The Secret Speech by Tom Rob Smith

necessarily notice, a scratch caused by furniture being moved. Yet in his gut he knew the knife and the notch were connected.
    Nikolai had begun talking, rambling, slurring his words. Leo was barely paying attention as he’d opened up the department, leading his guest through to his office. Seated opposite each other, Leo clenched his hands together, leaning his elbows on the table, watching Nikolai speak but hearing almost nothing, tuning in and out, catching occasional fragments—something about being sent photographs.
    —Leo, they’re photographs of the men and women I arrested.
    Leo’s mind had no space for the things that Nikolai was saying. A single, terrible realization was growing inside of him, shunting every other thought aside. The knife had been dropped, the tip cutting into the floor before ricocheting under the bed, dropped because whoever had been holding it had panicked, alarmed by a sudden noise, an unexpected telephone call. The person had fled the room, leaving the door open, in too much of a rush to close it behind her.
    Her
    Even now, with all the pieces in place, he struggled to articulate the only logical conclusion: the person holding the knife had been Zoya.
    He stood up, walking to the window and throwing it open. Cold air rushed over his face. He wasn’t sure how long he remained in this position, staring out at the night sky, but hearing a noise behind him he remembered that he was not alone. He turned around, about to apologize. He swallowed his words. Nikolai, a man who’d taught him that cruelty was necessary and good, was crying.
    —Leo? You’re not even listening.
    Tears still on his cheeks, Nikolai started to laugh, a noise that took Leo back to their obligatory post-arrest drinking celebrations. Tonight Nikolai’s laughter was different. It was brittle. The swagger and confidence were gone.
    —Y
ou want to forget? Don’t you, Leo? I don’t blame you. I would pay anything to forget it all. What a wonderful dream that would be…
    —I’m sorry, Nikolai; my mind is elsewhere, a family matter.
    —You took my advice… A family, that’s good. Families are important. A man is nothing without the love of his family.
    —Can we talk tomorrow? When we’re less tired?
    Nikolai nodded and stood up. At the door he paused, looking down at the floor:
    —I am… ashamed.
    —Think nothing of it. We all drink too much from time to time. We’ll talk tomorrow.
    Nikolai stared at him. Leo thought he was going to laugh again, but this time he turned around, heading toward the stairs.
    Leo was thankful to be alone and able to concentrate. He couldn’t pretend any longer. He was an ever-present reminder of Zoya’s terrible loss. He’d never spoken about what happened that day, when her parents had been shot. He’d tried to brush the past aside. The knife was a cry for help. He had to act to save his family. He could fix this. Talking to Zoya: that was the solution. He had to talk to her right now.

SAME DAY
    N IKOLAI STEPPED OUTSIDE, HIS BOOTS sinking into the thin snow. Feeling the chill on his exposed stomach, he tucked his shirt into his trousers—his eyes barely able to focus, his body swaying as though he were on the deck of a boat. Why had he phoned Leo? What had he expected his former protégé to do? Perhaps he’d just come for companionship, not just any companionship such as a fellow drunk; he’d come for the company of a man who shared his shame, a man who couldn’t pass judgment without also passing that same judgment on himself.
    I am ashamed.
    Those were words that Leo should have understood better than anyone. Mutual shame should have brought them together and made them brothers. Leo should’ve put his arms around him and said:
Me too.
Had he forgotten their history so easily? No, they merely had different techniques for dealing with it. Leo had embarked on a new and noble career, scrubbing his bloody hands in a basin of warm, soapy respectability. Nikolai’s technique