Tarnished Icons

SIX

The call Rostnikov was taking was from the bomber. Emil Karpo was listening in on the phone in his cubicle across the hall. Iosef stood next to Karpo drinking coffee and waiting. There was a definite winter wind rattling the window in the next cubicle, the one that had belonged to Iosef’s father before he had moved across the hall.

“Did it happen?” asked the bomber.

“It happened,” said Rostnikov, calmly sitting up in his chair and doodling on his pad of paper.

“Do you want to know why he opened the letter?”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov, drawing a cube on top of another cube. He knew he would draw a simple bird inside each cube, but he had no idea why.

“He’s not on your list,” said the bomber smugly.

A car horn beeped angrily over the phone.

“I’m calling from a pay phone. I’ll make this short and be gone before you get here if you even have access to the technology for locating where I am.”

“Your reason for selecting Oleg Selski?” Rostnikov asked calmly.

“His newspaper, instead of spewing Communist lies, now spews capitalist ones,” said the bomber. “He has approved stories, editorials about the need for nuclear power plants. Chernobyl is operating again, a bomb far more destructive than any I have sent, destined to go off again, and he approved.”

“So you sent him a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“I assume that means anyone in Moscow could receive a bomb if they believe in or use nuclear energy,” said Rostnikov.

“Chernobyl is still operating,” said the bomber excitedly. “And yes, you are right. Even you, you are helping them by trying to catch me instead of helping me. You could get a bomb. The package I sent you could just as well have been a bomb. Any policeman could get one. You can’t protect the entire city. Did you read my statement?”

“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “I gave it to my superior with your demand.”

“What did you think of it?”

“Well written but trite,” said Rostnikov. “If any station carried it, viewers would be bored after the first paragraph. There is not a citizen who has not been brought up on the simplicities of propaganda.”

“I know,” said the bomber soberly. “But I owe it to my father. I owe it to the victims. I owe it to my mother. I am the last in my family. The name dies with me.”

“You plan to die soon?” asked Rostnikov.

“Slowly, gradually, like my father unless you catch me first, in which case I will kill myself,” he said.

“The letter bomb you sent today,” Rostnikov said, easing his new leg into a less uncomfortable position, “it was not opened by Selski. It was opened by his ten-year-old daughter. Would you like to know what happened to her?”

Silence from the bomber.

“She started to open the letter,” Rostnikov continued. “Her father suspected something. He told her to drop it. She is in the hospital. Critical but expected to live. She lost her toes and part of her right foot. Her father was unharmed. Tell me, what is your favorite color?”

“My fav-I have none. The girl will live?”

“So I am told.”

“This is not a trick?”

“No,” said Rostnikov.

“I believe you,” the bomber answered so softly that the inspector could barely hear him.

“Your statement will not be read on television,” said Rostnikov.

Silence from the bomber. Then he hung up.

“Come in, Emil,” Rostnikov said to Karpo on the other end of the line. He looked at his watch. It was still early. School would not be out for hours. He had told Sarah that he was taking the girls after school.

The door to the office opened. Karpo and Iosef entered. Iosef closed the door and said, “There’s a man waiting to see you in the hall.”

“I know,” said Rostnikov, looking at the notes he had written on his pad. The pad also contained a diagram of the large room of Belinsky’s synagogue. While he was talking, Rostnikov had made drawings, in pencil so he could erase them, of possible configurations of tubing.

“The tape worked?”

“Perfectly,” said Karpo, holding up a cassette.

Karpo stood at near attention, hands folded before him. Iosef, almost as tall as the pale man at his side, looked around the room and then at his father. Something more than anger paled his face.

“So, what do we know now?” said Rostnikov. “Iosef?”

“We’re dealing with an educated psychopath,” he said. “He thinks nuclear energy is killing us all, so he takes the ironic position that if he kills those who produce it or support it, he is making a statement against self-annihilation. The irony is that he would, if he lived and wasn’t caught, eventually murder most of the population of Russia. At least that would be his goal. I say, find him, kill him on the spot.”

“A soldier’s answer,” said Rostnikov.

“I was a soldier. I saw what terrorists and lunatics can do,” answered Iosef.

“Emil?” Rostnikov asked, now looking at the impassive man before him.

