Tarnished Icons ir-11

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Behold,” Paulinin said, looking down at the package Karpo and Iosef had retrieved from the mail room. The scientist smiled. “We are dealing with a brilliant technologist. Not a genius. Not as smart as I am, but brilliant, a worthy criminal for a change.”

  “And what makes you say that?” asked Iosef.

  Paulinin looked at Iosef as if he were first noticing the young man.

  “You are Rostnikov’s son,” he said. “I heard you had joined the chaos of mingled purposes teeming over my head, the investigators bumping into one another, contaminating evidence, going to one of those incompetent so-called pathologists with their bodies. Emil Karpo and your father are the only ones who know what they are doing, and sometimes I am not so sure about Rostnikov.”

  “The package,” Iosef said.

  “He will learn,” said Karpo to Paulinin after drinking some tea.

  Iosef drank some tea. It was not nearly as offensive as he had expected. Perhaps it did not contain the essence of some specimen after all.

  “No X rays were possible,” said Paulinin. “Can you imagine someone going through the trouble of lining the package with a thin layer of lead, the thickness of a sheet of paper, to prevent X rays? I weighed it to the gram. I smelled it. I calculated contents by density and composition. I did this by inserting a small tube and hypodermic needle into the bottom of the package between the two layers of lead. The tip of the needle just penetrated the envelope. It was a slight risk. I did it inside the bomb squad’s iron tub.”

  Iosef was about to ask what the scientist had discovered, but he saw the warning look on Karpo’s pale face and said nothing.

  “I was right,” said Paulinin. “There is a one-inch-thick block of birch in the package. It is simply wood-nothing attached to it, nothing inside. There are three sheets of paper. And there is a mechanism made of aluminum attached to a claylike substance.”

  “A bomb,” Iosef said before he could stop himself.

  Instead of being irritated, Paulinin looked extremely pleased as he turned to the young man.

  “No,” said Paulinin. “He anticipated the possibility that someone as capable as I might inspect the package. I inserted a fiber-optic probe through the hole I had made with the hypodermic. I probed gently till I saw enough to convince me. It is a fake bomb. The clay is clay. The mechanism is little more than a flimsy mousetrap device set to click when the package is opened.”

  “A joke?” asked Iosef.

  “A challenge,” said Paulinin with satisfaction.

  Karpo wondered where the scientist had obtained the use of expensive fiber-optic instruments to conduct his probe. The logical conclusion, since Paulinin was almost unfunded, was that he had snuck into a laboratory somewhere.

  “I took the fingerprints that were usable from the package,” said Paulinin, “but none of them are the bomber’s.”

  “How can you tell?” asked Iosef.

  “Smell it.”

  Karpo leaned over and smelled the package.

  “Do you smell it?” asked Paulinin.

  “Something faint,” said Karpo. “A powder residue.”

  Iosef felt like an idiot, but he leaned over and smelled the package. Nothing.

  “Latex gloves,” said Paulinin. “That’s what you smell. He wore lightly powdered latex gloves. The package is safe to open. I should like it back with the original papers inside, after you copy them. They will also contain no fingerprints.”

  Karpo nodded, finished his tea, and put his cup down on an open spot on the table between a metal object painted black and an empty glass container. Iosef did the same.

  “Can you get me anything that’s left of the bombs, the previous letter bombs?” asked Paulinin. “I’m sure the bomb squad dolts have destroyed whatever might be of use, and they’d never think of asking me, but there may be something. This man is a worthy opponent.”

  “We will do what we can,” said Karpo.

  “Lunch, chess?” said Paulinin.

  “Tomorrow, one o’clock,” said Karpo.

  When they were out in the hall of the lower level of Petrovka and the heavy door to Paulinin’s laboratory had slammed shut, sending a metallic echo down the hall, Iosef said, “He’s crazy.”

  “He is also a genius,” said Karpo.

  Karpo carried the package as they walked.

  Within three minutes, they had set the package on the desk of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, who looked up at Karpo, who nodded. It was enough to let Rostnikov know it was safe to open the package.

