told me. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov.
In the past, during the more than a dozen calls he had received from the voice, Rostnikov had tried without success to trace the caller. The caller had used his considerable expertise to thwart such efforts, keeping his conversations brief. And Rostnikov had listened calmly, making notes, putting together scraps of information, peculiarities. He didn’t have much, but it was building.
“I’ve sent another one,” the man said.
“To whom?” asked Rostnikov.
The man laughed and said, “You have a sense of humor. That is something I like in you.”
“It pleases me that I amuse you,” said Rostnikov.
Someone knocked at the door. Rostnikov put his hand over the receiver and said, “Come in,” without raising his voice. Karpo, Sasha, and Elena entered. Karpo closed the door behind them as Rostnikov motioned for them to sit across from him.
“Are you listening?” the caller said.
“Attentively,” said Rostnikov, then he mouthed “the bomber” to the three inspectors across from him.
The calls from the bomber had begun more than four months ago. He had simply called Petrovka and asked to speak to whomever was in charge of the investigation of the punishments being mailed. Rostnikov had reported all of this to Director Yakovlev just an hour earlier. Yakovlev had shaken his head slightly, saying, “If only the members of this office know this, impress upon them the need to tell no one.”
Rostnikov had agreed. In fact, he had already done so. Now, in the coming together of black and bird in the drawing in Porfiry Petrovich’s notebook, the bomber was calling again.
“Your family is well?” asked the bomber.
“Very well,” Rostnikov said.
“And the new leg?”
“I am adjusting to it,” said Porfiry Petrovich.
In the past three years, the bomber had sent letter bombs to nine people. Since the victims, one of whom died, included some prominent scientists and even an assistant deputy minister for energy, the Ministry of the Interior had sought a quick end to the bomber, but he had proved quite difficult to catch, and word had leaked to the media that there was someone sending letter bombs in Moscow.
From their conversations, Rostnikov had concluded that the man was a great admirer of the American Unabomber and that their causes were similar. Therefore Rostnikov had enlisted the aid of the FBI agent Craig Hamilton, who was assigned, with a varying number of other Americans, to act as a consultant to combat rampant organized crime in Russia. Hamilton had supplied all the information he could obtain about the Unabomber and what had been done to apprehend him.
“I’ve decided to stop soon,” the bomber said.
“Good,” said Rostnikov, looking over at the three people across from him who listened silently.
“On one condition,” the bomber went on.
“That does not surprise me.”
“I have prepared a document citing why I have sent these bombs. The document has been sent to you personally. Don’t worry. It doesn’t contain a bomb. The document is to be read on Moscow Television News every day for a week. It can be read in five minutes.”
“I can’t guarantee the cooperation of the media,” said Rostnikov.
“Then, unfortunately, there will be more bombs.”
“Well,” said Rostnikov, “let’s talk after I receive the document. Give me a number where I can reach you.”
The bomber laughed again.
“I like you, Washtub,” he said.
Rostnikov made a note on his pad. Other officers and many habitual criminals called him the Washtub. It might mean something. It might not. The bomber was no fool. However, Rostnikov knew a great deal about the man, enough so that the bomber would have great reason to be concerned if he knew the extent of the information.
“Give my regards to your wife and the two little girls,” the bomber said.
“And give mine to your mother and sister,” said Rostnikov.
It was a risk. Rostnikov had come to the conclusion but not the certainty that the bomber had a mother and sister, that his father was dead.
The bomber hung up. Rostnikov also hung up and sat back, forgetting the swivel of the chair he was in, and almost fell backward. Sasha started to rise from his chair to help, but Rostnikov smiled and sat erect. Now he was certain about the bomber’s family. He was also certain, and had been for months, that there was a connection among all the bombing victims. They all worked in jobs or held positions involved in providing public and private energy. The victims ranged from low-level electricians to scientists to the government’s deputy director of energy.
Only once had the bomber said anything related to his choice of victims: “The madness must be stopped. Those who produce it must be stopped.” Rostnikov certainly agreed that the madness had to be stopped, but it was the bomber’s madness.
‘The list,” he said, looking at Karpo.
Karpo nodded. A long list had been compiled of people related to the production of energy or research on energy who lived in and around Moscow. Every one of the more than seven hundred had been contacted and told to be very wary of suspicious mail. They had also been given a code that was to alert them if the police believed a bomb had been sent. Each person on the list would be called, and the only thing said would be “penguin.” The National Police had agreed to give total cooperation, and within the hour twenty secretaries, officers, and maintenance workers would be making calls and saying the single word. None of the callers would have the slightest idea why they were making these calls or what they might mean. It was the responsibility of each caller to reach the people on his or her list, either at work or at home, as soon as possible.
“Alert the mail room,” Rostnikov went on. “I should be receiving a letter or package from the bomber. I doubt if it is a bomb, but …”
Karpo nodded. He would tell the mail room to put any letters or packages to Inspector Rostnikov on a separate table. They would also be told to touch the items as little as possible.
Karpo and Elena looked at Sasha Tkach.
“Yes?” asked Rostnikov.
“Emil has an idea about the Shy One,” said Sasha, who looked decidedly tired.
“The rapist began five years ago,” Karpo said. “Four years before that, a woman of sixty was attacked in the hallway of her apartment building. She was large and singularly determined. She fought off the attacker, and he fled when the door to another apartment opened. The woman called the police and reported the attack as an attempted robbery. However, the method was identical to that of the rapist.”
“Four years earlier,” said Rostnikov.
“Correct,” said Karpo.
“Conjecture?” said Rostnikov.
Conjecture was not Karpo’s strength.
“It was his first try,” said Sasha. “He failed miserably and didn’t get up the courage to try again for four years.”
“Perhaps,” said Rostnikov. “How did you find this case?”
“Computer,” said Karpo. “Cross-check of my open and closed files and the central Petrovka files. I searched for attacks on women from behind, the presence of a knife, the warning. It turned up this case.”
“How does it help us?” asked Rostnikov.
“The intended victim saw the attacker’s face,” said Elena. “At the time of the crime, she said she would never forget him.”
Rostnikov nodded. There was no need to tell them what to do, only who should do it.
“Sasha, Elena, you keep this. Emil, I need you on the bomber. You get Iosef. I’ll keep the murder of the young Jews. Zelach can help.”
