The girls talked.
Suddenly the pain stopped and perhaps a second later the tremors stopped, too. It had felt as if someone had stuck an electric probe into her head with no warning and then, suddenly, pulled it out.
She would have to do something about it. She knew she would. She had promised herself the day before that the next time it happened, she would call Leon. If it was serious, she would think of a way to tell Porfiry Petrovich, and she would ask him to do whatever he could to free the girls’ grandmother. It wasn’t that Sarah had not grown to love them. She had. But Sarah Rostnikov had the distinct fear that a time might come when she would be unable to take care of them.
Sarah did not usually procrastinate. She kept her promises to others and to herself. It was one of the many traits of his wife that Rostnikov admired. Since he had met her, when she was just a young girl, she had been resolute. Although she could easily have hidden the fact that she was Jewish, she would quickly proclaim her heritage whenever the word Jew came up in conversation. She tolerated no injustice at work, though a bit of such tolerance would have saved her job on two occasions. In both cases, the injustice had not been to her but to coworkers. Sarah’s sympathy for the girls’ grandmother was very strong.
She decided not to wait. When the girls had left for school this morning, at least an hour after Rostnikov had left, she reached for the phone, first to call her job to say she was ill, and second to call Leon.
It was difficult in both cases to keep her voice steady. It was even more difficult to keep the phone from falling from her trembling hands.
NINE
The call announcing Porfiry Petrovich’s visitor came exactly on the hour. State Security Agent Leo Horv showed his identification card at the Petrovka guard station, where the young uniformed officer with pink cold cheeks looked at it and called the lobby check-in desk. Sergeant Sismikov answered in a bored, deep voice that let the guard know that the sergeant was warm enough to be bored. Sismikov checked his appointment log and told the guard to send Agent Horv in.
Since the State Security agent wasn’t carrying anything, there was nothing to be searched. Nonetheless, Sismikov, who was the size of the Kremlin cannon, asked if Agent Horv would please pass through the metal detector.
Horv smiled and readily agreed. The machine was extremely sensitive. Still, it did not screech.
Horv made his way up the stairs, found Rostnikov’s office, and stepped in.
He hadn’t been prepared for what he saw.
The box of a man behind the desk rose awkwardly with a smile of greeting and held out his hand. Horv took it and looked at the other two men in the room. The unkempt one seated to his right wearing a blue smock examined the guest as if he were a specimen. He was introduced as Technician Paulinin, and the gaunt man in black was introduced as Inspector Karpo. The newcomer recognized him as one of the two men who had entered his apartment the day before. He had carefully removed all photographs of himself, but had she kept one somewhere? Did this blank-faced, erect man recognize him?
There was an empty seat between Paulinin and Karpo. Rostnikov, sitting awkwardly, held out his hand, palm up, to suggest that the State Security agent have a seat.
He sat and said, “I suppose you want to get straight to business. All right. I’ll tell you why I am here.”
“I think that first Citizen Paulinin would like to see the bomb,” said Rostnikov conversationally, folding his hands on the desk in front of him. “Would you like some tea, Alexi Monochov?”
Alexi sat back, trying to hide his confusion.
“I recognized your voice from our telephone conversations,” said Rostnikov, “but, even more compelling, was the fact that Inspector Karpo has been to your apartment. He has seen your photograph, an old photograph, but it is you. Your mother gave it to him. Well?”
“I’m here to …” Alexi began.
“No, I’m sorry. I was asking about the tea,” said Rostnikov.
“No tea,” said Alexi eyeing the men.
The two flanking him looked like variations of madness. Karpo sat rigidly, unblinkingly examining him. Paulinin looked as if he were suffering from some slight malady that made it difficult for him to sit still.
“Then, may we see the bomb?” asked Rostnikov. “I don’t know much about bombs, but I do know that making one with the use of almost no metal, particularly for the detonator, is quite an achievement.”
Confused, trying to regain his determination, Alexi opened his coat to reveal the deep-pocketed black nylon belt strapped to his stomach. There was only one wire coming from it. Alexi held up his hands now to show that the wire was attached to a small, polished wooden device in his hand.
Paulinin put on his glasses and scratched his chin. He asked Alexi what kind of explosive he was using.
No harm at this point. Alexi told him.
Paulinin nodded in admiration.
“Good choice,” said the scientist. “The wire. Why wasn’t that detected downstairs?”
“It contains no metal,” said Alexi. “No more questions.”
“I’m sorry, but I have one,” said Rostnikov. “Forgive me for asking, but it is my job. How do we know you really have a bomb?”
“You will find that out soon enough,” said Alexi, avoiding the examination by Paulinin with the thick glasses. This was not going at all the way he had expected. Why had Rostnikov let Alexi come up knowing that he most likely carried a bomb?
“Ah,” said Rostnikov. “You mean to …?”
“Yes,” said Alexi, trying to sound firmly resolved.
“But first you have something to say,” said Rostnikov.
“You counted on that.”
“Certainly,” said Rostnikov. “If you simply meant to set off a bomb that would destroy part-”
“All,” Alexi amended.
