Tarnished Icons ir-11

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “First,” said Paulinin, obviously delighted with himself, “you supposedly have a wire attached to the detonator you held in your right hand. The metal detectors downstairs didn’t perceive it. They are very delicate. The police are very paranoid. But it was possible you had another means of using the detonator, though I wondered why a man with your abilities-and I don’t give out compliments easily; you may ask Inspector Karpo-a man with your abilities should have such a primitive detonation device as a simple plunger and encased wire. It was for dramatic effect, perhaps? It could have been compressed air, but that would require more pressure than that simple wire and plunger could guarantee. It would require that your detonator be so delicate that it could have gone off simply while you walked or took the bus or metro here. Second, you are left-handed. Your watch is on your right wrist. You kept your left hand in your pocket. An odd thing to do under the circumstances, unless you had something in the pocket. Conclusion: the real detonator, a remote, was in your favored hand in your pocket ready to be pressed should someone manage to grab your right hand held high with a dramatic though false detonation device.”

  “You could have been wrong,” said Alexi, head down, weeping. “I had it planned.”

  “Your false detonator is attached to a screw,” said Paulinin. “A plastic screw to help insure that you could get through metal detectors. The screw is attached to the pouch. I know of no detonation device that would simply be triggered by a current through a plastic screw, though there are instances-”

  “Paulinin,” Rostnikov interrupted, retrieving his leg from the table. “You are better than Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Who is that?” asked the scientist warily.

  “It is of no importance,” said Rostnikov. “I have paid you the highest of compliments. You are free to leave with your plunder.”

  Paulinin did something with his face that may have been a smile and then he left the room. When the door closed, there was silence broken only by Alexi’s sobs. Karpo stood behind the seated man, looking at Rostnikov for instruction.

  Rostnikov motioned with his hand for Karpo to release Alexi. Karpo did so, though he remained standing behind the bomber.

  “Give us the names of the people your father was blackmailing,” said Rostnikov. “Give us the evidence. Tell us who you sent that last bomb to. Regain your dignity. By the time the world’s media receives your letter, they will know Petrovka has not been destroyed. Your letter will go in the garbage with the other eccentric letters of the day. You’ve killed only one person to this point. If you must die, you can now do so without taking any lives and with some pride in what you have done to bring criminals to justice.”

  “They are rich,” Alexi said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “These men. They are powerful. They’ll bribe their way out of trouble.”

  Rostnikov shrugged. Alexi had a point.

  “Perhaps,” Porfiry Petrovich said, “but this is a new Russia. No one knows what a court will do, especially in a high-profile case. Bribery might be difficult and dangerous to a judge or anyone else in the government.”

  “You will take care of my mother and sister?” Alexi said, feeling the cuffs digging into his wrists.

  “No,” said Rostnikov. “There is nothing I can do. We have no budget for such things. They will have to get along as best they can.”

  “I expected you to lie,” said Alexi.

  Rostnikov shrugged again.

  “I’ll tell you,” Alexi said with a sigh. “But it may be too late to stop the bomb I delivered before I came here, my backup bomb.”

  There was silence-a long silence broken only by a pair of footsteps in the hall passing the office.

  “And where is this second bomb?” Rostnikov prompted.

  “Probably in the hands of whoever is the director of the FBI in the American embassy,” said Alexi. “The detonation device is delicate. Even a strong vibration will set it off. The box is small and looks like it might contain a pen-and-pencil set.”

  “They will catch it,” said Rostnikov. “They’ll be suspicious.”

  “It was delivered by hand, by a man in uniform, me,” said Alexi. “I informed the guard at the door that it was from you. I came here directly after I delivered it and changed my clothes.”

  Rostnikov reached for his phone and pulled an address book from his drawer. Rostnikov was terrible with numbers of any kind, particularly phone numbers. He had, on occasion, been known to forget his own home number. He found the American embassy number, called and asked for Agent Craig Hamilton, said it was urgent, and identified himself as he watched Alexi Monochov looking at the face-down photograph he had been reaching for when Karpo grabbed his hand.

