Read the first chapter of The Secret Speech
Tom Rob Smith talks about his hotly-anticipated follow-up to the Booker long-listed Child 44, The Secret Speech, and we let you read the whole of Chapter One.
Soviet Union, 1956: Stalin is dead. With his passing, a violent regime is beginning to fracture – leaving behind a society where the police are the criminals, and the criminals are innocent. The catalyst comes when a secret manifesto composed by Stalin’s successor Khrushchev is distributed to the entire nation. Its message: Stalin was a tyrant and a murderer. Its promise: The Soviet Union will transform. But there are forces at work that are unable to forgive or forget Stalin’s tyranny so easily, that demand revenge of the most appalling nature.
Meanwhile, former MGB officer Leo Demidov is facing his own turmoil. The two young girls he and his wife Raisa adopted have yet to forgive him for his involvement in the murder of their parents. They are not alone. Now that the truth is out, Leo, Raisa and their family are in grave danger from someone with a grudge against Leo. Someone transformed beyond recognition into the perfect model of vengeance.
From the streets of Moscow in the throes of political upheaval, to the wintry Siberian gulags and to Budapest, where a revolution will destroy as many innocent lives as the regime it is attempting to end, The Secret Speech is another stunning thriller from Tom Rob Smith, the author of the Booker-longlisted Child 44.
Read an extract: Chapter 1
SOVIET UNION
MOSCOW
3 JUNE 1949
During the Great Patriotic War he’d demolished the bridge at Kalach in defence of Stalingrad, rigged factories with dynamite, reducing them to rubble, and set indefensible refineries ablaze, slicing the skyline with columns of burning oil. Anything that might be requisitioned by the invading Wehrmacht he’d rushed to destroy. While his fellow countrymen wept as hometowns crumbled around them, he’d surveyed the devastation with grim satisfaction. The enemy would conquer a wasteland, burnt earth and a smoke-filled sky. Often improvising with whatever materials were at hand – tank shells, glass bottles, siphoned petrol from abandoned, upturned military trucks – he’d gained a reputation for being a man the State could rely on. He never lost his nerve, never made a mistake even when operating in extreme conditions: freezing winter nights, waist deep in fast-flowing rivers, under enemy fire. For a man of his experience and temperament, today’s job should be routine. There was no urgency, no bullets whistling overhead. Yet his hands, renowned as the steadiest in the trade, were trembling. Sweat rolled into his eyes, forcing him to dab them with the corner of his shirt. He felt sick, a novice again as if this was the first time that fifty-year-old war hero Jekabs Drozdov had ever blown up a church.
There was one more charge to be set, directly before him, positioned in the sanctuary where the altar had once stood. The bishop’s throne, icons, menalia – everything had been removed. Even the gold leaf had been scraped from the walls. The church stood empty except for the dynamite dug into the foundations and strapped to the columns. Pillaged and picked clean, it remained a vast and awesome space. The central dome, mounted with a crown of stained-glass windows, was so tall and filled with so much daylight that it seemed part of the sky. Head arched back, mouth open, Jekabs admired the peak some fifty metres above him. Rays of sunlight entered through the high windows illuminating frescos that were soon to be blasted apart, broken down into their constituent parts: a million specks of paint. The light spread across the smooth stone floor not far from where he sat as if trying to reach out to him, an outstretched golden palm.
He muttered:
– There is no God.
He said it again, louder this time, the words echoing inside the dome:
– There is no God!
It was a summer’s day; of course there was light. It wasn’t a sign of anything. It wasn’t divine. The light meant nothing. He was thinking too much, that was the problem. He didn’t even believe in God. He tried to recall the State’s many anti-religious phrases.
Religion belonged in an age where every man was for himself
And God was for everyman.
This building wasn’t sacred or blessed. He should see it as nothing more than stone, glass and timber; dimensions, one hundred metres long and sixty metres wide. Producing nothing, serving no quantifiable function, the church was an archaic structure, erected for archaic reasons by a society that no longer existed.