“-all of this building,” Rostnikov went on, “you would simply have done so without getting a false identification and going through the risk of getting caught.”
“When we finish talking,” Alexi said, his thumb on the button of the device, “we all die.”
“I would assume that would be one of the results if you detonate your bomb,” Rostnikov agreed. “But before you do so, there is something I’d like to tell you.”
Paulinin had leaned forward and Alexi turned to look at the eyes behind the spectacles of the scientist. He saw no fear. He turned to Karpo, who betrayed no emotion. Did no one in this room fear death? Alexi felt dizzy. He would have liked some water, even warm water, but there was no way he could ask. Maybe he should have accepted the tea. But it might have been drugged or even poisoned. His mouth was dry, very dry, and things were not going according to plan.
“Did I ever ask you in our phone conversations what your favorite color is?” asked Rostnikov, pushing a thick folder across the desk and nodding at Alexi to look at it.
Alexi cautiously took his free hand out of his pocket and leaned over to open the file.
“Photographs of the survivors of your bombs,” said Rostnikov.
“Gray,” said Alexi, looking at the photographs of the maimed and the blind. “My favorite color is gray.”
“There are before-and-after photographs where we could get them,” said Rostnikov. “They are in the back. My staff ran something through the computer. You would understand how it worked. I am not a man of science. If you set off your bomb and it is as powerful as Paulinin here suggests, you will kill between one hundred and two hundred people at this time of day. A little more than half will leave wives and children. The total number of children under the age of sixteen left without a father will be about one hundred and ten. Alexi Monochov, because your father died and you believe you are dying, that is not a good enough reason for what you plan to do.”
“Hundreds of thousands have died,” Alexi answered with passion, putting his free hand back in his pocket, holding up the hand with the wired plunger. “The world should be made aware of the horrors of nuclear power. It will destroy
Russia. It will destroy the world. It won’t even need a bomb to do it. Do you know how Russia’s nuclear materials and weapons are stored and protected?”
“Yes,” said Paulinin.
Alexi turned, surprised by the scientist’s high-pitched voice. But Paulinin wasn’t finished.
“Nuclear storage areas are protected by young soldiers in ramshackle sheds with padlocks on their doors that can be picked in about thirty seconds or cut off in about two or three. Of course, there are a few better-protected facilities, but they, like the others, are subject to theft through attack or, more often, bribery of key guards.”
“Yes,” said Alexi.
“And you are making it better by bombing people,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes,” said Alexi with conviction. “Everyone who creates, protects, or condones nuclear development-nuclear death-should be destroyed as an example.”
“So,” said Rostnikov, leaning farther over his desk, lowering his voice, and focusing on the face of the bomber, “almost everybody deserves to join you in death.”
“Almost everybody,” said Alexi, nodding.
“But you haven’t the time to do it because you are dying,” said Rostnikov.
“That is right,” said Alexi. “I want to speak.”
Rostnikov nodded, giving the bomber his full attention.
“I have left notes with the media again, sent them out of the country. The world will know what has happened here today. I have also sent my greatest achievement in the mail to someone whose death will draw even more attention.”
“And you think this will make the world wake up and begin a program of ceasing the creation and use of nuclear weapons. …”
“Any nuclear creation is dangerous. Don’t you understand?”
Alexi tried to stop the tears beginning in the corners of his eyes. What good did it do to kill men like this? They seemed unafraid of what he was about to do, while Alexi mourned and feared the death that would come to him in minutes.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “I find it difficult to imagine that the Chinese would be swayed in any way by what you plan to do. I think the Americans would use it for propaganda to try to get us to gain more government control of storage. It would not affect the Americans at all. Of course, this is just my opinion.”
“It is worth trying,” said Alexi. “It will be the largest gesture of its kind. It may well start an international movement so powerful that governments will be unable to ignore it.”
“I doubt that,” said Rostnikov. “But, since none of us will be here to see it, we will never know. I talked to a psychiatrist about you. An American, by phone. Gave her your profile. She does this for the FBI. Would you like to know what she said?”
“No,” said Alexi, holding the wired detonator menacingly.
“Since I am about to be blown to pieces-with the exception of my left leg, which is already gone-I think it would be unreasonable of you not to allow me a few minutes to say what I wish. You’ve spoken and, given the circumstances, can speak again.”
“Talk, quickly,” said Alexi.
“Well, she says you are afraid of dying and want to show control by maiming or condemning to broken lives or even death those who might survive you. Nuclear energy is an excuse.”
“It killed my father. It is killing me,” Alexi insisted, partially rising from his chair.
“You are not dying, Alexi Monochov,” said Rostnikov. “Look at the back of the file before you. We found your appointment notes, went to the hospital where you were diagnosed, got the X rays and test results, and sent them to the Americans, who examined them. You went to incompetent doctors at an incompetent hospital.”
“As are most in Russia,” said Paulinin.
“You have an infection, Alexi,” said Rostnikov. “A prostate infection. It can be controlled with daily medication. It is not cancerous. Your life, except for the bomb strapped to your stomach, is in no impending danger.”
