The Secret Speech

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.

In the back of the ZIL limousine Lazar studied the soft leather upholstery and walnut panels with an infantlike fascination. There were ice cubes in a small silver jug, a bowl of fresh fruit. Lazar picked up an orange, cupping it in his hands, squeezing it. Panin politely ignored the behavior: the bewilderment of a convict surrounded by luxury. He handed Leo a map of Moscow.

— That’s all we received from Fraera.

Leo examined the map. A central location was marked with an ink crucifix:

— What’s there?

— We couldn’t find anything.

The car began to move.

— Where is Raisa?

— I spoke to her earlier. She was going to wait for the car. When the car arrived, they found your parents looking after Elena. Raisa had gone out.

Alarmed, Leo sat forward:

— She’s supposed to be under protective custody.

— We can’t protect someone who doesn’t want to be protected.

— You don’t know where she is?

— I’m sorry, Leo.

Leo sat back. There was no doubt in his mind that Fraera was involved in Raisa’s disappearance.

* * *

IT WAS TWO IN THE MORNING by the time they arrived in the city center. The contrast to the wilderness of Kolyma was so pronounced that Leo felt sick with disorientation, a sensation exacerbated by sleep deprivation and drumming anxiety. They stopped in the middle of Moskvoretskaya Naberezhnaya, the main road that followed the Moskva, at the point marked on the map. The driver got out. Panin’s bodyguard joined him. The two officers checked the area, returning to the car.

— There’s nothing here!

Leo stepped out. The rain was heavy: he was soaked through in a matter of seconds. The street was empty. He could hear the rain running down the drain. He crouched down. The manhole cover was under the car.

— Drive forward!

The limousine moved forward, exposing the cover. Leo wrenched it open, pushing it aside. The guards were on either side of him, guns ready. The drop was deep. There was no one on the ladder.

Leo returned to the car:

— Do you have flashlights?

Panin nodded:

— In the trunk.

Leo opened the trunk, checking the flashlights, handing one to Lazar.

Leo took the lead, climbing down first, gripping the ladder, the shudder-inducing memory of torn skin combining with the real-time pain he felt in his knees. Sheets of rain spilled over the edge, splashing his hands, neck, and face. Lazar followed. Panin called down:

— Good luck.

As soon as they were both below street level the manhole was closed, the steel lid clattering shut, cutting off the streams of rainwater and the streetlight. In the pitch-black darkness they paused, turning on their flashlights before continuing down.

Reaching the bottom of the ladder, Leo surveyed the main tunnel. It was filled with a torrent of white, swirling water. The heavy rain had caused an overflow. Instead of modest, filthy streams, cascades of crashing water were channeling across the city. Unsure whether it was possible to proceed, Leo was forced to suppose the existence of some kind of ledge. Testing his theory, he hung down, tentatively exploring with his boot. The narrow ledge was submerged underwater.

Leo shouted to Lazar, projecting his voice above the noise:

— Stay close to the wall!

Lazar climbed down, Leo guiding him. Pressed flat against the wall, the two of them crisscrossed their flashlights in every direction searching for some instruction. In the distance, a hundred or so meters down the tunnel, there was a light.

Setting off toward the light, along the narrow ledge, the water level in the tunnel was rising, splashing around their knees. Each step required ferocious concentration. Only meters away, Leo saw a lantern fixed to the wall above the outline of a door. Scraping at the thick slime that covered the walls, he pushed the door open. Water poured in, down a flight of concrete stairs descending farther underground. They hurried, closing the door behind them, cutting the water off— relieved to be clear of the perilous ledge.

Inside the narrow spiral staircase the air was dank and hot. They descended in silence, their breathing echoing around the closed chamber. After fifty or so steps they came across another door. Leo pushed hard on the steel frame, the hinges creaking. There was no stench of sewage, no flowing water, just silence. He turned to Lazar:

— Stay here.

Leo entered the new tunnel, exploring it with his flashlight. The walls were dry. His foot kicked a steel track — they were in a metro tunnel.

Like an underground sunrise a soft yellow light appeared, emanating from an old-fashioned mining lantern, a flickering gas flame held by a man. He was alone, his proportions grotesquely muscular, tattoos stretched across his hands and neck.

— Don’t move.

The vory searched Leo and Lazar. Finished, he shut the steel door that led up to the sewers, locking it. He swung around, indicating the direction they were going to walk. They set off, Leo in front, Lazar just behind, the vory at the back, commenting as they went:

— This metro line isn’t on any map. After it was completed the workers were executed so that its existence could remain a secret. It’s called the spetztunnel and it runs from Kremlin to Ramenkoye, an underground town fifty kilometers away. If the West attacks our leaders will descend here, sitting on silk cushions while Moscow burns.

After some distance the vory stopped walking.