Jekabs sat back, running his hand along the cool stone floor smoothed by the feet of many hundreds and thousands of worshippers attending services for many hundreds of years. Overwhelmed by the magnitude of what he was about to do, he began to choke as surely as if there was something stuck in his throat. The sensation passed. He was tired and overworked – that was all. Normally on a demolition project of this scale he’d be assisted by a team. In this instance he’d decided his men could play a peripheral role. There was no need to divide the responsibility, no need to involve his colleagues. Not all of them were as clear-thinking as he was. Not all of them had purged themselves of religious sentiments. He didn’t want men with conflicted motivation working alongside him.
For five days, starting at sunrise, finishing at sunset, he’d laid every charge – explosives strategically positioned to ensure the structure collapsed inwards, the domes falling neatly on top of themselves. There was order and precision to his craft and he was proud of his skill. This building presented a unique challenge. It wasn’t a moral question but an intellectual test. With a bell tower and five golden cupolas, the largest of which was supported on a tabernacle eighty metres high, today’s controlled, successful demolition would be a fitting conclusion to his career. After this, he’d been promised an early retirement. There’d even been talk about him receiving the Order of Lenin, payment for a job no one else wanted to do.
He shook his head. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should’ve feigned sickness. He should’ve forced someone else to lay the final charge. This was no job for a hero. But the dangers of avoiding work were far greater, far more real than some superstitious notion that this work might be cursed. He had his family to protect – a wife, a daughter – and he loved them very much.
*
Lazar stood among the crowd, held back from the perimeter of the Church of Sancta Sophia at a precautionary distance of a hundred metres, his solemnity contrasting with the excitement and chatter around him. He decided they were the kind of crowd that might have attended a public execution, not out of principle, but just for the spectacle, just for something to do. There was a festive atmosphere, conversations bubbling with anticipation. Children bounced on their fathers’ shoulders, impatient for something to happen. A church was not enough for them: the church needed to collapse for them to be entertained.
At the front of the barricade, on a specially constructed podium to provide elevation, a film crew were busy setting up tripods and cameras – discussing which angles would best capture the demolition. Particular attention was paid to ensure they caught all five cupolas and there was earnest speculation whether the timber domes would smash in the air as they crashed into each other, or not until they hit the ground. It would depend, they reasoned, on the skill of the experts laying the dynamite inside.
Lazar wondered if there could be sadness too among the crowd. He looked left and right, searching for like-minded souls – the married couple in the distance, silent, their faces drained of colour; the elderly woman at the back, her hand in her pocket. She had some item hidden in there, a crucifix perhaps. Lazar wanted to divide this crowd, to separate the mourners from the revellers. He wanted to stand beside those who appreciated what was about to be lost: a three-hundred-year-old church. Named and designed after the Cathedral of Sancta Sophia in Gorky, it had survived civil wars, world wars. The recent bomb damage was a reason to preserve, not to destroy. Lazar had contemptuously read the article in Pravda claiming structural instability. Such a claim was nothing more than a pretext, a spoonful of false logic to make the deed palatable. The State had ordered it’s destruction, and what was worse, far worse, the order had been made in agreement with the Orthodox Church. Both parties to the crime claimed it was a pragmatic decision, not ideological. They’d listed a series of contributing factors. Damage by Luftwaffe raids. The interior required elaborate renovations that couldn’t be paid for. Furthermore, the land, in the heart of the city, was needed for a crucial construction project. Everyone in power was in agreement. This church, hardly one of Moscow’s finest, should be torn down.
Cowardice lay behind the shameful arrangement. The ecclesiastical authorities, having rallied every church congregation behind Stalin during the war, were now an instrument of the State, a ministry of the Kremlin. The demolition was a demonstration of that subjugation. They were blowing it up for no reason other than to prove their humility: an act of self-mutilation to testify that religion was harmless, docile, tamed. It didn’t need to be persecuted any more. Lazar understood the politics of sacrifice: wasn’t it better to lose one church than to lose them all? As a young man he’d witnessed seminaries turned into workers’ barracks, churches turned into anti-religious exhibition halls. Icons had been used as firewood, priests imprisoned, tortured and executed. Continued persecution or thoughtless subservience: that had been the choice.
