The Silent Man

do was wrong, beyond wrong, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. He never would have guessed he could break the rules so easily. Perhaps every man carried a beast inside him.

A few years back, a serial killer had worked his way through Chelyabinsk, killing dozens of prostitutes before one escaped from his truck and called the police. The killer — Grigory couldn’t recall his name, but he was an electrician, he’d strangled his victims with thick black cords — grinned his way through his trial, and when the judge asked him if he had anything to say, any apologies to offer, he shook his head. “You’re lucky you caught me, for I would have gone on forever,” he said. “You can’t imagine how it feels.”

At this moment, Grigory thought he could.

THE PHONE RANG. “They’re here. At the main gate.”

“Thanks, Arkady.”

Grigory grabbed his coat and the paperwork he would need, including the single sheet of paper that held the codes to unlock the warhead boxes. Easy, he told himself. No rush. The delivery was a minor break from routine, nothing more. He walked slowly to the security office. “Come on, Tajid. Enough pornos tonight. Let’s greet our visitors.”

The first test. If Arkady raised a stink about the fact that Grigory had asked his cousin to be his partner on the delivery, they’d fail right away. But Grigory didn’t expect Arkady to object. He wouldn’t want to go himself, and sending old Marat into the cold would be callous. Sure enough, Arkady was feeding Tatu and hardly looked up.

“Have fun, Tajid,” he said.

“A real humanitarian, you are.” Tajid grabbed his coat and gloves and followed his cousin out.

First test passed.

OUTSIDE, the freezing wind hit Grigory full in the face. The snow was still falling, lightly now, covering the ground with a thin white rime.

Grigory was wearing a heavy down jacket and a sweater and woolen gloves, but he hadn’t bothered with proper boots or a hat tonight, and the wind found his feet and face and attacked them. Human beings weren’t meant to live this way. Maybe for a year or two, but not decade after decade. Not their whole lives.

Fortunately, the Volga started easily. Grigory had replaced the battery a few weeks before. Tajid and Grigory sat in silence for a moment, blowing on their hands, their breath filling the car. “No second thoughts, cousin?” Grigory said.

“None. You?”

“I’m not thinking at all.”

“Probably that’s best.”

Grigory put the Volga into gear and drove down the deserted avenue to the main gate. The convoy sat in a parking lot just inside the guard posts, the Ural trucks glowing under neon arc lights. The Volga looked like a toy beside the BTRs and Urals. Grigory parked beside the convoy and stepped out. A trim man wearing the single silver star of a major greeted him. Despite the cold, he wore only a thin wool coat and a hat with fur earflaps. He extended a hand.

“Major Yuri Akilev.”

“Grigory Farzadov. You’ve had a long trip.” Grigory’s heart was pounding, but his voice sounded normal.

“The cards turn ugly and the bottles go dry,” Akilev said. “No reason to expect anything else.”

“A man after my own heart,” Grigory said. “That’s it. A thousand years of history right there.”

“Even so, I’d like to get my men inside.”

Grigory pointed down the security fence at a squat two-story concrete building a few hundred yards away. “Our overflow barracks. You can send the BTRs and Tigers there while we unload.”

“Is there food?”

This major was a good commander, concerned about the welfare of his men, Grigory thought. “Not at this hour, but they’ll have hot showers and warm beds.”

“That’ll do.”

“But make sure you bring a couple of extra men with you to unload the crates.”

Akilev passed along the order to his sergeant. A moment later, the armored personnel carriers and three of the Tigers rumbled off, leaving just Grigory’s Volga, the commander’s Tiger, and the four Urals that held the bombs.

“Follow me.”

Grigory stopped the Volga at the guard post that protected the entrance to the special area. The post hut was made of thick concrete blocks, hardly bigger than a tollbooth, and had entrances on both sides of the restricted zone. The guards inside the hut theoretically would be the last line of defense in case of an all-out assault on the plant. In reality, the hut was the most boring place to work at Mayak, especially at night, when the special area was locked down and empty. Between 8 p.m. and 6 a.m., the post was staffed by a single guard, who slept most of the shift.

Through the thick window of the guardhouse, Grigory saw cheap black boots resting on a desk.

“Who’s on duty tonight?” he said to Tajid.

“Roster said Boris Hiterov.”

“With the hair.”

“Yes.”

Boris Hiterov. A lifer. No better or worse than the average guard. With any luck, he’d have taken a couple of shots of vodka to help him sleep. Grigory cranked down his window. The second test was about to begin.

BEEP! Grigory leaned on the Volga’s horn. Inside the hut, the boots kicked up with almost comic speed. Hiterov opened the window, just a crack. He was a big man, though not as big as Grigory, with dark brown hair that he wore up in a sort of pompadour. He was very proud of his hair.

“Boris!” Grigory yelled. “We’re here.”

A puzzled look settled on Hiterov’s face. “Who’s that?”

“The convoy! Let us in, you damned fool!” The insults were key here. Grigory wanted to remind Hiterov of his place in the plant’s hierarchy.

“Yes. But Grigory, you know the rule.”

Indeed Grigory did. Even if he hadn’t, the black-lettered sign in front of him was clear. No private automobiles. Official vehicles only.

“If you think I’m leaving this car and walking, you’ve drunk away the last of your brains.” The north warehouse was about three hundred yards away, not really a long walk, but the cold night was working to Grigory’s advantage.

“Why don’t you ride with the convoy?”

“The commander’s Tiger is full. Maybe you’d like me to sit on his lap.”

“But if anyone finds out—”

“No one will. Open the gate and go back to sleep, you wretch.”

Hiterov slammed the window shut. The electrified gate slowly rolled back, its wheels screeching in the cold.

Second test passed.

TO KEEP AMERICAN SPY SATELLITES from seeing their exact locations, both the north and south warehouses had been concealed under metal sheds as big as airplane hangars. Grigory drove into the north shed now, followed by Akilev’s convoy. Inside, the shed was bright as a sunny afternoon, thanks to arc lights mounted high on its girders.

The weapons depot, a windowless concrete building one hundred feet long and sixty feet wide, sat in the northeast corner of the shed. The entrance to the depot was a wide steel door with no visible locks or opening mechanism. Four surveillance cameras focused on it. A half-dozen others watched the rest of the shed. But the cameras couldn’t see everything, Grigory knew. He parked near the door to the shed, got out of his Volga, and turned to Akilev.

“Have your trucks park here and unload the cucumber crates. I’m going to get you out of here as quickly as I can.” Grigory spoke firmly, as if he were the major’s superior officer. He had to be in control, give Akilev no room for