“First, the bomber is on our contact list. He himself has something to do with nuclear energy. He knew that if Oleg Selski had been on the list, he would not have allowed his daughter to open the letter. The bomber’s father was involved in some aspect of the production or use of nuclear energy. He may have been a scientist or a technician, but well educated, judging from his son’s speech and his proclamation. The father died as a result of nuclear accident or contamination, or at least his son believes so. He is probably right. In spite of this, the bomber also works or worked in nuclear energy research, production, or technology, probably studied the field because of his father. The bomber has radiation poisoning or believes he does and wishes to make a statement before his death. He lives with his mother, is probably around forty-five.”

“Do you think he will stop now that he has almost killed the child?” asked Rostnikov, looking at his son.

“No,” said Iosef. “He will believe that he must continue, that he has more reason now because he won’t want the girl’s injuries to be meaningless, especially in light of the director’s refusal to try to get his proclamation read on television.”

Rostnikov shook his head and said, “First a soldier. Then a playwright and actor. Now a policeman. An interesting combination of talents. Karpo, what do you propose doing?”

“Checking hospitals and physicians for men being treated for radiation poisoning,” Karpo replied. “See if any names coincide with those on our call list. Check with all Moscow corporations or government agencies dealing with nuclear materials. Review every person on our contact list.”

“There are many?” asked Rostnikov.

“Seven hundred and twenty-seven,” said Karpo. “We can begin to check immediately.”

“What, I wonder, is the bomber’s favorite color?” Rostnikov mused, staring down at his drawing of birds inside of cubes. “If he calls again, I’ll ask him again, but I think I know the answer.”

“Which is?” asked Iosef.

“He considers himself a dead man. He gets satisfaction from nothing but his crusade and self-pity. I believe we are looking for a gray man, a very gray man.”

Rostnikov had not bothered to tell Karpo to make a copy of the cassette of the bomber’s call. He knew he would have one on his desk by the time his visitor left. Nor did he suggest to Karpo that Paulinin listen to the tape. He was sure the detective would arrange it immediately.

When his visitor left, Rostnikov would report to Yakovlev and then follow some leads on the murder of the Jews after getting a report on the Shy One, the rapist, from Sasha and Elena. It was a busy day, but he had promises to keep.

Rostnikov picked up the phone, dialed two numbers, and told Zelach to come in and bring the man waiting in the hall.

Moments later Zelach and Belinsky entered and Zelach closed the door.

“What happened?” asked Rostnikov, pointing to his chairs.

Belinsky sat. Zelach hesitated and then sat also.

“I was attacked last night by three men,” he said. “I can give you descriptions of all three, poor ones of two of them and a precise one of the third. The third man has a badly broken nose. One of the other two men will be walking with a limp for some time. The last will have a stiff wrist for at least a week.”

“You can give the descriptions to Inspector Zelach when we finish. Are you badly hurt?” asked Rostnikov.

“I shall have another scar,” said Belinsky, touching his chest. “Each one with its own history to remind me that I and my people must remain forever and always alert.”

Rostnikov nodded in understanding. He, too, had such scars, as did Zelach.

“They had weapons?” Rostnikov asked.

“Yes,” said Belinsky, saying nothing about the Glock hidden in his room.

“Then I assume we both have the same question,” said Rostnikov.

Zelach looked decidedly puzzled when Rostnikov turned his eyes on him to see if he understood.

“Why didn’t they simply kill me like the others?” asked Belinsky.

Rostnikov nodded again. “Anti-Semites who have not hesitated to murder six others do not kill you, a rabbi. What did they say?”

“That we should get out,” said Belinsky.

“Name-calling?”

“Almost none, but there was no time,” said the rabbi, whose neck was throbbing. He had looked in the mirror before coming. His neck was purple. He covered it with a scarf, which he still wore over his second coat. The first coat, his better and warmer one, had been cut to uselessness the night before. Even with a sweater, the short brown coat he now wore was not warm enough for the cold weather.

“They said-” Rostnikov began.

“Only one spoke,” said Belinsky.

“He said,” Rostnikov corrected, “get out. Out of where? Russia? Moscow? Did you have any sense of what he meant? Was he talking of all Jews?”

Belinsky started to shake his head, but the pain in his neck stopped him, and he said “No” and then amended that to “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Rostnikov repeated.

“I think he wanted us out of the way. We were standing in his way,” said Belinsky, trying to remember.

The rabbi sat firm, upright, not ignoring the sense that blood had begun to seep slowly through the bandage and tape on his chest. He should, he knew, be lying down quietly, letting the wound close and begin to heal, but there was much to do. He would finish here, go to his room, change his dressing, and lie on his back quietly.

