Jake listened as he told his story. It was an ugly one, as were so many that came from that time, that place. The investigators claimed to have evidence that the man who was known in Blackburn as George Ziverts was in fact Juka Zivertus, former commander of one of the death squads in Belarus. Zivertus had organized the rounding up of hundreds of civilians, women and children, and had had them machine-gunned by the side of their graves.
‘Never!’ Ziverts said, his distress making his voice stumble over the words. ‘I never did such things. I never knew such things were happening. I fought the Soviets. I killed young men like myself. We have all had to live with that. I am not this man, this Zivertus, but how can I prove it? My family is dead. My friends are dead. They refuse to believe my papers. I don’t know what to do.’
Jake thought about this now, as he finished his cigarette, turning the photograph of Marek Lange round and round in his fingers. Had he believed then that Juris Ziverts was innocent? He couldn’t remember. He’d thought the case against him was thin to the point of unprovable, and he’d found Ziverts an unconvincing candidate for a war criminal. Perpetrators of such crimes–those who organized or authorized them–tended towards an unapologetic arrogance. They were in no hurry to admit culpability, but neither did they see themselves as having done anything wrong. Ziverts’ distressed bewilderment–and his horror at the accusation levelled against him–was not the response of a guilty man. The problem was that there was almost no way to prove guilt or innocence after all these years.
He’d told Ziverts that the whole matter was academic. The police had no convincing proof and little chance of getting any. ‘Don’t worry,’ he’d reassured the old man. There was no story for him and he hadn’t planned on returning–which was a mistake, as it turned out. But Zivert’s story had first aroused his interest in Belarus.
Jake felt oddly reluctant to return home and finish off his article with the contribution from Marek Lange. He stared into the distance, remembering how Lange’s face had frozen into blankness. The old man had held the photograph, and he’d said…Jake relaxed and let the memory form. He was in the room. It was chilly and the light was dim. Lange was motionless, staring at the picture. Everyone is afraid. Fear makes people…made me…I should not have done it. The bear at the gate…I was there. I was there. And the little one…And then in Russian: I should know. I did know. It is wrong.
I should not have done it. Done what? What should he have known, and what did he know? What had the photograph brought so shockingly to Lange’s mind? And then Faith Lange had arrived and got her grandfather off the hook. But before she came in, the old man had said something else. Minsk. It was in Minsk.
Ghost fingers touched his spine.
He had decided what he was going to do. He left the rest of his coffee and walked down the narrow steps to the street. A train clattered over the bridge above him, making the iron sing. He was going to pay a visit to Sophia Yevanova.
The sign on the door said ANTONI YEVANOV, DIRECTOR. Faith took a deep breath. She had never met Yevanov on a one-to-one basis before and would have liked a bit more preparation for this meeting. She’d prefer not to feel rushed and harassed, her mind still picking over the events of the morning. Yevanov had a reputation for impatience and for swift, sharp judgement.
She glanced at her reflection in the glass over a picture. She looked a bit windblown. Her hand moved automatically to smooth her hair–but she was aware of Trish’s eyes on her, and suppressed the impulse. She knocked on the door, waited for an acknowledgement, then pushed it open.
The room was spacious and airy. White walls reflected the light from a south-facing window that looked out across the campus, a stunted arcadia in a cityscape of concrete, stone and glass. It was deserted apart from a group of students hurrying out of the driving rain.
‘Dr Lange.’ Antoni Yevanov was coming across the room to greet her. He was tall–well over six foot, and she had to look up at him as he shook her hand. His face was thin, with arched eyebrows and the characteristic high cheekbones of the Slav. She knew that he must be in his fifties, but despite the few threads of grey in his dark hair, he looked younger.
He ushered her towards the desk, and pulled out a chair for her. ‘Please sit down.’ His movements were quick and vigorous. The room felt cool to her, but he was in his shirtsleeves and his tie was loosened. She noticed the jacket of his suit slung over the back of his chair, and was enough Katya’s daughter to observe the drape of good cloth and fine tailoring.
As she sat down, she took a moment to absorb her surroundings. The wall behind his desk was lined with bookshelves. A map of Europe patterned in reds and greens hung opposite the window. Faith recognized it–it had been the cover of his most recent book.
There were papers spread across the surface of the desk, and the computer monitor was flickering. He also had a laptop in front of him, on which he’d apparently been working before she arrived. A whiteboard beside his desk was covered with lists of ongoing projects.
He waited until she was sitting down, then took a seat in the leather chair behind the desk. ‘Dr Lange,’ he said again, then with a brief smile, ‘Faith. I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk before. I realize that your own research is being delayed while you settle in, and I’d like to get things moving there. The software you developed when you were at Oxford gets a very favourable mention in The Journal of Statistics. I have some thoughts about the ways in which you plan to move forward with this that I’d like to discuss with you another time. I am delighted that you are joining us. Now, how are you settling in?’
‘Very well,’ she said.
He asked her about the work the people on her team were doing. She’d spent her first week making sure she was familiar with all the ongoing projects, and was able to bring him up to date.
He nodded when she’d finished, then said, ‘And Helen? Helen Kovacs?’
Faith had been hoping to skip over the topic of Helen until they had had a chance to talk. ‘She’s working on her paper. We have a meeting arranged to talk about it.’
His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘I have some concerns about it,’ he said. ‘Especially as she didn’t make it to our meeting this morning.’
‘You had a meeting with Helen?’ Helen hadn’t mentioned a meeting with Yevanov. ‘I’d arranged to see her this morning.’
He frowned. ‘She didn’t make it to your meeting either?’
‘No. She left a message with Trish that she might be held up.’ It was a poor defence at best, and Yevanov didn’t look pleased. She wondered what was going on. There were issues here of which she was unaware.
She remembered Trish’s waspish remark earlier when she was on the phone to Yevanov: ‘She isn’t here. Again.’ Helen was letting herself drift into deep water. The academic world was cut-throat. There would be very little slack allowed to anyone who wasn’t putting in 100 per cent, no matter what kinds of personal problems they might be dealing with.
He was speaking again, and she made herself concentrate. ‘The Bonn conference is a particularly important one. I have made time to attend it myself, and it is essential that any contribution we make from the Centre is of an appropriate standard. I need to confirm the status of the paper with the organizers. I understood that the research stage was complete, and it was simply a matter of writing this up.’
‘That’s my understanding.’
‘So what is the significance of the material from the Litkin Archive?’
‘The…what?’ Faith had no idea what he was talking about.