“Does he know what you’re writing?”

Babel turned to check they weren’t being overheard. “What are you talking about Alexei Dmitriyevich? I never said I was writing anything.”

Korolev felt his eyebrows rise in disbelief. It hurt. Babel threw another nervous look at the building behind them.

“Just some notes, perhaps. You can’t deny it’s interesting. And the questions it raises? Can there really be so many enemies? What if the Chekists themselves have been infiltrated? What if the fear of the foreign interventionists, the spies, the Fascists and all the rest is self-perpetuating? You know, like a machine that, once you turn it on, can’t be stopped-it just carries on until there’s no one left. They tell me things, the Chekists, and they defy logic. They have quotas, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Like a factory. Each district has a set number of counterrevolutionaries and spies to identify. Do you know what that means? Suspicion isn’t even necessary these days because there’s a quota to be filled-and anyone will do. Not just filled, but exceeded if the local boss is to progress in his career, or avoid making up the numbers himself in the next quota that comes down the line. So maybe I am writing something, but only for the drawer. You could never even think of trying to publish it, of course, because the heart of the problem is that we are, as a country, genuinely in danger. Those trucks over there will be used one day, and it won’t just be for an exercise. There’s a war coming and we’ll be in it. But a few words for the drawer can’t hurt, can they?”

Korolev reached forward and put his hand to Babel ’s mouth.

“Never talk about this, Isaac. To anyone, do you hear me? Never say such things. Most of all not to me.”

Babel looked confused. “But you’re not the same as them.”

“You barely know me, brother. I’m a member of the Militia and a loyal Soviet citizen. Don’t forget it.”

Babel smile was conspiratorial. “Of course, I understand.”

“Good, let’s be clear on that,” Korolev said, deciding to ignore the smile. “I have another question. Did you ever come across a Chekist called Mironov at these parties of yours? Boris Ivanovich Mironov? A major?”

“The name is familiar. I could ask a few people.”

“Neither of us would want Gregorin to know you’d asked about this man, believe me.”

“You worry too much. I’ve come to the conclusion after the last few years that the more you worry, and the more you try to avoid the danger, the more at risk you are. They smell the fear on you. Then the phone stops ringing and friends cross the road to avoid you and then, bang, one morning there’s a sealed apartment, red wax hanging from a string, and you’re never heard of again. I thought it through. If they’re going to take you, they’ll take you. Why help them?”

Korolev looked at him in disbelief, but Babel was oblivious.

“Anyway, I think I know the fellow to talk to-a decent man, well-connected within the organization, but not front line. I know him from the war; I can talk to him as one man to another and nothing will go further.”

“That would be just as well,” Korolev said.

Babel smiled at him, amused. Their footsteps crunched over the gravel as they returned to the Institute’s entrance. Some orderlies were unloading stretchers from a truck-it seemed that the following day’s exercise would be authentic.

The driver had come for him without announcement. A job needed to be done straight away and he was to be the backup in case things didn’t go according to plan. Not that there seemed to be much of a plan. The driver had a truck half full of rubble from somewhere, and an accident was to be arranged at the shortest of notice. He did as he was told, however, and climbed into the passenger seat. They drove across town and then parked on the side of the street. The driver went to make a phone call and, when he returned, handed him a photograph and explained what was to be done. “It won’t be long now,” the driver said, checking his watch.

After a little while a car had entered the gates across the street and the driver had nodded to him. Then, five minutes later, a different car had come out-a past-it looking Ford-and they’d followed it, from a distance initially. He was no saint-the Lord knew that-no one could have done the things he’d done and not be changed by it. But this smelled worse than anything up until now. By a distance.

He couldn’t complain: he’d had a chance to refuse at the beginning, all those years before. There would have been no shame then, but he knew someone would have to say yes sooner or later and so he’d offered it up to the future; to the expectation of a new society where crime didn’t exist, where the workers and peasants of the world would combine together in happy toil, where war and the exploitation of the masses were something students would study in history classes. He looked at the driver and felt weak with nausea. If this turned out to be a rogue operation, the very excuses he’d scorned from the State’s enemies would be the only ones he could think of to justify himself. He hadn’t meant to do anything wrong; he’d been misled by others; he’d believed he was acting in the best interests of the Party. He’d be better off saying nothing at all.

It was a tragedy, really. They’d taught him to work for the collective good-explained to him that the individual was weak but the Collective was a mighty force that could change history itself. But now it turned out that he’d been an egotistical individualist all along. He’d a choice all right, he could shop the rats, but it was no choice really, he’d be shot as well. Or given twenty-five in the Zone, which was the same thing. That long in the Zone wasn’t possible. He knew how it was out there, men sleeping in the snow, frozen solid to each other in the morning, if they even survived the night. So much for theory-this was reality.

He probably wouldn’t even make it to a camp, of course, the other Zeks would have him on the train. They’d smell the Lubianka basement on him and he’d wake up with a hole where his throat had been. And his son? God might help the boy, if that villain still existed, but no one else would. He’d be lucky if he ended up half-starved and lice-ridden in an orphanage. More likely he’d be found dead under a bridge-another nameless waif to be tossed into an incinerator. This was the logic, Soviet logic. He was a traitor and his line would be eradicated, his family would cease to exist and no one would mention his name again. His fine apartment would be fought over by his former comrades, his belongings scavenged and there wouldn’t even be a ripple to mark his passing.

They were behind the car now, traveling in the inside lane while the car stayed wide. There was only one man in the vehicle-it wasn’t the boy and it couldn’t be the writer, not in a Militia vehicle. The driver’s face was white in the early evening light-his eyes were like black bullets and he could sense his physical excitement. Here was a fellow who enjoyed his work it seemed. A convoy of huge Metro trucks was rumbling toward them on the other side of the road, and he knew enough to brace himself.

The trucks came closer, and the driver moved up alongside the car. So near were they that he could hear the rattle of the Ford over the roar of the truck’s engine. Then the driver swung the truck, pushing the Militia vehicle up onto two wheels, and for a moment he stared down into the shocked eyes of the car’s occupant, no more than three feet beneath them. There was a crash and a screech of tearing metal. Did he imagine the Militiaman’s scream in among the noise? Perhaps. It all happened in milli-seconds. The Ford hit the lead truck of the convoy head on, collapsed like a concertina, and then the truck was mounting it and the car was being crushed as if it were made from paper.

He looked for the Militiaman in the rearview mirror, but there was just a jumble of twisted metal, jagged glass and shredded fabric. The face stayed with him, though. And it wasn’t the face from the photograph.