“Perhaps,” Porfiry Petrovich said, “but this is a new Russia. No one knows what a court will do, especially in a high-profile case. Bribery might be difficult and dangerous to a judge or anyone else in the government.”
“You will take care of my mother and sister?” Alexi said, feeling the cuffs digging into his wrists.
“No,” said Rostnikov. “There is nothing I can do. We have no budget for such things. They will have to get along as best they can.”
“I expected you to lie,” said Alexi.
Rostnikov shrugged again.
“I’ll tell you,” Alexi said with a sigh. “But it may be too late to stop the bomb I delivered before I came here, my backup bomb.”
There was silence-a long silence broken only by a pair of footsteps in the hall passing the office.
“And where is this second bomb?” Rostnikov prompted.
“Probably in the hands of whoever is the director of the FBI in the American embassy,” said Alexi. “The detonation device is delicate. Even a strong vibration will set it off. The box is small and looks like it might contain a pen-and-pencil set.”
“They will catch it,” said Rostnikov. “They’ll be suspicious.”
“It was delivered by hand, by a man in uniform, me,” said Alexi. “I informed the guard at the door that it was from you. I came here directly after I delivered it and changed my clothes.”
Rostnikov reached for his phone and pulled an address book from his drawer. Rostnikov was terrible with numbers of any kind, particularly phone numbers. He had, on occasion, been known to forget his own home number. He found the American embassy number, called and asked for Agent Craig Hamilton, said it was urgent, and identified himself as he watched Alexi Monochov looking at the face-down photograph he had been reaching for when Karpo grabbed his hand.
Rostnikov stretched across the desk, holding the phone to his ear, and turned over the photograph so the handcuffed prisoner could see it.
The man in the photograph was massive. He wore a pleasant smile and a sweat suit. There was something written on the photograph.
“Alexiev,” said Rostnikov, waiting for Craig Hamilton to come on the line. “The greatest of all Olympic lifters.”
Monochov looked baffled.
“Alexiev,” said Rostnikov, shaking his head. First Paulinin didn’t know who Sherlock Holmes was and now the bomber didn’t recognize the man whom Rostnikov and almost any Russian over the age of thirty would recognize.
“I sent him no bomb,” Alexi said.
Rostnikov shook his head and then heard Craig Hamilton’s calm voice. The two men spoke in English.
“A package was delivered to your office about half an hour ago,” Rostnikov said. “You’ve obviously not opened it or you wouldn’t be answering the phone. It’s from the bomber, supposedly from me. Small, about the size of a pen-and-pencil box.”
“The nearest bomb expert we have is in Frankfurt,” said Hamilton. “The soonest we could get him here would be in ten hours. I doubt if we have ten hours. I’m evacuating the building when we hang up. If you’ve got someone who can disarm the bomb, send them over. I’ll be nearby to let them in.”
Hamilton hung up without another word and so did Rostnikov.
“Now,” he said, nodding to Karpo, who sat down and took out his black leather-covered notebook. “We will talk about corruption and evidence, and those of us who believe in the possibility of a deity will pray that we can deal with your bomb without any deaths. The Americans have no bomb expert.”
“I could tell them,” said Alexi, his voice breaking.
“I believe you could,” said Rostnikov, “but I’m not prepared to trust you. Alexi Monochov, your record leaves much to be desired.”
Rostnikov knew he could call the military bomb squad, who might or might not succeed. Their practical experience was very limited, and their record, like that of Alexi Monochov, left something to be desired.
“Paulinin and I will go,” said Karpo. “Paulinin will welcome the challenge.”
“You will die,” said Alexi Monochov simply.
“We shall see,” said Karpo.
“With the deputy inspector’s permission,” said Karpo, “I will ask Technician Paulinin.”
Rostnikov looked up at the two men. Paulinin was brilliant but emotional and definitely more than just a bit mad, but he had disarmed Monochov, and if there was such a thing as genius, Paulinin surely qualified. As for Karpo, there was no doubt that he cared little if he lived or died, but there was no chance of his panicking, and he seemed to have a rapport with Paulinin. In addition, Karpo had some experience with bombs. He had almost been killed by a terrorist bomb in Red Square four years ago. The major damage had been to his left arm, which had taken surgery and a year to heal. The incident had prompted Karpo to learn what he could about bombs.
“You have my permission,” said Rostnikov. “Emil.”
“Yes?”
“I want you back alive,” Rostnikov said.
Karpo nodded and looked down at Alexi, who was still weeping.
“You can leave Alexi with me,” said Rostnikov.
Karpo nodded and left the room.
“They will die,” said Alexi, growing a bit more calm when the door was closed.
“Let us both hope that they do not,” said Rostnikov.
The plan was breaking down. Not all district stations had a time or even a place where all the officers could be brought together. Elena and Sasha could gather officers on each shift, but that would require Magda Stern to be at each gathering. It could take days. It could take weeks. And what if he wasn’t from the adjoining districts? Maybe he was from farther out. Maybe he wasn’t even a police officer.
Magda Stern had said that not only was he in uniform but he got into a police car after attacking her. Could it have been a car disguised to look like a police car? That was possible.
As for current photographs of the officers in each district, some stations had a full set, some had a few, and some had only old ones. Elena suggested that they methodically take photographs of every officer from top to bottom, starting with Trotsky Station. If an officer was home sick, they would go to his home.
“It could take months,” said Sasha, holding his forehead. “I need aspirin.”
They were seated in Elena’s cubbyhole office. Sasha sat across from her. The desk between them was very small.
“You have another idea?” she asked.
“We are already trying my idea,” he said as Elena dug into her drawer and came up with a small, white plastic container with a red top. She handed it to Sasha, who opened it and gulped three white capsules dry. He coughed, swallowed, and managed to get them down. He returned the container to Elena. There were only two pills left.
“Do you have any other ideas?” she asked.
“You have a camera?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Film?”
“We will talk to Porfiry Petrovich about buying and processing the film,” she said, the idea taking shape as she spoke.
“By the time he gets permission for such a purchase, if he even agrees with the plan, six more women could be raped and beaten, possibly murdered.”
“I say we try,” said Elena.
“So do I,” came a voice from the open entryway to the cubicle.
Iosef Rostnikov wore slacks, a white shirt and a sweater, and held a coat over his arm. He was smiling at Elena. Sasha, head in pain but feeling perhaps a bit better, looked at Elena, who was trying to hide a smile.
“In fact,” Iosef went on, “I’ll supply the film. Japanese. Black-and-white. 800 ISO. You won’t even need a
