The Secret Speech

— She is alive?

— Yes.

Lazar indicated that Georgi return, whispering into his ear. With reluctant obedience Georgi announced:

— I request that he be spared.

MOSCOW SAME DAY

LIKE TWO MONGREL CATS, Zoya and Malysh sat side by side on the roof of Apartment Block 424. Zoya remained close to Malysh, keen to reassure him that she didn’t want to escape. After the exertion of traveling several kilometers through sewer systems, climbing ladders, sidestepping slime-thick walls, both of them were damp with sweat and it was pleasant being on the rooftop, fanned by a cool night breeze. Zoya felt invigorated. Partly that was due to the exercise after many sedentary days and nights. Mostly it was because she was with him. This felt like the childhood stolen from her — mischievous adventure with a kindred spirit.

Zoya glanced at the photo pinched between Malysh’s fingers:

— What is her name?

— Marina Niurina.

Zoya took the photo from him. Niurina was a woman in her thirties, stern and prim. She was wearing a uniform. Zoya returned the photo, asking:

— You’re going to kill her?

Malysh gave a small nod of his head, as if someone had asked him if they could have a cigarette. Zoya wasn’t sure whether she believed him or not. She’d seen him attack the vory who’d tried to rape her. He was skilled with a knife. Reticent and moody, he didn’t seem like someone who made idle brags.

— Why?

— She’s a Chekist.

— What did she do?

Malysh looked at her quizzically, not understanding. Zoya expanded the question:

— Did she arrest people? Did she interrogate them?

— I don’t know.

— You’re going to kill her but you don’t know what she did?

— I told you. She’s a Chekist.

Zoya wondered how much he knew about the secret police. She remarked, cautiously:

— You don’t know much about them, do you, the secret police? Not really, I mean?

— I know what they did.

Malysh thought about this for a while before adding:

— They arrested people.

— Don’t you need to know a little more about a person before you kill them?

— Fraera has given me orders. I don’t need any other reason.

— That’s what they would say, the Chekists, about the things they did: that they were just following orders.

Malysh became irritated:

— Fraera has said you can help. So you can help. She didn’t say anything about asking a lot of stupid questions. I can take you back to your cell, if that’s what you want.

— Don’t get angry. I would’ve asked why, that’s all. Why are we killing this woman?

Malysh folded the photo in half and put it back in his pocket. Zoya had pushed him too far. She’d been excited and she’d stepped over the line, her brashness getting the better of her. She remained silent, hoping she hadn’t ruined everything. Expecting peevish irritation, she was surprised when Malysh spoke in an almost apologetic tone:

— Her crimes were written down on a list. I didn’t want to ask anyone to read it aloud.

— You can’t read?

Scrutinizing her reaction, he shook his head. She was careful to keep her face blank, alert to his insecurity:

— Didn’t you go to school?

— No.

— What happened to your parents?

— They died. I grew up in train terminals, mostly, until Fraera came along.

Malysh asked:

— You think it’s bad that I can’t read?

— You’ve never had the opportunity to learn.

— I’m not proud of it.

— I know.

— I’d like to read, and write too. I’m going to learn, someday.

— You’ll learn quickly, I’m sure.

They sat in silence for the next hour or so, watching as the lights in the surrounding buildings around went dark, one by one, the occupants turning in to bed. Malysh stood up, stretching, a nocturnal creature that only stirred when everyone else slept. Out of the pockets of his baggy trousers, he took a reel of stiff wire, unfolding it. At the end of the wire he fastened a shard of mirror, wrapping the wire round and round until it was secure. He carefully tilted the mirror so that it was at a forty-five-degree angle. Walking to the edge of the building, he lay on his stomach and lowered the wire until the mirror was in line with the bedroom window. Zoya joined him, lying by his side and glancing down. The curtain was closed but there was a small gap. In the dark room he could make out a figure in bed. Malysh pulled the wire up, taking the mirror off the end, folding the wire up and putting the items back in his pocket.

— We enter the other side.

Zoya nodded. He paused, muttering:

— You can stay here.

— On my own?

— I trust you not to run away.

— Malysh, I hate Chekists as much as Fraera. I’m with you.

Taking off their shoes, leaving them neatly side by side on the roof, they scaled down the brickwork, holding on to the drainpipe for support. It was a short descent: a meter or so. Malysh reached the windowsill as easily as if there’d been a ladder. Zoya followed tentatively, trying not to look down. They were on the sixth floor and any fall would be fatal. Flicking out a knife, Malysh lifted the catch, opening the window and entering the apartment. Wary of Zoya making a noise, he turned around, offering his hand. She waved it aside, gingerly lowering herself to the floorboards.

They’d broken into the living room, a large room. Zoya whispered in Malysh’s ear:

— Does she live alone?

He nodded curtly, not appreciating the question — any question. He wanted silence. The size of the apartment was remarkable. By adding up the square meters of empty floor space, Zoya could guess the scale of this woman’s crimes.

Up ahead the bedroom door was closed. Malysh reached out, taking hold of the handle. Before he opened the door, he indicated that Zoya stay behind, out of sight, in the living room. Although she wanted to follow, he wasn’t going to allow her any farther. She nodded, pulling back, waiting while Malysh opened the door.

* * *