Acrucifix had been drawn on the outside of the envelope, a careful ink drawing of the Orthodox cross. The drawing was small, roughly the size of his palm. Someone had taken time over it: the proportions were correct, the inkwork competent. Was it supposed to engender fear, as if he were a ghoul or a demon? More likely it was intended ironically, as a commentary on his faith. If so, it was misjudged-amateurish in its psychology.
Krasikov broke the seal, emptying the envelope’s contents onto his desk. More photographs… he was tempted to toss them in the fire as he’d done the others but curiosity stopped him. He put on his glasses, straining his eyes, studying this new batch of faces. At a glance they meant nothing. He was about to put them aside when one of the faces caught his attention. He concentrated, trying to remember the name of this man with intense eyes:
Lazar
These were the priests that he’d denounced.
He counted them. Thirty faces, had he really betrayed so many? Not all of them had been arrested while he’d been Patriarch of Moscow and All Russia, the leading religious authority in the country. The denunciations had predated that appointment, spread over many years. He was seventy-five years old. For a lifetime, thirty denunciations were not so many. His calculated obedience to the State had saved the Church from immeasurable harm-an unholy alliance, perhaps, yet these thirty priests had been necessary sacrifices. It was remiss of him not to be able to remember each of their names. He should pray for them every night. Instead, he’d let them slip from his mind like rain running off glass. He found forgetfulness easier than asking for forgiveness.
Even with their photographs in his hands he felt no regret. This wasn’t bravado. He suffered no nightmares, experienced no anguish. His soul was light. Yes, he’d read Khrushchev’s speech, sent to him by the same people that had sent these photos. He’d read the criticisms of Stalin’s murderous regime, a regime he’d supported by ordering his priests to praise Stalin in their sermons. Undoubtedly there’d been the cult of dictator and he’d been a loyal worshipper. What of it? If this speech pointed to a future of pointless introspection then so be it-but it wouldn’t be his future. Was he responsible for the Church’s persecution through the early decades of Communism? Of course not, he’d merely reacted to the circumstances in which he found himself and his beloved Church. His hand had been forced. The decision to surrender some of his colleagues was unpleasant although not difficult. There were individuals who believed they could say and do as they pleased simply because it was the work of God. They were naive and he’d found them tiresome, eager to be martyrs. In that sense, he’d merely given them what they wanted, the opportunity to die for their faith.
Religion, like everything else, had to compromise. The pomestny sobor, the council of bishops, had shrewdly put him forward as patriarch. They’d needed someone who could be political, flexible, shrewd, which was why his nomination had been State-approved and why the State had allowed elections in the first place, elections duly rigged in his favor. There had been those who had argued that his election was a violation of Apostolic canon law; church hierarchy was not supposed to be consecrated by secular authorities. To his mind, that was an obscure academic argument at a time when the number of churches had shrunk from twenty thousand to less than a thousand. Were they supposed to disappear altogether, proudly clinging to their principles, as a captain might cling to the mast of his sinking ship? His appointment had been intended to reverse that decline and stem their losses. He’d succeeded. New churches had been built. Priests were trained rather than shot. He’d done what had been required, no more. His actions had never been malicious. And the Church had survived.
Krasikov stood up, weary of these recollections. He picked up the photos and piled them on the fire, watching them curl, blacken, and burn. He’d accepted reprisals were a possibility. There was no way to govern an organization as complex as the Church, managing its relationship with the State, and not create enemies in the process. A cautious man, he’d taken steps to protect himself. Old, infirm, he was patriarch only in name, no longer involved in the day-to-day running of the Church. He now spent much of his time working in a children’s sanctuary he’d founded not far from the Church of the Conception of St. Anna. There were those who considered his sanctuary a dying man’s attempt at redemption. Let them think that. He didn’t care. He enjoyed the work: there was no more mystery than that. The hard graft was done by the younger members of staff while he provided spiritual guidance to the one hundred or so children they had space for, converting them from a path of chiffir addiction, a narcotic derived from tea leaves, to a life of piety. Having dedicated his life to God, a dedication which forbade him from having children of his own, this was compensation of a kind.
