—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 ladder leading to the sewage system. The boy was already near the bottom, rags tied around his hands. Seeing the light above him, he glanced up, revealing his face to the daylight. In response to seeing Leo he let go of the ladder, falling the last distance and disappearing into the dark.
Leo turned to Timur:
—Get the flashlights from the car.
Not waiting, Leo grabbed the ladder, climbing down. The rungs were icy cold and without gloves his skin stuck to the steel. Each time he let go of the rungs his skin began to rip. There were gloves in the car but he couldn’t delay his pursuit. The sewage system was a labyrinth of tunnels: the boy could disappear down any of them, one unsighted turn and he’d be free. Gritting his teeth at the pain, Leo’s palms began to bleed as patches of skin tore off. His eyes watering, he looked down, judging the remaining distance. It was still too far to jump. He had to continue, forced to press his raw flesh against the iced steel. He cried out, letting go of the ladder.
Landing awkwardly on a narrow concrete ledge, his feet sliding under him, he almost toppled into a deep stream of filthy water. He steadied himself and examined his surroundings—a large brick tunnel, roughly the size of a metro tunnel. A pool of sunlight from the manhole above illuminated a small patch of ground around him but little more. Ahead of him it was dark except for a flicker of light, like a firefly, some fifty meters ahead. It was the boy: he had a flashlight, he’d prepared for this escape.
The flicker of light disappeared. Either the boy had turned his flashlight off or he’d gone down another tunnel. Unable to follow in the dark, unable to see the ledge, Leo looked up at the manhole, waiting for Timur—each second was vital.
—Come on…
Timur’s face appeared at the top. Leo called out.
—Drop it!
If he failed to catch the flashlight it would hit the concrete and smash and he’d have to delay chasing after the boy until Timur climbed down. By that time the boy would be gone. Timur stepped back so that he wasn’t blocking the light. His arm appeared outstretched, holding a flashlight, positioning it in the center of the hole. He let it fall.
Leo’s eyes tracked it as it began to turn, glancing against the wall, knocking outward again, the movement now entirely unpredictable. He took a step forward, reached up and caught the handle, his red-raw palms stinging as he gripped. Fighting against the instinct to let go, he flicked the switch. The bulb still worked. He shone the light in the direction the boy had disappeared, revealing a ledge that ran alongside the tunnel above the slow-flowing stream of filth. He set off—his speed limited by ice and slime, his clunky boots slipping on the precarious surface. Tempered by the cold, the smell was not unbearable and he limited himself to short, shallow breaths.
Where the boy disappeared, the ledge stopped altogether. There was a secondary tunnel, much smaller—only a meter or so wide—the base of which appeared at shoulder height. This side tunnel fed into the stream below. There was excrement streaked across the wall. The boy must have climbed up. There was no other choice. Leo had to crawl into the tunnel.
He put the flashlight up first. Bracing himself, he gripped the oozy sides, his open wounds roaring in pain as exposed flesh mingled with dirt and shit. Dizzy with pain, he tried to pull himself up, aware that if he lost his grip he’d fall into the stream below. But there was nothing to grab on to farther inside the tunnel—he reached out, his hand splashing down on the smooth, curved surface. The toe of his boot gripped the brickwork: he pushed up, into the tunnel, lying on his back, trying to wipe the filth off his hands. In the confined space the smell was overwhelming. Leo retched. Managing not to throw up, he took hold of the flashlight, shining the beam down the tunnel and crawling on his stomach, using his elbows to propel himself along.
A series of rusted bars blocked the way forward: the space between the bars was less than the width of his hand. The boy must have gone another way. About to turn back, Leo stopped. He was certain: there was no other way. Wiping off the grime, he examined the bars. Two of them were loose. He gripped them, tugging. They could be pulled free. The boy had scouted this route, that’s why he had the flashlight, that’s why he knew to wear the rags—he’d always intended to escape through the sewers. Even with the two bars removed Leo had trouble squeezing through the gap. Forced to take off his jacket in order to fit, he emerged into a cavernous chamber.
Lowering his feet, the floor seemed to move. He shone the light down. It was alive with rats, three or four deep—crawling over each other. His disgust was moderated by his curiosity that they were all traveling in one direction. He turned his light in the direction they were running from, scrambling away from a larger tunnel. Inside that tunnel Leo could see the boy, a
bout a hundred meters’ distance between them. The boy wasn’t running: he was standing by the wall, his hand flat against it. Cautious, sensing something was wrong, Leo moved forward.
