The Secret Speech

  —That’s all we received from Fraera.

  Leo examined the map. A central location was marked with an ink crucifix:

  —What’s there?

  —We couldn’t find anything.

  The car began to move.

  —Where is Raisa?

  —I spoke to her earlier. She was going to wait for the car. When the car arrived, they found your parents looking after Elena. Raisa had gone out.

  Alarmed, Leo sat forward:

  —She’s supposed to be under protective custody.

  —We can’t protect someone who doesn’t want to be protected.

  —You don’t know where she is?

  —I’m sorry, Leo.

  Leo sat back. There was no doubt in his mind that Fraera was involved in Raisa’s disappearance.

  IT WAS TWO IN THE MORNING by the time they arrived in the city center. The contrast to the wilderness of Kolyma was so pronounced that Leo felt sick with disorientation, a sensation exacerbated by sleep deprivation and drumming anxiety. They stopped in the middle of Moskvoretskaya Naberezhnaya, the main road that followed the Moskva, at the point marked on the map. The driver got out. Panin’s bodyguard joined him. The two officers checked the area, returning to the car.

  —There’s nothing here!

  Leo stepped out. The rain was heavy: he was soaked through in a matter of seconds. The street was empty. He could hear the rain running down the drain. He crouched down. The manhole cover was under the car.

  —Drive forward!

  The limousine moved forward, exposing the cover. Leo wrenched it open, pushing it aside. The guards were on either side of him, guns ready. The drop was deep. There was no one on the ladder.

  Leo returned to the car:

  —Do you have flashlights?

  Panin nodded:

  —In the trunk.

  Leo opened the trunk, checking the flashlights, handing one to Lazar.

  Leo took the lead, climbing down first, gripping the ladder, the shudder-inducing memory of torn skin combining with the real-time pain he felt in his knees. Sheets of rain spilled over the edge, splashing his hands, neck, and face. Lazar followed. Panin called down:

  —Good luck.

  As soon as they were both below street level the manhole was closed, the steel lid clattering shut, cutting off the streams of rainwater and the streetlight. In the pitch-black darkness they paused, turning on their flashlights before continuing down.

  Reaching the bottom of the ladder, Leo surveyed the main tunnel. It was filled with a torrent of white, swirling water. The heavy rain had caused an overflow. Instead of modest, filthy streams, cascades of crashing water were channeling across the city. Unsure whether it was possible to proceed, Leo was forced to suppose the existence of some kind of ledge. Testing his theory, he hung down, tentatively exploring with his boot. The narrow ledge was submerged underwater.

  Leo shouted to Lazar, projecting his voice above the noise:

  —Stay close to the wall!

  Lazar climbed down, Leo guiding him. Pressed flat against the wall, the two of them crisscrossed their flashlights in every direction searching for some instruction. In the distance, a hundred or so meters down the tunnel, there was a light.

  Setting off toward the light, along the narrow ledge, the water level in the tunnel was rising, splashing around their knees. Each step required ferocious concentration. Only meters away, Leo saw a lantern fixed to the wall above the outline of a door. Scraping at the thick slime that covered the walls, he pushed the door open. Water poured in, down a flight of concrete stairs descending farther underground. They hurried, closing the door behind them, cutting the water off— relieved to be clear of the perilous ledge.

  Inside the narrow spiral staircase the air was dank and hot. They descended in silence, their breathing echoing around the closed chamber. After fifty or so steps they came across another door. Leo pushed hard on the steel frame, the hinges creaking. There was no stench of sewage, no flowing water, just silence. He turned to Lazar:

  —Stay here.

  Leo entered the new tunnel, exploring it with his flashlight. The walls were dry. His foot kicked a steel track—they were in a metro tunnel.

  Like an underground sunrise a soft yellow light appeared, emanating from an old-fashioned mining lantern, a flickering gas flame held by a man. He was alone, his proportions grotesquely muscular, tattoos stretched across his hands and neck.

  —Don’t move.

