somewhere.
“I took the fingerprints that were usable from the package,” said Paulinin, “but none of them are the bomber’s.”
“How can you tell?” asked Iosef.
“Smell it.”
Karpo leaned over and smelled the package.
“Do you smell it?” asked Paulinin.
“Something faint,” said Karpo. “A powder residue.”
Iosef felt like an idiot, but he leaned over and smelled the package. Nothing.
“Latex gloves,” said Paulinin. “That’s what you smell. He wore lightly powdered latex gloves. The package is safe to open. I should like it back with the original papers inside, after you copy them. They will also contain no fingerprints.”
Karpo nodded, finished his tea, and put his cup down on an open spot on the table between a metal object painted black and an empty glass container. Iosef did the same.
“Can you get me anything that’s left of the bombs, the previous letter bombs?” asked Paulinin. “I’m sure the bomb squad dolts have destroyed whatever might be of use, and they’d never think of asking me, but there may be something. This man is a worthy opponent.”
“We will do what we can,” said Karpo.
“Lunch, chess?” said Paulinin.
“Tomorrow, one o’clock,” said Karpo.
When they were out in the hall of the lower level of Petrovka and the heavy door to Paulinin’s laboratory had slammed shut, sending a metallic echo down the hall, Iosef said, “He’s crazy.”
“He is also a genius,” said Karpo.
Karpo carried the package as they walked.
Within three minutes, they had set the package on the desk of Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, who looked up at Karpo, who nodded. It was enough to let Rostnikov know it was safe to open the package.
He did so with the sharp blade of his small pocket knife.
“Fingerprints?” asked Rostnikov.
“Paulinin says there will be none,” said Karpo. “Latex gloves.”
Iosef stood dumbfounded. On the word of a madman in the basement, his father was opening a package that could explode and kill them all if Paulinin was wrong. Iosef had seen mangled bodies when he was in the army in Afghanistan. He had seen what remained of soldiers and civilians who had stepped on small mines hidden in sand.
Rostnikov reached in and pulled out the contents of the package, laying each piece neatly on the desk-the fake bomb and clay, the thin sheets of lead, the block of birch, and the three sheets of paper. Rostnikov laid the paper before him. The top page was typed and said: “I wonder how many hours and how much sweat were spent before you decided to open this. Probably enough so that it is past today’s mail delivery and the letter bomb I sent has already gone off. Meanwhile, enclosed is the declaration to be made on television. I will have made my point if it is delivered to the people of Moscow. I will stop the bombs and I will wait to see what, if anything, will be done. I expect nothing will be done. I expect I will resume my bombing. More will die, more from the hands of those in power than from me.”
It was unsigned. Rostnikov handed the letter to Karpo, who read it slowly where he stood.
Rostnikov read the two single-spaced pages titled “Declaration to the People of Russia.” The declaration was a demand to dismantle and destroy all nuclear facilities, to clean up all Russian nuclear dump sites, and to cease any nuclear research, whether military, industrial, or medical. The declaration cited examples of the dangers of each and the threat to Russian citizens. The writer was educated, well-informed, and probably as out of touch with reality as Paulinin, Rostnikov concluded.
“Now?” asked Iosef.
“Now,” said his father, “we wait for the bomb to go off and the bomber to call me.”
“Television?” asked Iosef.
“I will ask,” said Rostnikov. “I am confident that the demand to read the declaration will be denied.”
“Paulinin would like to examine whatever remnants or traces of past letter bombs exist,” said Karpo.
Rostnikov picked up the phone on his desk and pushed three buttons. Pankov answered. Rostnikov asked to speak to the director and was put through immediately.
Karpo and Iosef stood listening as Rostnikov reported on the package and Paulinin’s request. Rostnikov listened and then hung up.
“You can pick up the bomb remnants from the bomb squad. They are being informed that they are to cooperate. It is almost certain that the bomber’s demands will not be met.”
Karpo nodded, turned, and left the office with Iosef right behind.
Rostnikov then ate at his desk, a sandwich prepared by his wife, who had made a request that he would take care of that very evening. Sarah had also prepared a thermos of tepid but sweet tea. Rostnikov had four reasons for eating in today. First, he was waiting for the report of a letter bombing that the bomber had promised. Second, he was waiting for a call from the bomber, who would want to know if Rostnikov had received his package. Third, he was waiting for a call from a former black marketeer who was now a legitimate businessman. The man had promised to find the ducting Rostnikov needed to work on Belinsky’s synagogue. The fourth reason for eating at his desk was that it was easier than walking on the artificial leg. He had been getting plenty of practice at doing that. He could use an hour or two seated at his desk.
The phone rang before Rostnikov had finished his sandwich.
Avrum Belinsky sat reading in a wooden chair that had been placed outside of Rostnikov’s office by Akardy Zelach, whose desk was in the room of five cubicles across the hall. Belinsky had not called in advance. He had slept fitfully, dreaming of a war in the streets of small towns, shooting at Syrians, being shot at. Flimsy walls of small one-and two-story buildings crumbled or exploded from shells that would have made small holes or scraped out ruts in larger, more solid buildings of the big cities. He had seen friends die, and he had killed more than once. That was both long ago and not long ago in his memory.
Avrum had come to Petrovka after his morning prayers. It had been a long journey with a stop at the synagogue to see if it was still there. It was. Untouched. But a truck was waiting at the door when he arrived, and a man sat in the cab of the truck, a burly man with a coat and cap and a scarf around his neck. The man was smoking and looking lost in thoughts or memories. The motor was not running.
Belinsky had approached the truck and startled the driver, who rolled down his window, no mean feat in this weather and considering the age of the truck.
“Belinsky?” asked the driver in a rasp of a voice that suggested a tonsillectomy had been botched in his childhood.
“Yes.” The man rolled the window up, got out of the truck, and closed the door with a slam.
“I knocked,” he said.
“It’s still early.”
“I have many things to do,” said the truck driver, who was thin and much older than he had first appeared. “Are you strong?”
“Reasonably,” said Belinsky.
“Good. This isn’t one of those days you can’t work?” asked the man, holding back a sniffle. His nose was quite red.
“No,” said Belinsky. “That’s Friday night and Saturday.”
“Good. Yuri has a sore back. He’s my helper. He’s good for nothing, but he’s strong and he’s my sister’s son,” said the driver. “Let’s go.”
The driver moved to the rear of the truck, pulled out a ring of keys, and opened the padlock. Belinsky stood back and watched as the doors squeaked open to reveal shiny aluminum sheets of various sizes and a variety of joints and angles.
“Let’s go,” the man said with resignation, and driver and rabbi slowly began to move the metal into the small synagogue.
It was especially slow because the driver was old and the rabbi probably should have been in a
