The Secret Speech

  A cluster of prisoners had gathered on the roof. Since the destruction of the towers, it had become one of the highest vantage points in the camp. Aside from Lazar and Georgi there were the two other leaders and their closest supporters: ten men in all.

  The vory leader asked Leo:

  —You’re one of them. What will they do? Will they negotiate?

  —Yes, but you can trust nothing they say.

  The younger convict leader stepped forward:

  —What about the speech? We are not under Stalin’s rule anymore. Our country has changed. We can make our case. We were being treated unfairly. Many of our convictions should be reviewed. We should be released!

  —That speech might force them to negotiate in earnest. However, we are a long way from Moscow. The Kolyma administration may have decided to deal with this insurrection in secret, to prevent moderate Moscow influences becoming involved.

  —They want to kill us?

  —This uprising is a threat to their way of life.

  On the ground a prisoner shouted:

  —They’re calling!

  The prisoners hurried to the ladder, bottlenecking in their haste to clamber down. Leo was last to descend, unable to hurry since bending his legs caused a sharp pain in both knees, the damaged skin stretching. By the time he reached the bottom of the ladder, he was sweating, short of breath. The others were already by the radio.

  A radio transceiver was the sole means of communication between the various camps and the administrative headquarters in Magadan. One of the prisoners with some rudimentary knowledge of the equipment had taken charge. He was wearing earphones and repeated the words he could hear:

  —Regional Director Abel Prezent… He wants to speak to whoever is in charge.

  Without discussion the young leader took the microphone, launching into a rhetorical outburst:

  —Gulag 57 is in the hands of the prisoners! We have risen up against the guards! They beat us and killed at their whim! No more…

  Leo said:

  —Mention that the guards are alive.

  The man waved Leo aside, swollen on his own importance:

  —We embrace our leader Khrushchev’s speech. In his name, we want every prisoner’s sentence reviewed. We want those who should be free, granted freedom. We want those who have done wrong, treated humanely. We demand this in the name of our revolutionary forefathers. That glorious cause has been corrupted by your crimes. We are the true heirs of the revolution! We demand you apologize! And send us food, good food, not convict gruel!

  Unable to conceal his disbelief Leo shook his head, commenting:

  —If you want to get everyone killed, ask for caviar and prostitutes. If you want to live, tell them the guards are alive.

  The man added, peevishly:

  —I should tell you that the guards are alive. We are holding them in humane conditions, treating them far better than they treated us. They will remain alive as long as you do not attack us. If you attack, we have taken precautions to ensure every last guard will die!

  The voice on the radio crackled in reply, words that the man repeated:

  —He requests proof of life. Once that is given he will listen to our demands.

  Leo moved close to Lazar, petitioning him as the voice of reason:

  —The injured guards should be sent over. Without medical attention they will die.

  The vory leader, annoyed at being sidelined, interjected:

  —We shouldn’t give them anything. It is a sign of weakness.

  Leo countered:

  —When those guards die of their injuries they will be worthless to you. This way you gain some value from them.

  The vory sneered:

  —And no doubt you want to be included in the truck that carries them out?

  He’d guessed Leo’s intention exactly. Leo nodded:

  —Yes.

  Lazar whispered in Georgi’s ear, words that he announced with his own note of surprise:

  —… And I want to go with him.

  Everyone turned to Lazar. He continued, whispering to Georgi:

  —Before I die I would like to see my wife and son. Leo took them from me. He is the only person who can reunite us.

  THE FREIGHT TRUCK WAS LOADED with the most severely injured guards, six in total, none of whom would survive another twenty-four hours without medical attention. They were lifted on planks of wood, improvised stretchers, Leo assisting in the transfer of the final guard from the barracks. Laying him down in the back of the truck, they were ready to go.

  As they were about to leave, Leo caught a glimpse of the guard’s watch. It was cheap plate gold, unremarkable except for the fact that it was Timur’s. There was no doubt: he’d seen that watch countless times. He’d listened to Timur’s story of how his father had passed it off as a family heirloom despite it being worthless. Crouching down, Leo ran his fingertip across the cracked glass. He looked at the injured officer. The man’s eyes were nervous. He understood its significance. Leo asked:

  —You took this from my friend?

  The officer said nothing.

  —This belonged to my friend.

  Leo felt anger rising through his body:

  —This was his watch.

  The officer began to shake. Leo tapped the watch, commenting:

  —I’m going to have to take it back.

  Leo tried to unclip the worthless watch. As he did, he lifted his leg, pressing his knee against the man’s injured, bloody chest, pushing down hard:

  —You see… this is a family heirloom… it now belongs to Timur’s wife… and his sons… his two sons… two wonderful sons… two wonderful boys… It belongs to them because you murdered their father… you murdered my friend…

  The officer began to bleed from his mouth and nose, his arms feebly patting Leo’s leg, trying to push it away. Leo kept his knee steady, maintaining pressure on the injured torso. The pain from his bruised knee caused his eyes to water. They weren’t tears for Timur. This was hatred, revenge, the force of which made him push down harder and harder. The material of his trousers was soaked with the officer’s blood.