  He did so with the sharp blade of his small pocket knife.

  “Fingerprints?” asked Rostnikov.

  “Paulinin says there will be none,” said Karpo. “Latex gloves.”

  Iosef stood dumbfounded. On the word of a madman in the basement, his father was opening a package that could explode and kill them all if Paulinin was wrong. Iosef had seen mangled bodies when he was in the army in Afghanistan. He had seen what remained of soldiers and civilians who had stepped on small mines hidden in sand.

  Rostnikov reached in and pulled out the contents of the package, laying each piece neatly on the desk-the fake bomb and clay, the thin sheets of lead, the block of birch, and the three sheets of paper. Rostnikov laid the paper before him. The top page was typed and said: “I wonder how many hours and how much sweat were spent before you decided to open this. Probably enough so that it is past today’s mail delivery and the letter bomb I sent has already gone off. Meanwhile, enclosed is the declaration to be made on television. I will have made my point if it is delivered to the people of Moscow. I will stop the bombs and I will wait to see what, if anything, will be done. I expect nothing will be done. I expect I will resume my bombing. More will die, more from the hands of those in power than from me.”

  It was unsigned. Rostnikov handed the letter to Karpo, who read it slowly where he stood.

  Rostnikov read the two single-spaced pages titled “Declaration to the People of Russia.” The declaration was a demand to dismantle and destroy all nuclear facilities, to clean up all Russian nuclear dump sites, and to cease any nuclear research, whether military, industrial, or medical. The declaration cited examples of the dangers of each and the threat to Russian citizens. The writer was educated, well-informed, and probably as out of touch with reality as Paulinin, Rostnikov concluded.

  “Now?” asked Iosef.

  “Now,” said his father, “we wait for the bomb to go off and the bomber to call me.”

  “Television?” asked Iosef.

  “I will ask,” said Rostnikov. “I am confident that the demand to read the declaration will be denied.”

  “Paulinin would like to examine whatever remnants or traces of past letter bombs exist,” said Karpo.

  Rostnikov picked up the phone on his desk and pushed three buttons. Pankov answered. Rostnikov asked to speak to the director and was put through immediately.

  Karpo and Iosef stood listening as Rostnikov reported on the package and Paulinin’s request. Rostnikov listened and then hung up.

  “You can pick up the bomb remnants from the bomb squad. They are being informed that they are to cooperate. It is almost certain that the bomber’s demands will not be met.”

  Karpo nodded, turned, and left the office with Iosef right behind.

  Rostnikov then ate at his desk, a sandwich prepared by his wife, who had made a request that he would take care of that very evening. Sarah had also prepared a thermos of tepid but sweet tea. Rostnikov had four reasons for eating in today. First, he was waiting for the report of a letter bombing that the bomber had promised. Second, he was waiting for a call from the bomber, who would want to know if Rostnikov had received his package. Third, he was waiting for a call from a former black marketeer who was now a legitimate businessman. The man had promised to find the ducting Rostnikov needed to work on Belinsky’s synagogue. The fourth reason for eating at his desk was that it was easier than walking on the artificial leg. He had been getting plenty of practice at doing t
hat. He could use an hour or two seated at his desk.

  The phone rang before Rostnikov had finished his sandwich.

  Avrum Belinsky sat reading in a wooden chair that had been placed outside of Rostnikov’s office by Akardy Zelach, whose desk was in the room of five cubicles across the hall. Belinsky had not called in advance. He had slept fitfully, dreaming of a war in the streets of small towns, shooting at Syrians, being shot at. Flimsy walls of small one-and two-story buildings crumbled or exploded from shells that would have made small holes or scraped out ruts in larger, more solid buildings of the big cities. He had seen friends die, and he had killed more than once. That was both long ago and not long ago in his memory.

  Avrum had come to Petrovka after his morning prayers. It had been a long journey with a stop at the synagogue to see if it was still there. It was. Untouched. But a truck was waiting at the door when he arrived, and a man sat in the cab of the truck, a burly man with a coat and cap and a scarf around his neck. The man was smoking and looking lost in thoughts or memories. The motor was not running.