Rostnikov looked at Zelach, who clearly had no ideas. Rostnikov was aware that Zelach’s mother loved him, cared for him, was grateful to Rostnikov for his confidence in a son she knew was less than bright. But Zelach’s mother was, Porfiry Petrovich knew, a quiet bigot. A word here, a word there had made that evident. Akardy Zelach simply accepted the prejudices of his mother, although little in his life bore out the distrust his mother expressed. Every day bore out his experience that crime, violence, and evil appeared in all groups, among all people, as did kindness and a love of family and a respect for the law, no matter how confusing that law might be. Rostnikov preferred not to consider the dilemma.

“You have any suggestions or ideas, Akardy?” Rostnikov asked.

The Jew looked at the slouching, uncomfortable man in the chair next to him. There was nothing in the Jew’s eyes to indicate anything but interest in what Zelach might say. Suddenly Zelach got an idea.

“Mesanovich,” he said, almost without thought. “The one who died on the embankment, the one who wasn’t a Jew.”

Rostnikov smiled. Avrum Belinsky shrugged, though it brought on a wince of pain, which he disguised by gently biting his lower lip as if in thought.

“You want a doctor?” Rostnikov said.

“I know where I can get one of my people if necessary,” said Belinsky. “I made a mistake last night. It will not happen again.”

“Mistake?” asked Zelach before he could stop himself.

“The rabbi thinks he should have killed the three men,” said Rostnikov. “Am I correct?”

“Yes,” said Belinsky, rising from his chair. He had considered using the gun in his pocket during the attack but had been confident that he could defend himself without it and create a sense of fear in his attackers without killing them. “I’ll not make that mistake again if I have the opportunity.”

The detective and the rabbi looked at each other, and both knew that there was no chance of changing the other’s mind. Belinsky turned toward the door, forcing himself to walk deliberately. He paused, turned, and said, “The materials for the heating arrived.”

“Eight o’clock tonight?” asked Rostnikov.

“Yes,” said Belinsky. “You’ll need help. I can get some of my congregants, and I will be there.”

“You are in no condition to help, but be there,” said Rostnikov. “I need only two of your people, the stronger the better. I’ll recruit others.”

“It will be,” said Belinsky.

The rabbi went out the door and closed it. Rostnikov began to adjust his artificial leg.

“What do you have planned for tonight?” asked Rostnikov.

“Tonight?” asked Zelach. “Dinner. Television.”

“How would you like to learn the profession of heating engineer?” Rostnikov proposed. “It will be something to fall back on in times of trouble.”

Zelach was confused but said he would be willing to learn if Inspector Rostnikov thought it a good idea.

“Eight o’clock,” said Rostnikov. “At the synagogue.”

Zelach nodded a confused yes.

“Mesanovich is a good idea,” Rostnikov said. “Let’s go.”

Zelach tried not to beam. He couldn’t remember ever having been praised for an idea before by anyone but his mother. His mother. What would she think about his working for Jews, and for nothing? He would, when he had the chance, call her and tell her he was working very late, directly with Porfiry Petrovich. She would only ask if it was dangerous and tell him she would have something for him to eat when he came home. Akardy Zelach was in a very good mood.

Legwork. The process was essentially the same for the police in every country in the world. Knock on doors of people who might but probably didn’t have information. Interview past victims who had probably told all that they knew. Reexamine any evidence that they might possess.

“A waste of time,” said Sasha to Elena as they stood waiting in the small outer office of the International Arab Export Corporation. The woman, well groomed and definitely not an Arab, had come into the office from the offices beyond a door and asked if she could help them.

Elena had asked if it might be possible to talk to Valeria Petrosyan for a moment or two. Both detectives showed their police cards. The woman examined them carefully and clasped her hands together before her.

“About what?” she said.

“We believe she witnessed an automobile accident a few weeks ago,” said Sasha: “Hit-and-run. We want to know if the man we have arrested might be the person we are looking for. Of course, we don’t know how good a look she had at him. It will only take a few minutes. We show her the photograph, ask her a few questions.”

Sasha was smiling at the woman, his best boyish smile.

“I should ask Mr. Mogabi,” she said, “but he’s in a meeting.”

Sasha and Elena knew they could simply demand to see the woman they sought, but then she would have to answer questions from her employers, questions she would probably not wish to answer.

“All right,” the woman said. “I’ll send her out.”

