Download [PDF] Books Child 44 [PDF, Mobi] by Tom Rob Smith Read Full Online "Click Visit button" to access full FREE ebook. tom rob smith pdf Tom Rob Smith Ã¨ nato nel a Londra (Inghilterra) da madre svedese e Tom Rob Smith (* in London) ist ein britischer Schriftsteller. Enfant 44 (Child 44) est le premier roman de l'Ã©crivain britannique Tom. CHILD 44 TOM ROB SMITH - In this site isn`t the same as a solution manual you download in a book store or download off the web. Our Over manuals and.
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In the case of young, first-time novelist Tom Rob Smith, it simply cannot do him justice. Child 44 is not only a thriller of the highest quality–addictive, pacey. Tom Rob Smith's remarkable debut thriller powerfully dramatizes the human a serial killer against the opposition of Stalinist state security forces, Child 44 is at. Born in to a Swedish mother and an English father, Tom Rob Smith's bestselling novels in the Child 44 trilogy were international publishing sensations .
Would you be an ace or a king, a spade or a heart? I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say that Child 44 was the finest, darkest, most emotionally draining reading experience. It is a deep dive to the rawest of emotions of the human soul. The fight to preserve and survive as opposed to the inclination of some to destroy all that is good and pure. Before I continue, I must say that I will not engage in any discussion regarding political commentary or historical accuracy.
The fight to preserve and survive as opposed to the inclination of some to destroy all that is good and pure. Before I continue, I must say that I will not engage in any discussion regarding political commentary or historical accuracy. Any relevant comments will be promptly deleted and dealt with.
And as a novel, Child 44 is brilliant, in my opinion. Leo is a high ranking officer of MGB but a personal quarrel with Vassili, another member of the State, leads him to forfeit the life he knew. His sole purpose becomes the discovery of the man who commits crimes beyond all reason.
The murders and mutilations of children in the wintry forests across the country. So, everything comes down to a race against time and people whose false ideals demand absolute silence and blind obedience. They are the Boschian History of a quite recent past. Tom Rob Smith writes without cheap sensationalism but with raw, razor-sharp language that is beautiful in its darkness.
Stacks of papers had been burnt. There were layers of fine ash where correspondence had been heaped and set alight. Using the muzzle of his gun he raked the remains hoping to find some fragment untouched by fire. The ashes fell apart—everything was burnt and black. The traitor had escaped. Leo was to blame. Better to let ten innocent men suffer than one spy escape.
He should never have said yes. His first serious misjudgement since joining State Security. He was aware that few officers ever got an opportunity to make a second mistake. Brodsky was educated, with some competence in the English language, dealing with foreigners on a regular basis. This was grounds for vigilance but, as Leo had pointed out, the man was a respected vet in a city with very few trained vets.
Foreign diplomats had to take their cats and dogs to someone. His background was impeccable. The suspect must have saved hundreds of lives. Kuzmin reminded Leo that sentimentality could blind a man to the truth. Those who appear the most trustworthy deserve the most suspicion. Trust but Check. Check on Those we Trust. The duty of an investigator was to scratch away at innocence until guilt was uncovered. Why did he establish his practice within walking distance of the American Embassy?
And why—shortly after he opened this practice—did several employees from the American Embassy obtain pets?
Finally, why was it that the pets of foreign diplomats seemed to require more frequent attention than pets belonging to a typical citizen? Kuzmin had been the first to agree that there was a comical aspect to all of this and it was precisely this disarming quality which had made him uneasy.
The innocence of the circumstances felt like a brilliant disguise. It felt like the MGB was being laughed at. There were few more serious crimes than that.
Though he never said as much, he was uncomfortable making an arrest without more evidence. As for evidence, that would be acquired during their interrogation. He was an investigator. In short, he wanted to feel OK about arresting him. As part of the surveillance operation, Leo had taken the day shift, following the suspect during the hours of eight in the morning through to eight in the evening.
The suspect worked, ate lunch out and went home. In short he seemed a good citizen. With hindsight how ridiculous it all seemed. How frustrating that he was conversing with relatives, coaxing children, whilst this suspect, this traitor, was making his escape, making a mockery of Leo. A back window had been prised open. Brodsky is gone. To his surprise his mentor had seemed gratified.
