The Secret Speech - Страница 29

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Moving past, Leo made his way to the edge of the deck, pressing his hands against the rail and taking his first look at the port of Magadan, gateway to the most remote of regions, a part of his country that he was both intimately connected with and a stranger to at the same time. He’d never been here before yet he’d sent hundreds of men and women here. He hadn’t allocated them to any particular Gulag, that hadn’t been his responsibility. But it was inevitable that many had ended up on board this boat, or one like it, shuffling forward in single file, as he was now, ready for processing.

Considering the region’s notoriety he’d expected more obvious and sinister drama in the landscape. But the port, developed some twenty years ago, was small and hushed. Wood shacks mingled with the occasional angular concrete municipal building, the sides of which were decorated with slogans and propaganda, an awkward glimpse of color in an otherwise muted palette. Beyond the port, in the distance, lay a network of Gulags spread among the folds of snow-tipped hills. The hills, gentle near the coast, grew in size farther inland, their vast curved tops merging with the clouds. Tranquil and menacing in equal measure, it was a terrain that made no allowances for frailty, smoothing weakness off its arctic-blasted slopes.

Leo climbed down to the dock where there were small fishing boats: evidence of life other than the imprisonment system. The Chukchi, the local people who’d lived off this land long before it was colonized by Gulags, carried baskets of walrus tusk and the first cod catches of the year. They spared Leo only a cursory, unsympathetic glance, as if the convicts were to blame for their land’s transformation into a prison empire. Guards were stationed on the dock, herding the new arrivals. They were dressed in thick furs and felt, layered over their uniforms — they wore a mixture of Chukchi handcrafted clothes and meanly cut, mass-produced, standard-issue uniforms.

Behind the guards, gathered for the delayed voyage home, were prisoners being released. They’d either served their term or had their sentence quashed. They were free men, except by the looks of them their bodies didn’t know it yet — their shoulders were hunched and their eyes sunken. Leo searched for some sign of triumph, some malicious yet understandable pleasure in seeing others about to set off for the camps that they were leaving behind. Instead, he saw missing fingers, cracked skin, sores, and wasted muscles. Freedom might rejuvenate some, restoring them to a semblance of their former selves, but it would not save all of them. This was what had become of the men and women he’d sent away.

* * *

ON DECK TIMUR WATCHED as the prisoners were marched toward a warehouse. Leo was indistinguishable from the others. Their assumed identities were intact. Despite the storm, they’d arrived unharmed. The journey by boat had been a necessary part of their cover. Although it was possible to fly into Magadan, organizing such a flight would have prevented them from slipping into the system unobserved. No prisoners were ever flown in. Fortunately, stealth was unnecessary on the return journey. A cargo plane was standing by at Magadan airstrip. If all went as planned, in two days’ time, he and Leo would be returning to Moscow with Lazar. What had just passed on the ship had been the easiest part of their plan.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Standing behind him was the captain of the Stary Bolshevik and a man Timur had never seen before — a high-ranking official judging from the quality of his attire. Surprisingly for a man of power, he was exceptionally thin, prisoner thin, an unlikely solidarity with the men he oversaw. Timur’s first thought was that he must be sick. The official spoke, the captain nodding obsequiously before the man had even finished his sentence:

— My name is Abel Prezent, regional director. Officer Genrikh…

He turned to the captain:

— What was his name?

— Genrikh Duvakin.

— Is dead, I’m told.

At the mention of that name, the young man he’d left to die on deck, Timur felt a knot tighten inside him.

— Yes. He was lost at sea.

— Genrikh was a permanent post on the ship. The captain now has need of guards for the return voyage. We have a chronic shortage. The captain remarks that you did a fine job on board with the attempted mutiny. He’s personally requested that you become Genrikh’s replacement.

The captain smiled, expecting Timur to be warmed by the compliment. Timur flushed with panic:

— I don’t understand.

— You’re to remain on board the Stary Bolshevik for the return journey.

— But I’ve been ordered to Gulag 57. I’m to become the second in charge of the camp. I have new directives from Moscow to implement.

— I appreciate that. And you will be stationed at 57 as designated. It will take seven days to Buchta Nakhodka if the weather allows, and then another seven days back here. You’ll be at your post in two or three weeks, at the most.