*
Jekabs listened to the sound of the crowd gathered outside, the bustle as they waited for the show to begin. He was late. He should’ve finished by now. Yet for the past five minutes he hadn’t moved, staring down at the final charge and doing nothing. Behind him, he heard the creak of the door. He glanced over his shoulder. It was his colleague and friend, standing at the doorway, on the threshold, as if fearful of entering. He called out, his voice echoing:
– Jekabs! What’s wrong?
Jekabs replied:
– I’m almost done.
His friend hesitated before remarking, softening his voice:
– We will drink tonight, the two of us, to celebrate your retirement? In the morning you’ll have a terrible headache but by the evening you will feel much better.
Jekabs smiled at his friend’s attempt at consolation. The guilt would be nothing worse than a hangover. It would pass.
– Give me five minutes.
With that, his friend left him alone.
Kneeling in a parody of prayer, sweat streaming, his fingers slippery, he wiped his face, but it made no difference, his shirt was soaked and could absorb no more. Finish the job! And he’d never have to work again. Tomorrow he’d take his little daughter for a walk by the river. The day after he’d buy her something, watch her smile. By the end of next week he would’ve forgotten about this church, about the five golden domes and the sensation of the cold stone floor.
Finish the job!
He snatched hold of the blast cap, crouched down to the dynamite.
*
Stained glass shot out, every window shattering simultaneously, the air filling with coloured fragments. The back wall transformed from a solid mass to a rushing dust cloud. Ragged chunks of stone arced up then crashed to the ground, chewing up the grass, skidding towards the crowd. The flimsy barrier offered no protection, swatted aside with a shrill clang. To Lazar’s right and left people dropped as their legs were knocked out from under them. Children on their fathers’ shoulders clutched their faces, sliced by whistling stone and glass shards. As though it was a single entity, a great shoal, the crowd pulled away in unison, crouching, hiding behind each other, fearful that more debris would rip through them. No one had been expecting anything to happen yet; many hadn’t even been looking in the right direction. The film cameras weren’t set up. There were workers within the blast perimeter, a perimeter hopelessly underestimated or an explosion misjudged.
Lazar stood, his ears ringing, staring at the plumes of dust, waiting for it to settle. As the cloud thinned it revealed a hole in the wall twice the height of a man and equally wide. It was as if a giant had accidentally put the tip of his boot through the church and then retracted his foot apologetically, sparing the rest of the building. Lazar looked up at the golden domes. Everyone around him followed suit, a single question on everyone’s mind: would the towers fall?
Out of the corner of his eye Lazar could see the film crew scrambling to get the cameras rolling, wiping the dust off the lenses, abandoning the tripods, desperate to capture the footage. If they missed the collapse, no matter what the excuse, their lives would be on the line. Despite the danger, no one ran away, they remained fixed to the spot, searching for even the slightest movement, a tilt or jolt – a tremble. It seemed as if even the injured were silent in anticipation.
The five domes did not fall, aloof from the petty chaos of the world below. While the church remained standing, scores in the crowd were bleeding, wounded, weeping. As surely as if the sky had clouded over, Lazar sensed the mood change. Doubts surfaced. Had some unearthly power intervened and stopped this crime? Spectators began to leave, a few slowly, then others joined them, more and more, hurrying away. No one wanted to watch any more. Lazar struggled to suppress a laugh. The crowd had broken apart while the church had survived! He turned to the married couple, hoping to share this moment with them.
The man standing directly behind Lazar was so close they were almost touching. Lazar hadn’t heard him approach. He was smiling but his eyes were cold. He didn’t wear a uniform or show his identity card. However, there was no question that he was State Security, a secret-police officer, an agent of the MGB – a deduction possible not from what was present in his appearance but what was absent. To the right and left there were injured people. Yet this man had no interest in them. He’d been planted in the crowd to monitor people’s reactions. And Lazar had failed: he’d been sad when he should’ve been happy and happy when he should’ve been sad.
The man spoke through a thin smile, his dead eyes never moving from Lazar.
– A small setback, an accident, easily fixed. You should stay: perhaps it will still happen today, the demolition. You want to stay, don’t you? You want to see the church fall? It will be quite spectacular.
– Yes.