If an allegation contained only one per cent truth it was better to consider the entire allegation true than to dismiss it. Leo was instructed to catch this traitor at all costs. He was not to sleep, eat, rest, he was not to do anything until that man was in their custody, where—as Kuzmin had smugly pointed out—he should have been three days ago.
Leo rubbed his eyes. He could feel a knot in his stomach. At best he seemed naive, at worst incompetent. He decided against it. He had trained himself to keep his feelings locked out of view. A junior officer hurried into the room, probably keen to help, to prove his dedication. Leo waved him away, wanting to be alone. He took a moment to calm down, staring out of the window at the snow which had begun to fall over the city. He lit a cigarette, blowing smoke on a pane of glass.
What had gone wrong? The suspect must have sighted the agents tailing him and planned his escape. If he was burning documents that meant he was keen to conceal material relating to his espionage or his current destination.
Leo was sure that Brodsky had an escape plan, a way to get out of the country. He had to find some fragment of this plan. The neighbours were a retired couple in their seventies who lived with their married son, his wife and their two children. A family of six in two rooms, not an unusual ratio. All six of them were sitting in their kitchen side by side with a junior officer standing behind them for the purpose of intimidation. He could see their fear.
If you help him in any way even by saying nothing you will be treated as an accomplice. The pressure is on you to prove your loyalty to the State. There is no pressure on us to prove your guilt.
That, right now, is taken for granted. The elderly man, the grandfather, no doubt a savvy survivor, was quick to offer every piece of information he had. Not wishing to seem uncooperative the grandfather offered opinions and suggestions as to where this traitor could be, all of which Leo sensed were nothing more than desperate guesswork. The grandfather concluded by saying how much everyone in their family disliked and mistrusted Brodsky as a neighbour and how the only person who liked him was Zina Morosovna, the lady living downstairs.
Zina Morosovna was aged somewhere in her fifties and trembling like a child, a fact she was trying unsuccessfully to hide by smoking. Leo found her standing beside a cheap reproduction of a famous Stalin portrait—smooth skin, wise eyes—hung prominently over her fireplace. Perhaps she thought it might protect her. Zina was caught off guard; her sense of discretion blunted by her indignation at this lie: He was a good man.
Yet you call him good? Treachery is a virtue? Realizing her mistake too late, Zina began to qualify her comment. He was polite. These qualifications were stuttering and irrelevant. Leo ignored them. He took out a pad and wrote down her ill-chosen words in large visible letters. Those words were more than enough to convict her as a collaborator.
At her age she had little chance of surviving the Gulags. They were common currency. Zina retreated to the corner of the room, stubbed out her cigarette and immediately regretted it, fumbling for another. His wife was killed in the war. His son died of tuberculosis. He rarely had any visitors.
As far as I could tell he had few friends… She paused. Anatoly had been her friend. Caught up in her recollections she glanced at Leo. Her life was in the balance—there was only one way to survive. But could she betray a man she loved? However, he did receive and send letters. Occasionally he left them with me to post. The only regular correspondence was addressed to someone in the village of Kimov.
He mentioned that he had a friend there. Her voice was choked with guilt. He ripped out the incriminating page from his note-book and handed it to her. She accepted the sheet as payment for a betrayal. He saw contempt in her eyes. The name of a rural village to the north of Moscow was a tenuous lead. If Brodsky was working as a spy it was much more likely he was being sheltered by the people he was working for.
The MGB had long been convinced there was in existence a network of safe houses under foreign control. The idea of a foreign-funded traitor falling back on a personal connection—a collective farmer—ran contrary to the notion that he was a professional spy.
And yet Leo felt sure this was a lead he should pursue. He brushed the discrepancies aside: This was the only clue he had. Equivocation had already cost him. He hurried to the truck parked outside and began rereading the case file, searching for something which might connect with the village of Kimov. He was interrupted by the return of his second in command, Vasili Ilyich Nikitin. Ruthless, competitive, he harboured no loyalties to anyone except the MGB.