  Rostnikov stretched across the desk, holding the phone to his ear, and turned over the photograph so the handcuffed prisoner could see it.

  The man in the photograph was massive. He wore a pleasant smile and a sweat suit. There was something written on the photograph.

  “Alexiev,” said Rostnikov, waiting for Craig Hamilton to come on the line. “The greatest of all Olympic lifters.”

  Monochov looked baffled.

  “Alexiev,” said Rostnikov, shaking his head. First Paulinin didn’t know who Sherlock Holmes was and now the bomber didn’t recognize the man whom Rostnikov and almost any Russian over the age of thirty would recognize.

  “I sent him no bomb,” Alexi said.

  Rostnikov shook his head and then heard Craig Hamilton’s calm voice. The two men spoke in English.

  “A package was delivered to your office about half an hour ago,” Rostnikov said. “You’ve obviously not opened it or you wouldn’t be answering the phone. It’s from the bomber, supposedly from me. Small, about the size of a pen-and-pencil box.”

  “The nearest bomb expert we have is in Frankfurt,” said Hamilton. “The soonest we could get him here would be in ten hours. I doubt if we have ten hours. I’m evacuating the building when we hang up. If you’ve got someone who can disarm the bomb, send them over. I’ll be nearby to let them in.”

  Hamilton hung up without another word and so did Rostnikov.

  “Now,” he said, nodding to Karpo, who sat down and took out his black leather-covered notebook. “We will talk about corruption and evidence, and those of us who believe in the possibility of a deity will pray that we can deal with your bomb without any deaths. The Americans have no bomb expert.”

  “I could tell them,” said Alexi, his voice breaking.

  “I believe you could,” said Rostnikov, “but I’m not prepared to trust you. Alexi Monochov, your record leaves much to be desired.”

  Rostnikov knew he could call the military bomb squad, who might or might not succeed. Their practical experience was very limited, and their record, like that of Alexi Monochov, left something to be desired.

  “Paulinin and I will go,” said Karpo. “Paulinin will welcome the challenge.”

  “You will die,” said Alexi Monochov simply.

  “We shall see,” said Karpo.

  “With the deputy inspector’s permission,” said Karpo, “I will ask Technician Paulinin.”

  Rostnikov looked up at the two men. Paulinin was brilliant but emotional and definitely more than just a bit mad, but he had disarmed Monochov, and if there was such a thing as genius, Paulinin surely qualified. As for Karpo, there was no doubt that he cared little if he lived or died, but there was no chance of his panicking, and he seemed to have a rapport with Paulinin. In addition, Karpo had some experience with bombs. He had almost been killed by a terrorist bomb in Red Square four years ago. The major damage had been to his left arm, which had taken surgery and a year to heal. The incident had prompted Karpo to learn what he could about bombs.

  “You have my permission,” said Rostnikov. “Emil.”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you back alive,” Rostnikov said.

  Karpo nodded and looked down at Alexi, who was still weeping.

  “You can leave Alexi with me,” said Rostnikov.


  Karpo nodded and left the room.

  “They will die,” said Alexi, growing a bit more calm when the door was closed.

  “Let us both hope that they do not,” said Rostnikov.

  The plan was breaking down. Not all district stations had a time or even a place where all the officers could be brought together. Elena and Sasha could gather officers on each shift, but that would require Magda Stern to be at each gathering. It could take days. It could take weeks. And what if he wasn’t from the adjoining districts? Maybe he was from farther out. Maybe he wasn’t even a police officer.

  Magda Stern had said that not only was he in uniform but he got into a police car after attacking her. Could it have been a car disguised to look like a police car? That was possible.

  As for current photographs of the officers in each district, some stations had a full set, some had a few, and some had only old ones. Elena suggested that they methodically take photographs of every officer from top to bottom, starting with Trotsky Station. If an officer was home sick, they would go to his home.

  “It could take months,” said Sasha, holding his forehead. “I need aspirin.”

  They were seated in Elena’s cubbyhole office. Sasha sat across from her. The desk between them was very small.