  The strap unclipped, coming free from the officer’s limp wrist. Leo put it in his pocket. The remaining five men in the back of the truck were looking at him, terrified. He walked past them, calling out to the prisoners on the ground:

  —One of these officers is dead. We have space for another.

  While they offloaded the body, an event which none of the prisoners questioned, Leo examined the watch. As the rage began to seep away, he felt weak, not out of regret or shame, but tiredness as the most powerful of stimulants—revenge—flushed out of his system. That depth of anger must be how Fraera felt about him.

  Leo peered at the injured guard walking to the truck, the replacement for the officer he’d just killed. His arm was wrapped in bloody bandages. Something was wrong. The man was nervous. Perhaps he’d also been involved in Timur’s murder. Leo reached out, stopping him, taking hold of the bandages and pulling them back, revealing a long, superficial cut stretching from his elbow to his hand, self-inflicted. The same was true for the injuries to his head. The man whispered:

  —Please…

  If caught he’d be shot. If the prisoners thought the guards were exploiting their kindness, a kindness they’d never been shown, the entire operation would be at risk. After the execution of the other guard, Leo hesitated only briefly before allowing him into the back of the truck.

  Lazar, speaking through Georgi, was addressing the other prisoners, explaining to his followers his reasons for wanting to leave:

  —I do not expect to live much longer. I am too weak to fight. I thank you for letting me go home.

  The young leader responded:

  —Lazar, you have helped many men. You have helped me. You have earned this request.

  The other prisoners chimed in agreement.

  Leo approached Lazar, assessing his appearance:

  —We need to dress as g
uards.

  Leo, Lazar, and Georgi stripped three dead guards of their uniforms. They hastily got changed, hurrying, fearful the prisoners would change their minds. Dressed in an ill-fitting uniform, Leo took the wheel, Georgi in the middle, Lazar on the other side. Prisoners opened the gates.

  Suddenly the young leader banged his hand on the truck door. Leo was ready to accelerate off, should he need to. But the man said:

  —They’ve agreed to accept the wounded as a sign of good faith. Good luck, Lazar, I hope you find your wife and son.

  He stepped away from the truck. Leo put the vehicle into gear, driving past the remains of the two guard towers, through the perimeter gates, and onto the highway, heading directly to the military encampment on the other side of the plateau.

  RUNNING AS FAST AS HE COULD, the radio operator arrived at the outer gates. The prisoners were watching as the truck set off along the highway. Out of breath, the operator exclaimed:

  —They’re leaving already? But we haven’t told the regional commander. We haven’t told him we’re sending the sick and injured. Should I run back and tell them?

  The young leader grabbed the man’s arm, stopping him:

  —We’re not going to tell them. We cannot fight a revolution with men who want to run away. We must make a lesson out of Lazar. The others must learn that there is no option but to fight. If the soldiers open fire on their own injured guards, so be it.

  SAME DAY

  LEO DROVE SLOWLY, edging along the highway toward the temporary encampment. With only two kilometers remaining, midway between rival camps, his eye was caught by a single puff of smoke on the horizon.

  The view disappeared, engulfed in a cloud of dust. An explosion dug up the highway, only meters in front of the truck. Dirt and ice and shrapnel cracked against the windshield. Leo swerved, avoiding the crater. The right tire slipped off the tarmac. The truck almost rolled over, shaking as it passed through the smoke, lopsided. Heaving the steering wheel, he pulled the truck level, skidding back into the middle of the highway. He checked his rearview mirror, staring at the scooped-out portion of tarmac.

  Another puff of smoke appeared on the horizon, then a second and a third; they were mortar rounds fired one after the other. Leo slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The truck surged forward, trying to accelerate under their trajectory, exploiting the fractional lag time between firing and impact. The engine growled, its speed slowly building. Only now did Lazar and Georgi turn to Leo for an explanation. Before they could speak, the first shell landed directly behind—so close the rear of the truck lifted up. For a fraction of a second only the front tires were touching the highway and Leo could no longer see anything except the road, the cabin facing directly down, angled toward the tarmac. Convinced the truck was going to flip over and land upside down, he felt more surprised than relieved when the rear sat back with a jolt, knocking them out of their seats. Leo struggled with the wheel, trying to regain control. The second shell landed wide, missing the highway, showering the truck with ragged chunks from the plateau, shattering the side window.

  Leo swerved, abandoning the highway just as the third shell landed—a perfect shot, detonating exactly where the truck had been. The tarmac was ripped up, the remains thrown into the air.

  Crashing across the uneven icy tundra, bumping up and down, Georgi cried out:

  —Why are they firing?

  —Your comrades lied! They haven’t called us in!

  In the side mirrors Leo saw the injured guards, confused and panicked and bloody, peering around the canvas, trying to work out why they were under fire. Using his elbow, Leo knocked out the cracked side window, sticking his head through and shouting at the guards:

  —Your uniforms! Wave them!

  Two of the guards stripped off their jackets, waving them like flags.

  Four puffs of smoke appeared on the horizon.

  Unable to accelerate across the tundra, Leo had no other option except to hold the truck steady and hope. He imagined the shells arcing in the air, rushing up, then whistling down toward them. Time seemed to stretch—a second becoming a minute—and then the explosions sounded out.