A careful answer and also the truth, he did want to stay, but no, he didn’t want the church to fall and he certainly wouldn’t say so. The man continued:
– This site is going to become one of the largest indoor swimming pools in the world. So our children can be healthy. It is a good thing, our children being healthy. What is your name?
The most ordinary of questions and yet the most terrifying.
– My name is Lazar.
– What is your occupation?
No longer masquerading as casual conversation, it was now an open interrogation. Subjugation or persecution, being pragmatic or principled – Lazar had to choose. And he did have a choice, unlike many of his brethren who were instantly recognizable. He didn’t have to admit that he was a priest. Vladimir Lvov, former chief procurator of the Holy Synod, had argued priests need not set themselves apart by their dress and that they might – throw off their cassocks, cut their hair and be changed into ordinary mortals. Lazar agreed. With his trim beard and unremarkable appearance, he could lie to this agent. He could disown his vocation and hope that the lie would protect him. He worked in a shoe factory or he crafted tables – anything but the truth. The agent was waiting.
SAME DAY
In their first weeks together, Anisya hadn’t given the matter much thought. Maxim was only twenty-four years old, a graduate of Moscow’s Theological Academy Seminary, closed since 1918 and recently reopened as part of the rehabilitation of religious institutions. She was older than him by six years, married, unattainable, a tantalizing prospect for a young man whom she supposed to have limited, if any, sexual experience. Introspective and shy, Maxim never socialized outside of the Church and had few friends or family, at least none that lived in the city. It was unsurprising that he’d developed something of an infatuation. She’d tolerated his lingering stares, perhaps even been flattered by them. But in no way had she encouraged him. He’d misunderstood her silence, inferring permission to continue courting her. It was for that reason that he now felt confident enough to take hold of her hand and say:
– Leave him. Live with me.
She’d been convinced he’d never find the courage to act upon what could only ever be a childish daydream – the two of them running off together. She’d been wrong.
Remarkably he’d chosen her husband’s church to cross the line from private fantasy into open proposition: the frescos of disciples, demons, prophets and angels judged their illicit moves from the shadowy alcoves. Maxim was risking everything he’d trained for, facing certain disgrace and exile from the religious community with no hope of redemption. His earnest, heartfelt plea was so misjudged and absurd that she couldn’t help but react in the worst possible way. She uttered a short, surprised laugh.
Before he had time to reply the heavy oak door slammed shut. Startled, Anisya turned to see her husband – Lazar – hurrying towards them with such urgency that she could only presume he’d misconstrued the scene as evidence of her infidelity. She pulled away from Maxim, a sudden movement that only compounded the impression of guilt. But as he drew closer she realized that Lazar, her husband of ten years, was preoccupied with something else. Breathless, he took hold of her hands, hands which only seconds ago had been held by Maxim.
– I was picked out of the crowd. An agent questioned me.
He spoke rapidly, the words tumbling out, their importance brushing aside Maxim’s proposal. She asked:
– Were you followed?
He nodded.
– I hid in Natasha Niurina’s apartment. — What happened?
– He remained outside. I was forced to leave through the back.
– Will they arrest Natasha and question her?
Lazar raised his hands to his face.
– I panicked. I didn’t know where else to go. I shouldn’t have gone to her.
Anisya took him by the shoulders.
– If the only way they can find us is by arresting Natasha, we have a little time.
Lazar shook his head.
– I told him my name.
She understood. He wouldn’t lie. He wouldn’t compromise his principles, not for her, not for anyone. Principles were more important than their lives. He shouldn’t have attended the demolition: she’d warned him it was an unnecessary risk. The crowd was inevitably going to be monitored and he’d be a conspicuous observer. He’d ignored her, as was his way, always appearing to contemplate her advice but never heeding it. Hadn’t she pleaded with him not to alienate the ecclesiastical authorities? Were they in such a position of strength that they could afford to make enemies of both the State and the Church? But he had no interest in the politics of alliance: he only wanted to speak his mind even if it left him isolated, openly criticizing the new relationship between bishops and politicians. Stubborn, headstrong, he demanded that she support his stance while giving her no say in it. She admired him, a man of integrity. But he did not admire her. She was younger than him and was only twenty years old when they’d married. He was thirty-five. At times she wondered whether he’d married her because being a White Priest, a married priest, taking a monastic vow, was itself a reformist statement. The concept appealed to him, fitting with his liberal, philosophical scheme. She’d always been braced for the moment when the State might cut across their lives. However, now that the moment had come, she felt cheated. She was paying for his opinions, opinions that she’d never been allowed to influence or contribute to.