  “You have another idea?” she asked.

  “We are already trying my idea,” he said as Elena dug into her drawer and came up with a small, white plastic container with a red top. She handed it to Sasha, who opened it and gulped three white capsules dry. He coughed, swallowed, and managed to get them down. He returned the container to Elena. There were only two pills left.

  “Do you have any other ideas?” she asked.

  “You have a camera?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Film?”

  “We will talk to Porfiry Petrovich about buying and processing the film,” she said, the idea taking shape as she spoke.

  “By the time he gets permission for such a purchase, if he even agrees with the plan, six more women could be raped and beaten, possibly murdered.”

  “I say we try,” said Elena.

  “So do I,” came a voice from the open entryway to the cubicle.

  Iosef Rostnikov wore slacks, a white shirt and a sweater, and held a coat over his arm. He was smiling at Elena. Sasha, head in pain but feeling perhaps a bit better, looked at Elena, who was trying to hide a smile.

  With all that is happening, am I not to be spared this maudlin mating ritual? Sasha mused.

  “In fact,” Iosef went on, “I’ll supply the film. Japanese. Black-and-white. 800 ISO. You won’t even need a flash.”

  “Just time,” said Sasha. “Where did you get enough film for this?”

  “A donation when I worked at the theater before I became a policeman,” he said, stepping into the small room. “From a man who described himself as a businessman. Foreign accent. Very good clothes. Came to see me after a show. Shook my hand. Said he liked my work. The next day a carton of film was at the theater with a Japanese camera, a Nikon. I think the man was a gangster. The camera and the film are in my closet.”

  “A waste of time,” said Sasha.

  “A dead end,” said Elena, looking up at Iosef with a smile.

  “A red herring,” said Iosef.

  “Doomed to failure,” Elena came back.

  “Preposterous idea,” Iosef agreed.

  “As much chance as a cooked chicken,” said Elena.

  “A completely-” Iosef began, but was interrupted by Sasha, who almost shouted, “All right. We use Iosef’s film. But we are going ahead with my plan.”

  “At this point,” said Elena, “we have no choice.”

  “And I will add my camera to Elena’s so you can both go out at the same time,” said Iosef.

  Sasha shrugged, tossing his head back, closing his eyes. Elena looked up at Iosef more guardedly than she had a moment earlier.

  Elena Timofeyeva had come to work exhausted. She had taken three aspirin before she even left home. Iosef was pushing gently for marriage but pushing nonetheless.

  Last night in his bed they had talked, held each other and talked. Elena had gotten up at four in the morning. Her hope had been to get into the pull-out bed in her aunt’s living room before her aunt rose. If she hurried, which she had done, she would even have time for up to two and a half hours of sleep.

  However, when she had returned to the apartment she shared with Anna Timofeyeva, the former powerful deputy procurator for Moscow who was now an invalid who read and looked out windows, she was not alone in the living room. It was just after dawn and she needed that sleep, but Lydia Tkach, Sasha’s deaf, shrill mother was there, at the table, across from Anna. Anna was drinking her tea and listening. Lydia was ignoring her tea and talking.

  Anna was a heavy woman given to gray dresses. She had no children, had never married; and had had only three affairs in her life, all brief, all long ago, before she was her niece’s age. Anna kept herself clean and her rapidly graying hair neatly brushed and cut short. In her aunt, who had suffered two heart attacks, one major, Elena always saw her future self. It depressed her. To marry Iosef and turn into her aunt or even her mother back in Odessa was something she preferred not to contemplate. Elena knew she had a pretty, clear-skinned face and that she was smart and intuitive, better at her job than Sasha, who had been an investigator for almost a decade. But Iosef. He was bright, creative. His mother was still a beauty. His father, Porfiry Petrovich, was no beauty, but he had a confident, resigned power and great loyalty to those who worked with him.

  Bakunin, Anna Timofeyeva’s orange cat, leapt off Anna’s lap and ran to Elena, who reached down to stroke her as she greeted her aunt and the rapidly talking visitor.

  Anna looked up at her niece and shared an almost undetectable look that said “I am trapped. What can I do?”

