Guards hustled Leo up the stairs and into the office. The commander had retreated to the corner beside a squat, fat-bellied stove. The log-lined room had been decorated with maps of the region, framed photos of the commander with prisoners at work-Sinyavksy smiling, as if in the company of friends, the prisoners’ faces impassive. There were shadows around the photo frames indicating that other photos, of different shapes and sizes, had recently been taken down and these ones put up in their place.
Dressed in tattered clothes, his body beaten, Leo stood hunched, trembling like a bezprizornik, a ragged street child. Sinyavksy ushered the guards away:
– I wish to speak to the prisoner alone.
The guards glanced at each other. One uttered:
– This man attacked us last night. We should stay with you.
Sinyavksy shook his head:
– Nonsense.
– You are not safe with him.
Considering their rank, their tone was inappropriately threatening. Evidently the commander’s power was being questioned. Addressing Leo:
– You will not attack me, will you?
Leo shook his head:
– No, sir.
– No, sir! He’s even being polite. Now, all of you: leave, I insist.
The guards retreated, reluctantly, making no attempt to conceal their contempt for this softness.
Once they were gone, Sinyavksy moved to the door, checking that they weren’t standing outside. He listened to the creak of the guards’ footsteps as they descended the stairs. Certain of privacy, he bolted the door shut and turned to Leo:
– Please, sit.
Leo sat in the chair, positioned in front of the desk. The air was warm and smelled of woodchips. Leo wanted to sleep. The commander smiled:
– You must be cold.
Without waiting for an answer Sinyavksy walked to the stove. A small iron pan was on the top and he picked it up by the handle, pouring a measure of amber liquid into a small tin cup, the same sort of cups that had been used for the pine needle extract. Holding the cup by the rim, he offered it to Leo:
– Careful.
Leo glanced down at the steaming surface. He raised it to his lips. The smell was sweet. The liquid tasted like melted honey and wild-flowers. None of it made it to the back of his throat: like the first rains falling on a desiccated, cracked-mud riverbed, the warm sugars and alcohol absorbed instantaneously. Blood rushed to his head. His cheeks flushed red. The room began to swirl. The feeling subsided into a gentle, intoxicated mellowness, a lullaby sensation, as if he had swallowed happiness in nectar form.
Sinyavksy sat down opposite, unlocking a drawer, taking out a cardboard box. He placed it on the desk in front of them. The top was stamped:
NOT FOR PRESS
The commander tapped the top:
– You know what’s inside?
Leo nodded:
– Yes.
– You’re a spy, aren’t you?
Leo shouldn’t have taken that drink. Starved suspects were routinely rendered drunk, their tongues loosened. He needed his wits. It was a mistake of the most obvious kind to trust in this man’s benevolence. Entering the room he’d intended to reveal his true identity, detailing his intimate knowledge of the commander’s career, supported with the names of his superiors. This allegation, coming from nowhere, caught him flat-footed. The commander cut across his silence:
– Don’t try to think of a lie. I know the truth. You’re here to report back on the progress of our reforms? Like your friend?
Leo’s heart rose in his chest:
– My friend?
– While I am committed to change, many here in this region are not.
– You know about my friend?
– They are looking for you, the two officers who arrived last night. They are convinced more than one man has come to spy on them.
– What has happened to him?
– Your friend? They executed him.
Leo’s grip loosened around the rim of the tin cup but he did not let it fall to the floor. The strength seeped out of his back: his spine turned soft. He leaned forward, his head dropped, staring down at the floor. The commander continued to speak:
– I fear they will kill us too. Your outburst about the Secret Speech has revealed your identity. They will not allow you to leave. As you saw, it was difficult even getting a moment alone with you.
Leo shook his head. He and Timur had survived impossible situations. He couldn’t be dead. There was some mistake. Leo sat up:
– He’s not dead.
– The man I’m referring to arrived on board the Stary Bolshevik. He was due to come here as my second in command. That was a cover story. He was sent here to write a report. He admitted as much. He claimed he was here to assess us. So they killed him. They will not allow themselves to be judged. They will never allow it.
Timur must have invented that story in order to reach the camp and save him. Leo should never have asked for Timur’s help. He had been so preoccupied with rescuing Zoya he’d only briefly considered the risks to Timur. He’d seen them as small, so convinced was he of his plans and their abilities. He’d broken a loving family in the attempt to piece back together an unhappy one, ruining something wonderful in the pursuit of Zoya’s affections. He began to cry as the realization sank in that Timur, his friend, his only friend, a man adored by his wife and sons, decent and loyal, a man who Leo loved very much, was dead.
When Leo eventually looked up, he saw that Zhores Sinyavksy was crying too. Leo stared in disbelief at the old man’s red eyes and tear-glistening, leathery cheeks and wondered how a man who’d built an incomplete railway out of innocent lives could cry at the death of a man he didn’t even know, a man whose death he wasn’t responsible for. Perhaps he was crying for every death he’d never cried for, every victim who’d passed away in the snow, or the sun, or the mud, while he smoked a cigarette, satisified that his quota had been achieved. Leo wiped his eyes, remembering Lazar’s contempt for them. He was right. Tears were worthless. Leo owed Timur more. If Leo didn’t survive, Timur’s wife and sons would not even know how he’d died. And Leo would never have the chance to say sorry.
The guards were intent that he should never make it back to Moscow. They were protecting their fiefdom. Leo was a spy, hated by both sides-prisoners and guards alike, alone except for the commander, a man whose mind seemed warped by guilt. He was at best an unpredictable ally and no longer in control of the camp. Like wolves, the guards were circling the administration barracks, waiting for Leo to emerge.
Looking around the room, his mind spinning through ideas, Leo saw the PA system on the desk. It was connected to speakers set up around the zona.
– You can address the entire camp?
– Yes.
Leo stood up, taking the tin cup and filling it to the brim with the warm amber alcohol. He handed it to the commander:
– Drink with me.
– But – Drink to the memory of my friend.
The commander swallowed it in one gulp. Leo filled the cup again:
– Drink to the memory of all who have died here.
The commander nodded, finishing the cup. Leo filled it again:
– And all those innocent deaths across our country.
The commander tossed back the last of the spirit, wiping his lips. Leo pointed to the speaker:
– Turn it on.