The room they waited in was small but spotless. There were high-quality reproductions of French impressionist paintings on the walls-a Monet on one wall, two Monets and a Renoir on the other. The floor was carpeted-gray and clean. The four chairs were gray fabric and chrome.

They had already interviewed four victims of the rapist. Since all of the crimes had occurred in the same general area, the women did not live outside of a manageable circle. Some of the victims did not have phones or did not choose to answer. The detectives had trudged to apartments, and since a number of the victims were retired, Sasha and Elena had found them at home. The first two had answered questions but had been of no help other than to confirm the method of the rapist and his strength. They had not seen him, had heard only a raspy voice, probably disguised, and had been beaten. One of the two suffered severe hearing loss from the attack, and her deafness and size reminded Sasha of his mother. The third woman they found at home simply refused to talk to the detectives. She was younger than the first two, probably about sixty. She had suffered a broken skull and had since experienced blinding headaches that forced her to lie on the floor of her small bathroom in darkness for hours at a time. This she did not tell the detectives. All she said was that she would not talk about the incident.

The fourth woman had tried to be helpful. She was the youngest of the lot, in her twenties, pretty, dark, worked in the Hotel Russia, where they tracked her down. She had been a young teen when she was attacked. Sasha had told her employer a tale similar to the one he had just told the woman at the International Arab Export Corporation. The girl’s name was Alexandra. She cleaned rooms. The most striking thing about her was her thick glasses, which she took off to speak. The rapist had hit her across the forehead. A week later her eyesight began to deteriorate. The doctors thought it would continue till she went blind, but the deterioration had suddenly stopped. The girl hoped it would not start again. She, too, had been of little help other than to confirm what the others had said. She explained that for years she had tried either to remember details of that night or to forget the event entirely. Neither effort had been successful.

“I’ll bet this place is a front,” said Sasha, looking around the little room.

“Front?”

“Weapons, drugs, something,” he said.

“Then they probably have the room bugged and are listening to what you’re saying right now,” replied Elena sarcastically.

“Probably,” said Sasha, as the inner office door opened and a woman in her late forties came out. She was tall and wore a dark suit with a white blouse. Her dark hair was brushed upward off her neck and sat stylishly on her head. Her makeup was light and she was distinctly pretty.

“Dark hair,” said Elena softly to Sasha. “They are all gray or have dark hair. I wonder if the gray ones had dark hair when they were attacked. I wonder if they were all as slender as this one and the one at the hotel.”

They knew they had to go back and check.

“Valeria Petrosyan,” the woman said warily.

“Can we go out in the corridor to talk for a moment and show you something?” asked Elena, trying to convey the need for more privacy.

“If you wish,” said Valeria.

The three moved into the broad hallway of the seven-story building, where dozens upon dozens of Communist Party offices had been vacated and converted shortly after Yeltsin came to power.

“You are not here to talk about any accident,” Valeria said, looking from one to the other of the two young people before her. “I witnessed no accident,”

“You were attacked and raped four years ago near the Kropotkinskaya metro station,” said Elena.

“I thought so,” the woman said with a sigh. “I have told the police all I know, I told them when it happened. I lost a husband because of what happened that night. That was the one good thing about it. The rest … Please make this quick. My employers are engaged in a very sensitive business and …”

Sasha looked at Elena with satisfaction and turned to Valeria.

“Please, just tell us once more what you remember of that night,” said Elena.

“You know I don’t want to remember,” the woman said, her voice deep, controlled. “But there are things one cannot forget. As I told the police, I was on my way home from working late. My husband was supposed to meet me at the metro and walk home with me. He wasn’t there. He was off somewhere getting drunk in his cab. I walked two blocks. There wasn’t much traffic. Some cars. Few people. There was a slight rain. I didn’t hear the man coming. Cars were going by when he pushed me into the doorway, holding me around the neck from behind. He warned me not to make a sound or he would kill me. He showed me a knife. He opened the door. It was a government building. The light had been unscrewed in the entry way. That’s what the police told me later. He threw me down, kissed my neck, punched me hard in my back, and kept warning me to be quiet while he lifted my dress and pulled down my panties. It was fast. It was painful. I know I whimpered. He told me not to turn around when he let me go, not to look at him or he would kill me. He made me say I understood. Then he got up and went out the door. I turned and saw him. He was taller than you.” She looked at Sasha. “Well built, wearing a blue jacket and pants, a stripe on the pants. I think his hair was dark.”

“You saw him?” asked Elena.

