Vadym made sympathetic noises.
— May I close your door, Comrade Major? And may I call you Vadym Pavlovich?
It sounded like the most reasonable request, a way to clear away the stuffiness of hierarchy and rank, just the sort of shift in tone that Vadym, as host of this little office, should have anticipated, indeed, already offered. —Yes.
Boris eased the door shut, then sat in the chair facing Vadym’s desk. —I’ve also come to you as a courtesy, one officer to another. The level of corruption among the senior officers cannot continue.
Vadym stared at him a moment, then snorted. —Courtesy? Is that what you call it, this folly tearing the force apart? You want my history? You’ll find my truth right here, on my desk: that beautiful photograph of the officers and Dzerzhinsky himself, all of us cheering, because that was the day we named the Cheka. That was the day we came into existence.
— Vadym Pavlovich—
— I know that because I was there. At Dzerzhinsky’s side. And you, Kuznets? Where were you that day? Getting your diaper changed?
— History is not—
— If you think you’ve got the slightest taint of corruption, or cronyism, or too many urinal visits on me, then expose your mistake so I might correct it.
Boris stared down at the floor, as if Vadym’s voice and gaze had become too much to bear. —I apologize, Vadym Pavlovich. I’ve chosen poor words.
— Words for another man, perhaps. Unless you’re singing, I am deaf to you.
— Shall I sing of a party I attended last night? The host is a friend of yours: Comrade Major Balakirev. Perhaps not much of a friend if he didn’t invite you.
Vadym signed a document. —Major Balakirev is a fine officer.
— Yes. Quite a service record. I may be on the wrong trail.
Vadym signed a second document.
Boris felt his voice get tight. —Cronyism is just one of the thousands of forms corruption may take. Such a subtle and grotesque corruption, one officer in a position of privilege and power helping another.
— Balakirev is quite discriminating about whom he invites to his parties. If you attended, then you knew what to expect, and, I have no doubt, you enjoyed yourself.
Silence.
Boris stood up. —You’ll come see me if you learn anything?
— Let me get the door for you, Comrade Captain.
Just as Vadym grasped the doorknob, Boris looked into his eyes. —I’m sorry about your nephew, Vadym Pavlovich. Not to know…
Vadym said nothing.
— Missing in the line of duty. It must be difficult for your brother, too. I could pull some strings, try to find out more.
Vadym turned the doorknob, and noise from the hallway washed in.
Boris saluted. —Thank you, Comrade Major Minenkov. I look forward to discussing this with you again.
Monday 7 June
Water ran, pots clanked, and music played. Temerity lay in bed, bones heavy, head sore, ready to rip into William Brownbury-Rees for making such a racket and, no doubt, such a mess. It’s a service flat, you fool. Send down for breakfast.
Wait.
Fresh white paint, dark green bottle: not her London flat.
A male voice spoke Russian. —Are you done with the water in the kitchen? I want to get in the shower.
The flow of water in the kitchen ceased. —Go ahead.
Kostya’s voice got louder, then thinned out again as he walked past the bedroom to the bathroom. —Thank you. Let’s see if I can get any hot water. I’d settle for tepid.
The shower ran.
Temerity sat up. A clean sheet fell away from her, and the other side of the bed looked untouched.
As she drank the last of the Narzan, she listened to Kostya sing in the shower. He started on what Temerity would call ‘The Song of the Volga Boatmen,’ cursed about the tune being stuck in his head, then took up a jaunty melody and sang about winning the heart of sweet Natasha, ah ha ha ha ha.
Bathroom down the hall to the right, he said. The rest of the flat must be left. Go left.
Efim sat at the tiny hinged table, eating buttered bread and a fried egg. —Miss Solovyova, good morning. You look better.
— Thank you. I feel much better.
— Some bread?
She took in the small front room with its high ceiling, one soft armchair, and a stenka. The open kitchen, by far the largest room in the flat, with its massive stove and three sinks, reminded her of the communal kitchen at Hotel Lux. A short corridor, narrow and dim, led to the flat’s door. It had a two-key lock in the newer style: utilitarian, with long and slender keys. One could lock or unlock the door from the outside, and one could lock or unlock it from the inside with the same key. If one lacked the key, however, one could do nothing.
She faced Efim. —Not yet, thank you. Pardon my appearance. You must think very little of me.
I think you’re lost. —Please, sit down. Can I get you anything at all?
— I’d love some tea.
— Ah. Yes, so would I. However, we’ve got neither kettle nor samovar. Nor tea.
— Oh.
Efim thought she might cry. He considered how else to speak with her when Kostya, wrapped in a robe, wet hair stuck to his head, strode into the room. —There you are, Nadia. Good morning.
He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. Stiff, she tilted her face to accept. Embarrassment, Efim thought.
As Kostya completed the kiss, something metallic clanked against the wooden chair. Efim peered at the pocket in Kostya’s robe. It bulged.
His service weapon?
Efim stood up. —I’ll take a look at that shoulder before I go.
As the two men retreated to Kostya’s bedroom, Temerity buttered a piece of bread and told herself to eavesdrop.
A bedroom door clicked shut. Then it locked.
The musical selection on the radio changed: Tchaikovsky’s ‘Waltz of the Flowers.’
Voices loud and cheerful, Kostya and Efim emerged from the bedroom. Efim said he must fetch his suit jacket and hat, then get to the lab; Kostya mentioned his day shift and suggested he bring home something for supper from the deli. —It’s a Monday. A shashlyk vendor stands outside Babichev’s every Monday.
Temerity stood up, got dizzy. Babichev’s deli? I’m not far. Get to the deli, puzzle out the wrong turn.
Efim sounded doubtful. —Cold shashlyk?
— No no, hot, though it would still be delicious cold. This old Georgian—
— The one with the big curling moustache?
— That’s him. He sets up his grill in front of the deli, and it smells so good. Whenever someone wants to buy his shashlyk, he says they must first pay inside. Once inside, of course, they’re at Babichev’s mercy for salad, bread, and cheese. Babichev and the Georgian split the profits.
Efim hurried into the kitchen now, hat on his head, suit jacket over his arm. —Yes, I’ve seen him. You sure he’s Georgian? I thought he was a Tatar. Goodbye, Miss Solovyova.
Kostya called out. —If I’m not home by six, give up on me.
Efim smiled at that, not a happy smile, and Temerity watched him unlock the door with his long key. Outside, he locked the door again behind him.
Kostya, almost in uniform, his gymnastyorka unfastened, strode over to the stenka and turned up the radio. Then he beckoned.
Temerity kept still.
Scowling, Kostya walked over to her, then spoke in her ear. —I’ll get your papers today.