Leo privately considered those loyalties to be less about patriotism and more about self-interest. In his early days as an investigator Vasili had signalled his dedication by denouncing his only brother for making anti-Stalinist remarks.
Vasili had written up the report and the brother had been given a twenty-year labour sentence. Instead it survived in a much weakened state. With no more brothers left to denounce, Leo knew his deputy was on the lookout for some other way of getting back in favour.
Having just finished his search of the veterinary practice, Vasili was apparently pleased with himself. All other correspondence had been burnt—as it had been in the apartment—yet in his hurry the suspect had missed this one. Leo read it. The letter was from a friend telling Anatoly he was welcome to stay with him at any time.
The address was partially smudged but the name of the city was clear: Leo folded the letter and handed it back to his deputy. Not a friend. He wanted us to find it. The letter had been hastily written. The handwriting was inconsistent, poorly disguised.
The content was risible and seemed solely intended to convince the reader that the writer was a friend to whom Brodsky could turn in an hour of need.
The location of the letter—dropped behind the desk—seemed staged. He dismissed the idea: He returned his attention to the file. According to the records, Brodsky was friends with a man called Mikhail Sviatoslavich Zinoviev, who had been discharged from the Red Army suffering chronic frostbite.
Near death, several of his toes had been amputated: Brodsky had performed the operation. Wind and snow gusted around them with such ferocity it seemed as if they had some personal stake in Leo not reaching his destination. The windscreen wipers, attached to the roof of the front cabin struggled to keep even the smallest patch of window clear. With visibility less than ten metres the truck pushed forward. Hunched forward with maps spread across his lap, Leo was seated beside Vasili and their driver.
All three of them were dressed as though they were outside—coats, gloves, hats. The steel cabin with its steel roof and steel floor was heated only by the residual warmth from the rattling engine. But at least the cabin offered some protection from the weather.
In the back his nine heavily armed agents travelled in no such luxury. The ZiS trucks had tarpaulin roofs which cold air and even snow whipped through. Since temperatures could fall to minus thirty, all rear compartments of the ZiSs were fitted with woodburning stoves bolted to the floor. These pot-bellied contraptions were able to warm only those within touching distance of them, forcing the men to huddle and regularly rotate position. Leo had sat there many times himself: For the first time in his career Leo could sense dissent among his team.
His men were used to tough conditions. No, there was something else. Perhaps it was the fact that the mission could have been avoided. Perhaps they had no confidence in the Kimov lead.
Tonight he felt hostility, resistance. He pushed the thoughts aside. Right now his popularity was the least of his concerns. Already alert to the fact he was a wanted man, Brodsky was unlikely to surrender.
He might fight to the death. He needed to be taken alive. His confession was of paramount importance. Furthermore his escape had embarrassed Leo personally and he was determined to make amends, determined that he should be the one to make the arrest. Nor was it merely that his career depended upon success.
The consequences ran deeper than that. Failure in such a high-profile espionage case might result in claims that Leo had deliberately sabotaged the investigation. Failure to recapture the suspect would further implicate him. His loyalty would be called into question. No one was exempt from that rule, not even those who enforced it. In the hierarchies of the State Security, fortunes could change overnight. For both men much depended upon the location of this traitor.
There were just the tiniest visible fractures in his attractive facade, appearing at the corners of his mouth, a slight sneer that, if you knew how to interpret it, hinted at the dark thoughts lying beneath his good looks. Perhaps sensing that he was the subject of attention, Vasili turned and smiled a thin, ambiguous smile. Something pleased him. Leo knew immediately that something must be wrong. He checked the map. With a population of less than a thousand, Kimov was a speck of dust on the Soviet canvas.
Even at fifteen kilometres per hour this village would appear and disappear in the time it would take to change gear. They were still travelling north when they should be travelling west.
Since it was nearly impossible to take any kind of bearings based upon the surrounding landscape he calculated where they were in terms of kilometres. They were too far north. The driver had overshot the mark. Leo noticed that neither the driver nor Vasili seemed surprised by the request. The driver mumbled: Stop the truck. The driver gently slowed, pumping the brake in short bursts in order to avoid sliding on the ice.