  The vory searched Leo and Lazar. Finished, he shut the steel door that led up to the sewers, locking it. He swung around, indicating the direction they were going to walk. They set off, Leo in front, Lazar just behind, the vory at the back, commenting as they went:

  —This metro line isn’t on any map. After it was completed the workers were executed so that its existence could remain a secret. It’s called the spetztunnel and it runs from Kremlin to Ramenkoye, an underground town fifty kilometers away. If the West attacks our leaders will descend here, sitting on silk cushions while Moscow burns.

  After some distance the vory stopped walking.

  —Here.

  There was a steel door in the wall. Leo opened it, shining his flash-light up at the concrete stairway, thankful that it climbed upward. The vory closed the door on them. Seconds later there was a hissing sound: the lock was rendered useless with acid. No one could follow them.

  Damp with sweat, they reached the top of the steps, finding the door unlocked and exiting into Taganskaya metro station. Leo walked out of the station into the middle of Taganskaya Square, exasperated, searching for what to do next. Lazar raised his arm, pointing in the direction of the river some two hundred meters away. There was a woman standing in the middle of Bolshoy Krasnokholmskiy Bridge.

  Leo hurried, Lazar by his side. As they reached the riverbank, without the protection of the buildings, the wind doubled in strength. The bridge was a stark concrete arch, and swirling below, the Moskva was tumultuous with the night’s downpour. The woman remained in the middle of the bridge, waiting for them, rain sloshing off her jacket. Drawing close, Leo recognized that jacket. It belonged to him.

  Raisa lowered her hood.

  Running forward, reaching her side, taking her hands, he was befuddled with emotions—concern and relief. Raisa shook her hands free of his grip.

  —Why didn’t you tell me about Zoya? She held a knife over you. You told me nothing was wrong. You lied to me, about something like that? What did we promise? No more lies! No more secrets! We promised, Leo!

  —Raisa, I panicked. I wanted a chance to put things right before telling you. After you came out of hospital, I was preparing to go to Kolyma. You were still weak.

  —Leo, I wasn’t weak. You were! This isn’t about being a hero. It’s about what’s best for Zoya and Elena. I met Fraera. She came to me. There’s no way she’s going to hand Zoya over to you. It’s never going to happen.

  On the south side of the bridge car headlights appeared, beams of light blurred by the downpour. The car accelerated toward them, causing Leo to raise his hand, shielding his eyes from the powerful headlights. The car braked. Doors opened. The driver was a vory. Fraera stepped out of the passenger side, indifferent to the rain. She glanced at Leo, then at Raisa, before concentrating her attention on Lazar, her husband.

  Lazar walked toward her, uncertain, evidently shocked, despite Leo’s warnings, at her transformation. They stood opposite each other. Exploring his appearance, she touched the side of his face, feeling the shape of his injured jaw. He winced at her touch but didn’t pull away. She said:

  —You have suffered.

  Leo watched as Lazar mouthed the words:

  —We have… a son?

  —Our son is dead. Your wife is dead.

  A gunshot, a flash of light—Lazar fell to his knees, clutching his stomach.

  Leo ran forward, catching Lazar as he fell. His teeth were red with blood. Stunned by the senseless execution, Leo turned to Fraera:

  —
Why?

  She didn’t reply, looming over him, offering no explanation. He looked down at Lazar’s body, cradled in his arms. The man he’d betrayed, and rescued, the man who’d saved his life, was dead. Leo lowered his body, laying him down on the road.

  Fraera grabbed Leo by the shirt:

  —Get in the front of the car.

  She waved her gun at Raisa:

  —You too!

  Leo stood up, climbing into the driver’s seat. Raisa was in the passenger seat. Zoya was in the back, her wrists and ankles bound. Her mouth was gagged—her eyes were terrified. The car had been modified. There was a grate between them. Raisa and Leo simultaneously pressed their hands up against the wire.

  —Zoya!

  Zoya pressed her face against the other side, pleading through the gag for help. Their fingers touched. Leo shook the grate but it held fast.

