Prezent nodded, smirking at his murderous ingenuity. He thought so too.
Dismissed, Leo returned through the command headquarters to the truck. He reached the cabin, climbing in, feeling the same rage he’d experienced upon seeing Timur’s watch. He looked out of the smashed window in the direction of Abel Prezent. They had to leave now. This was their only chance. Everyone was preoccupied with the plane. Yet he couldn’t—he couldn’t allow Prezent to get away with it. He opened the cabin door. Georgi grabbed his arm:
—Where are you going?
—There’s something I have to take care of.
Georgi shook his head:
—We need to go now, while they’re distracted.
—This won’t take long.
—What do you have to do?
—That’s my concern.
—It is ours too.
—That man murdered my friend.
Leo pulled free. But Lazar leaned across, taking Leo’s arm, indicating that he wanted to speak. Leo lowered his ear, Lazar whispered:
—People don’t always get… what they deserve…
With those faint words, Leo’s indignation was extinguished. He dropped his head, accepting this truth. He hadn’t come here for revenge. He’d come here for Zoya. Timur had died for Zoya. They had to leave now. Abel Prezent would get away with murder.
SAME DAY
THE SHADOW CAST BY THE MOUNTAIN enveloped Gulag 57, stretching across the plateau, reaching out toward the temporary military encampment. Abel Prezent checked his watch: the toxin would be taking effect very soon; prisoners would be falling unconscious. They’d timed it carefully. At night, no one in the camp would think it odd that prisoners were tired. Before their suspicions were aroused the ground troops would advance, unseen, cutting through the fence and regaining control. The prisoners would be killed, except for a token number necessary to fend off accusations of a massacre. News of the success would spread through the region. Every other camp would receive the clear message that the riot had failed and that the Gulags were here to stay, that they were not the past—that they were part of the future, that they would always be part of their future.
—Excuse me, sir?
A bedraggled guard stood before him.
—I was on the truck, from Gulag 57. I’m one of the injured officers they released.
The man’s arm was bandaged. Abel smiled condescendingly:
—Why aren’t you in the medical tent?
—I faked my injuries to get on board the truck. I’m not seriously hurt. The doctor says I’m fit to report for duty.
—You needn’t worry about your comrades. We’ll be launching our rescue soon.
Abel was about to move away. The man persisted:
—Sir, it wasn’t about them. It was about the three men driving the truck.
SAME DAY
DRIVING ALONG THE HIGHWAY at night, guided by dim headlights, Leo strained forward, clutching the steering wheel, peering into the darkness. Nothing more than adrenaline was holding back exhaustion. The journey toward Magadan had been made possible by the monotonous simplicity of the descent, with only the narrow timber bridge proving difficult. Now, for the first time, the lights of Magadan could be seen at the foot of the hills on the edge of the sea—a vast black expanse. The airstrip was close, just north of the port.
There was a whistling noise. Ahead of their position an orange flare hung in the night sky, fizzling phosphorus light. Launched from the edge of the town, a second flare was fired, then a third, a fourth—orange stars along the highway. Leo slammed on the brakes:
—They’re searching for us.
He killed the headlights. Leaning out of the smashed window, he looked behind them. In the distance were numerous sets of headlights, snaking down the mountain:
—They’re coming from both directions. I’m going to have to drive off-road.
Georgi shook his head:
—No.
—If we stay on the highway they’ll find us in minutes.
—Off-road, how long then? You need more time.
Georgi turned to Lazar:
—I’ve accepted that I will never leave Kolyma. I accepted that fact a long time ago.
Lazar shook his head. But Georgi, the man who’d served as his voice, was adamant:
—For once, Lazar, listen to me. I was never going with you to Moscow. Let me do this.
Lazar whispered to Georgi, words that for once he didn’t have to voice out loud, words that were for him alone.
A second wave of flares was launched, sweeping light up the highway, moving ever closer. Leo got out of the truck, Lazar followed. Georgi took the steering wheel. He paused, glancing through the smashed window at Lazar, before uncertainly driving off, toward Magadan. Lazar had lost a part of himself—he’d lost his voice.
On foot, Leo and Lazar stumbled in the dark over uneven icy terrain toward the flickering lights of the airstrip. Georgi had been right. The ground was so uneven the truck would’ve become stuck within a matter of minutes. Spasms of pain shot through Leo’s legs, causing him to fall. Lazar helped him up, supporting him. Arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, they were an unlikely team.
