capsize!
Standing at the top of the steps, pounding the hatch with colossal force, the convict sang out to his fellow inmates:
– Before I die, I’m going to be free! I’m going to die a free man!
Seemingly tireless, he was denting the metal hatch, targeting each blow where the previous blow had landed.
There was no way of knowing how much longer until the hatch was broken. Once broken, it couldn’t be repaired. Leo had to act now. Fighting him alone would be an impossible task. He needed to enlist the help of the other prisoners. He turned to them, ready to rally them:
– Our lives depend on…
Leo’s voice failed to rise over the clanging steel blows and the storm. No one was going to help him.
Compensating for the rocking of the ship, Leo lunged for the bottom step, steadying himself. The convict had twisted his legs around the steel frame of the stairs, fixing himself in position as he continued to thunder blows against the hatch. Seeing Leo climbing toward him he pointed his mangled shovel at him. Leo’s opponent had the higher position. The only chance would be to take out his legs, bringing him down. The prisoner took up a defensive position, angling the shovel back.
Before Leo could reposition himself bullets punched through the hatch into the convict’s back. His mouth full of blood, the vory looked down at his chest, perplexed. The storm shook him free from the top step, throwing him down. Leo dodged out of the way, letting the man crash into the water. More bullets punctured the hatch, zipping past Leo’s face. He jumped, landing in the water, out of the line of fire.
Leo peered across. The vory was dead, lying facedown. A new danger had been created. The hatch was crisscrossed with bullet holes. Water was pouring in, a dense shower every time a wave broke over the deck. If they couldn’t fill those holes, the water level would rise and the ship would capsize. It was essential that Leo climb the steps in order to plug the holes. The ship continued to be tossed from side to side, water gushing in through the hatch. The water level in the hold was rising, splashing onto the cooling coal engine. Leo couldn’t wait any longer. The ship was already struggling to right itself. He had to act now.
Leo stripped the clothes from the dead convict, ripping them into rags. With thick streams of water soaking him from the damaged hatch he tentatively put his foot on the bottom step, ready to climb up. His life depended on the intelligence of the unseen guard.
SAME DAY
Euphoric, Genrikh clung to the gun turret, waves breaking around him, as though he were riding the back of a monstrous whale. Because of his bravery the convicts’ attempted escape had failed. He’d saved the ship. From a coward to a hero in one night! Earlier, inside the tower, hearing the battle erupt between the guards and the prisoners, he’d taken refuge in the crew quarters, cowering. He’d seen his friend Iakov run past and he’d done nothing, remaining hidden. Only once he was certain that the convicts had lost, that they’d been beaten back and the ship was secure, did he emerge, belatedly understanding the different kind of danger he was in. The surviving crew would accuse him of being a deserter. They’d hate him as the previous crew had hated him. He’d be condemned to another seven years of isolation. Bleak with despair, redemption had landed in his lap-the clang of steel against steel. He’d been the only crew member to hear the convicts smashing the hatch. They were trying to seize the ship from the deck. The hatch had not been constructed to withstand sustained attacks. Normally no prisoner would dare touch it for fear of being shot. In the storm, however, the gun turret was unmanned. This was his opportunity to prove himself. Rejuvenated by the prospect, he’d run across the deck from the base of the tower to the gun turret. He’d taken aim and fired at the hatch. Giddy with excitement he’d cried out, firing a second and third volley of bullets through the hatch. He’d stay out here for as long as the storm lasted. Everyone in the tower would witness his extraordinary courage. If any convict tried to break through, if any convict even came near the hatch, he’d kill them.
Standing in the bridge, choked with rage at Genrikh’s stupidity, Timur couldn’t allow him to fire another volley into the hatch. The ship was low in the water, the captain barely able to pull up over the waves. If they took on any more water they’d sink. The storm showed no sign of abating. Timur knew, as the others did not, how much water had already flooded the vessel when he’d opened the outer doors. Having saved the ship from the convicts, he now had to save it from a guard.
Running down the flights of stairs, he braced himself before throwing open the door to the deck. Wind and rain whipped around him as if personally insulted by his presence. He closed the door behind him, hooking himself onto the safety wire. The distance between the base of the tower and the gun turret was perhaps fifteen meters, a clear stretch of deck-if he was caught by a wave crossing that space he’d either be slammed into the side of the deck or taken out to sea. His safety cord would count for little, dragging him along in the sea like fishing bait until the line snapped. He glanced at the bullet holes in the hatch. Something caught his eye: a rag pushed up-plugging the hole. Genrikh was lining up another shot.
Timur darted across the deck just as a wave began to sweep over the side, rushing toward him. He dived forward, grabbing the side of the turret and pushing the gun up into the air. Genrikh fired. The wave hit. For a split second Timur’s legs were lifted up. Had he not been holding on he would’ve been swept out to sea. The water cleared, his legs fell back down. With a mouth and nose full of salt water, Timur spluttered. Recovering, he grabbed hold of Genrikh by the scruff of the neck, losing control, furious, shaking him like a rag doll. He pushed him back, pulling the ammunition clip out of the gun and tossing it into the sea.
With the gun disarmed Timur staggered back toward the tower, checking the hatch as he passed. More rags were being stuffed into the holes. Almost at the tower, he felt the impact of another wave. Turning around, he saw water rushing at him. Smacked off his feet, he was pounded against the deck. Silence, all he could see was a million bubbles. Then the water drained from the deck, the sounds of the storm returned. He sat up, looking out. The machine-gun turret was gone: ripped out like a rotten tooth. The wreckage had been swept to the bow of the ship. Genrikh was caught up in the twisted steel.
Timur had enough slack in his cord to pull himself along the side and grab hold of the young guard. Pitiful, Genrikh tried to free himself from the metal. He was stuck. If the wreckage went overboard it would take him with it. Timur could save him. Yet he hadn’t moved. He glanced out at the sea. They were climbing another wave, soon they’d be plunging down, into the trough, and the force that had swept a bolted machine-gun turret off the deck would sweep them out too.
Turning his back on Genrikh, Timur took hold of the cord and pulled himself toward the tower. The ship’s angle reversed, plunging down. He reached the door, climbing inside, sealing it shut.
Genrikh rose with a wave, splashing to keep afloat. The water was so cold he couldn’t feel anything below his waist. Washed overboard, there’d been intense pain when the steel had ripped him. Numb with shock, it was as if the icy waves had bitten him in half. For a second he saw the lights of the ship, and then it was gone.
TEN KILOMETERS NORTH OF MOSCOW
8 APRIL
Zoya’s wrists and ankles were bound with thin steel wire, coiled so tight that when she tried to adjust position it cut into her skin. She was blindfolded and gagged, lying on her side. There was no blanket underneath her-nothing to cushion the bumps in the road. Judging by the noise of the engine and the amount of space around her, she was in the back of a truck. She could feel the accelerations and vibrations through the steel floor. Each abrupt stop rolled her backward and then forward, more like a carcass than a living person. Once she’d recovered from the disorientation she began to visualize her journey. At the outset they’d made frequent turns, negotiating traffic. They’d been in a city-Moscow, although she couldn’t be sure of that. Right now they were traveling straight, at a constant speed. They must have left the city. Except for the truck’s gruff engine there was no other noise, no