The boy swung around and, seeing his pursuer, set off again. He’d adapted his flashlight—which hung around his neck by a piece of string—enabling both hands to remain free. Leo reached out, feeling the tunnel wall. The vibrations were so intense his fingers trembled.
The boy was sprinting, water splashing around his ankles. Leo tracked his movements with his flashlight. Nimble as a cat, the boy used the curved walls, jumping and propelling himself off the side, leaping upwards. His target was the bottom rung of a ladder that emerged from a vertical tunnel overhead. The boy missed the lowest rung, landing with a splash on the floor. Leo ran forward. Behind him, he could hear Timur crying out in disgust, no doubt at the mass of rats. The boy was up on his feet, preparing himself for another jump at the ladder.
Suddenly the thin stream of stagnant water started to swell, surging, rising in volume. A tremendous rumbling filled the tunnel. Leo raised his torch upwards. The beam of light caught white foam: the breaking tip of a wall of water crashing toward them less than two hundred meters away.
With only seconds remaining, the boy made another run for the ladder, jumping at the wall and reaching for the bottom rung. This time he caught it, hanging by both hands. He pulled himself up, clambering into the vertical tunnel, out of the water’s reach. Leo turned around. The water was closing. Timur had just entered the main tunnel.
Arriving at the base of the ladder, Leo clamped the flashlight between his teeth and jumped, catching hold of the steel bar, his hands stinging as he pulled himself up. He could see the boy moving up above him. Ignoring the pain, he sped up, closing on the boy. He grabbed the boy’s foot. Keeping a lock as the boy tried to kick free, Leo directed the beam of light down. At the bottom of the shaft, frantic, Timur dropped his flashlight, jumped. He caught the bottom rung with both hands just as the water crashed around him, white foamy water exploding up into the vertical tunnel.
The boy laughed:
—If you want to save your friend you’ll have to let me go!
He was right. Leo had to let the boy go, scale down, and help Timur.
—He’s going to die!
Timur emerged from the water, gasping, lifting himself up, wrapping an arm around the next bar and pulling himself free of the foam. The bulk of his body was still submerged but his grip was good.
Relieved, Leo didn’t move, keeping a grip on the boy’s ankle as he kicked and thrashed. Timur pulled himself up to Leo’s position, taking the flashlight from Leo’s mouth and pointing it at the boy’s face.
—Kick again and I’ll break your leg.
The boy stopped: there was no doubting that Timur was serious. Leo added:
—We climb up together, slowly, to the next level. Understood?
The boy nodded. The three of them climbed up, slowly, awkwardly, a mass of limbs, moving like a deformed spider.
At the top of the ladder, Leo remained stationary, holding the boy’s ankle while Timur scrambled up over both of them, reaching the passageway above:
—Let him go.
Leo let go and climbed up. Timur had the boy’s arms pinned. Leo took hold of the flashlight, using his fingertips to avoid touching his bloody palms. He shined the light in the boy’s face:
—Your only chance of staying alive is by talking to me. You’ve murdered a very important man. A lot of people are going to be calling for your execution.
Timur shook his head:
—You’re wasting your time. Look at his neck.
The boy’s neck was marked with a tattoo, an Orthodox cross. Timur explained:
—He’s a member of a gang. He’d rather die than talk.
The boy smiled:
—You’re down here while up there… your wife… Raisa…
Leo’s reaction was instantaneous, stepping forward, grabbing the boy by his shirt, pulling him free from Timur and lifting him off his feet. It was all the opportunity the boy needed. Like an eel, he slipped out of his shirt, dropping to the floor and darting to the side. Left holding the shirt, Leo turned the flashlight, finding the boy crouched by the edge of the shaft. The boy stepped out, falling into the water below. Leo lunged but too late. Looking down he saw no sign of the boy—he’d fallen into the fast-flowing water, swept away.
Frantic, Leo assessed his surroundings: a closed concrete tunnel. Raisa was in danger. And there was no way out.