Another barrage of flares was launched into the sky, their orange Cyclops eyes concentrated on the highway. There was gunfire. Leo and Lazar paused, turning around. The truck had been found. It accelerated toward a roadblock. Under heavy fire, the truck seemed to veer left and right, out of control, continuing briefly along the highway before skidding off and rolling onto its side. The authorities would find only one body. They would quickly widen the search. Leo observed:
—We don’t have long.
Approaching the perimeter of the airstrip, Leo paused, studying its primitive layout. There were three parked planes. The only one that could make the journey across the Soviet Union was the twin-engine, Ilyushin Il-12.
—We walk to the Ilyushin, the largest plane—we walk slowly, like nothing is wrong, like we’re supposed to be here.
They stepped out into the open. There was a handful of ground crew and soldiers. There were no patrols, no sense of urgency. Leo knocked on the plane’s door. He’d been promised they would be ready to fly at a moment’s notice. Since there’d always been a chance that the escape might be delayed, Panin had assured Leo that there would always be someone on board no matter what time they arrived.
Leo knocked again, a frantic impatience building as each second passed. The door opened. A young man, not much more than twenty years old, peered out. He’d evidently been dozing. A faint smell of alcohol leaked from the cabin. Leo said:
—You’re here under Frol Panin’s orders?
The young man rubbed his eyes.
—That’s right.
—We need to fly back to Moscow.
—There are supposed to be three of you.
—Things have changed. We need to go now.
Without waiting for an answer, Leo climbed up into the plane, helping Lazar in, shutting the door. The young man was puzzled:
—We can’t fly.
—Why not?
—The pilot and copilot aren’t here.
—Where are they?
—Having dinner, in town. It will only take thirty minutes to bring them back.
Leo estimated they had about five minutes at the most. He concentrated on the young man:
—What is your name?
—Konstantin.
—Is the plane ready to fly?
—If we had a pilot.
—How many times have you flown?
—This plane? Never.
—But you’re a pilot?
—I’m training. I’ve flown smaller planes.
—But not this plane?
—I’ve watched them pilot it.
That would have to do.
—Konstantin, listen to me very carefully. They’re going to kill us, you as well, unless we take off right now. We can either die here or we can try and fly this plane. I’m not threatening
you. These are our options.
The young man stared at the cabin. Leo took hold of him:
—I believe in you. You can do this. Ready the plane.
Leo took the copilot’s seat, an incomprehensible panel of gauges and buttons before him. His knowledge of planes was rudimentary. Konstantin’s hands were shaking.
—I’m starting the engine.
The propellers shuddered and began to spin. Leo glanced out the window. They’d attracted the soldiers’ attention. Officers were moving toward them.
—We need to hurry.
The plane taxied onto the airstrip. The radio crackled into life but before the control hut could address them Leo turned it off. He didn’t need the young pilot hearing their threats. Lazar, seated behind, tapped Leo on the shoulder, pointing out of the window. The soldiers were running for the plane. Their guns were drawn.
—Konstantin, we have to take off.
The plane began to build up speed.
The soldiers were sprinting, running parallel with the cabin. As the plane accelerated, leaving them behind, they began to fire, bullets ricocheting off the engine. Ready for takeoff, they were going to get away and Leo looked up. The Tupolev Tu-4 bomber was descending directly toward them.
The young pilot shook his head, slowing down. Leo said:
—Don’t slow down. This is our only chance!
—What chance!
—We have to take off!
—We’ll crash! We can’t get over the bomber!
—Fly at the Tupolev. They’ll pull up. Do it!
They were coming toward the end of the runway.
The Ilyushin took off, on course for a midair collision with the bomber. Either the Tupolev abandoned its descent or the two planes would crash. Konstantin called out:
—They’re not moving! We’ve got to land!
Leo gripped Konstantin’s hand, holding their course steady: if they crash-landed they’d be caught and shot. They had nothing to lose. The bomber crew did.
The Tupolev veered upward, a steep climb, just as the Ilyushin flew underneath, the tail fin skimming the bomber’s underbelly as the two planes passed each other. Ahead of them for the first time was clear sky. Konstantin smiled, the confounded smile of a man who couldn’t believe that he was alive.
Leo climbed out of his seat, joining Lazar in the back. Magadan was nothing more than a collection of lights in a vast darkness. This was the world that Leo had banished Lazar to—a wilderness that had been his home for the past seven years.
MOSCOW
SAME DAY
RAISA SAT ON ELENA’S BED, watching her sleep. Since Fraera’s visit, Elena’s questioning had become more assertive, as if she sensed the situation had changed. Promises that Zoya’s return was imminent were no longer enough. She’d become immune to assurances, content for an hour or so before the effect faded and a deep unease returned.
