Tom Smith - Secret speech

– Why didn’t you tell me about Zoya? She held a knife over you. You told me nothing was wrong. You lied to me, about something like that? What did we promise? No more lies! No more secrets! We promised, Leo!

– Raisa, I panicked. I wanted a chance to put things right before telling you. After you came out of hospital, I was preparing to go to Kolyma. You were still weak.

– Leo, I wasn’t weak. You were! This isn’t about being a hero. It’s about what’s best for Zoya and Elena. I met Fraera. She came to me. There’s no way she’s going to hand Zoya over to you. It’s never going to happen.

On the south side of the bridge car headlights appeared, beams of light blurred by the downpour. The car accelerated toward them, causing Leo to raise his hand, shielding his eyes from the powerful headlights. The car braked. Doors opened. The driver was a vory. Fraera stepped out of the passenger side, indifferent to the rain. She glanced at Leo, then at Raisa, before concentrating her attention on Lazar, her husband.

Lazar walked toward her, uncertain, evidently shocked, despite Leo’s warnings, at her transformation. They stood opposite each other. Exploring his appearance, she touched the side of his face, feeling the shape of his injured jaw. He winced at her touch but didn’t pull away. She said:

– You have suffered.

Leo watched as Lazar mouthed the words:

– We have… a son?

– Our son is dead. Your wife is dead.

A gunshot, a flash of light-Lazar fell to his knees, clutching his stomach.

Leo ran forward, catching Lazar as he fell. His teeth were red with blood. Stunned by the senseless execution, Leo turned to Fraera:

– Why?

She didn’t reply, looming over him, offering no explanation. He looked down at Lazar’s body, cradled in his arms. The man he’d betrayed, and rescued, the man who’d saved his life, was dead. Leo lowered his body, laying him down on the road.

Fraera grabbed Leo by the shirt:

– Get in the front of the car.

She waved her gun at Raisa:

– You too!

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.

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.