The tall woman nodded.

“A uniform?” asked Sasha.

“I told the police that I thought it was a policeman’s uniform, but I wasn’t sure,” Valeria said softly.

“You didn’t see his face,” said Elena.

“A bit of profile, but it was raining and I had been raped. My eyes were full of tears. I couldn’t identify him and I only had the sense when he paused for an instant that he had a white scar right here.”

Valeria touched a spot just to the left of her nose.

“That’s all I know,” she said. “All I remember. Believe me. I have tried. I want him caught. If it were possible, I would like to personally kill him. I believe I could do it.”

“I believe you could,” said Sasha.

“Now, if there’s nothing-” she began, but Elena cut her off with, “And you told this same story to the police when it happened?”

“Probably the same words,” Valeria said. “Now, I should like to get back to work before I get questioned by my supervisor. I need this job. I have a child.”

“Not …?” Sasha began.

“No, not from the rape,” she said. “Before-he was an infant when it happened.”

“Thank you,” said Elena as Valeria turned to the door and said, “You’ll tell me if you catch him.”

“Yes,” said Elena.

A few minutes later Sasha and Elena stood on the street. The snow was still heavy but the sidewalk was clear. Only a touch of new snow had fallen during the night, but the temperature had dropped. Sasha shuffled from one foot to the other.

“She told the police,” Elena said. “Why isn’t it in the report?”

“I have one idea,” said Sasha.

“What?”

“The old woman was right. The rapist is a policeman. He has access to the files and removed any references to his description, probably weeks or months after the reports were filed.”

“So,” said Elena, “we look for a well-built policeman with a scar next to his nose?”

“First, we talk to the other victims and see what else they said that may have been removed from the files.”

Elena nodded.

“Tea?” she asked.

Sasha nodded an emphatic yes.

Iosef looked at the list before him on his desk and waited for the sound of Elena returning to the office. The list was long and the question seemed to take a while for each government office and business to answer.

Karpo was not in his cubbyhole. He was down in Paulinin’s laboratory. Paulinin had called about a half hour earlier saying he had more information. Iosef did not want to go back into the mixture of acid smells and staleness. Iosef had asked Karpo if it would be all right for him to stay at his desk and start making the calls.

“Paulinin may have information that will help with the calls,” Karpo had said, a pale, somber figure in black standing in Iosef’s doorway.

“If he does,” said Iosef, “I’ll call back the ones I reach.”

Karpo had nodded and Iosef knew he thought the son of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was simply trying to avoid the man known in Petrovka as the Mad Scientist of the Underground.

“As you wish,” Karpo had said, and left.

Iosef was on his eleventh call.

“Hello,” he said when a woman answered, “Karkov Enterprises.”

“I am a deputy inspector in the Office of Special Investigation,” he said. “My name is Iosef Rostnikov. I wish to talk to someone in charge who has been with your company the longest time.”

“Give me a number I can call to verify who you are,” the woman said.

Iosef gave his number. She called back.

“Sergei,” she said. “He was here when we were still part of the Bureau of Energy. You are a policeman?”

“I am,” said Iosef. “If you’d like to call back again and confirm at a different number …?”

He looked at his watch. The list was long.

“No,” she said. “But we have new partners in the company, French. I don’t want to lose my job.”

“I understand,” Iosef said. “I’ll make it clear to Sergei that I insisted on talking to him.”

The woman said nothing more. There was a click and a buzz. After about ten seconds a man’s voice came on, high and reedy like a clarinet.

“Sergei Ivanovich,” he said.

“Deputy Inspector Rostnikov,” said Iosef. “I have a few questions to ask you.”

“About?”

“Do you have any current employee who is suffering from an illness related to exposure to nuclear materials?” asked Iosef.

“Why?” answered the man nervously.

“It relates to an important investigation,” said Iosef, finding himself doodling in the margins of the list. He stopped doodling, realizing he was doing what his father did, only Iosef wrote names, ornately. He had written “Elena” four times with curlicues. He also realized that he had doodled with a pen and not a pencil.

“It is his business,” said Sergei with the reedy voice. “If he would rather the world not know …”

“It is a murder case,” said Iosef. “We don’t plan to harass innocent people.”

Sergei paused, coughed, thought.

“Hell,” he said finally. “I’ll be seventy years old. They’re going to boot me out on a pension I can’t live on anyway as soon as they’re sure they don’t need my memory anymore. It’s almost all on computers now. Then-”

“The sick person,” Iosef reminded gently.

