The Secret Speech - Страница 35

— The only reason I’m telling you is because I can’t make the return voyage. I need to talk to Abel Prezent, regional director. You’ll have to manage the ship without me. You can offer some excuse to the crew for my absence.

The captain had smiled obsequiously, bowing his head.

Stepping off ship onto the harbor, Timur had congratulated himself on chancing across such a potent excuse. Confident, he’d entered the administrative section of the prisoner processing center, climbing the stairs to the office of regional director Abel Prezent, the man who’d assigned him to the Stary Bolshevik. As he knocked and entered, Prezent’s face had scrunched up with irritation:

— Is there a problem?

— I’ve seen enough of the ship in order to write my report.

Like a cat sensing danger, Prezent’s body language had changed:

— What report?

— I’ve been sent by the MVD to collect information about how the reforms are being implemented since Khrushchev’s speech. The intention was for me to remain unknown, unidentified, so that I might more accurately judge the way in which the camps are being managed. However, since you reassigned me to the Stary Bolshevik, against my orders, it has forced me to come forward. Needless to say, I’m not carrying identification. We did not think it necessary. We did not anticipate that my duties would be challenged. However, if you need proof, I know the exact details of your employment record.

Timur and Leo had carefully studied the files of all the key figures in the region:

— You worked at Karlag, Kazakhstan, for five years, and before that—

Prezent had interrupted politely, raising a finger, his voice constricted, as though invisible hands were squeezing his thin, pale throat:

— Yes, I see.

He’d stood up, considering, his hands behind his back:

— You are here to write a report?

— That is correct.

— I suspected something like this would happen.

Timur had nodded, pleased with the credibility of his improvised cover story:

— Moscow requires regular evaluations.

— Evaluations… that is a lethal word.

Timur had not anticipated this meditative and melancholic reaction. He’d tried to soften the implied threat:

— This is fact-gathering and nothing more.

Prezent had replied:

— I work hard for the State. I live in a place where no one else wants to live. I work with the most dangerous prisoners in the world. I have done things no one else wanted to do. I was taught how to be a leader. Then I was told those lessons were wrong. One minute it is law to do a certain kind of thing. The next minute, it is a crime. The law says I should be strict. The law says I should be lenient.

Timur’s lie had been swallowed whole. Mere reference to the Secret Speech had them cowering. Unlike the captain, Prezent did not implore, or beg for a favorable report. He’d become nostalgic for a time gone by, a time where his place and purpose had been clear. Timur had pressed his advantage:

— I need immediate transport to Gulag 57.

Prezent had said:

— Of course.

— I must leave right now.

— The journey into the mountains can’t be made at night. — Hazardous or not, I would prefer to make it now.

— I understand. I’ve delayed you. And I apologize. But it’s simply not possible. The first thing tomorrow, that is the earliest. There is nothing I can do about the darkness.

* * *

TIMUR TURNED TO THE DRIVER:

— How long till we’re there?

— Two, three hours — the mist is bad, three hours, I say.

The driver laughed, before adding:

— I never heard of anyone being in a hurry to get to a Gulag before.

Timur ignored the joke, channeling his impatient energy into reassessing his plans. Success required several elements to slot into place. Out of their control was Lazar’s cooperation. Timur had in his possession a letter written by Fraera, the contents of which had been read and reread, checking for a warning or some secret instruction. They’d found none. As an additional persuasive measure, unbeknownst to Fraera, Leo had insisted they bring a photo of a seven-year-old boy. The child in the photo wasn’t Lazar’s son, but he had no way of knowing that. The apparent sight of him might prove more powerful than the mere idea of him. Should this fail then Timur had in his possession a bottle of chloroform.

The truck slowed to a stop. Up ahead was a timber bridge, simple in design. It spanned a deep faultline, a crack in the landscape. The driver made a snaking movement with his hand:

— When the mountain snow melts, it flows fast…

Timur strained forward in his seat, peering at the rickety bridge, the far side of which disappeared into the mist. The driver frowned:

— That bridge was built by prisoners. You can’t trust it!

There was one other guard traveling with them, a man who up until this point had been asleep. Judging from the smell of his clothes, he’d been drunk last night, probably drunk every night of his life. The driver shook him:

— Wake up! Useless… lazy… wake up!

The guard opened his eyes, blinking at the bridge. He wiped his eyes, scrambled out of the cabin, jumping down to the ground. He belched loudly and began waving the truck forward. Timur shook his head:

— Wait.

He stepped out the cabin, climbing down to the ground and stretching his legs. Shutting the door, he walked to the beginning of the bridge. The driver was right to be concerned: the bridge wasn’t much wider than the truck. There was maybe thirty centimeters to spare on either side, nothing to stop the tires slipping off if the approach wasn’t exactly aligned. Glancing down, Timur saw the river some ten meters below. Tongues of smooth, dripping ice jutted out from either side of the bank. They’d begun to melt, rapid drips feeding a narrow undulating flow. In a matter of weeks, when the snows melted, there’d be a torrent.

The truck crept forward. The hungover guard lit a cigarette, content to shirk responsibility. Timur gestured for the driver to align the truck to the right: it was edging off course. He gestured again. Visibility was poor but he could see the driver, the driver must be able to see him. Timur called out:

— To the right!

Even though it hadn’t made the necessary adjustments the truck accelerated. At the same time, its headlights flared up, a bright sulfur yellow blinding him. The truck was coming straight toward him.

Timur dived out of the way, but too late: the steel bumper smashing into him while he was midair, crushing his body, before spitting him out over the ravine. Briefly suspended in the air, upturned toward the shimmering sky, then falling, his body spun, twisting toward the river, directly above one of the ice lips. He crashed facedown: bone and ice splintering simultaneously.

Timur lay with his ear flat to the ice, like a safecracker. He couldn’t move his fingers or his legs. He couldn’t move his neck. He felt no pain.

Up above, someone shouted down:

— Traitor! You’d spy on your own kind! We stick together! Us against them!

Timur couldn’t turn his neck to look up. But he recognized the voice as the driver’s:

— There will be no reports, no blame, and no guilt — not in Kolyma, maybe in Moscow, but not here. We did what we had to do! We did what we were told to do! Fuck Khrushchev’s speech! Fuck your report! Let’s see you write it from down there.

The hungover guard chuckled. The driver addressed him:

— Go down.

— Why?

— Otherwise everyone will see his body.

— Who will? There’s no one here.

— I don’t know, someone like him, if they send another.

— I don’t need to go down there. The ice will melt.

— In three weeks it will, who knows who’ll drive by in that time. Just go down there and push him in the river. Do this right.

— I can’t swim.

— He’s on the ice.

— But if the ice breaks?

— You’ll get your feet wet. Just get down! No mistakes.

Staring into the river, his breathing ragged and rasping, Timur listened as the reluctant executioner, whining like a lazy teenager, clambered down the steep bank — the clumsy sound of his approaching murderer.

For as long as he could remember Timur’s greatest fear had been a member of his family dying in the Gulags. He’d never worried about himself. He’d always been sure he could cope and that somehow, no matter what, he’d find a way home.

These were the last minutes of his life. He thought of his wife. He thought of his sons.

* * *

ANNOYED AT BEING BOSSED AROUND, his head pounding from a hangover, forced to slip and slide down the ravine wall, risking spraining his ankle, the guard finally reached the riverbank. His heavy boots touched the ice sheet tentatively, testing its strength. In an attempt to distribute his weight evenly, he lowered himself to his hands and knees, crawling to the body of the guy sent from Moscow. He tapped the traitor with the barrel of his gun. He didn’t move.

— He’s dead!