The Secret Speech - Страница 50

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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 was 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?

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