  “I know I said I would not complain,” said Lydia loudly, holding up her hands. She was as frail in appearance as Anna was solid, though it was Lydia who was by far the more healthy of the pair. “And this is not technically a complaint. I leave it to Elena if this is a complaint. Who should know better than Elena what my son goes through each day? He is my only child.”

  “Elena has worked all night,” said Anna. “I think she needs some rest. Elya, go into my bedroom and use my bed. Lydia and I will do our best to be quiet.”

  Elena nodded her head in appreciation. Later, when she got up and before she left, she would make herself something to eat. There wasn’t much. Some tea, bread, cheese, a bloodred sausage whose origins it was best not to question. There was also half of a sad, small cabbage.

  “Elena,” Lydia said, touching her bird breast with her fist somewhere in the vicinity of where people thought the human heart resided. “Tell me, before you sleep. Honestly. My grandchild, Illya, is ill. My daughter-in-law does not tell me, does not call me. My own son doesn’t call me.”

  “He’s been very busy,” Elena said. “We have a serial rapist.”

  “Rapists!” Lydia cried. “Murderers. Rapists. Sasha’s been wounded more than once, beaten by car thieves, lunatics. Fine, that is what he wants to do, I can’t stop him. But I should see my grandchildren when I want to. I have nothing to do anymore. No job. I can take care of them. They don’t need day care. You have to pay for day care. And the little one is sick. My daughter-in-law doesn’t like me.”

  I wonder why? thought Elena in resignation as she moved back to the kitchen area to prepare an awkward sandwich with two crumbling slices of bread. Elena looked at her aunt, who was close to having enough of Lydia for the day. Lydia Tkach, Elena knew, was a very mixed blessing. When she wasn’t decrying the offenses of her son, the police, her daughter-in-law, her low pension, and the chill in her apartment down the hall or recounting with fondness the protection they all had under Communism, Lydia Tkach was surprisingly good company. She was bright, well-read, could handle a computer with great skill, played chess at the same level as Anna, and was more than will
ing to run small errands or just sit at the window with Anna looking at the mothers with their children in the snow of the courtyard.

  But Lydia was not abiding by the rules that Anna had instituted when Sasha had approached her. A rift would surely come between Anna and Sasha’s mother. Elena hoped that her aunt could remain calm when she became inflexibly firm.

  Elena was sipping her tea and listening to Lydia talk about the reunification of the Soviet Union.

  “Belarus first,” she said. “Then Ukraine. My daughter-in-law is from Ukraine. Then the southern states. The Soviet Union will be reborn. A world power. Dangerous criminal gangs with machine guns will be executed. The ruble will rise. Pensions will be worth something again to you and me, Anna Timofeyeva.”

  “It will not happen,” said Anna. “Communism is dead. All parties, especially the Communists and extremists, are afraid of thoughts like those you have just expressed. The new Communist Party and the Nationalists are forcing displays, false hopes.”

  “You were a Communist,” said Lydia.

  “I am still,” said Anna. “I believe in what we did. What I did. It failed not because it was a bankrupt idea, but because of Russian corruption, the weakness and greed of human beings who get even a small fistful of power. I worked with them. I prosecuted them. These new Communists are vultures preying on dead hopes and memories.”

  “Emil Karpo says the same thing,” Elena said, slicing off a piece of cabbage that did not taste quite good but wasn’t bad enough to discard. Elena was too hungry. She was on a diet, like the Americans, but it did little. Her problem wasn’t an excess of food. There was no excess of food. Her problem was genetic.

  “Emil Karpo is a madman,” Lydia said, folding her arms and looking at the two other women for contradiction.

  Neither responded, though from what Elena had said, Anna was convinced that since the end of the Soviet Union and the death in the crossfire of a street battle of Mathilde Verson, Karpo had become suicidal. She had seen many like that, disillusioned, confused. Karpo was a pencil wound tight with twine. He would never actually consider suicide, but he would and had taken chances that might well be considered very dangerous and foolhardy, though Karpo was no fool.