belt strapped to his stomach. There was only one wire coming from it. Alexi held up his hands now to show that the wire was attached to a small, polished wooden device in his hand.
Paulinin put on his glasses and scratched his chin. He asked Alexi what kind of explosive he was using.
No harm at this point. Alexi told him.
Paulinin nodded in admiration.
“Good choice,” said the scientist. “The wire. Why wasn’t that detected downstairs?”
“It contains no metal,” said Alexi. “No more questions.”
“I’m sorry, but I have one,” said Rostnikov. “Forgive me for asking, but it is my job. How do we know you really have a bomb?”
“You will find that out soon enough,” said Alexi, avoiding the examination by Paulinin with the thick glasses. This was not going at all the way he had expected. Why had Rostnikov let Alexi come up knowing that he most likely carried a bomb?
“Ah,” said Rostnikov. “You mean to …?”
“Yes,” said Alexi, trying to sound firmly resolved.
“But first you have something to say,” said Rostnikov.
“You counted on that.”
“Certainly,” said Rostnikov. “If you simply meant to set off a bomb that would destroy part-”
“All,” Alexi amended.
“-all of this building,” Rostnikov went on, “you would simply have done so without getting a false identification and going through the risk of getting caught.”
“When we finish talking,” Alexi said, his thumb on the button of the device, “we all die.”
“I would assume that would be one of the results if you detonate your bomb,” Rostnikov agreed. “But before you do so, there is something I’d like to tell you.”
Paulinin had leaned forward and Alexi turned to look at the eyes behind the spectacles of the scientist. He saw no fear. He turned to Karpo, who betrayed no emotion. Did no one in this room fear death? Alexi felt dizzy. He would have liked some water, even warm water, but there was no way he could ask. Maybe he should have accepted the tea. But it might have been drugged or even poisoned. His mouth was dry, very dry, and things were not going according to plan.
“Did I ever ask you in our phone conversations what your favorite color is?” asked Rostnikov, pushing a thick folder across the desk and nodding at Alexi to look at it.
Alexi cautiously took his free hand out of his pocket and leaned over to open the file.
“Photographs of the survivors of your bombs,” said Rostnikov.
“Gray,” said Alexi, looking at the photographs of the maimed and the blind. “My favorite color is gray.”
“There are before-and-after photographs where we could get them,” said Rostnikov. “They are in the back. My staff ran something through the computer. You would understand how it worked. I am not a man of science. If you set off your bomb and it is as powerful as Paulinin here suggests, you will kill between one hundred and two hundred people at this time of day. A little more than half will leave wives and children. The total number of children under the age of sixteen left without a father will be about one hundred and ten. Alexi Monochov, because your father died and you believe you are dying, that is not a good enough reason for what you plan to do.”
“Hundreds of thousands have died,” Alexi answered with passion, putting his free hand back in his pocket, holding up the hand with the wired plunger. “The world should be made aware of the horrors of nuclear power. It will destroy Russia. It will destroy the world. It won’t even need a bomb to do it. Do you know how Russia’s nuclear materials and weapons are stored and protected?”
“Yes,” said Paulinin.
Alexi turned, surprised by the scientist’s high-pitched voice. But Paulinin wasn’t finished.
“Nuclear storage areas are protected by young soldiers in ramshackle sheds with padlocks on their doors that can be picked in about thirty seconds or cut off in about two or three. Of course, there are a few better- protected facilities, but they, like the others, are subject to theft through attack or, more often, bribery of key guards.”
“Yes,” said Alexi.
“And you are making it better by bombing people,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes,” said Alexi with conviction. “Everyone who creates, protects, or condones nuclear development-nuclear death-should be destroyed as an example.”
“So,” said Rostnikov, leaning farther over his desk, lowering his voice, and focusing on the face of the bomber, “almost everybody deserves to join you in death.”
“Almost everybody,” said Alexi, nodding.
“But you haven’t the time to do it because you are dying,” said Rostnikov.
“That is right,” said Alexi. “I want to speak.”
Rostnikov nodded, giving the bomber his full attention.
“I have left notes with the media again, sent them out of the country. The world will know what has happened here today. I have also sent my greatest achievement in the mail to someone whose death will draw even more attention.”
“And you think this will make the world wake up and begin a program of ceasing the creation and use of nuclear weapons. …”
“Any nuclear creation is dangerous. Don’t you understand?”
Alexi tried to stop the tears beginning in the corners of his eyes. What good did it do to kill men like this? They seemed unafraid of what he was about to do, while Alexi mourned and feared the death that would come to him in minutes.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “I find it difficult to imagine that the Chinese would be swayed in any way by what you plan to do. I think the Americans would use it for propaganda to try to get us to gain more government control of storage. It would not affect the Americans at all. Of course, this is just my opinion.”
“It is worth trying,” said Alexi. “It will be the largest gesture of its kind. It may well start an international movement so powerful that governments will be unable to ignore it.”
“I doubt that,” said Rostnikov. “But, since none of us will be here to see it, we will never know. I talked to a psychiatrist about you. An American, by phone. Gave her your profile. She does this for the FBI. Would you like to know what she said?”
“No,” said Alexi, holding the wired detonator menacingly.
“Since I am about to be blown to pieces-with the exception of my left leg, which is already gone-I think it would be unreasonable of you not to allow me a few minutes to say what I wish. You’ve spoken and, given the circumstances, can speak again.”
“Talk, quickly,” said Alexi.
“Well, she says you are afraid of dying and want to show control by maiming or condemning to broken lives or even death those who might survive you. Nuclear energy is an excuse.”
“It killed my father. It is killing me,” Alexi insisted, partially rising from his chair.
“You are not dying, Alexi Monochov,” said Rostnikov. “Look at the back of the file before you. We found your appointment notes, went to the hospital where you were diagnosed, got the X rays and test results, and sent them to the Americans, who examined them. You went to incompetent doctors at an incompetent hospital.”
“As are most in Russia,” said Paulinin.
“You have an infection, Alexi,” said Rostnikov. “A prostate infection. It can be controlled with daily medication. It is not cancerous. Your life, except for the bomb strapped to your stomach, is in no impending danger.”
“You’re lying,” said Alexi, examining each of the faces around him. He could see no trace of a lie, but they were trained to deceive. His eyes scanned the desk as if it might hold some answer, but all it held was the file folder of photographs of his victims. He flipped open the file and in the back found the medical reports.
“Had the hospital continued to treat you,” said Rostnikov, “they may very well have killed you, but that is really of no consequence now. If you set off this bomb, the American psychiatrist will issue a joint statement with the director of the Institute of Psychosis here in Moscow. You will be remembered briefly as a dying lunatic who vindictively took the lives of innocent people.”
“But you will all die, too,” said Alexi. “You let me in here knowing you could die, probably would die.”