Lazar put a hand on Maxim’s shoulder.
– It would be better if you returned to the theological seminary and denounced us. Since we’re going to be arrested the denunciation would only serve to distance you from us. Maxim, you’re a young man. No one will think worse of you for leaving.
Coming from Lazar, the offer to run was a loaded proposition. Lazar considered such pragmatic behaviour beneath him, suitable for others, weaker men and women. His moral superiority was stifling. Far from offering Maxim a way out, it trapped him. Anisya interjected, trying to keep her voice friendly.
– Maxim, you must go.
He reacted sharply.
– I want to stay.
Slighted by her earlier laugh, he was stubborn and indignant. Speaking in a double meaning invisible to her husband, she said: — Please, Maxim, forget everything that has happened, you will achieve nothing by staying.
Maxim shook his head.
– I’ve made my decision.
Anisya noticed Lazar smile. There was no doubt her husband was fond of Maxim. He’d taken him under his wing, blind to his protégé’s infatuation with her, alert only to the deficiencies in his knowledge of scripture and philosophy. He was pleased with Maxim’s decision to stay, believing that it had something to do with him. Anisya moved closer to Lazar.
– We cannot allow him risk to his life. — We cannot force him to leave.
– Lazar, this is not his fight.
It was not her fight either.
– He has made it his. I respect that. You must too.
– It is senseless!
In modelling Maxim on himself, the martyr, her husband had chosen to humiliate her and condemn him. Lazar exclaimed:
– Enough! We don’t have time! You wish him to be safe. I do too. But if Maxim wants to stay, he stays.
*
Lazar hurried towards the stone altar, hastily stripping it bare. Every person connected to his church was in danger. He could do little for his wife or Maxim: they were too closely connected to him. But his congregation, the people who’d confided in him, shared their fears – it was essential their names remain a secret.
With the altar bare, Lazar gripped the side.
– Push!
None the wiser but obedient, Maxim pushed the altar, straining at the weight. The rough stone base scratched across the stone floor, slowly sliding aside and revealing a hole, a hiding place created some twenty years ago during the most intensive attacks on the church. The stone slabs had been removed, exposing earth that had been carefully dug and lined with timber supports to stop it subsiding, creating a space one metre deep, two metres wide. It contained a steel trunk. Lazar reached down and Maxim followed suit, taking the opposite end of the trunk and lifting it out, placing it on the floor, ready to be opened.
Anisya lifted the lid. Maxim crouched beside her, unable to keep the amazement out of his voice.
– Music?
The trunk was filled with handwritten musical scores. Lazar explained:
– The composer attended services here, a young man – not much older than you, a student at the Moscow Conservatory. He came to us one night, terrified that he was about to be arrested. Fearing that his work would be destroyed, he entrusted us with his compositions. Much of his work had been condemned as anti-Soviet.
– Why?
– I don’t know. He didn’t know either. He had nowhere to turn, no family or friends he could trust. So, he came to us. We agreed to take possession of his life’s work. Shortly afterwards, he disappeared.
Maxim glanced over the notes.
– The music…is it good?
– We haven’t heard it performed. We dare not show it to anyone, or have it played for us. Questions might be asked.
– You have no idea what it sounds like?
– I can’t read music. Neither can my wife. But, Maxim, you’re missing the point. My promise of help wasn’t dependent on the merits of his work.
– You’re risking your lives? If it’s worthless…
Lazar corrected him.
– We’re not protecting these papers; we’re protecting their right to survive.
Anisya found her husband’s assuredness infuriating. The young composer in question had come to her, not him. She’d then petitioned Lazar and convinced him to take the music. In the retelling of the story he’d smoothed over his doubts, anxieties – reducing her to nothing more than his passive supporter. She wondered if he was even aware of the adjustments he’d made to the history, automatically elevating his own importance, re-centring the story around him.