The truck came to a gradual stop, Leo jumped out and in blizzard conditions began to direct the driver through an awkward U-turn, the ZiS being almost as wide as the road. Leo ran forward banging on the door but it was too late. One of the back tyres ran off the road.
It was spinning uselessly in a snow drift. Vasili had organized the truck, the driver. Leo opened the cabin door, shouting over the wind: The driver stepped out. By now the officers in the back had also jumped out to survey the situation.
They glared at Leo with disapproval. Was this annoyance at the delay, the mission itself, irritation with his leadership? He ordered one of the other men to take the wheel whilst the entire team, including Vasili, pushed the truck out of the snow. The tyre spun, spraying dirty slush up their uniforms. Finally the snow chains caught the road and the truck lurched forward.
Leo sent the disgraced driver to sit in the back. That kind of mistake was more than enough to warrant a written report and a Gulag sentence.
Vasili must have guaranteed the driver immunity, a guarantee that would only hold up if Leo failed. Leo wondered how many other members of his team had more invested in his failure than his success. Feeling alone, isolated within his own unit, he took the wheel. He could trust no one. Vasili got in beside him, wisely opting to say nothing. Leo put the truck in gear.
By the time they were on the correct road, travelling west, on an approach to Kimov the storm had passed. A weak winter sun began to rise. Leo was exhausted. Driving through the snow had drained him. His arms and shoulders were stiff, his eyelids heavy. They were passing through the rural heartlands—fields, forests.
Turning into a gentle valley he saw the village: This was old Russia: Leo stopped the truck at the first farmhouse. From his jacket pocket he took out a glass vial filled with small, unevenly shaped dirty white crystals—pure methamphetamine—a narcotic much favoured by the Nazis. This was one of them. But its price was a total crash about twenty-four hours later: Side effects had begun to manifest themselves.
His powers of recall had faded, precise details and names eluded him, previous cases and arrests had become muddled in his memory and he now had to write notes to himself. If it had been amplified by the methamphetamines, that was all to the good. He tapped a small amount onto his palm, then a little more, struggling to remember the correct dosage.
Better too much than too little. Satisfied, he washed it down with the contents of a hip flask. The vodka stung his throat, failing to hide the acrid chemical taste, which made him want to gag. He waited for the sensation to pass, surveying his surroundings. Fresh snow covered everything.
Leo was pleased. Outside Kimov itself there were few places to hide. A person would be visible for kilometres, their tracks through the snow easy to follow.
He had no idea which of these farms belonged to Mikhail Zinoviev. Since a military truck parked in the road took away any element of surprise Leo jumped out, drew his gun and moved towards the nearest house. He approached the porch, checking his weapon. She was wearing a blue-patterned dress with white sleeves, and an embroidered shawl wrapped around her head. She was fearless and made no attempt to hide the lines of disdain carved into her brow. Is this his farmhouse?
As though Leo were speaking a foreign language she cocked her head to one side and made no response. It was the second time in two days that an elderly woman had squared up to him, held him in open contempt. There was something about these women which made them untouchable; his authority meant nothing to them.
What can I do for you? Once again sons made excuses for their mothers. Which is his farm? Leo returned to the truck.
His men had assembled. He split the team into three groups. In addition one man in each group carried an AK They were ready for a pitched battle, if it came to that.
We need his confession. Leo repeated this command with particular emphasis to the group headed by Vasili. Killing Anatoly Brodsky would be a punishable offence. Their own safety was secondary to the life of the suspect. Vasili moved off. Leo grabbed his arm. Halfway towards the house the men divided into the three groups, breaking off in different directions.
Neighbours stole glances from their windows then disappeared inside. Thirty paces from the door Leo paused, allowing the other two groups to get in position. There was no sign of life outside. A whisper of smoke rose from the chimney. Ragged cloth hung in front of the small windows.
It was impossible to see into the rooms. Except for the click of AK safety catches there was silence. Suddenly a young girl stepped out from a small rectangular building, the pit toilet—set back from the main house. She was humming; the sound carried across the snow.
