By local standards, luxury. The inmates saw meat once a month. And even then it was stringy beef tough as shoe leather.
Real lamb was an administrative privilege. Zulfiya accepted the meat, checked it, put it in the refrigerator. Kuzmin unloaded the rest.
A sack of flour, a crate of canned stew, grain. Then he left. On his way out he said, “Happy holiday, Akhmetova.”
Zulfiya answered, “You too, Seryoga. Stay well.” Those were the last words they ever said to each other. They never met again.
From two in the afternoon on, Zulfiya was alone in the kitchen. Her helpers, two inmate kitchen workers, had prepared lunch for the colony, cleaned up, and gone. Supper for the inmates—porridge and tea—had been set up that morning.
It would be reheated and served by the duty staff. Zulfiya stayed behind to cook separately. For four men.
She worked without hurry. Rinsed the rice three times. Cut the carrots into strips.
Trimmed the lamb. Peeled the onions. The cauldron sat on the stove.
Cast iron, about four gallons. Zulfiya heated the oil. Fried the onions, meat, carrots.
Added water. Salt, cumin, barberries. Lowered the heat.
The base for the pilaf needed to simmer at least an hour. While it simmered, Zulfiya slid the kitchen bolt shut. That was normal.
She always locked the door when cooking for the administration. So no one would come in, interfere, or taste from the pot. She took the jar of white powder from the gap in the stove bricks.
Her hands did not shake. That was what later struck everyone. The investigators, the reporter, anyone who heard the story.
Zulfiya Akhmetova’s hands were perfectly steady. She poured the powder into the simmering base. All of it.
Fifty grams. Enough to poison fifty people. For four men, it was many times over.
She stirred carefully with a wooden spoon until it dissolved completely. Thallium has no taste. In hot liquid it dissolves at once.
Then she took the sack of monkshood powder from under the floorboard. One teaspoon. That went into the pot too.
She stirred again. Monkshood is bitter, but mixed with cumin, pepper, and barberries, the taste disappeared. Then she added the rice.
Turned up the heat. Put on the lid. Washed her hands.
Carefully. With soap. Three times.
She smashed the jar. Wrapped the shards in a rag and pushed them into the stove. Into the coals.
The cloth sack went in too. Half an hour later there was nothing left but ash. Then she sat on a stool against the wall.
Folded her hands in her lap. And waited for the pilaf to finish. She thought about her daughter.
About Aigul. Remembered how the girl laughed when Zulfiya tickled her feet. How she loved pancakes with jam.
How she said “Mama.” Softly.
With that child’s emphasis at the end. “Mama.” Zulfiya closed her eyes.
Opened them. The pilaf was nearly done. At 6:30 she lifted the lid.
Checked it. Rice fluffy. Meat tender.
Golden oil on top. Fragrant. Perfect pilaf.
Zulfiya knew good food when she made it. She transferred the pilaf into the smaller cauldron. The one carried to headquarters.
Carefully. Richer rice and meat from the bottom first, soaked in juices and oil. Drier rice on top.
Lighter. For Kovalenko. At 6:45 a guard came into the kitchen.
“Akhmetova. Ready? Bring it.” Zulfiya lifted the cauldron. Heavy.
About twenty-five pounds. She carried it across the service yard to the administrative building. The guard walked beside her.
Shining a flashlight. In February it gets dark early. Zhuravlev’s office was on the second floor. A room about twenty feet square.
By prison standards, a palace. The table was set. Checkered oilcloth.
Plates. Not aluminum like in the mess hall, but real ceramic with a blue pattern. Spoons, forks.
Four glasses. Two bottles of vodka. One bottle of cognac.
White bread. Sliced. Pickles in a jar.
Sauerkraut. Zhuravlev was already there. No uniform jacket.
White shirt, collar open. His flushed face shone. “Ah, Akhmetova. Put it here. On the table.”
Zulfiya set down the cauldron. Lifted the lid. The smell of pilaf filled the office. Thick.
Warm. Cumin and lamb. Zhuravlev drew in a deep breath.
“Beautiful. You’re a real pro. Dish it out.” Zulfiya served four plates.
For Zhuravlev—a full one. Heaping. From deep in the pot, where the meat and rice had soaked up everything she had put there. For Galimov—a little less, but also from the middle.
For Savchenko—the same. For Kovalenko—from the top layer, where the rice was drier and the poison concentration lower. Zhuravlev patted her on the shoulder.
“Good work, Akhmetova. You cook like a restaurant chef. Go on now, you’ve earned your evening.” Zulfiya nodded. Left the office.
Walked down the stairs. Stepped outside. The cold hit her in the face. She took a full breath.
The air burned her lungs. Then she walked back to the kitchen. She did not look back. Not once.
What happened in Zhuravlev’s office over the next three and a half hours was reconstructed later from fragments. From the position of the phones, the amount of alcohol consumed, and the testimony of the one man who survived. Galimov and Savchenko arrived around seven. Kovalenko came a little later, around 7:30. They sat down…
