Ledjo stood pressed against the front door, his nose rubbing the unvarnished wood and his mouth moving as he silently counted to himself. When he reached five he spun round and Valera, who had been creeping up on him from the kitchen, froze like a statue. He stared at her. Ledjo had inherited his mother’s eyes, but also his father’s, so they looked more like raindrops than almonds, with a slight upward curve at the edges that made him look permanently on the verge of breaking into a smile. He giggled and waited for her to make the slightest movement. She didn’t budge.

He faced the door again, counting faster this time. When he turned back, Valera was already halfway across the living room. He started to spin round and round, giggling more with every turn until Valera reached him, scooped him up, and pulled him into a tight, bony hug.

‘Be a good boy today at school,’ she said into his neck.

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, Mama.’

She put him down and straightened his simple uniform of a white shirt and grey shorts.

‘Goodbye, my little Pikku,’ she said once she was done.

Then she took his hand in hers, opened the door, and stepped outside.

Ten minutes later she had delivered Ledjo to school and was heading back to her lab. As she passed the power plant, its own siren began to wail and men ran to deal with today’s little crisis. Valera silenced the ever-present worry at the back of her mind that one morning the emergency at the plant would be really serious. Instead, she focused on the hope that she would get through the day without being summoned to see Zukolev. Unfortunately, when she reached her lab two of his goons were already there waiting for her.

Every ruble that came into Povenets B passed through Zukolev’s office, and it showed—on both the man and room. Zukolev had grown fat on his excess. His GRU dress uniform, which he wore at all times, strained against his stomach, and his face was flushed red from too much rich meat and vodka.

His office was modelled on Stalin’s own in the Kremlin, to which Zukolev had made a pilgrimage as a young GRU officer. The walls were covered in dark maroon wallpaper and hung with ugly paintings on revolutionary themes. A large wooden desk sat in the middle of the room. Marble busts of Lenin and Stalin stared at each other from either end.