The Secret Speech - Страница 16

— Answer correctly and you’ll live.

* * *

AT THE ENTRANCE TO THE CHILDREN’S SANCTUARY, Leo and Timur were denied access, held back by two guards. Frustrated with the delay, Leo showed the men the photo of Lazar, explaining:

— It’s possible that everyone involved in this man’s arrest is a target. Two men are already dead. If we’re right, the patriarch might be danger.

The guards were unimpressed:

— We’ll pass the message on.

— We need to speak to him.

— Militia or not, the patriarch has given us instructions not to let anyone in.

Commotion broke out upstairs: the sound of shouting. In an instant the guards’ complacency turned to panic. They abandoned their post, climbing the stairs, followed by Leo and Timur, bursting into a large hall filled with children. The staff had huddled around a door, shaking it, unable to get in. The guards joined the fray, taking hold of the door handle, listening to the overlapping explanations:

— He went in there to pray.

— With the new boy.

— Krasikov’s not replying.

— Something smashed.

Leo cut through the discussion:

— Kick the door down.

They turned to him, unsure.

— Do it now.

The heaviest and strongest of the guards rushed forward, shoulder smashing against the frame. He charged again, the door broke apart.

Clambering through the splintered opening, Leo and Timur entered the room. A young voice called out, authoritative, assured:

— Stay where you are!

The guards stopped moving, fierce men rendered helpless by the scene before them.

The patriarch was on his knees, turned toward them, his face as red as blood, his mouth open — his tongue protruding, obscene, like a twisted slug. His neck was pinched: thin steel wire stretched to the hands of the young boy. The boy’s hands were wrapped in rags: the wire coiled around and around. A master with a dog on a leash, the boy exercised absolute and lethal control: he need only apply more tension and the wire would either choke the patriarch or slice into his skin.

The boy took a careful backward step, almost at the window, keeping the wire tight and ceding no slack. Leo emerged from the pack of guards who’d become paralyzed at their failure to protect. There were maybe ten meters between him and the patriarch. He couldn’t risk running forward. Even if he reached the patriarch there was no way to get his fingers underneath the wire. Addressing Leo, sensing his calculations, the boy said:

— Any closer, he dies.

The boy threw open the small window, clambering up onto the ledge. They were on the second floor, too great a height to jump. Leo asked:

— What do you want?

— This man’s apology for betraying priests who trusted him, priests he was supposed to protect.

The boy was speaking words as if from reading from a script. Leo glanced at the patriarch. Surely the threat of death would make him compliant. The boy’s orders were to extract an apology. If those were his orders he’d obey them: that was the only leverage Leo had.

— He’ll say sorry. Loosen the wire. Let him speak. That’s what you’ve come to hear.

The patriarch nodded, indicating that he wanted to comply. The boy considered and then slowly loosened the wire. Krasikov gasped, a strangled intake of breath.

Supreme resilience glistened in the old man’s eyes and Leo realized that he’d made a mistake. Summoning his strength, spraying spit with each word:

— Tell whoever sent you… I’d betray him again!

Except for the patriarch, all eyes turned to the boy. But he was already gone. He’d jumped from the window.

The wire whipped up, the full weight of the boy catching on the old man’s neck, pulling the patriarch with such force that he rose up from his knees like a puppet jerked by strings before falling onto his back, dragged across the floor and smashing the small window. His body caught in the window frame. Leo darted forward, grabbing the wire around the patriarch’s neck, trying to relieve the pressure. But the wire had cut through skin, severing muscle. There was nothing Leo could do.

Looking out the window he saw the boy on the street below. Without saying a word Leo and Timur ran out of the room, abandoning the distraught guards, through the main sanctuary hall, the crowd of children, downstairs. The boy was skilled and nimble but he was young and would not be able to outrun them.

When they reached the street, the boy was nowhere to be seen. There were no alleys, no turnings for some distance, he couldn’t have cleared the length of the street in the brief amount of time it had taken them to get outside. Leo hurried to the window where the wire was hanging. He found the boy’s footprints in the snow and followed them to a manhole. Snow had been brushed aside. Timur lifted the manhole up. The drop was deep — a steel ladder leading to the sewage system. The boy was already near the bottom, rags tied around his hands. Seeing the light above him, he glanced up, revealing his face to the daylight. In response to seeing Leo he let go of the ladder, falling the last distance and disappearing into the dark.

