The Silent Man

“Quiet.”

Grigory slid into the Nissan, which stank of cheap air freshener. They drove to Tajid’s apartment and waited for him to arrive. Then the three of them drove out of Ozersk. Grigory craned his neck left and right as they left the city, feeling like a kid taking his first big trip. He didn’t expect to be back.

JUST OUTSIDE SAMARA, southwest of Chelyabinsk, they were filling up at a dingy petrol station when a Toyota sedan stopped in front of them. Yusuf trotted to it and slipped into the passenger seat. Grigory had always known that Yusuf couldn’t be acting alone, but this was the first proof he’d seen. He poked at his cousin, who was dozing in the backseat.

“Tajid, who’s that?” Grigory pointed to the Toyota. “Have you seen Yusuf with anyone before?”

“No questions, cousin. Don’t you understand that by now?”

When Yusuf returned, Grigory couldn’t help himself. “A new friend, Yusuf?”

Yusuf said nothing.

“Who was that, anyway?”

Yusuf backhanded Grigory across the face, hard, then tugged his ear until he thought it might tear off.

“Come on, Yusuf,” he said. “Please. Please.”

Yusuf looked back at Tajid. “Control this overripe turd,” he said. “Or I will.” He put the car in gear as Grigory sniffed at his armpits. He didn’t smell great, it was true. Too bad the whores had taken his cologne.

West of Samara they turned south and followed the Volga River. Near Saratov, with the sun already down again, Yusuf’s cell phone rang. He listened for a moment. “Nam,” he said, Arabic for “yes.” “Nam.” Without another word, he hung up. They drove into Saratov — a million- person city on the Volga — and Yusuf threaded his way through the streets unerringly, despite the dim streetlights and honking traffic. Suddenly, Grigory understood that Yusuf had taken this trip before.

These men, whoever they are, they’ve practiced, he thought. This theft had been planned for months. Maybe years. Such preparation seemed beyond Yusuf. He was dangerous, but no great thinker. For the hundredth time, Grigory wondered who was running this operation, and what the ultimate plans were. Blackmail? Or did they intend to use the bombs?

Yusuf turned left onto a narrow street fronted by an eight-story apartment building as ugly as Grigory’s own. He drove past it and parked in the courtyard of a two-story brick building covered in peeling yellow paint. “Come.” Yusuf stepped out of the car and opened the door of the apartment nearest the Nissan. He popped the Nissan’s trunk, and he and Grigory grabbed the toolboxes and hefted them into the apartment.

Inside, the apartment was filled with lime-green furniture. The television, a boxy wooden monstrosity, played silently, a game show, the Russian version of Deal or No Deal. The place was tidy but not really clean. The floral-patterned wallpaper peeled at the corners. A cheap chandelier hung crookedly from the ceiling, half its bulbs burned out. Grigory sensed that an old man lived here, hanging on but too tired or weak to clean the place. There were no pictures, no books or newspapers, no hints of the owner’s personality at all, aside from a prayer rug in the corner.

No one was home, but the owner, whoever he was, had left them supper, mounds of black bread, and jam and butter, and slices of grayish boiled beef. Aside from the bread and jam, it wasn’t much of a meal. Grigory didn’t care. He was famished. He hadn’t eaten since the night before. He couldn’t remember going so long without a meal. Fortunately, there was plenty of bread, and Grigory slapped jam on it until he was full, ignoring Yusuf’s dark looks. In this, at least, he would indulge himself.

AFTER DINNER, Yusuf pulled a digital video camera and tripod from his bag. He set them up in the living room, facing the chair in the corner. Grigory’s anxiety rose. He didn’t know what this nonsense was about, but it couldn’t be good.

When he was done, Yusuf tapped the chair. “Grigory,” he said. “Sit. We’re making a film.”

Grigory’s mind turned to the death videos he’d seen from Russian soldiers in Chechnya, where the hapless victims gave their names and ranks before being gutted. Yusuf clapped his hands peremptorily. “Come on. I promise it’s nothing.”

So Grigory arranged his bulk in the chair and looked at the unblinking camera eye. Yusuf handed Grigory a sheet of paper. “Memorize this and say it. And make sure your ID from the plant is visible so everyone will know it’s you.”

Grigory read the sheet. “But this isn’t true. And they’ll know it. They know they didn’t give me the codes. Why do you want me to say it if it isn’t true? I’ll be a fool.”

“When we make our demands, we’re going to include this. To increase the pressure.”

“Demands?”

“Of course we wouldn’t use the bombs. We’re selling them back. One billion euros each, two billion for both”—more than three billion dollars.

“You’re not going to blow them up?”

“How could we? We don’t have the codes. But this way they’ll be under extra pressure to make a deal.” Yusuf laid a hand on Grigory’s shoulder, and despite himself Grigory flinched. “Come on, Grigory. Don’t make me frighten you. Don’t think too much about it. Just say what’s on the sheet.”

“If you say so.” Grigory tried to ignore the tightness in his belly that told him he was a greater fool than ever. He memorized the words and spoke to the camera. He needed a few takes, but finally Yusuf pronounced himself satisfied.

“We’ll make a star of you yet, Grigory.”

BEFORE BED, Yusuf and Tajid prayed. They hadn’t kept to the usual schedule, five times daily. Grigory supposed they were allowed to break the rules on this mission so as not to attract attention. Grigory kneeled with them, listening to the words but not reciting them.

Then they sacked out on the floor of the living room. Grigory didn’t think he would sleep, but he did. He dreamed he was swimming in a pool filled with cologne and slept straight through until 5 a.m., when Yusuf kicked him awake. “Let’s go.”

“Can’t we hang around, watch TV?”

Yusuf squeezed his hands together. “A joke, right?”

“Very good.” Grigory knew he was making a mistake inciting the devil this way, but he didn’t much care. Yusuf would kill him or not, and a joke or two wouldn’t much matter either way.

“You’re lucky for my orders,” Yusuf said.

THEY HEADED SOUTH toward Volgograd, the former Stalingrad, site of some of the fiercest fighting in all of World War II. The Nazis and Soviets had battled for eleven long months for the city that bore Stalin’s name, both sides ordered never to surrender. By the time the fighting was done, almost a million men on each side were dead and the city was ash. And yet the cargo in their trunk could do just as much damage as all those men, Grigory thought. Secret armies, these bombs were.

By late afternoon the land turned hilly, and to the southeast Grigory could see the mountains of the Caucasus, big gray slabs of rock that disappeared in the haze. It was night when they reached Novorossiysk, on the coast. A day and a half had passed since Grigory drove out of Mayak with the bombs in his trunk. Grigory hoped they would leave Russia tonight. They didn’t have much time left. In another day or two, someone would be assigned to make sure that the weapons were present. Of course no one would think that a bomb was really missing, but with him and Tajid gone, they’d check anyway, just to be sure. And what a surprise they’d have.

Novorossiysk was a gray industrial city, the biggest Russian port on the Black Sea. Apartment buildings crawled up the hills that rose from the coast. The air stank of oil from the storage tanks on the harbor, round white behemoths a hundred feet high. They passed along its edge and turned southeast along the narrow coast road. The hills jutted up to their east and the sea lay to their west. The road was dark and slick and Yusuf drove carefully, both hands on the wheel.

“You know, even if we get in an accident, they won’t go off,” Grigory said.

“Are you ever quiet? You’re worse than a woman.”

Half an hour later, outside Gelendzhik, Yusuf pulled onto the grounds of a deserted hotel closed for the