“We had two,” said Sergei. “Last year. Oriana died. She and Alexi had accidentally been exposed to an improperly sealed container from Iran. The radiation dose was high. She was dead of radiation poisoning within three months. She was young, a very good worker. It’s all in the records, the reports I was assigned to fill out and submit to the Nuclear Power Committee where someone in the Kremlin probably filed it without reading it.”

“Alexi?” asked Iosef, looking again at the long list.

“He was across the room,” said Sergei. “Lower dose. Still high. He has not looked well since a few weeks after the accident. His behavior changed. He was always a little sullen. Didn’t talk much. Like his father. Then he stopped talking to almost everyone, and he has been missing a lot of days, calling in ill. He’s going to his own doctors if he is going.”

“Alexi’s last name?”

“Alexi Monochov,” he said instantly. “He’s not here today. Called in sick. He doesn’t get paid when he’s sick, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Lives with his mother and sister. I think they have money. They have a good address. I don’t believe in God. I lived my whole life under the godlessness of Communism. Even became a Party member. But there can be coincidental ironies that make you wonder, don’t you think?”

Iosef had the definite belief that Sergei of the reedy voice had very little to do at work and welcomed a caller, any caller.

“Yes,” said Iosef.

“It is an irony that Alexi’s father died of the same thing that may be killing his son,” said the man.

Iosef stopped doodling Elena’s name.

“His father died of radiation poisoning?”

“Yes,” said Sergei. “Caused a prostate cancer. Monochov was brilliant. Moody. Thought he wasn’t sufficiently appreciated, that others above him were getting credit for his work. To tell the truth, he was right. That was a long time ago. We weren’t so careful then. Deaths were almost common. Then his son comes to work here. Almost as brilliant as the father. And he may be dying of the same malady. Good thing Monochov isn’t married and doesn’t have a son.”

“His address,” said Iosef.

Without hesitation Sergei Ivanovich gave an address on Chekhov Prospekt.

“When Monochov returns,” said Iosef, “we would prefer that you not tell him about this call.”

“I haven’t exchanged ten words with him in over a year,” said the old man. “I doubt if he’ll tell you much.”

Iosef paused and then decided to ask a question, which well might be a bad idea, but Sergei was a talker.

“Do you think Alexi Monochov could make a bomb?”

Sergei laughed and said, “Anything from a hydrogen bomb to a shrapnel bomb the size of a pen. It’s his specialty, detonation. It was his father’s, too.”

“Spahseebah,” said Iosef, keeping calm. “Thank you. And remember …”

“I won’t tell anyone you called,” the old man said. “I hope Alexi isn’t in trouble. I can’t say I like him, but he’s been through enough.”

Iosef hung up and looked down at the notes he had just taken. It looked good. It looked like a possible match. He had no trouble finding Alexi Monochov’s name on the list of those to be called if the bomber threatened another attack.

The door to the offices opened. Iosef heard footsteps and Karpo appeared at the door.

“I think we may have a good lead,” Iosef said, trying to remain calm.

“Alexi Monochov,” said Karpo before Iosef could say the name.

Karpo had sat listening to Paulinin without saying a word. Paulinin had much to say.

Karpo had, at the scientist’s insistence, sat on a wooden stool while Paulinin displayed the fragments of letter bombs on a wooden table he had cleared. The various shapes, some no more than the size of a fingernail, were back in zippered see-through plastic bags. It looked like a jigsaw puzzle.

“Fragments,” said Paulinin with satisfaction, pointing at the pieces laid out neatly in front of him. “But a piece here, a piece there, some tentative conclusions. If only the dolts who had collected all this had been more careful, but that would be asking too much …”

Paulinin paused, patted down his mat of hair, looked at Karpo, and waited. It was like a magician’s act. Paulinin had something to say, but he would say it in his own way, in his own time, knowing that Karpo would be one of the few people, perhaps the only one, to appreciate what he had done.

“Conclusions?” Karpo prompted.

“Fragments,” Paulinin repeated. “On one thin piece of metal a strange letter is stamped. At first glance it looks like random scratches. It is incomplete, but I recognized it and matched it. It is Arabic.”

Paulinin pointed to one of his exhibits. Karpo looked. There was a small piece of paper and an even smaller darkened and jagged piece of metal. No scratches were clearly visible, but Karpo had learned to trust the scientist.