  The back door was opened: Fraera leaned in, grabbing Zoya, pulling her, lifting her out. Leo spun around, trying to open the door. It was locked. It couldn’t be opened from the inside. Raisa tried her door, to no avail. Fraera and the vory carried Zoya to the trunk. The vory picked up a grain sack, opening it while Fraera lowered Zoya in.

  Leo swiveled round, aiming his boots squarely at the side window. Like a mule, he kicked out again and again, his soles bouncing off, the plate glass remaining intact. Raisa cried out:

  —Leo!

  Leo scrambled across to Raisa’s side of the car, the side nearest to the river. The vory and Fraera were carrying the sack, Zoya was struggling to break out, thrashing and twisting, fighting for her life. The vory slapped her across the face, knocking the resistance out of her for long enough to push her down and secure the sack. The pair of them together lifted the sack. It was weighted. The unconscious Zoya was heaved up onto the ledge. Leo’s face was flat against the plate glass as he watched the sack being pushed off the bridge. He caught a glimpse of it plummeting toward the river.

  Fraera perched on the hood of the car, squatting, her face close to the windscreen, eyes on fire, lapping up their pain like a cat licking cream. Exploding with rage, Leo pummeled the windscreen, uselessly banging his fists, trapped behind reinforced glass. Fraera watched, delighting in his helplessness, before jumping down and mounting the back of a bike. Leo hadn’t even noticed that two motorcycles had pulled up alongside them.

  Trapped in the car, Leo kicked the ignition, exposing the wiring. Sparking the connections, he put his foot down on the accelerator, revving the engine, driving as if in pursuit of Fraera. Raisa called out:

  —Leo! Zoya!

  Leo wasn’t chasing Fraera. Picking up enough speed, he swung the car violently left, toward the barricade. The car smashed against the edge of the bridge, ripping the side off, tearing it open. With the engine smoking, the wheels spinning on the curb, Leo turned to his wife. Raisa had cut her head, but she was already out of her seat, climbing out the smashed side. He staggered after her, reaching the point where Zoya had been dropped.

  Raisa jumped first, Leo after her. Falling, he saw Raisa enter the water, shortly before his legs crashed through the surface. Underwater, the current pulled him down. Sucked deeper, he resisted his impulse to return to the surface and kicked down with the force of the current, directing himself to the bottom where Zoya would’ve come to rest. He didn’t know how deep the river was, kicking harder and harder—his lungs burning, fighting his way down. His hands touched the thick silt at the bottom. He looked around, unable to see anything. The water was black. Pulled upward, he tried to search, spinning round, but it was no good—he couldn’t see anything. Desperate for air, forced back to the surface, he gasped. Glancing around, the bridge was already in the distance behind him.

  Leo breathed deeply, preparing to dive again. He heard Raisa cry out:

  —Zoya!

  It was a hopeless cry.

  FIVE MONTHS LATER

  MOSCOW

  20 OCTOBER

  FILIPP BROKE THE BREAD, studying the way in which the still-warm dough pulled apart, stretching it briefly before tearing it into ragged strips. He dug out a chunk and placed it on his tongue, chewing slowly. The loaf was perfect, which meant the batch was perfect. He wanted to gorge himself, spreading a thick layer of butter that would soften and melt. Yet he was unable to swallow even this modest mouthful. Standing over the bin, he spat out the sticky ball of dough. The waste of food appalled him but he had no choice. Despite being a baker, one of the best in the city, forty-seven-year-old Filipp could only consume liquids. Persistent and untreatable stomach ulcers had plagued him for the past ten years. His gut was pockmarked with acid-filled craters—the hidden scars of Stalin’s rule, testimony to nights lying awake worrying about whether he’d been too stern to the men and women working under him. He was a perfectionist. When mistakes were made he lost his temper. Disgruntled workers might have written a report naming him and citing bourgeois, elitist tendencies. Even today, the memory caused his gut to burn. He hurried to his table, mixing a chalk solution and gulping down the white, foul-tasting water, reminding himself that these worries belonged in the past. There were no more midnight arrests. His family was safe and he had denounced no one. His conscience was clear. The price had been the lining of his stomach. All things considered, even for a baker and a lover of food, that price was not so high.