Lazar picked up the entire collection of unbound sheet music, maybe two hundred pages in total. Included among the music were documents relating to the business of the church and several original icons that had been hidden, replaced with reproductions. He hastily divided the contents into three piles, checking as best he could that complete musical compositions were kept together. The plan was to smuggle out a more or less equal share. Divided in three, there was a reasonable chance some of the music would survive. The difficulty was finding three separate hiding places, three people who’d be prepared to sacrifice their lives for notes on a page even though they’d never met the composer or heard his music. Lazar knew many in his parish would help. Many were also likely to be under suspicion of some kind. For this task they needed the help of a perfect Soviet, someone whose apartment would never be searched. Such a person, if they existed, would never help them. Anisya threw out suggestions.
– Martemian Syrtsov.
– Too talkative.
– Artiom Nakhaev.
– He’d agree, take the papers and then panic, lose his nerve and burn them.
– Niura Dmitrieva.
– She’d say yes but she’d hate us for asking. She wouldn’t sleep. She wouldn’t eat.
In the end, two names – that’s all they could agree upon. Lazar decided to keep one portion of the music hidden in the church, along with the larger icons, returning them to the trunk and pushing the altar back into position. Since Lazar was the most likely to be followed, Anisya and Maxim were to carry their share of the music to the two addresses. They would leave separately. Anisya was ready.
– I’ll go first.
Maxim shook his head.
– No. I will.
She guessed his reason for offering: if Maxim got away then the chances were that she would too.
They unlocked the main door, lifting up the thick timber beam. Anisya sensed Maxim hesitate, no doubt afraid, the danger of his predicament finally sinking in. Lazar shook his hand. Over her husband’s shoulder, Maxim looked at her. Once Lazar was done, Maxim stepped towards her. She gave him a hug and watched him set off into the night.
Lazar closed the door, locking it behind him, reiterating the plan:
– We wait ten minutes.
Alone with her husband, she waited near the front of the church. He joined her. To her surprise, rather than praying, he took hold of her hand.
*
Ten minutes had passed, they moved to the door. Lazar lifted the beam. The papers were in a bag, slung over her shoulder. Anisya stepped outside. They’d already said goodbye. She turned, watching in silence as Lazar shut the door behind her. She heard the beam lowered back in place. Walking towards the street, she checked for faces at the windows, movement in the shadows. Suddenly a hand gripped her wrist. Startled, she spun around.
– Maxim?
What was he doing here? Where was the music he was carrying? From behind the back of the church a voice called out, harsh and impatient:
– Leo?
Anisya saw a man dressed in a dark uniform – an MGB agent. There were more men behind him, clustering like cockroaches. Her questions melted away, concentrating on the name called out: Leo. With the tug of a single word the knot of lies unravelled. That was why he had no friends or family in the city, that was why he was so quiet in lessons with Lazar, he knew nothing of scripture or philosophy. That was why he’d wanted to leave the church first, not for her protection but to alert the surveillance, to prepare for their arrest. He was a Chekist, a secret-police officer. He’d tricked her and her husband. He’d infiltrated their lives to gather as much information as possible, not just on them but on the people who sympathized with them, dealing a blow against the remaining pockets of resistance within the Church. Had attempting to seduce her been an objective handed down by his superiors? Had they identified her as weak, gullible, and instructed this handsome officer to form a persona – Maxim – to manipulate her?
He spoke quietly, intimately, as though nothing had changed between them:
– Anisya, I give you one more chance. Come with me. I’ve made arrangements. They’re not interested in you. They’re after Lazar.
The sound of his voice, tender and concerned, was appalling. The offer he’d made earlier, to leave with him, hadn’t been a naive fantasy. It hadn’t been romantic. It had been the calculation of an agent. He continued:
– Take the advice you gave me, denounce Lazar. I can lie for you. I can protect you. It’s him they want. You will achieve nothing by remaining loyal.
*
Leo was running out of time. Anisya had to understand that he was her only chance of survival, no matter what she thought of him. She would gain nothing by clinging to her principles. His superior officer Nikolai Borisov walked towards them. Forty years old, he had the body of an ageing weight-lifter, still strong but slackening with an excess of drink.