— Sir, I must insist that my orders be followed and that you find someone else.

Prezent became impatient, his veins protruding like a warning sign:

— Genrikh is dead. The captain has requested you replace him. I will explain to your superiors my decision. The matter is settled. You will remain on the ship.

MOSCOW
SAME DAY

MALYSH WAS STANDING BESIDE his accuser Likhoi, the vory whose tendon he’d cut. Likhoi’s ankle was heavily bandaged, and having lost a lot of blood he was pale and feverish. Despite his injuries he’d insisted that the skhodka, a trial to mediate between disputing gang members, go ahead:

— Fraera, what of our code? One vory may never harm another? He has shamed you by injuring me. He has shamed all of us.

Supported with the aid of a crutch, Likhoi refused to sit since it would have been a sign of weakness. There was froth on the corners of his lips, tiny bubbles of spit that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away:

— I wanted sex. Is that a crime? Not for a criminal!

The other vory smiled. Confident he had their support, he returned his attention to Fraera, dropping his head in respect, lowering his voice:

— I ask for Malysh’s death.

Fraera turned to Malysh:

— Your reply?

Glancing at the hostile faces surrounding him, he answered:

— I was told to keep her safe. They were your orders. I did as I was told.

Not even the prospect of death made him more articulate. Though Malysh was convinced that Fraera did not want to sanction his death, his actions had left her little room to maneuver. It was undeniable— he’d breached their code. It was forbidden for a vory to harm another vory without authorization from Fraera. They were supposed to protect each other as if their lives were interwoven. In clear violation, he’d acted impulsively, siding with the daughter of their enemy.

Malysh watched as Fraera paced within the circle of her followers, judging the mood of her gang. Popular opinion was against him. In moments such as these power became ambiguous. Did Fraera have the authority to overrule the majority? Or did she have to side with the majority in order to preserve her authority? Malysh’s position was weakened by the fact that his accuser was a popular figure. The man’s klikukha — Likhoi—referred to his vaunted sexual prowess. In contrast Malysh was a lowly klikukha, meaning young one, referring to his inexperience, both sexual and criminal. His membership in the gang had been recent. Whereas the other vory had met in the labor camps, Malysh had joined their ranks by chance. From the age of five years old he’d worked as a pickpocket at the Leningrad’s Baltiysky Rail Terminal. A street child, he’d quickly earned a reputation as the most skillful of thieves. One of the people that he’d robbed was Fraera. Unlike many, she’d noticed her loss immediately and given chase. Surprised by her speed and determination, he’d needed all his skill and knowledge of the terminal building to escape, scrambling out a window barely big enough for a cat. Even so, Fraera had still managed to grab hold of one of his shoes. Expecting that to be the end of the matter, Malysh had returned to work the next day, at a different rail station, only to find Fraera waiting for him, holding his shoe. Instead of a confrontation, she’d offered him the opportunity to leave his union of pickpockets and join her. He’d been the only pickpocket who’d ever managed to give her the slip.

Despite his skills as a thief his appointment to vory status had been controversial. The others looked down on his background of petty crime. It didn’t seem worthy of entry into their ranks. He’d never murdered, he’d never spent time in a Gulag. Fraera brushed these concerns aside. She’d taken a liking to him even though he was solemn and withdrawn, rarely speaking more than a couple of words. The others accepted, reluctantly, that he was now one of them. He accepted, reluctantly, that he was one of them. In reality, he was hers and everyone knew it. In return for her patronage Malysh loved Fraera in the same way that a fierce fighting dog would love its owner, circling her feet, snapping at anyone who came too close. All the same, he was not naïve. With her authority under scrutiny their history counted for nothing. Fraera was determinedly unsentimental. Malysh had not only drawn the blood of another vory, he’d jeopardized her plans. Unable to drive the truck, he and the girl had been forced to walk back into the city, a journey on foot that had taken almost eight hours. They could’ve been stopped and arrested. He’d explained to the girl that if she screamed for help, or let go of his hand, he’d slit her throat. She’d obeyed. She hadn’t complained about being tired, never asking to rest. Even in crowded streets where she could have caused him problems, she’d never let go of his hand.

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