“Second,” said Paulinin, “some of the more recent bombs, particularly the one you brought today, had a similar odor, a residue of chemicals. I found traces, traces so small that I needed the electron microscope when everyone was out of the lab upstairs.”

Paulinin was not supposed to use the more sophisticated equipment in the forensic laboratory almost directly above him. Normally he prided himself on what he could discover more from a small piece of dust or a charred strip of human flesh with the equipment in his cluttered laboratory. Paulinin had no friends in the forensic laboratory. They resented his success and his air of superiority, and they were more than just uncomfortable with his air of near madness. Paulinin had unkind words to say about all of them, but his favorite target was the pathologists. Paulinin frequently took bodies when autopsies were completed and discovered crucial evidence the highly respected specialists had missed.

“The trace proved to be from a plastique-style explosive that the military and even terrorists stopped using long ago,” said Paulinin. “Too volatile. More terrorists than victims died from their ignorance of the sensitive explosive. Iran still has some. Hammas uses it sometimes in Israel. They don’t care if the carrier dies. In fact, that’s the point.”

“And here? In Moscow?” asked Karpo, knowing when he had heard a cue.

“Three laboratories worked on stabilizing the explosive as long ago as the 1950s,” said Paulinin. “I made some calls. One man was working on such a stabilization using a particular aluminum alloy from Iran. The man was also working on development of nuclear weaponry. He died almost twenty years ago, radiation poisoning. I knew him slightly from conferences. He was less a fool than most.”

There was silence. Paulinin smiled, the corners of his thin mouth coming up at the corners. He looked more constipated than pleased, but Karpo had come to know the man well.

“Then he is not the one we’re looking for,” said Karpo.

“He had a son,” said Paulinin, springing his surprise. “His son is an engineer, more a technologist than a scientist. He works in the same laboratory where his father worked. I have encountered him, too, at a few conferences. He lacks his father’s skills, but …”

“And the name of this man and the laboratory?” asked Karpo.

“Alexi Monochov, Karkov Enterprises,” Paulinin said. “If he is still there.”

The man known as the Vampire was wearing his coat, as black as the rest of his clothing.

“Yes,” said Iosef, in awe when Karpo uttered the name he himself was about to speak. “Did he turn himself in?”

“No,” said Karpo.

Iosef got up and followed Karpo to the door and out into the corridor, putting his coat on as they walked.

Twenty minutes later, the two detectives were in the outer lobby of a fashionable apartment building on Chekhov Prospekt. More buildings at this level were hiring doormen, many of whom were former policemen or even former KGB agents. The pay for protecting the tenants from the rash of thieves was better than government pay, though it could be dangerous. Such doormen were always armed. Not long ago a doorman had been confronted by a gang of four children who entered at night. One of the children had an automatic weapon that looked like an old machine gun from an American gangster movie. The doorman had shot the twelve-year-old, whose weapon misfired, and the other three children had fled. The twelve-year-old had survived the wound, refused to name his partners, and boasted that they had planned to terrorize the building apartment by apartment, tearing out telephones so the police couldn’t be called and taking what they wanted. That attack, and most other attempts, failures and successes, had come at night, though daylight apartment robberies were no longer unheard of.

However, this building had no doorman on duty. Instead of ringing the bell to the Monochov apartment, Karpo took a black leather pouch out of his pocket. The rectangular pouch was about two inches wide and about a quarter of an inch thick. Karpo’s long fingers extracted two small metal tools. One was no more than a bent piece of metal; the other, the size of a small pencil, came to a sharp point. Using both tools, Karpo opened the lock within a minute.

Iosef noted the procedure as one he hoped to be able to perform in the not-too-distant future.

The inner lobby was small, tiled, empty. It was late morning. People who worked were at their jobs. People who didn’t were in their apartments or out shopping. People in buildings like this, Iosef thought as he followed Karpo to the elevator standing open before them, had the money to shop.

The Monochov apartment was on the eighth floor. The two men approached it at a normal pace. Before the end of the Soviet Union, Karpo had not carried a weapon unless he knew he was likely to run into armed resistance on a case. Now he wore a holster under his coat, and in the holster was a SIG Sauer P 226 that could deliver sixteen 9mm rounds rapid-fire with great accuracy. It was also the safest handgun. The loaded and uncocked gun put the hammer in register with the safety intercept notch, so firing was possible only when the trigger was pulled. It could not go off accidentally. Karpo had the weapon nearby all the time, on duty and off. Armed resistance roamed the streets. Iosef’s weapon, a.32 Smith amp; Wesson, was also under his coat. Karpo didn’t reach for his gun. Iosef followed his lead.

