The Secret Speech

MALYSH STEPPED INTO THE DARK ROOM. Marina Niurina was in bed, lying on her side. Readying his knife, stepping up to her, he paused, as though balancing on the brink of a cliff. The woman in bed was much older than the woman in the photograph — she had gray hair, a wrinkled face, she was at least sixty years old. He hesitated, wondering if he had the wrong address. No, the address was correct. Perhaps the photo had been taken many years ago. He leaned closer, taking out the folded photo to compare. The old lady’s face was in shadow. He just couldn’t be sure. Sleep made everyone seem innocent.

Suddenly Niurina opened her eyes and lifted her arm from under the covers. She was holding a gun, leveling it between Malysh’s eyes. Her legs swung out of bed, revealing a floral nightgown.

— Step back.

Malysh obeyed, arms raised, knife in one hand, photo in the other, calculating if he was fast enough to disarm her. She guessed his thoughts, cocking the gun and firing at the knife in his hand, taking off the tip of his finger. He cried out, clutching the injury as the knife clattered across the floor. Niurina said:

— That gunshot will bring up the guards. I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to let them torture you. I might even join in myself. I’m going to find out where your companions are. Then we’re going to kill them too. Did you really think we were going to roll over and let you and your mob kill us one by one?

Malysh pulled back. She stood up, off the bed:

— If you suppose that by running away you’ll have an easy death, a bullet in the back, think again. I’ll shoot your foot off. In fact, better to shoot your foot off now, just to be sure.

* * *

HER HEART THUMPING, barely able to breathe, Zoya had to act quickly, not stand in the middle of the room, dumbstruck like a stupid child. The old woman couldn’t possibly have seen her. Looking around, there was nowhere to hide except under the writing desk. Wounded, Malysh was retreating from the bedroom toward her, his hand dripping blood. He was careful not to look at her, not to give her away. She was his only chance. The woman was almost at the door. Zoya darted under the desk.

From her hiding place Zoya caught sight of the woman for the first time. She was much older than the photograph but it was the same woman. She was smiling, or sneering, enjoying the power of her gun, following Malysh closely. If Zoya did nothing, if she remained under the desk, the guards would come, Malysh would be arrested — she would be saved, reunited with Elena and Raisa, reunited with Leo. If she did nothing, her life would return to normal.

Zoya leapt up, crying out, charging for the gun. Taken by surprise, Marina Niurina turned the gun in her direction. Zoya grabbed the woman’s wrist, sinking her teeth as far in as they would go. A shot was fired, defeaningly loud beside her ear, the bullet smashing into the wall — Zoya felt the vibrations of the recoil through her teeth. Using her free hand, the woman struck Zoya and struck her again, knocking her to the floor.

Helpless, Zoya looked up as the woman aimed the gun at her. Before she could fire, Malysh scampered up her back, sinking his fingers into her eyes. She screamed, dropping the gun, scratching at his hands, only causing him to press harder. Malysh looked down at Zoya:

— The door!

With the woman screaming, spinning round and round, Zoya ran to the front door, locking it at the same time as the guard thumped up the stairs. When Zoya turned, Niurina dropped to her hands and knees, Malysh still riding her back. He pulled his fingers free, leaving a bloody mess where her eyes had once been. Malysh picked up the gun, gesturing for Zoya to follow him, running to the window.

Behind them the guards kicked at the door. Malysh fired through the wood, halting their progress. With the chamber empty, he dropped the gun, following Zoya out onto the window ledge. Using a spread of machine-gun fire, the guards replied in kind, bullets hitting all sides of the living room. They began climbing the outside wall. Zoya reached the roof first, pulling herself up. She heard the door to the living room being smashed down, the guards exclaiming at the bloody scene before them.

Zoya leaned down, helping Malysh up. With both of them on top of the roof, she grabbed her shoes, about to run off. Malysh caught hold of her wrist:

— Wait!

Hearing the guards on the window below, Malysh picked a slate from the roof, readying himself. A guard’s hand grabbed the ledge. As the guard lifted himself up, Malysh smashed the slate into his face. The guard let go, falling to the side street below. Malysh cried out:

— Run!

They ran across the roof, jumping the gap to the adjacent building. Looking down, they saw swarms of officers in the street below. Malysh remarked:

— It was a trap. They were watching the apartment.

They’d expected Niurina to be a target.

With their original escape route blocked, they were forced to enter the new apartment block, climbing into a bedroom. Malysh called out:

— Fire!

In the overcrowded buildings, ancient timber structures, with faulty electrics, fire was a constant fear. Grabbing Zoya’s hand, he ran out into the corridor, both of them now shouting:

— Fire!

Even without smoke, the corridor was crowded within seconds. Panic quickly spread through the building, feeding off itself. On the stairs Zoya and Malysh dropped to their hands and knees, crawling between people’s legs.

Outside, on the street, inhabitants surged out of the building, merging with the KGB and the militia. Zoya grabbed hold of the arm of a man, pretending to be distraught. Malysh did the same and the man, sympathetic, guided the two of them past the officials, who presumed them to be a family. As soon as they were free, they let go of the man’s arm, slipping off.

Reaching the nearest manhole, they pulled the steel cover back, climbing down into the sewers. At the bottom of the ladder Zoya ripped off a portion of her shirt, wrapping it around Malysh’s bleeding finger, round and round, until it became as thick as a sausage. Catching their breath, both of them began to laugh.

KOLYMA GULAG 57 12 APRIL

THE MORNING LIGHT WAS AS CLEAR and sharp as Leo had ever seen — a perfect blue sky and white plateau. Standing on the roof of the administration barracks, he raised the burnt, twisted remains of the binoculars to his eyes. Salvaged from the fire, only one cracked lens was usable. Searching the horizon, like a pirate at the bow of his ship, Leo saw movement at the far end of the plateau. There were trucks, tanks, and tents — a temporary military encampment. Alerted by yesterday’s flaming towers, beacons of dissent, overnight the regional administration had established a rival base for its counteroperations. There were at least five hundred soldiers. Though the prisoners were not outnumbered they were vastly outgunned, having only collected together two or three heavy machine guns, several clips of ammunition, an assortment of rifles and handguns. Against long-range weaponry, Gulag 57 was hopelessly exposed, while the wire fence would offer no protection against advancing armor. Completing his bleak assessment, Leo lowered the binoculars, handing them back to Lazar.

A cluster of prisoners had gathered on the roof. Since the destruction of the towers, it had become one of the highest vantage points in the camp. Aside from Lazar and Georgi there were the two other leaders and their closest supporters: ten men in all.

The vory leader asked Leo:

— You’re one of them. What will they do? Will they negotiate?

— Yes, but you can trust nothing they say.

The younger convict leader stepped forward:

— What about the speech? We are not under Stalin’s rule anymore. Our country has changed. We can make our case. We were being treated unfairly. Many of our convictions should be reviewed. We should be