Alexi allowed himself only a small smile of satisfaction.
“Your fake bomb at the American embassy fooled us all,” Rostnikov said, returning Monochov’s smile. “In addition to your sense of humor, you are a man who professes to care greatly about lives and little or nothing about individual life.”
Alexi wondered if a few of the hairs on his balding head might be out of place. He refrained from patting them. He had dignity to maintain.
“To save the lives of many,” he said, “it is sometimes necessary to take the lives of a few, a guilty few.”
“But,” said Rostnikov, “according to you there are many who are guilty, many you thought deserved to die.”
“Few and many are relative terms,” said Alexi.
Rostnikov nodded as if in understanding.
“Your goal was to make a point about the dangers of nuclear research, weapons, power plants. You thought you might help make the public aware of the danger.”
“Yes,” said Alexi. “As the Unabomber did in the United States. These people are careless, stupid, and greedy. They can destroy most of mankind. We need more bombers, more protests.”
“Nuclear research caused the death of your father,” Rostnikov said, looking at Alexi with sympathy.
“Yes,” said Alexi.
“But not before he blackmailed some very important people who have taken care of your mother, your sister, and you,” said Rostnikov.
“We’ve been over this,” said Alexi.
“And you do not intend to give us the names of these people and the crimes they committed because you want your mother and sister to continue to receive this tainted money from men you think should be dead.”
“Yes,” said Alexi.
“That is a contradiction,” said the gaunt man unexpectedly. “You are doing the same thing that you want stopped. You are profiting from the criminal acts of others involved in the very enterprise you wish to end. You are a hypocrite, Alexi Monochov.”
“I have arranged for the sixteen names to be given to the police and the press when my mother dies,” said Alexi. “She is an old woman. With my mother’s help, we have put away enough for my sister, who has a good job.”
“And you?” asked Karpo.
“I will soon be dead,” said Alexi, head up, looking at each man across from him. “If not from my malignancy, then by execution.”
“Your malignancy,” said Rostnikov. “The same thing that killed your father. Isn’t it odd that you chose a career in the field you hated?”
“I could be aware of what was going on and where,” said Alexi, “of who was responsible and how I might be instrumental in stopping it.”
“Can it be stopped, Alexi?”
The pause was long and then the prisoner said, “No, but it can be made more safe. The public can demand so, and the politicians will listen if there is enough protest.”
“Maybe,” said Rostnikov. “I have known politicians. They are a patient and determined breed where money and power are concerned.”
There was a sound from the scientist with the thick glasses. Alexi turned toward him, but the man was silent, watching, listening.
“I talked to your doctor, obtained all of your medical records,” said Rostnikov, tapping the envelope before him. “Scientific technician Paulinin, whose medical knowledge is considerable, has examined the information and consulted with others this very day. We have confirmed without a doubt that you are not dying.”
Rostnikov slid the envelope to Paulinin, who opened it and spread the contents before him, including X rays and graphs.
“The neurologist who you have been seeing,” said Paulinin, “is little more than an incompetent quack. You have no malignancy. You have no cancer. What you have is a small blood clot that has grown slowly since you were misdiagnosed. Your pain increased in frequency and severity because your infection has not been properly treated. Your therapy was of no use. A simple operation to remove the clot could have been done when you were first seen. It can still be done, but it will require a competent surgeon. I know such a surgeon.”
Alexi looked at the X rays and graphs. He knew a bit about reading such things but did not consider himself an expert.
“These are fakes,” he finally said, handing the envelope back to Rostnikov. “I am dying. You simply want me to give you the names, the evidence. These are old X rays, old graphs. I can read the code dates in the corner.”
“These are your father’s medical records, Alexi Monochov,” said Rostnikov, sliding another file, an old one across, to the bomber. “Your father didn’t die of exposure to nuclear material any more than you are dying from it. Open the file, Alexi. Your father committed suicide. He left a note. Read the note.”
Monochov opened the old file. On top of a small pile of reports and papers was a note. It was definitely in his father’s hand.
I have been exposed to high doses of radiation. The pain is unbearable. I would rather take my own life than let my family watch me suffer a long and painful death. You will be taken care of. I promise you.
He moved to the next sheet, a report, signed by his mother.
“She knew he committed suicide?” Alexi asked in confusion. “She knew all the time?”
“It would appear so,” said Rostnikov.
“And you’re telling me he did not die of massive doses of radiation?” he asked.
“Read the record,” said Rostnikov. “It is not an external contamination from which you and your father both suffered. Put simply, Alexi, it is madness.”
Alexi couldn’t take in the information. It was a trick, like the bomb he sent to the American embassy. They wanted the names. Somehow they thought this would make him give them the names of those his father had blackmailed.
“This is a trick,” said Alexi. “A lie.”
“No,” said Rostnikov.
“I don’t believe you,” said Alexi.
“But you do believe me,” said Rostnikov, gazing into the eyes of the man across the desk.
“I will die anyway for what I have done,” Alexi said, doing his best to regain a sense of dignity.
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Rostnikov. “The director of my office is a very influential man. I have asked him if he could assure you life in prison or perhaps in a hospital for the mentally ill in exchange for the names. I grant that our mental hospitals leave a great deal to be desired, but your mother and sister would prefer that you not die.”
“I don’t know,” said Alexi. “I have to think. My mother knew? All this time? She knew he had killed himself?”
“You will be given the opportunity later today to ask her,” said Rostnikov. “We are telling you the truth, Alexi Monochov. You have told yourself lies. You are not wrong about the nuclear dangers, but you and your family have not been singled out by them.”
Monochov looked at each man. He read nothing in the face of the gaunt man. He read something like pride and vindication in the face of the man called Paulinin.
“I’ll think about it,” said Alexi.
All three men across from the one who had been the bomber knew that those words meant that he would cooperate, would provide the names, would live the rest of what promised to be a long life in a Russian prison or mental hospital, which many considered to be far worse than a quick death.
Rostnikov knew that Monochov wanted time to think of another option. The only other one Porfiry Petrovich knew would be for Monochov to contact some of the more influential people his family was blackmailing and threaten them with exposure if they didn’t find a way to get him out of execution or prison. Corruption was almost always possible, but, Rostnikov concluded, in this case the evidence was too overwhelming. A confession had been
