure.” Yes. I know my Chekists — goddamned bloody Chekists!’
In his hands he held a spool of movie film.
Anya Dimitrievna was waiting at the office with a typed list. It contained the file and key numbers held by the department compared against the numbers jotted down by the Fire Brigade duty officer on the night that Special Investigations had visited the offices. The list showed that the investigators had called for access to the files of Grishin, Kirov and Bogdanov. There was no mention of Radek.
‘Why not?’ Bogdanov asked as he fiddled with the projector and tried to focus a light on the screen.
‘Because he’s clean.’
‘Clean of what? Ah — there — got it!’ The leading edge of the film was fed into the mechanism. ‘Turn the lights down, will you? Clean of what? Radek used to be a dirty little toe-rag — there better, better…’ Bogdanov sharpened the focus, ‘he used to work for Trapeznikov who had some very nasty habits and was never likely to go to heaven. Shit!’ The film snapped. He paused to trim and refeed it. This time it engaged properly and Bogdanov grunted with satisfaction. But the subject of Radek still rankled. ‘Openness — that’s the new policy, isn’t it?’
‘So they tell me.’
‘Sure it is!’ Bogdanov affirmed acidly. ‘But how come in this place openness feels like a conspiracy?’