“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.
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.”