  The truck was still bumping along. Glancing in the mirror, Leo saw four columns of dust rising behind the truck. He smiled:

  —We’re under their range!

  He hammered the steering wheel in relief:

  —We’re too close!

  The relief melted away. Up ahead, at the edge of the temporary encampment, two tanks rotated their turrets toward them.

  The nearest tank fired, an orange burst. Leo’s body involuntarily tensed, the air sucked out of his lungs. But there was no explosion—in the side mirror he saw the shell had ripped through the truck’s tarpaulin and exited the other side. The gunner would not make the same mistake twice, directing the next shell at the steel cabin where it was sure to detonate. Leo punched the brakes. The truck stopped. He threw open the door, climbing up onto the roof of the cabin, taking off his jacket, waving, shouting:

  —I’m one of you!

  Simultaneously both tanks lurched forward, their caterpillar tracks splintering across the tundra. Leo remained on the top of the cabin, waving his uniform from side to side. Less than a hundred meters away one tank came to a halt. The hatch opened. The tank operator peered out, mounted machine gun at the ready. He called out:

  —Who are you?

  —I’m a guard. I’ve got wounded officers in the back.

  —Why didn’t you radio?

  —The prisoners told us they had. They told us they’d spoken to you. They tricked us! They tricked you! They wanted you to kill your own men.

  The second tank circled the rear of the truck, its turret aimed squarely at the occupants. The wounded guards pointed to their uniforms. The hatch of the second tank opened, the operator calling out:

  —All clear!

  AT THE PERIMETER of the temporary military encampment Leo stopped the truck. The injured were unloaded, carried to a medical tent. Once the last man was helped off, Leo would start the engine and drive down the highway, back toward the port of Magadan. The back of the truck was empty. They were ready to go. Georgi tapped his arm. A soldier was approaching:

  —Are you the ranking officer?

  —Yes.

  —The director wants to speak with you. Come with me.

  Leo indicated that Lazar and Georgi remain in the truck.

  The command center was under a snow-camouflage canopy. Senior officers surveyed the plateau with binoculars. Detailed maps of the region were spread out, blueprints of the camp. A gaunt, sick-looking man greeted Leo:

  —You were driving the truck?

  —Yes, sir.

  —I’m Abel Prezent. Have we met?

  Leo couldn’t be sure that every officer didn’t meet Prezent at one stage or another, but he was unlikely to remember every guard:

  —Briefly, sir.

  They shook hands.

  —I apologize for firing on you. But with no communication, we were forced to consider you a threat.

  Leo didn’t need to fake his indignation:

  —The prisoners lied. They claimed to have spoken to you.

  —They’ll soon get their comeuppance.

  —If it’s of any use, I can detail the prisoners’ defenses. I can mark their positions…

  The prisoners hadn’t made any defenses, but Leo thought it prudent to seem helpful. However, the regional director shook his head:

  —That won’t be necessary.

  He checked his watch.

  —Come with me.

  Unable to get away, Leo had no choice but to follow.

  Leaving the cover of the canopy, Abel Prezent looked up to the sky. Leo followed the direction of his gaze. The sky was empty. After a moment Leo heard a distant humming noise. Prezent explained:

  —There was never any question of negotiating. We risk anarchy if their demands were met. Every camp would start a revolution of its own. No matter what they say in Moscow, we m
ust not allow ourselves to become soft.

  The humming grew louder and louder until a plane roared over the plateau, flying low, the numbers on its steel belly visible as it passed directly overhead, leveling out on a course toward Gulag 57. It was a Tupolev Tu-4, an aging bomber reverse-engineered from the American Superfortress planes—four propeller engines, a forty-meter wingspan, and a fat silver cylindrical frame. On a direct approach, the underside hatch opened. They were going to bomb the base.

  Before Leo had a chance to question the decision, a large rectangular object fell from the hatch, a parachute opening immediately. The Tu-4 veered up, climbing sharply to clear the mountain while the bomb swung through the sky, rocking on its parachute, perfectly positioned, guided into the center of the camp. It drifted out of sight, landing, the parachute spreading across the roof of a barracks. There was no explosion, no firestorm: something had gone wrong. The bomb hadn’t detonated. Relieved, Leo checked on the regional director, expecting him to be furious. Instead he seemed smug:

  —They requested food. We have given them a crate containing the kind of food they haven’t seen in years, tinned fruit, meats, sweets. They will eat like pigs. Except we have added a little something…

  —The food is poisoned? They’ll make the guards eat it first.

  —The food is laced with a toxin. In six hours they’ll fall unconscious. In ten hours they’ll be dead. It doesn’t matter if they test it on the guards. There are no immediate symptoms. In eight hours we’ll storm the camp, injecting our fellow guards with the antidote and leaving the rioters to die. Even if every prisoner doesn’t try the food, most will and the number of prisoners will be heavily depleted. We must resolve this revolution before Moscow and her spies start to interfere.

  There was no doubt in Leo’s mind: this was the man who had ordered Timur’s death. Barely containing his anger, he remarked:

  —An excellent plan, sir.