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

he, himself, were running from enemy fire and followed the two MGB men who had seen the conductor, perhaps a hundred metres ahead. His boots crunched on snow and, under the snow, grasses and clumps of dirty sand. It was energy-sapping and soon he was breathing hard, sweating even in the cold. This world was like a painting, he thought – blurred whiteness punctuated by muddy brown trees as thin as single pencil marks; ugliness thinly veiled.

Rossel looked over his shoulder. As well as the two MGB officers in front of him, the others were also in pursuit. With them would be Nikitin. But Nikitin would shoot Eliasberg. Almost certainly, yes. That would be case closed. He was already roaring at his men to bring the fugitive down. The MGB soldiers, muffled in coats and boots, stumbled where the snow covered the boundary between road and pavement, pavement and shore, even shore and the half-frozen fringe of the water. No one fired yet – the first shot had been a warning and the warning had been ignored. The next bullets would be for strictly practical purposes.

Eliasberg was silhouetted against the white as he tried to climb one of the walls of stone and wood that jutted out towards the water – breakers to stop the port channels from silting up. Eliasberg dropped over the other side and kept on running. But it was clear now. He had no hope. The chasing packs had already halved the distance and would vault the breaker far faster than him.

Rossel was gaining on the two leading men. His heart was bulging against his lungs and his legs were leaden. When was the last time he had slept? Properly?

Eliasberg scaled another of the wooden breakers. An MGB officer stopped, raised his weapon and bent his head to one side, but hesitated. Rossel charged past him, putting himself in between the weapon and the musician’s silhouette. Eliasberg’s face was now discernible – he was running in a heavy coat but no hat, or most likely his hat had fallen off somewhere. Rossel scaled the breaker himself but fell heavily down the other side and his knees sank into the deep snow. Eliasberg was yelling something now. Rossel raised his head and saw the conductor also on his knees, his hands waving frantically in the icy roaring wind.

‘I confess,’ the conductor screamed. ‘I confess, I confess.’

34

Saturday November 3

A pair of manacles dangled from the ceiling. The metal was rusty but it was possible to distinguish between the brown of patient corrosion and the darker, fresher stains of blood. There were streaks of russet on the concrete walls, too, about three metres from where any interrogation victim would be suspended. As well as splashes on the floor, spots on the ceiling. And the first thing that would enter anyone’s head, no matter how brave, no matter how innocent, as they entered this room would be: what could they have done to the person who was here before me to extract so much blood?

Eliasberg’s file lay before Nikitin but the MGB major was not looking at it. Rossel could not see his face but from the angle of his head, the tapping of his fingers, he thought Nikitin must be preparing his attack.

Two loud clunks snapped the major out of his trance and the iron door to the chamber scraped open. Eliasberg was escorted only a metre or two inside before the guard let go of his elbow, turned smartly and locked them in again. The conductor took a half step towards Nikitin’s desk before his eyes flickered to the dark traces all around – a spoor of horrors, Rossel thought, like stumbling upon the jungle trail of some, as yet unidentified, man-eating beast. The musician espied Rossel, took him in, tried to fit him into the overall scene. An empty chair, bent with wooden slats nailed to a cheap metal frame, beckoned.

Rossel simply gazed back. That was his duty. He was once again in the place where the road of his life had forked and he had ceased to be the carefree, scruffy young musician who everyone at the conservatory expected to forge a successful solo career, or, even, lead the great Philharmonic Orchestra. Instead, he had become another, harsher version of himself, a poker-faced militia cop who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

There were no clues as to how this would unfold, if it did not follow a typical course of out-and-out torture, signed confession and death. And so the conductor advanced to his seat and sat. Eliasberg, always thin, now looked skeletal. He was pale, unshaven, and unrecognisable as the haughty principal conductor of the Leningrad Radio Orchestra and guest maestro of a dozen other ensembles and opera houses. There was bruising around both of his eyes and his bottom lip was bloodied.

At first, Nikitin seemed to stare past the conductor. Or through him. Finally, after an icy pause, he spoke.

‘Karl Ilyich Eliasberg, you have said that you confess to your crime.’

Eliasberg nodded. ‘That is correct. Yes, I took it.’

Nikitin’s brow crinkled.

‘Took it? Took what?’

‘The score. Shostakovich’s score, of course.’

‘There’s no use in prevaricating, Karl Ilyich. We have not brought you here to talk about the stolen score. Although, of course, when they searched your apartment last night, my men found it. The score of the Leningrad Symphony that you used to conduct the premier in this city is a historic document, not your personal possession. But enough of that. You are here to confess to murder.’

Eliasberg’s eyes widened. ‘Murder?’

‘You murdered and mutilated five people. All members at one time or another, we are beginning to suspect, of your own orchestra.’

The conductor shook his head. ‘No, no, no,’ he said, ‘you are mistaken. All I did was steal an orchestral score, Shostakovich’s score. That I will admit to. But I never murdered anyone – the idea is preposterous!’

The major stood. He grasped the manacles with his right hand. Yanked at them so they