He saw the uniforms and shoulder patches right away, and his weak heart gave a painful jolt. But his face showed nothing. “You Kuznetsov?” the older officer asked.
He was a heavyset, bald man in his mid-forties. “That’s me,” Boris said calmly.
“Then come with us. We have a few serious questions.”
Boris didn’t ask what kind of questions. He stood up, slowly put on his old jacket, and got into the police van. They drove him straight to the district center.
At the station they put him in a cramped, airless office. There was a scratched desk, two chairs, and a barred window. The senior investigator slowly pulled out a thick file.
Inside were old black-and-white photographs and official documents. Boris saw his own face at once—young, from more than thirty years earlier.
There were prison intake forms from the northern colony and yellowing fingerprint cards. “You’re not Kuznetsov,” the investigator said flatly. “You’re Boris Timofeyevich Kholodov. Three prior convictions.
Your last sentence ran from 1985 to 1992. After your release, you vanished. But now, after all these years, we found you.”
“Our database was recently updated,” he added with satisfaction. “The system flagged you.” Boris kept silent.
“There’s one very old case tied to your name,” the investigator went on…