“You’re lying,” said Alexi, examining each of the faces around him. He could see no trace of a lie, but they were trained to deceive. His eyes scanned the desk as if it might hold some answer, but all it held was the file folder of photographs of his victims. He flipped open the file and in the back found the medical reports.
“Had the hospital continued to treat you,” said Rostnikov, “they may very well have killed you, but that is really of no consequence now. If you set off this bomb, the American psychiatrist will issue a joint statement with the director of the Institute of Psychosis here in Moscow. You will be remembered briefly as a dying lunatic who vindictively took the lives of innocent people.”
“But you will all die, too,” said Alexi. “You let me in here knowing you could die, probably would die.”
“You and your family live well,” said Rostnikov, ignoring the observation.
“What?” said Alexi, even more bewildered.
“Your father did not have much money. You do not earn much money. Your sister’s salary is more pitiful than a policeman’s, and your mother comes from a poor family.”
“What has that …?” Alexi began.
“Your father got the money by blackmailing important officials involved in corruption in nuclear production,” came the voice at Alexi’s right.
Alexi turned to the technician, the scientist who looked more mad than Alexi felt.
“Rumor, a word here and there,” said Paulinin. “Gossip in the halls of meetings of scientists. I seldom go to such things. The pompous asses there make me bilious.”
“Give us the names and tell us where the evidence is against these people,” said Rostnikov. “That will accomplish more than what you plan.”
“If I do that, my mother and sister will be reduced to poverty,” he said.
“Then,” said Rostnikov, sitting back in his chair with a deep sigh, “you are a hypocrite.”
“You are in no position to call me names,” said Alexi. “You’re twisting things.”
“I am giving you the opportunity to live and provide that life with a meaningful act against those who abuse the very creation you are willing to kill for. I am giving you the opportunity to speak out at a public trial where the criminals your father confronted can be denounced,” said Rostnikov. “Would you like to see my artificial leg?”
“What?” asked Alexi, sitting back in complete confusion.
“I’m reaching down for it,” said Rostnikov. “Don’t panic. I’m not reaching for a weapon. If it were simply a matter of shooting you and taking our chances, Inspector Karpo, to your left, would have done so minutes ago. Ah, here.”
Rostnikov put his prosthetic leg on the desk. It made a clunking sound.
“Marvel of science,” said Rostnikov, admiring the leg. “Prosthetics. They’re improving them all the time.”
“Made by people with no knowledge of human anatomy,” said Paulinin with disgust.
Alexi was in total confusion as he looked at the leg on the table before him. No one in the room seemed the least bit afraid except Alexi, who now believed that he might well not be dying.
“I don’t want to see your wooden leg,” Alexi said, staring right at the prosthesis.
“It’s not just wood,” said Rostnikov. “It has, in fact, almost no wood. It is metal and plastic. The plastic, as you can see, is made to somewhat approximate the color of human skin, but what is the point of that, I ask you? Anyone looking at it can see it is artificial. I believe in facing the truth, Alexi Monochov.”
As the bomber continued to stare in fascination, Paulinin made a gesture to Karpo. He mimed putting his hand in his pocket. Karpo’s nod was so slight that only the scientist caught it. Rostnikov’s eyes were looking at the artificial part of his anatomy.
Alexi was hypnotized by the leg before him, confused by the apparent fact that he was not going to die. This was going all wrong.
“No,” he said, sitting down. “No more talk.”
“The photograph,” Paulinin said.
“Ah, yes, the
photograph,” said Rostnikov. “I think this will interest you.”
Rostnikov pulled an eight-by-ten out of his drawer and reached over his artificial leg to place the photo face-down in front of the perplexed bomber.
“You are all crazy,” said Alexi.
“You don’t include yourself?” asked Rostnikov.
“I … I … It doesn’t matter.”
Alexi took his hand out of his pocket and reached for the photograph. The next instant was a sudden shock. Something grabbed his left hand as he reached forward. Then there was pain up his right arm as it was pulled behind him.
Karpo ignored the detonator button in Alexi’s right hand and put the confused man in handcuffs behind his back while Paulinin reached into Alexi’s left pocket and came up with a small black plastic box the size of a key-chain flashlight with a black button. Paulinin smiled in triumph and unstrapped the explosives from Alexi Monochov’s body. Alexi didn’t struggle, but Karpo still pressed down, holding him in place. Paulinin continued to search Alexi and then said, “Nothing.”
Rostnikov nodded.
“I assume I may have all this for further study,” asked Paulinin, examining the explosive loot in his hands as he moved away from Alexi to his chair.
“Of course,” said Rostnikov.
“How did you know?” asked Alexi, looking at Rostnikov.
“I had no idea,” said Rostnikov. “It was Technician Paulinin. My hope was to persuade you with the truth, Alexi. You are not dying or even seriously ill. My hope was to get you to give us the names and the evidence your father had collected. That was my hope, that and your fear of dying once you knew you were not ill. That and the opportunity in open court to make whatever kind of political or environmental statement you might choose. I don’t think you would have pushed that button. But, just in case, Technician Paulinin was here to insure that you wouldn’t.”
Rostnikov turned to the scientist, who gently patted the strap-on bomb on his lap.
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