The Secret Speech by Tom Rob Smith Page B

searching for outlines, straining his eyes. They were after him, his enemies, stalking him: hunting him as he had once hunted them.
    He was running now, home, as fast as he could. He stumbled before regaining his balance, his coat flapping about his ankles. Changing tack, he spun around. He’d catch them at this game. He knew these tricks. They were his tricks. They were using his methods against him. Staring at the dark corners, the murky enclaves, the hiding places where he’d trained MGB recruits to move between in, he called out:
    —I know you’re there.
    His voice echoed down the seemingly empty street. Empty to a layman, but he was an expert in such matters. His defiance was brief, melting away:
    —I have children, two daughters. They love me! They don’t deserve this. You hurt me and you hurt them.
    His children had been born while he was an MGB officer. After arresting fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, every night he’d gone home and kissed his own family good night.
    —What about the others? There are millions of others; if you killed us all, there’d be no one left. We were all involved!
    People were appearing at the windows, drawn out by his shouting. He could point to any building, any house, and inside there’d be former officers and guards. The men and women in uniform were the obvious targets. There were also the train drivers who took the prisoners to the Gulags, the men and women who processed paperwork, stamped forms, the people who cooked and cleaned. The system required the consent of everyone, even if they consented by doing nothing. Nothing was enough. They’d depended upon a lack of resistance as much as they’d depended on volunteers. He would not be a scapegoat. This wasn’t his burden alone. Everyone carried a collective guilt. He was prepared to feel remorse from time to time, to spend a minute each day thinking over the terrible things he’d done. The people hounding him weren’t satisfied with that. They wanted more.
    Fearful, Nikolai turned and ran, wildly this time, as fast as he could. Tangled up in his coat, he fell over, crashing down into the slushy snow, his clothes soaking up the filthy water. Slowly getting up, his knee throbbing, his trousers ripped, he ran again, water streaming from his coattails. It wasn’t long before he fell again. This time he began to cry, exhausted, awful sobs. Rolling onto his back, he pulled himself free from his coat, now impossibly heavy. He’d bought it many years ago from one of the restricted stores. He’d been proud of it. It was proof of his status. He didn’t need it anymore: he’d never go out again, he’d stay at home, lock the door, and pull the curtains shut.
    Reaching his apartment block, he entered the hallway panting and sweating—dirty water dripping from his clothes. Soaking wet, pressed against the wall, leaving an impression of his body, he checked the street, waiting to catch a glimpse of his pursuers. Unable to see anyone—they were too sly—he climbed the stairs, his feet slipping, then scrambling up on all fours. The closer he got to home, the more he relaxed. They couldn’t reach him through these walls, his sanctuary. As if he’d swallowed a soothing tonic he began to think rationally. He was drunk. He’d overreacted, that was all. Of course he’d made enemies over the years, people with grudges, bitter at his success. If all they could do was send him a couple of photographs he didn’t need to worry. The majority—society—respected and valued him. He breathed deeply, reaching his landing and groping for his key.
    Outside his front door was a package, roughly thirty centimeters long, twenty centimeters wide, and ten centimeters deep, wrapped in brown paper, neatly bound with string. There was no name, no label, just an ink drawing on the paper, a crucifix. Nikolai dropped to his knees. His hands trembled as he pulled the string free. Inside was a box. The top of the box was marked:
    NOT FOR PRESS
    He