There was a knocker, silver plated and well polished, on the door. Karpo knocked. There was an immediate bustle inside and then the sound of footsteps.

“Who is it?” asked a woman.

“Police,” said Karpo. “Open the door immediately.”

The door did not open immediately.

“How do I know you’re really the police?” she asked.

Even a newcomer like Iosef knew the drill, which might or might not work. He pulled out his plastic identification card and slid it under the door. He knocked on the bottom of the door so the woman would look down.

They could hear her moving. Silence. Then the door opened to reveal a very frightened looking woman in her seventies wearing a long-sleeved green dress, her white hair tied in a bun atop her head. She held Iosef’s identification card in her hand.

“You really are police?” she asked, looking at Karpo in fear and then over at Iosef, who smiled.

The young detective was good-looking, amber-haired, and had a good smile with even, white teeth. He took the card from her hand and pocketed it.

“Alexi Monochov,” Karpo said, stepping in with Iosef at his side.

Karpo closed the door.

“Alexi’s in trouble, isn’t he?” she asked.

Her face was pink and her gray eyes showed a new fear.

“You are his mother?” asked Karpo.

“Yes.”

“We would like to speak to him,” said Iosef.

“Speak to …” the woman began, and seemed to lose track of what was happening.

“Some questions,” said Iosef.

The woman backed up slowly as if she were being attacked. She backed into a large living room with solid French style furniture. Lots of wood and soft cushions. There was an Oriental rug on the floor.

“Alexi isn’t here,” she said. “He’s at work.”

“He called in sick,” Iosef said.

“Maybe he went to the doctor,” she said. “He’s been complaining about a sore stomach. He doesn’t tell me everything. He is in trouble?”

“His doctor’s name?” asked Karpo.

“I don’t know. He’s never told me. He doesn’t talk to me or his sister much. My daughter’s not here. She’s at work. She helps at a school.”

“When your son left this morning,” said Karpo, “did he have anything with him?”

“His briefcase,” she said. “I don’t know why he would need his briefcase to see the doctor.”

“Did he do anything unusual?” asked Karpo.

“Yes,” she said, looking down. “He kissed my forehead. He never does that.”

“We would like to see his room,” said Karpo.

“Which one?” she asked. “The workroom is locked. Only Alexi has a key. His bedroom is open.”

“Show us the workroom,” said Iosef.

“It’s locked,” she said.

“Please,” said Iosef. “Show us.”

She sighed deeply and looked around the room before speaking again.

“Alexi won’t like this,” she said.

“We’ll talk to him,” said Iosef.

The woman turned and led them through the living room to a hallway with a polished wood floor. There were four doors. She stopped at the last one. Karpo looked at the lock, took out his tools, and went to work.

“Alexi won’t like this at all,” she said. “No one is allowed in his workroom. No one. Ever.”

The lock was good. It took Karpo almost two minutes to open it while Iosef and the woman watched. Then Karpo motioned for the others to move away. They did and so did he. He reached over, turned the handle, and the door swung open. There was no bomb triggered to the door, though there might be a delayed one. They stood back for a full minute, and then Karpo went into the room. Iosef and the woman were right behind him.

“I’ve never been in here before,” the woman said.

“Don’t touch anything,” Karpo ordered, looking around the small, windowless room. There were shelves up to the ceiling filled with neatly arranged materials. On the opposite wall was a large cabinet, its doors closed. In front of them was a table covered with carefully laid out tools, empty mailing cartons, large brown envelopes, and a box of disposable latex gloves. The two policemen had no doubt about what they were looking at.

On the wall over the worktable was the framed photograph of a somber man in profile.

“That’s my husband,” the woman said, and then she glanced at the large picture next to the photograph of the man. The second picture looked as if it had been taken from a newspaper. It showed a large mushroom cloud.

On the table directly in front of them was a handwritten note on a sheet of lined legal-size paper. It was held down by a small pliers.

Karpo and Iosef moved forward and began to read the note without touching it. It was addressed to the police and began, “There are duplicate copies of this statement in the mail to a newspaper and a television station in Moscow and to the bureaus of two newspapers, one American and one British. Since I will be dead along with many others when you read this …”

Iosef blocked the old woman from the note, but she tried to push past him.

“What is it? This is my house. Alexi is my son. Where is he?”