and a peculiarly adult face as if each year on earth had aged him by three. It was time for the boy’s induction, to decide if he was sincere about his commitment to God.
Krasikov gestured for one of his guards to bring the child over. The boy shied away like a mistreated dog, wary of human contact. He’d been found not far from the sanctuary, in a doorway, huddled in rags, clutching an earthenware figure of a man sitting on the back of a pig, riding the pig as though it were a horse. It was a comic piece of household porcelain, suggesting a provincial background. Once brightly colored, the paint had faded. Remarkably, it was unbroken except for the pig’s chipped left ear. The boy, sinewy and strong, never let it out of his sight and never let it go. It had some sentimental value, perhaps, an object from the boy’s past.
Krasikov smiled at the guard, politely dismissing him. He opened the door to the prayer room, waiting for the boy to follow. The boy didn’t move, clutching his painted man on a pig as tightly as if it were filled with gold.
– You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. However, if you can’t let God into your life, you can’t stay here.
The boy glanced at the other children. They’d stopped what they were doing: watching to see what decision would be made. No one had ever said no. The boy tentatively entered the prayer room. As he passed by Krasikov asked:
– Remind me of your name.
The boy stammered:
– Ser… gei.
Krasikov shut the door behind them. The room had been prepared. Candles were burning. The afternoon light was fading. He knelt before the crucifix, not giving Sergei any instructions, waiting for the boy to join him, a simple test to see if the child had any religious background. Those with experience would join him: those with none would remain by the door. Sergei didn’t move, remaining by the door:
– Many of the children were ignorant when they arrived. That is no crime. You will learn. I hope God will one day take the place of that toy figure you hold so dear.
To Krasikov’s surprise the boy replied by locking the door. Before he could query the action, the boy strode forward, pulling a length of wire from the chipped pig’s ear. At the same time, he raised the earthenware figure above his head, throwing it down with all his strength. Krasikov instinctively turned away, expecting it to hit him. But the porcelain figure missed, smashing at his feet, breaking into several large, uneven pieces. Shocked, he peered at the porcelain fragments. There was something else beside the remains of the pig-cylindrical and black. He bent down, picking it up. It was a flashlight.
Confused, he tried to get up, off his knees. Before he could, a noose slipped over his head, down around his neck-thin steel wire secured in a knot. The boy was holding the other end, coiled around his hand. He tugged: the wire tightened, Krasikov gasped as his breath was squeezed from him. His face turned red, the blood constricted. His fingers slipped over the wire, unable to get underneath. The boy tugged again, speaking in a cool, composed voice with no trace of his previous stammer:
– Answer correctly and you’ll live.
At the entrance to the children’s sanctuary, Leo and Timur were denied access, held back by two guards. Frustrated with the delay, Leo showed the men the photo of Lazar, explaining:
– It’s possible that everyone involved in this man’s arrest is a target. Two men are already dead. If we’re right, the patriarch might be danger.
The guards were unimpressed:
– We’ll pass the message on.
– We need to speak to him.
– Militia or not, the patriarch has given us instructions not to let anyone in.
Commotion broke out upstairs: the sound of shouting. In an instant the guards’ complacency turned to panic. They abandoned their post, climbing the stairs, followed by Leo and Timur, bursting into a large hall filled with children. The staff had huddled around a door, shaking it, unable to get in. The guards joined the fray, taking hold of the door handle, listening to the overlapping explanations:
– He went in there to pray.
– With the new boy.
– Krasikov’s not replying.
– Something smashed.
Leo cut through the discussion:
– Kick the door down.
They turned to him, unsure.
– Do it now.
The heaviest and strongest of the guards rushed forward, shoulder smashing against the frame. He charged again, the door broke apart.
Clambering through the splintered opening, Leo and Timur entered the room. A young voice called out, authoritative, assured:
– Stay where you are!
The guards stopped moving, fierce men rendered helpless by the scene before them.
The patriarch was on his knees, turned toward them, his face as red as blood, his mouth open-his tongue protruding, obscene, like a twisted slug. His neck was pinched: thin steel wire stretched to the hands of the young boy. The boy’s hands were wrapped in rags: the wire coiled around and around. A master with a dog on a leash, the boy exercised absolute and lethal control: he need only apply more tension and the wire would either choke the patriarch or slice into his skin.
The boy took a careful backward step, almost at the window, keeping the wire tight and ceding no slack. Leo emerged from the pack of guards who’d become paralyzed at their failure to protect. There were maybe ten meters between him and the patriarch. He couldn’t risk running forward. Even if he reached the patriarch there was no way to get his fingers underneath the wire. Addressing Leo, sensing his calculations, the boy said:
– Any closer, he dies.
The boy threw open the small window, clambering up onto the ledge. They were on the second floor, too great a height to jump. Leo asked:
– What do you want?
– This man’s apology for betraying priests who trusted him, priests he was supposed to protect.
The boy was speaking words as if from reading from a script. Leo glanced at the patriarch. Surely the threat of death would make him compliant. The boy’s orders were to extract an apology. If those were his orders he’d obey them: that was the only leverage Leo had.
– He’ll say sorry. Loosen the wire. Let him speak. That’s what you’ve come to hear.
The patriarch nodded, indicating that he wanted to comply. The boy considered and then slowly loosened the wire. Krasikov gasped, a strangled intake of breath.
Supreme resilience glistened in the old man’s eyes and Leo realized that he’d made a mistake. Summoning his strength, spraying spit with each word:
– Tell whoever sent you… I’d betray him again!
Except for the patriarch, all eyes turned to the boy. But he was already gone. He’d jumped from the window.
The wire whipped up, the full weight of the boy catching on the old man’s neck, pulling the patriarch with such force that he rose up from his knees like a puppet jerked by strings before falling onto his back, dragged across the floor and smashing the small window. His body caught in the window frame. Leo darted forward, grabbing the wire around the patriarch’s neck, trying to relieve the pressure. But the wire had cut through skin, severing muscle. There was nothing Leo could do.
Looking out the window he saw the boy on the street below. Without saying a word Leo and Timur ran out of the room, abandoning the distraught guards, through the main sanctuary hall, the crowd of children, downstairs. The boy was skilled and nimble but he was young and would not be able to outrun them.
When they reached the street, the boy was nowhere to be seen. There were no alleys, no turnings for some distance, he couldn’t have cleared the length of the street in the brief amount of time it had taken them to get outside. Leo hurried to the window where the wire was hanging. He found the boy’s footprints in the snow and followed them to a manhole. Snow had been brushed aside. Timur lifted the manhole up. The drop was deep-a steel