SAME DAY
RISA WAS SEATED OPPOSITE THE SCHOOL’S DIRECTOR, Karl Enukidze—a kind man with a gray beard. Also with them was Iulia Peshkova, Zoya’s teacher. Karl’s fingers were knotted under his chin, scratching backward and forward, glancing at Raisa and then at Iulia. For the most part Iulia avoided eye contact altogether, chewing her lip and wishing that she was anywhere but here. Raisa understood their trepidation. If the smashing of Stalin’s portrait were to be investigated Zoya would be placed under the scrutiny of the KGB. But so would they. The question of guilt could be reconstituted: do they blame the child, or the adults who influenced the child? Was Karl a subversive, encouraging dissident behavior in his students when they should be fervently patriotic? Or perhaps Iulia’s lessons were deficient in Soviet character. Questions would arise as to what kind of guardian Raisa had been. Possible outcomes were being hastily calculated. Breaking the silence Raisa said:
—We’re still behaving as though Stalin were alive. Times have changed. There’s no appetite for the denouncement of a fourteen-year-old girl. You’ve read the speech: Khrushchev admits the arrests have gone too far. We don’t need to take an internal school matter to the State. We can deal with it. Let’s see this for what it really is: a troubled young girl, a girl in my care. Let me help her.
Judging from their muted reaction, a lifetime of caution was not wiped away by a single speech, no matter who was speaking and what was being said. Adjusting the emphasis of her strategy, Raisa pointed out:
—It would be best if this were never reported.
Iulia looked up. Karl sat back. A new set of calculations began: Raisa had tried to silence the matter. Her proposal could be used against her. Iulia replied:
—We’re not the only people who know what happened. The students in my class saw everything. There are over thirty of them. By now they will have spoken to their friends, the number will grow. By tomorrow I would be surprised if the entire school wasn’t talking about it. The news will travel outside the school. Parents will find out. They will want to know why we did nothing. What will we say? We didn’t think it was important? That is not for us to decide. Trust in the State. People will find out, Raisa, and if we don’t talk, someone else will.
She was right: containment wasn’t possible. On the defensive, Raisa countered:
—What if Zoya left school with immediate effect? I’d speak to Leo; he could speak to his colleagues. We’d find another school for her. Needless to say I would also leave.
There was no way Zoya could continue her education here. Students would avoid her. Many wouldn’t sit next to her. Teachers would resist having her in their classes. She’d be an outcast as surely as if a cross were daubed on her back.
—I propose that you, Karl Enukidze, make no statement about our leaving. We would simply disappear: no explanation given.
The other students and teachers would presume the matter had been taken care of. The sudden absence would be translated as the culprits being punished. No one would want to talk about it because the consequences had been so severe. The topic would close down, the subject would disappear—a ship sinking at sea while another ship passed by, all the passengers looking in the opposite direction.
Karl weighed up the proposal. Finally he asked:
—You’d take care of all the arrangements?
—Yes.
—Including discussing the issue with the relevant authorities? The Ministry of Education, you have connections?
>
—Leo does, I’m sure.
—I don’t need to speak to Zoya? I don’t need to have any dealings with her at all?
Raisa shook her head:
—I’ll take my daughter and walk out. You carry on as normal, as though I’d never existed. Tomorrow neither Zoya nor myself will attend classes.
Karl looked at Iulia, his eager eyes recommending the plan. It now depended on her. Raisa turned to her friend:
—Iulia?
They’d known each other for three years. They’d helped each other on many occasions. They were friends. Iulia nodded, saying:
—That would be for the best.
They would never speak to each other again.
OUTSIDE THE OFFICE, in the corridor, Zoya was waiting, leaning against the wall—nonchalant, as though she’d merely failed to hand in homework. Her hand was bandaged: the cut had bled profusely. With the negotiations concluded, Raisa shut the office door, exhaustion sweeping over her. Much would now depend upon Leo. Walking to Zoya, she crouched down:
—We’re going home.
—Not my home.
No gratitude, just disdain. Close to tears, Raisa couldn’t manage any words.
Leaving the school building, Raisa stopped at the gates. Had they been betrayed so quickly? Two uniformed officers walked toward her:
—Raisa Demidova?
The eldest of the officers continued:
—We’ve been sent by your husband to escort you home.
They weren’t here about Zoya. Relieved, she asked:
—What’s happened?
—Your husband wants to be sure you’re safe. We can’t go into the details except to say there have been a series of incidents. Our presence is a precaution.
Raisa checked their identity cards. They were in order. She asked:
—You work with my husband?
—We’re part of his homicide department.
Since the department was a secret, even that admission went some way to satisfying Raisa’s suspicions. She handed back the cards, pointing out: