The Secret Speech ld-2

by Tom Rob Smith

  There was no time to waste. The door to the sea was wide open: another mountain of water might flood the interior, toppling the entire ship, Timur moved back toward the outer deck door. A hand grabbed him. One of the prisoners was alive, tripping him. The prisoner clambered on top of him, pointing a machine gun at his head. There was no chance he’d miss. The prisoner pulled the trigger. Out of ammunition, or ruined by the sea, the gun didn’t fire.

  Granted a reprieve, Timur sparked back into life, smashing the prisoner’s nose with a punch, spinning him onto his front and forcing his face into a puddle of water. Once more the ship began to tilt down, this time to Timur’s disadvantage, the water draining away, saving the prisoner, who could now breathe. Dead bodies slid down the corridor, out onto the deck. Timur and the injured prisoner were slipping in the same direction, wrestling with each other, only meters from tumbling into the sea.

  As they passed through the door Timur reached up and grabbed hold of the safety line, kicking the injured prisoner, sending him out onto the deck. A second wave was racing toward them. Timur pulled himself inside, shutting the door. As he stared through the small plate glass window, directly into the eyes of the prisoner, the wave hit. The vibrations rippled through his hands. When the water had cleared, the prisoner was gone.

  SAME DAY

  LEO WATCHED FROM THE BOTTOM of the stairs as the newly appointed leader of their uprising tugged the steel door, trying to pull it open. They were trapped, with no way of getting to the bridge. He’d lost many of his vory gang in the attempt to break free. Needless to say, he’d commanded from the back, avoiding the bullets. The surge of water had swept him downstairs. Leo glanced at the floor — he was ankle deep, a mass that was rolling from side to side, destabilizing the vessel. There was no way to pump it out, not in the midst of the current hostilities. There was no chance of cooperation. If any more water came in, the ship would capsize. They’d sink, in the darkness, unable to break out, locked in a steel prison as freezing seawater seeped in. Yet the ship’s precarious condition was of little interest to their newly self-appointed leader. A convict revolutionary, he was determined to succeed or die.

  The coal engine began to splutter. Leo turned back to assess the damage. The engine had to be kept running. Addressing the remaining prisoners, he called out for help:

  — We have to keep the coal dry and the fire fed.

  The convict leader reentered the engine room, snarling:

  — If they don’t free us we’ll smash the engine.

  Leo shook his head:

  — If we lose power the ship can’t navigate, it will sink. We need the engine to keep working. Our lives depend upon it.

  — So do theirs. If we cut the power, they’ve got to talk to us— they’ve got to negotiate.

  — They will never open those doors. We smash the engine: they’ll abandon ship. They’ve got life rafts, enough for them and none of us. They’d rather let us drown.

  — How do you know?

  — They’ve done it before! Aboard the Dzhurma! Prisoners broke into the store, stole food, and set fire to the rest, the rice sacks, the wood shelves, expecting the guards to come rushing down. They didn’t. They let it burn. All the prisoners suffocated.

  Leo picked up a shovel. The convict leader shook his head:

  — Put it down!

  Leo ignored him, shoveling the coal, feeding the engine. Neglected, it was already markedly cooler. None of the other men were helping, waiting to see how the conflict played out. Assessing his opponent, Leo wasn’t convinced he could overpower him. It had been a long time since he’d fought anyone. He tightened his grip on the shovel, preparing himself. To his surprise, the convict smiled:

  — Go ahead. Shovel the coal like a slave. There’s another way out.

  The convict grabbed a second shovel and climbed through the smashed partition wall into the prisoner hold. Leo stood, uncertain whether to continue shoveling or follow the man. Within moments the clamor of steel smashing against steel rang out. Leo rushed through the gap in the partition wall, returning to the gloom of the hold. Squinting, he saw that the vory was at the top of the stairs, using the shovel to land blows against the deck hatch. To an ordinary man such a task would be futile. But his strength was such that the hatch was beginning to buckle upward, arching under the pressure. Eventually the steel would tear. Leo called out:

  — You break the hatch and water will flood in. There’s no way to close it again. If the hold fills up the ship will 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 traffic. She was being taken somewhere remote. Based on this and the disregard for her safety — a rag stuffed so far down her throat she almost choked — she was certain that she was about to die.

