City of Ghosts Ben Creed (13 ebook reader .txt) 📖

now. The list detailing the extent of Beria’s depravity was safely in Malenkov’s hands. Of even greater interest, however, and far more incriminating, were the ledgers. According to Nikitin, Malenkov had perused them with delight before placing them under lock and key.

On the drive of Beria’s dacha, neither of Stalin’s seasoned henchmen had been brave enough to make their move, each man refusing to play a hand they could not be certain of winning. Even victory could be deadly: if either man succeeded in eliminating the other, the Great Leader was likely to interpret this as a move on his own position. No – the list and the ledgers were weapons for another battle at another time. For now, Beria and Malenkov would appear at the Party Congress, at speeches, dinners and concerts, smile and shake hands. And, by unspoken agreement, happily blame Vronsky for the unfortunate distraction of five dead bodies being found on the tracks and anything else that suited them both.

Rossel knew that he himself was unfinished business. A line in Beria’s own meticulous records under a column marked ‘pending’. Unless Major Nikitin could be persuaded to use some of his new-found influence . . .

The fortunes of the Vosstaniya Street station had been mixed. Gerashvili was still unwell. But he’d sensed the last time he had visited her that her keen investigatory instincts were starting to revive. Lipukhin had sworn never to touch another drop. Half the junior ranks had been released and some had already returned to their former duties. A few would need more time. Grachev, along with a dozen others, had been given ten years in the camps. Rossel doubted he would ever see the sergeant again.

In the days since Vronsky’s death, Rossel had pieced together the details of how the composer had ensnared his victims. As with Sofia, the maestro had matched his invitation to Krestovsky Island to each person’s different desires. For Maxim, he had proffered sanctuary from the labour camps and the chance of musical redemption – to collaborate on the creation of a new choral work. For Felix, a letter from Marina – written under duress, she had claimed between sobs – had hinted at the possibility of rekindling their old dalliance.

As for Shevchuk, ambition was the bait – the promise that Vronsky would use his influence to secure him a promotion. And Nadya had been the easiest of all. Money, jewels, Vronsky’s patronage at the Kirov. Each must have been in optimistic mood when they arrived on Vronsky’s island, buoyed by the promise of better days ahead.

Only one question remained.

‘Not for you, because . . .’

Rossel now knew how to complete the sentence. He understood, and so had already forgiven, her betrayal.

Rossel gazed down at Madame Vronsky, a tiny figure almost lost among the party bosses, military leaders and other dignitaries around her. The applause rose again as the saturnine figure of Mravinsky, the principal conductor of the Leningrad Symphony Orchestra, padded on stage. He bowed, and silence rolled over the hall once more.

Leningrad was listening.

High on the gantry, the lieutenant shrugged and leaned forward. Vassya pressed a red play button on the Magnetophon. They both watched as the spools began to whirr and, once satisfied all was working as it should, exited the hut and began the winding journey back to the service tunnel, catching snatches, as they descended, of the terrible recordings and the swelling uproar.

*

Leningrad, every inch of it, seemed to have been colonised by a mute army of giant black crows. As Rossel and Vassya stepped back out from behind the tarpaulin onto Mikhailovskaya Street, he felt, momentarily, as though the entire population of the city had assembled to greet him – not just on the square, but crammed onto every pavement for streets around. They were all dressed funereally to honour the maestro, just as Pravda had said they should, and standing, as one, under the light snow. A workers’ brigade of dark scarves, gloves, sables, greatcoats and fur hats. Each head raised and staring upwards at the microphones attached to the poles.

In places, people were packed fifteen-deep across the road. Unable to turn right off Nevsky, a queue of traffic had stopped. Now drivers and passengers were clambering out to hear better the noises coming from the loudspeakers.

Most of them were unfathomable unless you knew, as Rossel did, what the sounds really were. The light jangling of the railway switch on the bars, the ape-like hollering of the creatures inside the gently undulating cages, the screeches and moans of the tormented – it all played on and on.

Rossel loosened his greatcoat so his uniform became partially visible, took out his militia ID and raised it so he could clear a path. He had locked the gantry hut using the padlock he’d opened to access the metro tunnel. What could be heard inside the Philharmonic could also be heard all over Leningrad.

Intent on listening, the crowd hardly seemed to see them – every pale shocked face a study in concentration, every mouth pursed and closed. Rossel grabbed Vassya’s gloved hand in his, pushed his way past the main entrance to the Philharmonic Hall and headed towards the huge crowd on Arts Square.

They had got almost to the middle, hiding among the befuddled, upturned faces, when the voice on the tape became clearly audible for the first time. A collective gasp went up. It was so loud, Rossel thought, the combined exhalation of warm breath might rise up, as one cloud, and blot from view the dome of St Basil’s.

‘God is dead, Maxim,’ said Vronsky, ‘that’s what Dostoevsky tells us. God is dead. So, everything is permitted!’

In reply, Maxim bawled out his own hypnotic incantation. ‘My appetite was sin and of that sin I made a feast. And through that feast I came to know you . . .’

The tape played on for another thirty seconds. The beat of vicious blows clearly audible. The sound of men and women begging for mercy. Begging for death. The sound of Vronsky’s contempt.