Leo turned to Timur:

— Get the flashlights from the car.

Not waiting, Leo grabbed the ladder, climbing down. The rungs were icy cold and without gloves his skin stuck to the steel. Each time he let go of the rungs his skin began to rip. There were gloves in the car but he couldn’t delay his pursuit. The sewage system was a labyrinth of tunnels: the boy could disappear down any of them, one unsighted turn and he’d be free. Gritting his teeth at the pain, Leo’s palms began to bleed as patches of skin tore off. His eyes watering, he looked down, judging the remaining distance. It was still too far to jump. He had to continue, forced to press his raw flesh against the iced steel. He cried out, letting go of the ladder.

Landing awkwardly on a narrow concrete ledge, his feet sliding under him, he almost toppled into a deep stream of filthy water. He steadied himself and examined his surroundings — a large brick tunnel, roughly the size of a metro tunnel. A pool of sunlight from the manhole above illuminated a small patch of ground around him but little more. Ahead of him it was dark except for a flicker of light, like a firefly, some fifty meters ahead. It was the boy: he had a flashlight, he’d prepared for this escape.

The flicker of light disappeared. Either the boy had turned his flashlight off or he’d gone down another tunnel. Unable to follow in the dark, unable to see the ledge, Leo looked up at the manhole, waiting for Timur — each second was vital.

— Come on…

Timur’s face appeared at the top. Leo called out.

— Drop it!

If he failed to catch the flashlight it would hit the concrete and smash and he’d have to delay chasing after the boy until Timur climbed down. By that time the boy would be gone. Timur stepped back so that he wasn’t blocking the light. His arm appeared outstretched, holding a flashlight, positioning it in the center of the hole. He let it fall.

Leo’s eyes tracked it as it began to turn, glancing against the wall, knocking outward again, the movement now entirely unpredictable. He took a step forward, reached up and caught the handle, his red-raw palms stinging as he gripped. Fighting against the instinct to let go, he flicked the switch. The bulb still worked. He shone the light in the direction the boy had disappeared, revealing a ledge that ran alongside the tunnel above the slow-flowing stream of filth. He set off — his speed limited by ice and slime, his clunky boots slipping on the precarious surface. Tempered by the cold, the smell was not unbearable and he limited himself to short, shallow breaths.

Where the boy disappeared, the ledge stopped altogether. There was a secondary tunnel, much smaller — only a meter or so wide — the base of which appeared at shoulder height. This side tunnel fed into the stream below. There was excrement streaked across the wall. The boy must have climbed up. There was no other choice. Leo had to crawl into the tunnel.

He put the flashlight up first. Bracing himself, he gripped the oozy sides, his open wounds roaring in pain as exposed flesh mingled with dirt and shit. Dizzy with pain, he tried to pull himself up, aware that if he lost his grip he’d fall into the stream below. But there was nothing to grab on to farther inside the tunnel — he reached out, his hand splashing down on the smooth, curved surface. The toe of his boot gripped the brickwork: he pushed up, into the tunnel, lying on his back, trying to wipe the filth off his hands. In the confined space the smell was overwhelming. Leo retched. Managing not to throw up, he took hold of the flashlight, shining the beam down the tunnel and crawling on his stomach, using his elbows to propel himself along.

A series of rusted bars blocked the way forward: the space between the bars was less than the width of his hand. The boy must have gone another way. About to turn back, Leo stopped. He was certain: there was no other way. Wiping off the grime, he examined the bars. Two of them were loose. He gripped them, tugging. They could be pulled free. The boy had scouted this route, that’s why he had the flashlight, that’s why he knew to wear the rags — he’d always intended to escape through the sewers. Even with the two bars removed Leo had trouble squeezing through the gap. Forced to take off his jacket in order to fit, he emerged into a cavernous chamber.