City of Ghosts by Ben Creed (most important books of all time txt) 📕

fat, sneering lips framed the word but nothing came out. Then the hero of Stalingrad grimaced and shook his head.

He straightened up and stalked over to the door.

‘Stay where you are, Sergeant,’ shouted Lipukhin. ‘You haven’t been dismissed.’

Grachev muscled his squat frame through the door.

Then slammed it behind him.

*

Lipukhin put the radio on. It wheezed and crackled before finding a rousing march to blare out.

Taneyev had immediately sought permission to follow the sergeant. Lipukhin waved a hand at him and he was gone.

‘He’ll denounce you, Revol. If he didn’t fight, that means he’s plotting something.’

Lipukhin reached for a matchbox and shook it.

‘We are safe for only a few more days,’ said Rossel. ‘Beria’s henchman has just ordered us to solve this case. Our orders now come directly from the Politburo.’

‘Shit,’ said Lipukhin, lighting a cigarette and shaking his head as he blew out the match. ‘Is that a good thing?’

The captain sank into his chair.

‘Were you really in the Sinyavino Offensive?’ Lipukhin asked.

‘For a time.’

‘I didn’t think many had survived that.’

Rossel shrugged. ‘There weren’t many left when it ended. That is undeniable.’

‘Fuck your mother.’ Lipukhin struggled to strike a match. ‘What did Sarkisov mean by a “chance at redemption”?’

‘The comrade major may have become confused by the passage of time,’ said Rossel. ‘In May 1942, as his records indicate, I was indeed brought in for questioning. Although some of that questioning was fairly robust, it ended without warning when the Red Army emptied the jails and sent us into battle. Some of us were even given weapons. A few of those who survived were rehabilitated. Unusually, the Chekists didn’t have much say in the matter. If I recall rightly, my interrogator was disappointed to see me go. But those were desperate times.’

Lipukhin stared into the fire.

‘I wish I could have fought the fascists,’ he said in a soft voice.

‘Those of us who did are very glad that the next generation will not have to do the same,’ said Rossel.

‘But how do you know if . . .’

Lipukhin tailed off. Rossel would have liked to give him a drink but he knew where that would end.

The captain threw his cigarette into the flames.

‘I don’t know how to make sense of any of this,’ he said.

‘There are many aspects of this crime that make no sense, Comrade Captain,’ Rossel replied, ‘and that’s not including our interview with the good Colonel Sarkisov. Five mutilated corpses. This is no drunken argument that ended with the killer waking up with a hangover and only the vaguest memory of knifing his best friend across the kitchen table. It’s not, to my mind, MGB either – the MGB would herd a hundred people into the Bolshoi Dom and we’d never see any of them again. State security does not deal in groups of five, comrade. Criminals might, but a turf war would have ended in the bodies being buried under a thousand tonnes of concrete or dumped in the river, not splayed out on a railway line dressed like characters from a baroque fairy tale retold by Mayakovsky.’

He began to pace as his reasoning unfolded in his mind. Saboteurs and wreckers? Nonsense – what were they wrecking? Anti-Soviet agents didn’t draw attention to themselves by dressing up corpses and leaving them in plain sight. This was the key to the crime, he thought – being noticed.

‘The whole thing is un-Soviet, yes. But why that merits a personal visit from Colonel Sarkisov presently eludes me.’ Rossel picked up his greatcoat and his cap. ‘Nonetheless, I am going to take his advice.’

‘Which part?’ asked Lipukhin, looking nervous.

‘The bit about legwork.’

16

Saturday October 20

Hospital 40 at Sestroretsk, a satellite district to Leningrad’s west, was only half the size it had been before the blockade. It had been heavily bombed by the Luftwaffe in the depths of the siege. When the war ended, there were more bomb craters in its formerly leafy grounds than beds, wards and operating theatres.

As Rossel walked down the corridor leading to the maternity ward, the sound of drills and hammers came from a nearby corridor. Seven years since the siege was lifted, Hospital 40 was still being rebuilt. He sat in a little room next to the ward, listening to the mewling of babies and the shushing of their mothers, for about ten minutes, waiting for the nursing shifts to change.

Finally, a bell rang. Moments later, two young nurses, chatting and giggling about their exploits at a dance night, shot past him, buttoning up their coats.

Then – he checked the small black and white photograph in his wallet, yes, definitely her – Nurse Durova appeared.

Now is the time I find out whether that stupid seabird really is lucky, he thought. He’d made a special journey to the fireplace before he left the station. One of Gerashvili’s flatmates had to be an informer. Perhaps both were?

‘Nurse Durova?’

The girl – she was little more than that, maybe only eighteen years old, with dark hair and a pretty face – turned towards him.

She looked at his uniform.

‘Yes.’

‘I have a question for you. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

The girl looked around the empty corridor.

‘I’ve already told the others everything I know.’

‘A minute of your time is all I need. It could help Lidia Gerashvili.’

‘I don’t know anything.’

She was very nervous. That was good. He had picked the right girl, he figured. The informer would have been expecting him – would even have been pleased to see him. Another opportunity to prove her worth to the MGB with a full report of his visit. Their vicious internal politics were legendary. Just because Rossel was under orders from the Fifth Directorate, in a manner of speaking, that wouldn’t prevent him being arrested by the Second. Ratting out two militia officers in the same week might even get her some privileges.

No, this one was not on the payroll.

*

Tears trickled down both of Nurse Durova’s cheeks. She and Rossel sat side by side on two green chairs about halfway down the hospital corridor.

‘Dominika,