for the first time, how strong she was. ‘We will do it, Yakov Zubko,’ she said, ‘we will go home.’
In the hotel the American woman thought again about her husband, thought about the Russian Jew who wanted only to take his family to Israel.
In his apartment on the other side of the city Iamskoy switched off the television and telephoned militia headquarters. The afternoon shift had been back an hour, he was told; they had logged one firm suspect, one possible. He thanked the desk man and went to bed. Definitely tomorrow morning, he thought.
* * *
Yakov Zubko rose at four thirty, not needing to be quiet, he and Alexandra having lain awake all night. She pulled a coat over her shoulders and sat with him at the table. At five o’clock he kissed her goodbye, left the flat, and made his way to the metro station at Sviblovo; at a quarter to six Alexandra dressed the children and prepared them for their last days in Russia; at six precisely Major Valerov Iamskoy left the militia building on Petrovka. The morning was cold, even colder than the day before. At six thirty Yakov Zubko began work, at eight thirty the American family took breakfast. He made sure he was in the foyer as they went to the restaurant, made sure the woman saw him as they left, hoping for a sign, any sign, of confirmation, seeing none. At twelve minutes past ten the militiaman accompanying Iamskoy noted that the suspect Pasha Simenov had appeared at his door.
At fifteen minutes to eleven, as the woman had told him the previous afternoon, Yakov Zubko made his way to the rooms of the American family; there were four large suitcases, he took two, remembering that the entire possessions which he and Alexandra would take with them when they left Russia would fit into one. Please may he have understood the woman correctly the previous afternoon, he prayed, please may Pasha Simenov be at home.
The husband was at the reception desk, the wife talking to the guide. Yakov Zubko waited for her to turn and say something to him, the first doubts creeping up on him. He went back to the bedroom and collected the remaining cases. The family was almost ready to leave; he loaded the cases onto the coach and saw that the woman was still talking to the guide, knew then that she had not been able to disobey her husband, that he and Alexandra would not go home.
‘There’s one more bag by the children’s beds in 607,’ the woman turned to him briefly, not smiling. Watching him turn away from her, feeling the sense of betrayal. Seeing him for the last time, knowing that one day she would see him again. He cursed her under his breath and returned to the sixth floor. A maid was already cleaning the parents’ room; he went past, hearing the sound of the vacuum, into 607. The room was empty. He knew why the woman had told him to go back, knew it was because she could not face him, but began to check the wardrobes anyway, looking between the beds. Beneath one was a Beryozka bag; inside were three pairs of denims, new, unused, the manufacturer’s label still on them, two bottles of French perfume, and a Konica camera. ‘We are going home, Alexandra Zubko,’ he said, the relief coming upon him, ‘we are going home to Israel.’
When he returned to the foyer the American woman had gone.
It was almost eleven o’clock.
On the corner overlooking the street called Dmitrov the militiaman logged the first visitor to the house of Pasha Simenov. ‘We’ll pick up the next one,’ Iamskoy told him.
It was less than three hours till the end of their shift. ‘What happens if there isn’t one while we’re on?’ asked his subordinate.
For someone from the building on Petrovka, Iamskoy thought, the militiaman was remarkably naive at times. ‘There will be another one,’ he said simply.
Stick close to Iamskoy, the militiaman remembered they had told him at Petrovka, and you’ll learn a lot. ‘The next one,’ he agreed.
Yakov Zubko turned into Dmitrov, planning the conversation he would have with Pasha Simenov, working out how he would make sure that the man paid him enough. Be careful, Alexandra had told him as he left the flat that morning. In front of him he saw Pasha Simenov leave the house and begin walking up the road towards him. Suppose Simenov didn’t recognise him, he thought, suppose he had just done a deal, had no money left, suppose Simenov didn’t want to talk to him in the street.
At the top of the road Iamskoy cursed his luck and instructed the militia to log the fact that the suspect Simenov had left his house and turned east.
‘Good morning.’
Yakov Zubko knew Simenov was not going to speak to him, was going to walk straight past him. They still needed five hundred roubles, he thought; he saw the look in the other man’s eyes, saw Simenov was not looking at him, nor at the bag he was carrying.
Iamskoy saw the Beryozka bag, knew what was in it and reached for the ignition.
‘Across the road and left at the corner,’ Simenov ignored the greeting and pointed with his arm as if he was giving directions, as if that was what he had been asked. Yakov Zubko saw the car, realised why Simenov was afraid, turned to follow his instructions.
For one moment Iamskoy thought he was wrong, then knew he was not.
Yakov Zubko was reacting instinctively, following Simenov’s arm, as if he was in no hurry, as if he was clarifying the street directions he had been given. ‘Up the road fifty metres, through the block of flats.’ Simenov was talking quietly, quickly. ‘Car park on the other side, steps in the far corner to a tram stop. Good luck.’ It was almost, Yakov Zubko would think in the months and years he would have to remember the moment, as if Simenov knew what he was doing, as if he was sacrificing himself so that the Jew and his family could go home. ‘Thank you.’ He made himself pause, made himself move slowly, crossing the road in the direction Simenov had indicated. In the Zhiguli, Iamskoy hesitated for the second time. ‘Screw him anyway,’ he thought aloud, half to himself, half to the militiaman, ‘we can always plant something on him.’
Yakov Zubko was half way across the road when he saw the car begin to move. ‘No tricks,’ he remembered how he had lied to Alexandra the night before, ‘no way they can stop us now.’ Every trick, every way they could stop him. He turned the corner, out of sight of the car, and began to run. Up the road fifty metres, Simenov had told him, through the block of flats. Which block, he suddenly thought, panicking, there were two blocks of flats, one on either side of the road. He reached them and turned left into the alleyway beneath the building, side-stepping to avoid the children and crashing into the dustbins stacked against the wall. In the Zhiguli Iamskoy saw Simenov walking up the road, the man with the Beryozka bag turning almost casually round the corner. ‘We go for Simenov,’ he decided. They were almost at the junction; in the street in front of them Simenov disappeared down a side turning, in the passageway beneath the flats Yakov Zubko regained his balance, feared he had chosen the wrong block. ‘The other man and his suppliers.’ Iamskoy changed his mind.
Yakov Zubko broke into the sunlight and saw the car park; wondered for the first time if Simenov knew who he was, what he was, felt his legs seizing up, felt himself slowing down. ‘Run,’ he heard the voice, ‘run for Alexandra, run for the children.’ His lungs were hot, the bag was heavy, impeding him. ‘Run,’ he heard the voice again, shouting at him, screaming at him, ‘run so that you can all go home.’ In the far corner he saw the exit and the step to the tram stop.
Iamskoy turned the corner and accelerated up the road. Nobody with a Beryozka bag, nobody running as if his life depended on it. In the car park behind the flats Yakov Zubko was half way to the corner. ‘You take the right block,’ Iamskoy slammed on the hand-brake, ‘I’ll cover the left.’ He was out of the car, running, the door swinging open. He saw the dustbins rolling on the ground, the children staring. ‘This one,’ he
