Child 44 and The Secret Speech by Tom Rob Smith

Author:Tom Rob Smith [ROB SMITH, TOM]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781455518890
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2012-01-05T00:00:00+00:00

RAISA WAS WAITING OUTSIDE, staring up at the statue of Dzerzhinsky. Leo exited the building and took her hand, a brazen display of affection no doubt scrutinized by those staring out of the Lubyanka. He didn’t care. They were safe, at least for the time being. That was long enough; that was as long as anyone could possibly hope for. He glanced up at Dzerzhinsky’s statue and realized that he couldn’t remember a single thing the man had ever said.

ONE

WEEK

LATER

MOSCOW

25 JULY

LEO AND RAISA WERE SEATED in the director’s office of Orphanage 12, located not far from the zoo. Leo glanced at his wife and asked:

—What’s taking so long?

—I don’t know.

—Something’s wrong.

Raisa shook her head:

—I don’t think so.

—The director didn’t like us very much.

—He seemed okay to me.

—But what did he think of us?

—I don’t know.

—Do you think he liked us?

—It doesn’t really matter what he thinks. It matters what they think.

Leo stood up, restless, saying:

—He has to sign off on it.

—He’ll sign the papers. That’s not the issue.

Leo sat down again, nodding:

—You’re right. I’m nervous.

—So am I.

—How do I look?

—You look fine.

—Not too formal?

—Relax, Leo.

The door opened. The director, a man in his forties, entered the room:

—I’ve found them.

Leo wondered if that was just a turn of phrase or whether he’d literally searched the building. The man stepped aside. Standing behind him were two young girls—Zoya and Elena—the daughters of Mikhail Zinoviev. It had been several months since they’d witnessed their parents’ execution in the snow outside their home. In that time the physical change was dramatic. They’d lost weight, their skin had lost color. The younger girl, Elena, only four years old, had a shaved head. The eldest, Zoya, ten years old, had her hair cropped short. They’d almost inevitably been infested with lice.

Leo stood up, Raisa beside him. He turned to the director:

—Could we have a moment alone?

The director didn’t like the request. But he obliged and retired, shutting the door. Both girls positioned themselves with their backs against the door, as far away from them as possible.

—Zoya, Elena, my name is Leo. Do you remember me?

No response, no change in their expression. Their eyes were alert, waiting for danger. Zoya took hold of her little sister’s hand.

—This is my wife, Raisa. She’s a teacher.

—Hello, Zoya. Hello, Elena. Why don’t you both take a seat? It’s much more comfortable sitting down.

Leo picked up the chairs, putting them down near the girls. Although reluctant to move from the door, they sat down, still holding hands, still saying nothing.

Leo and Raisa crouched so that they were below the children’s eye level, still keeping their distance. The girls’ fingernails were black—perfect lines of grime—but their hands were otherwise clean. It was obvious that they’d been hastily tidied up before the meeting. Leo began:

—My wife and I want to offer you a home, our home.

—Leo has explained to me the reason you’re here. I’m sorry if this is upsetting to talk about, but it’s important we say these things now.

—Although I tried to stop the murder of your mother and your father, I failed.

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