Tom Smith - The Secret Speech

Leo climbed out of his seat, joining Lazar in the back. Magadan was nothing more than a collection of lights in a vast darkness. This was the world that Leo had banished Lazar to — a wilderness that had been his home for the past seven years.

RAISA SAT ON ELENA’S BED, watching her sleep. Since Fraera’s visit, Elena’s questioning had become more assertive, as if she sensed the situation had changed. Promises that Zoya’s return was imminent were no longer enough. She’d become immune to assurances, content for an hour or so before the effect faded and a deep unease returned.

The phone rang. Raisa hurried out, rushing to the receiver:

— Hello?

— Raisa, it’s Frol Panin. We’ve made radio contact with Leo. The plane is on its way. He’ll be in the city in less than five hours. Lazar is with him.

— You’ve contacted Fraera?

— Yes, we’re waiting to receive instructions for the exchange. You’ll want to meet Leo at the airport?

— Of course.

— I’ll have a car sent over when his plane is nearing. We’re almost there, Raisa. We almost have her.

Raisa hung up the receiver. She remained by the phone, pondering those words.

We almost have her.

Panin was talking about catching Fraera: he had little interest in her daughter. Despite Panin’s considerable charms, Raisa agreed with Leo’s assessment of his character: there was something cold about him.

Elena was standing in the hallway. Raisa stretched out her hand. Elena stepped forward. Guided into the kitchen, Raisa sat her down at the table. She warmed milk at the stove, tipping it into a mug. She put the mug down in front of Elena.

— Is Zoya coming home tonight?

— Yes.

Elena picked up the mug and took a satisfied sip.

There was no more time to consider Fraera’s offer. Raisa no longer believed in Leo’s plan. Having met Fraera for herself, having listened to her anger, it didn’t make sense to hand Zoya over to Leo and make him a hero. He would achieve in that prisoner exchange everything Fraera was determined he should never have — a daughter, happiness, a family reunited. The premise was wrong. Leo’s belief in it was naïve. Zoya was in danger. Leo was not the one to save her.

Raisa opened a drawer, taking out a tall red candle. Placing it on the windowsill, in clear view of the street below, she struck a match and lit the wick. Elena asked:

— What are you doing?

— Lighting a candle so that Zoya can find her way home.

Raisa glanced out into the street. The candle was lit. The signal was given. She would accept Fraera’s offer. She would leave Leo.

MALYSH SAT ON A LEDGE, listening to the racing sewer water. Two months ago the world had made sense. Now he was confused. Someone liked him, not because he could handle a knife, not because he was useful, someone liked him because… he couldn’t exactly say. Why did Zoya like him? He’d never been liked before. There was no logic to it. She’d saved his life for no reason. Presented with an opportunity to escape, she’d not only turned it down, she’d risked her life for him.

Fraera approached, sitting beside him, their legs dangling side by side like friends on a riverbank, except instead of fish and fallen leaves passing them by, the city’s waste flowed beneath their feet. Fraera asked:

— Why are you hiding here?

Malysh wanted to remain silent, petulant, but it was an unforgivable insult not to reply, so he muttered:

— I don’t feel well.

To his surprise Fraera laughed:

— Two months ago you would’ve killed that girl and not thought anything of it.

Fraera rested a hand on his shoulder:

— I need to know if you will do anything I order, without question.

— I have never disobeyed you.

— You have never disagreed with anything I’ve ordered you to do.

Malysh couldn’t counter — it was true, he’d never had a contrary opinion, until now. She’d pushed him together with Zoya in order to test him. She’d manufactured his relationship with Zoya in order to measure it against her relationship with him.

— Malysh, when I was imprisoned, I heard a story, told by a Chechen convict. It comes from a Nartian epic, about a hero called Soslan. It is the custom of Narts to avenge not only wrongs committed against them but any committed against their family or ancestors, no matter how ancient the crime. Quarrels last for hundreds of years. Soslan spent his entire life in pursuit of revenge. When you come of age, Malysh, you will need a new name. I had hoped it would be Soslan.

Though her voice hadn’t changed, Malysh sensed danger. Fraera stood up:

— Follow me.

Malysh followed Fraera through the tunnels and chambers to Zoya’s cell. She unlocked the door. Zoya was standing in the corner, having heard them approach. She sought confirmation in Malysh’s eyes that something was wrong. Fraera took hold of Zoya’s wrist, pulling her toward the door. Confused, Malysh didn’t know whether to obey or protest. Before he could make up his mind, Fraera slammed the door, locking him in.

HAVING FLOWN ACROSS THE WIDTH of the Soviet Union from the Pacific coast to the capital, the fuel gauge of the Ilyushin was tapping empty. They had one chance to put down. A storm had closed over them: the plane burrowing through furious black clouds. Lazar was in the back, chewing biscuits with the good side of his mouth. Leo was strapped into the copilot’s chair, trying to keep Konstantin’s confidence from crumbling. Flying toward Stupino military airstrip on the outskirts of Moscow, the plane made its final descent. Panic in his voice, Konstantin declared:

— I should be able to see the lights by now!

Passing through the cloud’s base, instead of lights being stretched out in the distance they were coming up directly underneath. The plane was too high. Panicking, Konstantin lurched into a steeper drop: a catastrophic gradient. Frantically adjusting, he leveled out, belly-flopping the plane onto the runway. The wheels smashed down, spinning briefly before snapping off, the steel stubs scratching along the tarmac, ripping the plane open as if it were being unzipped. The wingtip hit the ground, swinging the disemboweled plane on its torn stomach one hundred and eighty degrees, slingshotting it off the edge of the runway, propellers digging up mud.

Dazed, his forehead bleeding, Leo unbuckled himself, standing up, pushing open the cockpit door and revealing a cabin torn in half. Lazar had survived, positioned on the opposite side to the damage, a halo of the plane’s shell intact around him. Still in his seat, the young pilot started to laugh, hysterical whoops of delight — turned quite mad— rain streaming onto his face through the cracked window.

Leo doubted the plane would catch on fire: there was no fuel and the rain was intense, dousing the smoking engines. With it being safe to leave the pilot behind, he helped Lazar out of the torn midriff, clambering through the wreckage, using the detritus of the wing to step down onto the mud. Emergency vehicles raced toward them, paramedics approached. Leo waved aside medical assistance:

— We’re okay.

He was Lazar’s voice now. Frol Panin stepped out of his executive limousine, a guard moving in perfect synchronization, opening an umbrella above him. He offered his hand to Lazar:

— My name is Frol Panin. I’m sorry I couldn’t arrange your freedom more conveniently. Your wife’s actions made any official release impossible. Come, we must hurry. We can speak in the car.