  How long had she been a captive? She had no way to know — the passing of time had become difficult to judge. After being snatched from the apartment she’d been drugged. Bundled into the car, she’d seen Raisa fall. That was the last thing she remembered before waking up, her head thumping, her mouth as dry as dust, sprawled on the floor of a windowless brick chamber. Even though she’d been unconscious when she’d been brought in, she’d had an acute sense that she was deep underground. The air was always cool and damp: the bricks never grew warm, giving no clue as to the cycles of day and night. The stench strongly suggested a sewer system. She’d often heard the sound of water. Sometimes the vibrations had been so strong it felt as if there were rivers rushing through adjacent tunnels. She’d been given food and bedding, her captors making no attempt to conceal their identities. They hadn’t spoken to her except for a series of curt commands and questions, showing little interest in her beyond the bare necessities of keeping her alive. Yet from time to time she’d been vaguely aware of someone watching her, hiding in the gloom of the corridor outside her cell. As soon as she moved closer, trying to catch a glimpse of them, they’d slip away into the darkness.

  Over these past couple of weeks she’d thought about death, turning the subject over and over like sucking a boiled sweet. What exactly was she living for? She nurtured no dreams of being rescued. The idea of freedom did not bring tears of joy to her eyes. Freedom had been life as an unpopular, unhappy schoolgirl — hated and hateful. She felt no more alone in captivity than she had done in Leo’s home. She felt no more like a prisoner now than she had before. The setting had changed. Her captors had changed. Life was the same. She didn’t cry at the memory of her bedroom, or of a hot meal eaten together around the kitchen table. She didn’t even cry at the memory of her sister. Maybe Elena would be happier without her — maybe she was holding her little sister back, stopping her from leading a normal life and growing close to Leo and Raisa.

  Why can’t I cry?

  She’d pinch herself. But it was no good. She couldn’t cry.

  She hoped Raisa had survived the fall. She hoped Elena was safe. Yet even these hopes, sincere though they were, felt detached, as if they were other people’s ideas of what she should be feeling rather than deeply held emotions. A crucial cog in her internal machinery was missing — instead of connecting emotions to experiences, wheels spun aimlessly. She should be afraid. But instead she felt as if she were floating in a bath of lukewarm resignation. If they wanted to kill her, they could. If they wanted to free her, they could. Bravado aside, it was honestly all the same to her.

  * * *

  THE TRUCK TURNED OFF THE FREEWAY, rattling over a dirt track. After some time, slowing down, it made several further turns before coming to a stop. The front doors opened and shut. Feet crunched across the ground, approaching the back. The tarpaulin was pulled aside. Like freight, Zoya was lifted up and placed on her feet, barely able to stand, the wire lashed around her ankles making it difficult to balance. The ground consisted of coarse mud and small stones. Queasy from the journey, she wondered if she was going to be sick. She didn’t want her captors thinking she was weak and afraid. Her gag was remo
ved. She breathed deeply. A man began to laugh, condescending laughter, smug and deep and slow, as the steel wire was unwound and the blindfold was removed.

  Zoya squinted at the daylight that seemed as bright as if she was only a hand’s length away from the surface of the sun. Like a subterranean ghoul caught outside its lair, she turned her back on the sky. Her eyes adjusting, the surroundings slowly came into focus. She was standing on a dirt track. In front of her, on the shoulder, were tiny white flowers, spread unevenly like splashes of spilled milk. Looking up, she saw woodland. Deprived of stimuli, her eyes behaved like a desiccated sponge dropped into water, widening, expanding — absorbing every drop of color before her.

  Remembering her captors, she turned around. There were two of them — a squat man with thick arms and a thick neck, an oversized muscular torso. Everything about him was stout and squashed, as though he’d been grown in a box too small. In contrast, standing beside him was a boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, her age. He was lean and sinewy. His eyes were sly. He regarded her with open disdain, as if she were beneath him, as if he were an adult and she was nothing but a little girl. She disliked him intensely.

  The squat man gestured at the trees:

  — Walk. Stretch your legs. Fraera doesn’t want you getting weak.

  She’d heard that name before—Fraera—catching fragments of conversations when the vory were drunk and boisterous. Fraera was their leader. Zoya had met with her only once. She’d swept into her cell. She hadn’t introduced herself. She didn’t need to. Power hung around her like a robe. While Zoya hadn’t been afraid of the other thuggish men, whose strength could be measured by the thickness of their arms, she had been afraid of this woman. Fraera had studied her with cool calculation, a master craftsman examining the intricacies of a second-rate watch. Though it had been an opportunity to ask the question—what are your plans for me? — Zoya had been unable to speak, stupefied into silence. Fraera had spent no more than a minute in the cell before leaving, having not said a word.