  Belinsky had approached the truck and startled the driver, who rolled down his window, no mean feat in this weather and considering the age of the truck.

  “Belinsky?” asked the driver in a rasp of a voice that suggested a tonsillectomy had been botched in his childhood.

  “Yes.” The man rolled the window up, got out of the truck, and closed the door with a slam.

  “I knocked,” he said.

  “It’s still early.”

  “I have many things to do,” said the truck driver, who was thin and much older than he had first appeared. “Are you strong?”

  “Reasonably,” said Belinsky.

  “Good. This isn’t one of those days you can’t work?” asked the man, holding back a sniffle. His nose was quite red.

  “No,” said Belinsky. “That’s Friday night and Saturday.”

  “Good. Yuri has a sore back. He’s my helper. He’s good for nothing, but he’s strong and he’s my sister’s son,” said the driver. “Let’s go.”

  The driver moved to the rear of the truck, pulled out a ring of keys, and opened the padlock. Belinsky stood back and watched as the doors squeaked open to reveal shiny aluminum sheets of various sizes and a variety of joints and angles.

  “Let’s go,” the man said with resignation, and driver and rabbi slowly began to move the metal into the small synagogue.

  It was especially slow because the driver was old and the rabbi probably should have been in a hospital.

  That had been several hours ago. At Petrovka, Avrum asked to see Rostnikov. The young uniformed man at the guard cage looked at him with less than respect when he said his name was Rabbi Belinsky. The guard made a call and apparently got Zelach, who told the guard to let the rabbi in.

  A second guard, who was supposed to be outside the cage, arms at the ready, had come into the cage to warm up a bit, though it was not particularly warm there. The second guard, who looked younger than the first, stepped out and pointed toward the entrance of the U-shaped building. The courtyard was a white rolling garden of snow hills. A wind, chill and whistling low, swirled around the U, sending up puffs of snow.

  The lobby of Petrovka was dark. There was a desk inside with another uniformed man. This man was older than the guards and wore a brown uniform and no hat. His head was practically shaved at the sides, and his short brown hair was brushed back. Behind him stood a uniformed guard carrying Kalishnikov automatic weapons. Belinsky recognized the guns. He had seen them in the hands of the PLO, Syrians, Lebanese. Uzis against Kalishnikovs. Belinsky told himself that was another place and time. This was a new Russia. Another armed guard stood at a stairway nearby.

  All three armed guards looked at Belinsky, though they pretended not to. Four people came down the stairs arguing. All were in their forties or fifties; only one wore a uniform. It was a military uniform. The military man was doing all the talking. Emphatic, certain, loud, confident, he spoke slowly while the others listened with respect.

  “Yulia Piskovaya,” said the military man in disgust. “We bring the case against Yulia Piskovaya. She spends eleven years as a court stenographer and then, suddenly, she’s a judge. How do you talk to someone like that?”

  “She’ll find him guilty,” one of the other men said wearily. “She finds everyone guilty. Don’t worry, Constantin.”

  “I don’t like dealing with fools,” the older, disgusted man said.

  They passed and Avrum turned his attention back to the man with short hair behind the desk.

  “Someone will be down for you,” said the man, writing in the ledger before him. “Belinsky, David.”

  “Avrum,” the rabbi corrected.

  “Abe-ra-ham,” the guard strung out flatly, but making clear what he thought of the Jewish name. “To see Inspector Rostnikov. He is expecting you?”

  “He will not be surprised,” said Belinsky, feeling dizzy but not showing it.

  The man grunted, examined the rabbi, and went back to his book, pretending to work.

  Akardy Zelach was there soon after, awkwardly greeting Belinsky and just as awkwardly asking if it was all right to walk up since there was a problem with the elevators. He didn’t add that there was always a problem with the elevators.