He shut the door to his office, locking it, descending the stairs to the main sanctuary hall where the children ate and were schooled. There were four dormitories: two for the girls, two for the boys. There was also a prayer room with a crucifix, icons, and candles-a room where he taught matters of faith. No child could remain in the sanctuary unless they opened themselves to God. If they resisted, refused to believe, they were expelled. There was no shortage of street children to choose from. According to secret State estimates, which he was privy to, some eight hundred thousand homeless children were scattered across the country, mainly concentrated in the major cities- living in train stations or sleeping in alleyways. Some had run away from orphanages, some from forced-labor colonies. Many had traveled in from the countryside, subsisting in the cities like packs of wild dogs- scavenging and stealing. Krasikov wasn’t sentimental. He understood that these children were potentially dangerous and untrustworthy. He therefore employed the services of former Red Army soldiers to keep order. The complex was secure. No one could get in or out without his permission. Everyone was searched upon entry. There were guards inside, circling, and two always on the front door. Ostensibly these men were employed to keep the hundred children in check. However, these men provided a secondary service: they were Krasikov’s bodyguards.
Krasikov surveyed the hall, searching the grateful faces for his newest intake, a young boy, perhaps only thirteen or fourteen years old. He hadn’t given his age, refusing to say very much. The boy had a terrible stammer and a peculiarly adult face as if each year on earth had aged him by three. It was time for the boy’s induction, to decide if he was sincere about his commitment to God.
Krasikov gestured for one of his guards to bring the child over. The boy shied away like a mistreated dog, wary of human contact. He’d been found not far from the sanctuary, in a doorway, huddled in rags, clutching an earthenware figure of a man sitting on the back of a pig, riding the pig as though it were a horse. It was a comic piece of household porcelain, suggesting a provincial background. Once brightly colored, the paint had faded. Remarkably, it was unbroken except for the pig’s chipped left ear. The boy, sinewy and strong, never let it out of his sight and never let it go. It had some sentimental value, perhaps, an object from the boy’s past.
Krasikov smiled at the guard, politely dismissing him. He opened the door to the prayer room, waiting for the boy to follow. The boy didn’t move, clutching his painted man on a pig as tightly as if it were filled with gold.
– You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. However, if you can’t let God into your life, you can’t stay here.
The boy glanced at the other children. They’d stopped what they were doing: watching to see what decision would be made. No one had ever said no. The boy tentatively entered the prayer room. As he passed by Krasikov asked:
– Remind me of your name.
The boy stammered:
– Ser… gei.
Krasikov shut the door behind them. The room had been prepared. Candles were burning. The afternoon light was fading. He knelt before the crucifix, not giving Sergei any instructions, waiting for the boy to join him, a simple test to see if the child had any religious background. Those with experience would join him: those with none would remain by the door. Sergei didn’t move, remaining by the door:
– Many of the children were ignorant when they arrived. That is no crime. You will learn. I hope God will one day take the place of that toy figure you hold so dear.
To Krasikov’s surprise the boy replied by locking the door. Before he could query the action, the boy strode forward, pulling a length of wire from the chipped pig’s ear. At the same time, he raised the earthenware figure above his head, throwing it down with all his strength. Krasikov instinctively turned away, expecting it to hit him. But the porcelain figure missed, smashing at his feet, breaking into several large, uneven pieces. Shocked, he peered at the porcelain fragments. There was something else beside the remains of the pig-cylindrical and black. He bent down, picking it up. It was a flashlight.
Confused, he tried to get up, off his knees. Before he could, a noose slipped over his head, down around his neck-thin steel wire secured in a knot. The boy was holding the other end, coiled around his hand. He tugged: the wire tightened, Krasikov gasped as his breath was squeezed from him. His face turned red, the blood constricted. His fingers slipped over the wire, unable to get underneath. The boy tugged again, speaking in a cool, composed voice with no trace of his previous stammer:
– Answer correctly and you’ll live.
At the entrance to the children’s sanctuary, Leo and Timur were denied access, held back by two guards. Frustrated with the delay, Leo showed the men the photo of Lazar, explaining:
– It’s possible that everyone involved in this man’s arrest is a target. Two men are already dead. If we’re right, the patriarch might be danger.
The guards were unimpressed:
– We’ll pass the message on.
– We need to speak to him.
– Militia or not, the patriarch has given us instructions not to let anyone in.
Commotion broke out upstairs: the sound of shouting. In an instant the guards’ complacency turned to panic. They abandoned their post, climbing the stairs, followed by Leo and Timur, bursting into a large hall filled with children. The staff had huddled around a door, shaking it, unable to get in. The guards joined the fray, taking hold of the door handle, listening to the overlapping explanations:
– He went in there to pray.
– With the new boy.
– Krasikov’s not replying.
– Something smashed.
Leo cut through the discussion:
– Kick the door down.
They turned to him, unsure.
– Do it now.
The heaviest and strongest of the guards rushed forward, shoulder smashing against the frame. He charged again, the door broke apart.
Clambering through the splintered opening, Leo and Timur entered the room. A young voice called out, authoritative, assured:
– 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, about 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.