– Is she cooperating?
Leo stretched out his hand, his eyes pleading with her to hand him the bag.
– Please?
In reply she cried out as loud as she could:
– Lazar!
Nikolai stepped forward, slapping her with the back of his hand. He called out to his men:
– Go!
Axes were brought against the church door.
Leo saw hatred in Anisya’s face. Nikolai pulled the bag from her.
– He tried to save you, ungrateful bitch.
She leaned forward, whispering into Leo’s ear:
– You genuinely believed that I might end up loving you. Didn’t you?
Officers grabbed her arms. Pulled back, she smiled at him, a vicious smile:
– No one will ever love you. No one!
Leo turned his back on her, desperate for her to be taken away. Nikolai put a consoling hand on his shoulder.
– It would’ve been complicated explaining how she wasn’t a traitor anyway. It’s much better this way. Better for you. There are other women, Leo. There are always others.
Leo had completed his first arrest.
Anisya was wrong. He was already loved – by the State. He didn’t want the love of a traitor: that was no love at all. Deception, betrayal – these were an officer’s tools. He had a legitimate right to them. His country depended upon betrayal. A soldier before he became an MGB agent, he’d experienced savage necessity in the defeat of Fascism. Even the most terrible of things could be excused by the greater good that they served.
He entered the church. Instead of attempting escape, Lazar was kneeling near the altar, praying, awaiting his fate. Seeing Leo, his proud defiance melted away. In that moment of understanding he seemed to age several years.
– Maxim?
For the first time since they’d known each other he looked to his protégé for answers.
– My name is Leo Stepanovich Demidov.
For several seconds Lazar remained silent. Finally he said:
– You were recommended to me by the Patriarch…
– Patriarch Krasikov is a good citizen.
Lazar shook his head, refusing to believe it. The Patriarch was an informer. His protégé was a spy sent to him by the highest religious figure. He’d been sacrificed to the State just as the Church of Sancta Sophia had been sacrificed. He was a fool, warning others to take care, preaching caution, when standing beside him, taking notes, was an MGB officer.
Nikolai stepped forward.
– Where are the remaining papers?
Leo gestured at the altar.
– Underneath.
Three agents pushed it aside, revealing the trunk. Nikolai asked:
– Did he give you any other names?
Leo answered:
– Martemian Syrtsov. Artiom Nakhaev. Niura Dmitrieva. Moisei Semashko.
He caught sight of Lazar’s face: shock turned to disgust. Leo stepped up to him:
– Keep your eyes on the floor!
Lazar didn’t turn away. Leo pushed his face down.
– Eyes on the floor!
Lazar lifted his head again. This time Leo punched him. Slowly, with his lip split open, Lazar lifted his head, dripping blood, looking up at him, disgust mingled with defiance. Leo replied, as if Lazar’s eyes had asked him a question:
– I am a good man.
Holding his mentor by the hair, Leo didn’t stop, punch after punch, continuing mechanically like a clockwork soldier, repeating the same action over and over until his knuckles hurt, until his arms ached and the side of Lazar’s face turned soft. When he finally stopped and released him, Lazar slumped to the floor, blood pooling around his mouth, shaped like a speech bubble.
Nikolai hung an arm around Leo’s shoulder, watching as Lazar was carried out, leaving a trail of blood from the altar to the door. Nikolai lit a cigarette.
– The State needs people like us.
Numb, Leo wiped the blood on his trousers, remarking: — Before we go I’d like a moment to check the church.
Nikolai accepted the proposal at face value.
– A perfectionist, that’s good. But hurry up. Tonight we get drunk. You haven’t had a drink in two months! You’ve been living like a monk!
Nikolai laughed at his own joke, patting Leo on the back before heading out. Alone, Leo walked to the displaced stone altar, staring into the hole. Caught between the side of the trunk and the earth wall there was a single sheet of paper. He reached down, picked it up. It was a page of music. His eyes ran across the notes. Deciding that it would be better not to know what had been lost, he raised the sheet above the flame of a nearby candle, watching the paper turn black.
© Tom Rob Smith 2009