  Though it became an ordeal, Belinsky kept pace with the detective, who fortunately did not move quickly. Then they were in the hallway, and Zelach was fetching a chair and asking him if he wanted some coffee. Belinsky declined and Zelach hesitated for a moment, unsure of what he should do next, watch the visitor or go back to his desk. He knew better than to discuss what little he knew of the murders with the rabbi. All clergymen made Zelach uncomfortable. His father, who died when Akardy was a boy, had hated all religions but his own. He was a loyal and unthinking Communist policeman who believed Stalin was a god to be worshiped. Zelach’s father saved his greatest venom for the Jews, and his mother made it clear, through her silence, that she agreed with her husband. She had feared his rages and did her best to agree with his frequent and fervent lectures on everything from collective farming to Jews. Gradually, because her husband was smarter than she, she came to share his prejudices, though she’d had none when she had married.

  Even before the Soviet Union ended and the Communists fell into disgrace, Zelach’s mother had returned to the Russian Orthodox Church and had told her son that his father had been right about most things, except Stalin: He was no god, but a mass murderer. Years later Akardy, who admittedly was slow, was just beginning to reconcile the differences between his dead father and his living mother and what he had learned of tolerance from Rostnikov and his coworkers in the Office of Special Investigation.

  Zelach disappeared across the hall.

  The blow to his neck had been the worst, Belinsky decided as he sat waiting. His neck was sore to the touch, and it had throbbed when he was helping the truck driver. The cut on his chest was certainly worthy of a long line of stitches. There were a few other lesser injuries, and there was a possibility that the small finger on his right hand was broken. He had packed it in snow, taped it, and taken some codeine pills that he had stored in a drawer in his small room. The wound on his chest he had treated by a thorough cleaning with soap and water and then stinging peroxide. The wound appeared to be clean. He had taped it neatly, expertly, probably better than would have been done in a Russian hospital. He would bear a scar, but that did not bother him. It would join the other scars both inside and outside his firm body. The tape had probably loosened a bit from the hour or so of moving metal and parts from the truck, but it would hold till he could re-dress it. It was his neck that troubled him most. Turning it was painful. The man had hit him hard but didn’t know what he was doing. If Avrum had delivered such a blow, he would have done it correctly, and his opponent would be dead.

  What had happened was curious. So curious that Avrum had lain awake most of the night waiting for the dawn thinking about the event, doing his best to ignore his pa
in.

  Avrum had kept walking toward the two young men in front of him. Before he had reached them, the two stood together to block the sidewalk and the one on the right said, “Jew, if you live through this night, you are to take yourself and the rest of your filth out of Moscow. You are to sell your church to anyone foolish enough to buy it. We will probably let you live so you can do this, but we can’t guarantee it.”

  Belinsky stopped about five feet before them, sensing the man coming from behind, moving slowly. The young man before him was talking loudly and rapidly to cover the approach of the assailant behind, who tried not to make sounds in the snow.

  Belinsky stood, listening both to the young man and to the slight sound behind him. He watched the eyes of the man who wasn’t talking. It was dark but there was enough light to see the man’s eyes. Both young men wore scarves around their faces like masks, an indication to Belinsky that they might seriously be considering letting him live, but unable to identify his attackers. Even as he spun and squatted, he wondered why he wasn’t dead. Why he hadn’t been shot like the others.

  The man behind Belinsky was big, bigger than the other two, and older. Belinsky plunged his right fist into the man’s stomach, but the man didn’t go down. The attacker swung his right fist, catching Avrum in the neck. The pain was swift and electric. The rabbi thought he might pass out, but his life might well depend on staying awake. His second strike at the older man was with the heel of his left hand into the big man’s nose. The nose broke. Belinsky had been weakened by the blow to his neck and had not struck hard enough to drive the broken bones into the attacker’s brain, but he had done enough damage to send the groaning man to his knees.

  It had all happened quickly, before the other two, the ones who had blocked his way, could react. They had assumed the smaller rabbi would put up little resistance to Georgi. Georgi was big, strong, and unafraid. Now he lay in the snow holding his hand to his face to slow the flow of blood from his nose. What they saw made them cautious and gave Belinsky an instant in which to turn as the young man who had spoken, Yevgeny Tutsolov, struck out with a slash of his knife. The cut had gone through Belinsky’s coat and shirt and across his chest.