  The chalk water soothed his gut and he berated himself for dwelling on the past. The future was bright. The State was recognizing his talents. The bakery was expanding, taking over the entire building. Previously he’d been limited to two floors with the top floor designated as a button factory, a cover for a secret government ministry. Locating it above a bakery had never made sense to him: the rooms were filled with flour dust and roasted by the heat from the ovens. In truth, he wanted them gone not because he needed the space. He’d never liked the look of the people who’d worked there. Their uniforms and cagey demeanor aggravated his stomach.

  Making his way to the communal stairway, he peered up at the top floor. The previous occupants had spent the past two days clearing out filing cabinets and office furniture. Reaching the landing, he paused by the door, noting the series of heavy locks. He tried the handle. It clicked open. Pushing on the door, he studied the gloomy space. The rooms were empty. Emboldened, he entered his new premises. Fumbling for the light switch, he saw a man slumped against the far wall.

  Leo sat up, blinking at the bulb overhead. The baker came into focus, a man as thin as wire. Leo’s throat was dry. He coughed, getting to his feet, brushing himself down and surveying the gutted offices of the homicide department. The classified case files, evidence of the crimes he and Timur had solved, had been removed. They were being incinerated, every trace of the work he’d done these past three years destroyed. The baker, whose name he didn’t know, stood awkwardly—the embarrassment of a compassionate man witnessing the misfortune of a fellow citizen. Leo said:

  —Three years of passing each other on the stairs and I never asked your name. I didn’t want to…

  —Worry me?

  —Would it have?

  —Honestly, yes.

  —My name is Leo.

  The baker offered his hand. Leo shook it.

  —My name is Filipp. Three years, and I never offered you a loaf of bread.

  Leaving the homicide office for the last time, Leo glanced back before shutting the door. Feeling an awful kind of lightheadedness, he followed Filipp downstairs where he was handed a round loaf—still warm, the crust golden. He broke the bread, biting into it. Filipp studied his reaction carefully. Realizing his opinion was being sought, Leo finished the mouthful and said:

  —This is the best bread I’ve ever eaten.

  And it was true. Filipp smiled. He asked:

  —What did you do up there? Why all the secrecy?

  Before Leo had a chance to reply, the question was retracted:

  —Ignore me. I should mind my own business.

  Still eating, Leo ignored the retraction:

  —I wa
s in charge of a specialist division of the militia, a homicide department.

  Filipp was silent. He didn’t understand. Leo added:

  —We investigated murders.

  —Was there much work?

  Leo gave a small nod:

  —More than you might think.

  Accepting another loaf to take home, as well as the remains of the one he’d started, Leo turned to leave. Filipp called out, trying to end on a positive note:

  —It gets hot here in the summer. You must be pleased to be moving to another location?

  Leo looked down, studying the pattern of flour footprints:

  —The department isn’t moving. It’s closing down.

  —What about you?

  Leo looked up:

  —I’m to join the KGB.

  SAME DAY

  THE SERBSKY INSTITUTE WAS A MODEST-SIZED building with curved steel balconies around the top-floor windows, more like a block of attractive apartments than a hospital. Raisa paused, as she always did at this point, fifty meters away, asking herself if she was doing the right thing. She glanced down at Elena, standing by her side, holding her hand. Her skin was supernaturally pale, as though her body were fading. She’d lost weight and was unwell with such regularity that sickness had become her usual state. Noticing Elena’s scarf had come loose, Raisa crouched down, fussing over her:

  —We can go home. We can go home at any time.

  Elena remained silent, her face blank, as if no longer a real girl but a replica created with tissue-paper skin and green pebble eyes, emitting no energy of her own. Or was it the other way round? Was Raisa the replica, fussing and caring in an imitation of the things a real mother would do?

  Raisa kissed Elena on the cheek and, garnering no response, felt her stomach knot. She had no resilience to this indifference, indifference that had begun when she’d knelt down, her eyes filled with tears, and whispered into Elena’s ear: