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

who has spent the morning laying out a minefield might take pleasure in watching his quarry avoid the first detonation.

‘I share your contempt. His traitorous sojourn in America was discussed many times at the highest levels. Before his death from a fortuitous melanoma, plans had been made to return him from his deckchair in Palm Springs and grind his soul into dust in a corrective labour facility. I had placed myself personally in charge of the operation. It is my experience that creative talent and the greatest treachery often go hand in hand.’

Once in full flow, Beria spoke with machine-gun rapidity. He glanced across at a portrait of Stalin above the fireplace, then back at Rossel.

‘Comrade Stalin also places particular importance on the arts, especially music and literature. There was an incident, you may remember, with Shostakovich. Before the war, when his music became – and I quote the words used by Pravda at the time – “Too formalist, too bourgeois”. To all intents and purposes, Comrade Stalin was the music critic of Pravda that day; the words he used in private, however, were of a more colourful and peasant vernacular. These days the Party has trained musical ears everywhere, Comrade Rossel. It is Comrade Stalin’s view that a traitorous mind reveals itself in every conceivable place, yes, even in the spaces left between one note and the next. Nikitin tells me you think these bodies found out on the line near Lake Ladoga were deliberately arranged to allude to some devilish melody.’

‘That is what I now believe, comrade, yes.’

‘And who do you think is the culprit?’

‘In all honesty, I have no idea.’

Beria picked up a file from the top of the stack.

‘Leningrad has always been a troublesome city. There were the regrettable incidents around the trade fair in ’49 where my MGB officers uncovered a nest of capitalist vipers; many bohemian artists, writers and musicians amongst them. Minister Malenkov made the initial accusation but, in my humble opinion, failed to pursue the traitors with the required amount of Bolshevik vigour.’

It was widely known that Beria found it hard to resist criticising Malenkov – the man thought to be his main rival in the race to be Stalin’s successor.

He handed the file to Rossel.

‘I have circled a name in there that may be of interest to your investigation.’

Rossel started to open it. Beria waved a discouraging hand in the air.

‘No, not yet. Later, when you are alone, I think. Once you have perused the information, Lieutenant Rossel, I have every confidence that you will know exactly how to proceed.’

Now I understand, thought Rossel. Stalin puts pressure on Beria to clear up the crime. Beria decides on a culprit. But, then, as added insurance, he calls in an expendable militia officer to do his dirty work. Just in case there are any further issues. Allowing the deputy premier, should that happen, to distance himself from the outcome and blame the bumbling militia.

There was a burst of static as the needle on the Victrola reached the end of the record. Rossel nodded.

‘Of course, comrade.’

*

The Packard sped back through the black gates out into the grey Moscow evening. Colonel Sarkisov was driving. Rossel and Nikitin sat in the back. The lieutenant lit up a papirosa and then opened the file on his lap. Both he and Nikitin stared down at the name – ringed in blue pen – on the bottom left-hand corner of the second page: Karl Ilyich Eliasberg.

After a moment, Nikitin spoke.

‘It makes sense, don’t you think? Bears out your crazy theory, Rossel?’

Nikitin sounded calm but his cheeks were waxy and white. Rossel was not the only man in the car who was happy to get out of Beria’s office in one piece.

He took a couple of seconds before answering.

‘I suppose so.’

‘You suppose so?’ Sarkisov broke in.

Rossel looked up to find the MGB man staring at him via the driver’s mirror.

Sarkisov resumed looking at the road ahead but kept talking.

‘Show me the man and I’ll find you the crime. I’ve heard the boss say that many times, Comrade Rossel,’ said the major. ‘He’s shown us our man. Maestro Eliasberg. I strongly advise you to first find him, and then a nice crime to hang him by. Beria wants this all tied up before the Party Congress, and we shall damn well give him exactly what he wants.’

33

Friday November 2

Often the chase has an uncertain beginning until a shout – or a shot – rings out. So it was this time.

To Rossel’s left was a ragged expanse of snow that somewhere became salt water. In front of him, a whole street of poorly constructed apartment blocks extended towards the distant, blue-grey smudge of the Gulf of Finland.

It was hard to believe that Maestro Eliasberg had been reduced to living here.

Rossel’s pulse was racing as the thin line of MGB troops spread out. Two men advanced to the target building, two more took up positions to their right, tucking their AK-47s into their shoulders, while three others tramped out into the wasteland to encircle their quarry, untroubled by the formless terrain.

Only now did Rossel notice the sky, and in the same instant wondered how he could not have noticed it. It was livid, tiger-striped in red and purple. Someone kicked the door in and the first two MGB troops dashed inside. Nikitin stood still, attentive, one hand resting on the roof of the ZIS. Yet after a minute the men had not re-emerged. The major strode forward and disappeared inside the building, which groaned and cowered in the teeth of the surging wind.

Rossel braced himself. Expecting the sound of a shot.

But none came.

The foetid wretch who was propelled through the door, pursued by Nikitin, was drunk, drunk beyond the power of thought and speech. And was not Eliasberg – more of a stairwell-dwelling tramp.

Now Rossel heard the shout.

Then the shot.

Who had spotted the furtive brown figure struggling through the snow would never be clear. The lieutenant leapt forward as if