The three officers nearest Leo swung round, training their guns on her. The little girl froze, terrified. Leo raised his hands. He held his breath, hoping not to hear the report of machine-gun fire. No one moved. And then the girl broke into a run, sprinting towards the house as fast as she could, screaming for her mother. Leo felt the first amphetamine kick—his fatigue evaporated.
He leapt forward, his men followed, moving in on the house like a noose tightening around a neck. The little girl threw open the front door, scampered inside. Leo was only seconds behind, hitting the front door with his shoulder, raising his gun and barging into the house. He found himself inside a small, warm kitchen surrounded by the smell of breakfast.
There were two young girls—the elder was maybe ten years old and the younger four years old—standing by a small fire. Their mother, a stout, tough looking woman who looked like she could swallow bullets and spit them back out, was in front of them, shielding them with one hand on each of their chests. A man in his forties entered from the back room.
Leo turned to him. Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky is a spy. Tell me where he is. He works as a vet. You and your family will be safe. Leo felt an overwhelming sense of relief. The traitor was here. Without waiting for an answer, Leo gestured for his men to begin searching the house.
Vasili entered the barn, gun raised, finger against the trigger. He stepped towards the pile of straw, the only place to hide, high enough to conceal a man. He fired several short bursts. Wisps of straw flew up. Smoke rose from the barrel of his gun. The cows behind him snorted, shuffled away, kicking the ground. But no blood seeped out. There was no one here, they were wasting their time. He went outside, slung the machine gun over his shoulder and lit a cigarette.
Alarmed by the sound of gunfire, Leo ran out of the house. Vasili called to him: Buzzing with narcotic energy Leo hurried towards the barn, his jaw clamped tight. Annoyed at being ignored, Vasili tossed the cigarette into snow, watching as it melted down to the ground. Maybe you should shoot them just in case. Vasili glanced around for laughter and the men obliged. Far better than that, their laughter was an indication that the balance of power had begun to shift.
Their allegiance to Leo was weakening. Maybe it was the exhausting journey. But Vasili wondered if it had something to do with Fyodor and the death of his little boy. Leo had been sent to clear that matter up. If there was resentment it could be mined, manipulated. Leo bent down, examining the tracks in the snow. There were fresh boot prints; some belonged to his officers but underneath those were a set leading out from the barn and heading to the fields.
He stood up and entered the barn. Vasili called out after him: Ignoring him, Leo touched the smashed lock on the door: Continue searching the house. He took off his heavy winter jacket. Without meaning it as an intentional snub he gave it to his deputy. Unimpeded, able to run, he began following the tracks towards the fields. All the same, Leo was still their superior officer, for the moment at least, and after exchanging looks with Vasili the three men began sluggishly jogging in an imitation of obedience, following a man who was already several hundred metres ahead of them.
Leo was picking up speed. The amphetamines focused him: He was incapable of stopping or slowing, incapable of failure, incapable of feeling the cold. Reaching the top he paused, surveying the landscape around him. There were snow-covered fields in every direction.
Some distance ahead there was the edge of a dense forest but before that, a kilometre away, downhill, there was a man shuffling through the snow. This was no farmer or labourer. It was the traitor. Leo was sure of it. He was making his way north on course towards the forest. Leo had no dogs to track him. He checked over his shoulder— his three agents were lagging.
Some tie between him and them had snapped. As though some sixth sense had alerted him, Anatoly stopped walking and turned around. There, running down the small hill towards him, was a man. There could be no doubt that this was an officer of the State. Anatoly had been certain that all evidence connecting him to this remote village had been destroyed.
For this reason he stood for a moment, doing nothing at all, mesmerized by the sight of his pursuer. He felt his stomach heave, his face flush red and then, realizing this man meant death, he spun around and began running towards the woods. His first few steps were clumsy and panicked, staggering sideways into the deeper snow drifts. He quickly understood that his coat was a hindrance. He pulled it off, dropping it on the ground, running for his life. As Leo and Raisa close in on the serial killer, desperately trying to stay a step ahead of the government's relentless operatives, the reader races with them through a web of intrigue to the novel's heart-stopping conclusion.
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