Eventually, he was able to move oft; gradually, pushing deeper with the ski sticks, he gathered strength and speed on the long skis, and headed for the village.
Alexei Vorontsyev felt tired, but satisfied. Replete, he considered, as if after a heavy meal and good liquor. The day's work had proved eminently satisfactory. Blow-ups of the slides proved that Colonel-General Ossipov had gone missing for more than two hours, without trace, and that a man he had met in the Museum of the Revolution had substituted for him. Vorontsyev still retained in his mind gigantic images of two hands, both curled to clutch the brim of a dark hat, pinned side by side on the wall of his office. As a photographic expert had confirmed for him — the hands were not the same. And the wrong hand belonged to the man in the museum.
Vorontsyev had informed Deputy Kapustin, who had commended his work. Other units of the SID, also assigned to the matter, had not proved so successful, checking back over their files. But, with his lead, they would recheck, and Kapustin was certain something of real significance would emerge.
Vorontsyev put the car into gear, and pulled away from the traffic lights before turning into Kalenin Street, where he had shared an apartment with his wife. One side of the wide street still contained the old houses, many of them turned into government offices. However, new luxury blocks of apartments had been built, unadorned slabs and facades of grey concrete, without aesthetic value yet possessing a degree of social elevation that attached to a few new developments in Moscow.
It was only as he tugged on the handbrake, as if the noise of ratchets awakened him, that he realised he had returned from old habit to a place where he no longer lived. There was a sharp, nauseous taste in his mouth. He had moved out months before, when the strain of living with Natalia's infidelities, all the time becoming more and more blatant, had proved too much for him. Because in the end she had not even bothered to lie. He closed the door of the car again, his mood evaporated.
His work appeared unsubstantial now, and the voice of the Deputy in his memory was tinny and unreal. All that he saw was the hard, assured face, carefully made-up, of his wife, smiling at him. And the crown of dark, groomed hair he had once possessed with the rest of her. He opened the door again, and got out into the noise of traffic travelling out of the centre of Moscow, towards the north-western suburbs; he had parked the car, unthinking, where he always parked it, opposite the foyer door to the apartment block.
He leaned against the car for a time, and lit a cigarette. He did not bother with his overcoat, despite the cold wind, and his hands shook as he cupped them round the flame of the lighter. When he drew in the first smoke, he leaned back and looked up towards the lighted windows. Fourth floor, fifth along — yes, she was there.
The mood of the day crept back into him — the power he had exercised in setting in motion the investigations he had ordered was too impregnated in his personality, like a scent in his clothing or his skin, to be got rid of by the betrayal of memory. He could still see the hands pinned to the wall, betraying the substitution of Ossipov by someone as yet unknown — but who had been photographed, and who would be found. The power of achieving secret knowledge of Ossipov made him bold now. He had a desire to confront his wife — and anyone else who might be there.
It was as if he were drinking from a flask, standing there in the cold, and his head had begun to spin, and he had deadened the defeated ego — recovered himself. When he finished the cigarette, he walked towards the foyer door.
There was a porter he did not recognise, a new man. To him he showed the blue ID card, which obviated explanation. The man was likely to be an informer to one of the departments inside the 2nd Chief Directorate, anyway. The man, impressed, seemed to shrink back into the uniform he wore, saluted, and disappeared back behind the glass partition that separated him from the residents. Vorontsyev crossed to the lift.
He rode to the fourth floor, stepped out, and walked slowly down the carpeted corridor. His principal fear at that moment was being seen by a neighbour who knew him and his circumstances.
He stood in front of the door, despising his weakness, and the involuntary wiping of his hands on his coat. Then he took out his key, which he had not returned to her, and inserted it in the latch. She had not bothered to have the lock changed.
His teeth gritted, and he pushed open the door, into the tiny hall. At the door of the lounge, which overlooked Kalenin Street, he could hear her voice inside — the laughter so like' music — but false, as opera falsifies words into beautiful sounds. She made her laughter attractive, enjoyable — but nothing more than a sound.
He pushed open the lounge door. There was a man in the room. Her head turned to him as he was taking in the KGB Border Guard uniform, the distinctive shoulder flashes. It was, he thought, vulgarly like his wife that she would want her uniformed lovers to wear their uniforms. The man appeared disconcerted. But not his wife. She was merely angry.
She said, 'Alexei — what the hell are you doing here?' Then she puffed dramatically at her cigarette, blowing the smoke audibly in his direction. He stood at the door. The KGB officer appeared distressed now — something officer-like and stupid had entered his face, Vorontsyev noticed, disliking the man. Natalia said, 'Alexei — allow me to introduce Captain Yevgeni Vrubel, on leave from border duties. Yevgeni, this is my husband, Alexei.' Natalia, Vorontsyev noticed in the moment before the name struck him fully, seemed suddenly amused by the confrontation.
The brief daylight was giving out again, and yet Folley remained in the empty village of Rontaluumi. In some inexplicable way, he had wasted the few hours of daylight, acting as if he was unable to deal with the tanks that had crossed the border during darkness, with the camp he had photographed, preferring the smaller mystery. What had been done with the villagers?
He had searched every house, every store and shed. Nothing, not so much as a cat or dog, no sign of life anywhere. It was as if some plague had swept through there, and the bodies had been afterwards removed. Empty rooms, empty chicken-runs — fodder untasted, tins still in the cupboards and on shelves. As the hours passed he became desperate to find some clue, as loneliness more suffocating than that of his journey overcame him.
Finally, he settled himself in a battered armchair in the living-room of the largest wooden, single-storey house. He kept his white winter combat dress on, and cradled the gun on his lap. He was tense and worn with waiting and searching. He had sufficient evidence — yet he wanted more, an answer to this empty village, and its pressing silence.
The whole idea of invasion had become ridiculous — forced to the back of his mind by the emptiness the village emitted like a gas. The implications of what he had seen were buried — he refused to consider any of them.
Empty.
This room — he had the sense of invading other lives, but no sense of the lives that had been lived there — and himself; he could catch sight of himself in a smoky mirror over the huge fireplace. Out of place; rudely forced upon this place, squatter or looter. He had touched nothing, acutely aware of his intrusion. What had happened to the people of Rontaluumi? There wasn't a single sign of violence.
Then he must have dozed — a false light sleep.
He woke to the sound of voices outside, the calling of orders; a tone of voice that reached down into him, pulling him awake. He was out of the chair in a moment, the taste of sleep still sticky in his mouth. He dribbled, wiped it away, blinking his eyes, straining to hear…