The phone rang. Raisa hurried out, rushing to the receiver:
—Hello?
—Raisa, it’s Frol Panin. We’ve made radio contact with Leo. The plane is on its way. He’ll be in the city in less than five hours. Lazar is with him.
—You’ve contacted Fraera?
—Yes, we’re waiting to receive instructions for the exchange. You’ll want to meet Leo at the airport?
—Of course.
—I’ll have a car sent over when his plane is nearing. We’re almost there, Raisa. We almost have her.
Raisa hung up the receiver. She remained by the phone, pondering those words.
We almost have her.
Panin was talking about catching Fraera: he had little interest in her daughter. Despite Panin’s considerable charms, Raisa agreed with Leo’s assessment of his character: there was something cold about him.
Elena was standing in the hallway. Raisa stretched out her hand. Elena stepped forward. Guided into the kitchen, Raisa sat her down at the table. She warmed milk at the stove, tipping it into a mug. She put the mug down in front of Elena.
—Is Zoya coming home tonight?
—Yes.
Elena picked up the mug and took a satisfied sip.
There was no more time to consider Fraera’s offer. Raisa no longer believed in Leo’s plan. Having met Fraera for herself, having listened to her anger, it didn’t make sense to hand Zoya over to Leo and make him a hero. He would achieve in that prisoner exchange everything Fraera was determined he should never have—a daughter, happiness, a family reunited. The premise was wrong. Leo’s belief in it was naïve. Zoya was in danger. Leo was not the one to save her.
Raisa opened a drawer, taking out a tall red candle. Placing it on the windowsill, in clear view of the street below, she struck a match and lit the wick. Elena asked:
—What are you doing?
—Lighting a candle so that Zoya can find her way home.
Raisa glanced out into the street. The candle was lit. The signal was given. She would accept Fraera’s offer. She would leave Leo.
SAME DAY
MALYSH SAT ON A LEDGE, listening to the racing sewer water. Two months ago the world had made sense. Now he was confused. Someone liked him, not because he could handle a knife, not because he was useful, someone liked him because… he couldn’t exactly say. Why did Zoya like him? He’d never been liked before. There was no logic to it. She’d saved his life for no reason. Presented with an opportunity to escape, she’d not only turned it down, she’d risked her life for him.
Fraera approached, sitting beside him, their legs dangling side by side like friends on a riverbank, except instead of fish and fallen leaves passing them by, the city’s waste flowed beneath their feet. Fraera asked:
—Why are you hiding here?
Malysh wanted to remain silent, petulant, but it was an unforgivable insult not to reply, so he muttered:
—I don’t feel well.
To his surprise Fraera laughed:
—Two months ago you would’ve killed that girl and not thought anything of it.
Fraera rested a hand on his shoulder:
—I need to know if you will do anything I order, without question.
—I have never disobeyed you.
—You have never disagreed with anything I’ve ordered you to do.
Malysh couldn’t counter—it was true, he’d never had a contrary opinion, until now. She’d pushed him together with Zoya in order to test him. She’d manufactured his relationship with Zoya in order to measure it against her relationship with him.
—Malysh, when I was imprisoned, I heard a story, told by a Chechen convict. It comes from a Nartian epic, about a hero called Soslan. It is the custom of Narts to avenge not only wrongs committed against them but any committed against their family or ancestors, no matter how ancient the crime. Quarrels last for hundreds of years. Soslan spent his entire life in pursuit of revenge. When you come of age, Malysh, you will need a new name. I had hoped it would be Soslan.
Though her voice hadn’t changed, Malysh sensed danger. Fraera stood up:
—Follow me.
Malysh followed Fraera through the tunnels and chambers to Zoya’s cell. She unlocked the door. Zoya was standing in the corner, having heard them approach. She sought confirmation in Malysh’s eyes that something was wrong. Fraera took hold of Zoya’s wrist, pulling her toward the door. Confused, Malysh didn’t know whether to obey or protest. Before he could make up his mind, Fraera slammed the door, locking him in.
SAME DAY
HAVING FLOWN ACROSS THE WIDTH of the Soviet Union from the Pacific coast to the capital, the fuel gauge of the Ilyushin was tapping empty. They had one chance to put down. A storm had closed over them: the plane burrowing through furious black clouds. Lazar was in the back, chewing biscuits with the good side of his mouth. Leo was strapped into the copilot’s chair, trying to keep Konstantin’s confidence from crumbling. Flying toward Stupino military airstrip on the outskirts of Moscow, the plane made its final descent. Panic in his voice, Konstantin declared:
—I should be a
ble 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.