“It is a strange request,” the man said, looking down at his own grandson.
Rostnikov shrugged. “It would be a great favor,” he said.
“All right,” the man finally agreed. He let go of the boy’s hand and fished a damp pair of blue trunks out of his sack. Rostnikov fished out seven rubles, and they made the exchange.
“Thank you,” he said, knowing that the man had made a fine profit.
“I’m happy we could help,” the man said, and led the boy away.
Four minutes later, Rostnikov, feeling extremely conspicuous even in the large crowd, went out of the changing room where he had deposited his clothes with the attendant, and made his way to the pool deck. He knew he was not a common sight with his washtub body and his heavy leg, but no one seemed to pay much attention. He slowly circled the pool along the metal railing, looking for Bintz and Ivanolva. He spotted the policeman first, leaning against the wire fence.
“Chief Inspector?” he said.
“Could I be mistaken for anyone else?”
“No.” Ivanolva was about thirty, good-looking, and well built. He would look far better in a bathing suit than I, thought Rostnikov.
“Where is the German?” Rostnikov said, backing away from a boisterous teenage couple who were pushing each other and giggling.
“I do not always understand youth,” said Rostnikov as the girl turned and plunged into the water, splashing a startled woman.
“They are playing,” explained Ivanolva.
“I recognize that it is recreation,” said Rostnikov, watching the teenage boy shout and leap into the water. “It is the nature of the joy derived from the game that I fail to appreciate.”
“I think-” Ivanolva began, but Rostnikov interrupted.
“The German,” he said.
“There,” said the younger policeman, nodding.
“Point to him,” said Rostnikov. “I’m not hiding. Look at me. Could I hide?”
Instead of answering what he hoped was a rhetorical question, Ivanolva pointed. Beyond the white bathing caps of two nearby women, Rostnikov spotted the German’s white hair and massive body. Bobbing dutifully and not at all happily at his side, a bathing cap on her head, was Ludmilla Konvisser, the Intourist guide who had been assigned to Bintz.
“You are finished for the day,” Rostnikov said over his shoulder to Ivanolva.
“Yes, Comrade,” Ivanolva replied and went off as quickly as he could.
Rostnikov moved to the edge of the pool, squatted, and put a hand in the water, prepared to make a face at the cold, but the temperature was fine, so he sat at the edge of the pool and eased himself in. He made his way through the maze of bodies and sloshed in front of Bintz, whose eyes were shut. Ludmilla spotted Rostnikov and said, “Chief Inspector, what-”
Bintz’s eyes opened and Rostnikov noted that there was no fear or surprise. He seemed to expect to see a policeman in front of him.
“Tell me, Inspector Comrade,” he said in English, “do you find it as easy to float as I do?”
“It is our bulk,” said Rostnikov, also in English.
Bintz nodded and closed his eyes again before speaking.
“A whale and a walrus afloat on a Sunday afternoon.”
Though not particularly fond of being called a walrus, Rostnikov had to admit to himself that the image was apt.
“Can we talk?” Rostnikov asked, making it clear that it was an order.
“Could I refuse one who follows me to the depths?” Bintz said, opening one eye.
“Comrade Konvisser,” Rostnikov said, looking at the young woman, “could we…”
She nodded, plunged under the water, and swam away.
“A good-looking young lady,” Bintz said, closing his eyes again. “Very krasse’ vliyaya, is that the word? But very cold. Why are so many young Russian ladies cold?”
“She has a job,” Rostnikov explained, “and it does not pay to be too friendly with foreigners. Young Russian ladies are not cold.”
“What,” grinned Bintz, “is your basis for comparison?”
“I admit I have none,” Rostnikov agreed, looking about for his KGB tail and Bintz’s. “You know you have been followed?”
Bintz laughed, eyes still shut, only his head bobbing on the surface. The two men were surrounded by the clamor of voices, but they were close enough so that they could speak in low tones and make each other out. A woman elbowed Rostnikov and moved away without apology.
“Besides your young man,” Bintz said, “there is a very serious gentleman with glasses wearing a suit and tie standing just behind the fence in the corner behind me.”
Rostnikov saw the man without turning his head.
“KGB?” Bintz asked, opening both eyes.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
Bintz grunted, his guess confirmed. “There is someone else who may be watching,” he said. “Did you know that?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“Are you here for the reason I think?” Bintz said.
“I believe I am,” said Rostnikov.
“Would you mind telling me what that is so I won’t make a complete dummkopf of myself?”
“World Liberation,” said Rostnikov. “I have reason to think you are involved in a terrorist act.”
Bintz shrugged, sending out a circle of waves.
“Ha,” laughed Bintz, but there was no mirth in his laughter. “Bintz doesn’t kill real people. Bintz is known for the many he has slaughtered on film. For me, destruction and violence are ritual acts. When my people fall, they rise to act again another day, and my audience knows this. I know difference between movie blood and real blood. Movie blood washes away. This is exhausting my English.”
“What were you supposed to do?” Rostnikov went on.
Bintz looked around the pool for the first time and then back at Rostnikov.
“I was supposed to blow up this pool,” he said. “Can you imagine such a thing? There are children in this pool.”
“How were you to do this?”
“A button,” Bintz said. “A little black box, just like in an English movie.”
“When?”
“At seven.” Bintz shrugged. “The woman calls and says I am to do it at seven. I never saw her.”
“If you do not plan to set off the bomb,” Rostnikov said, sidestepping a man with glasses who floated by on his back, “what are you doing here?”
“I came to find the bomb and dispose of it. If I have a black box with a button, others might have a black box with a button. You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you,” said Rostnikov. “I found your black box in your hotel room. If you meant to use it, it would be here, not there. You could have told the police,” he added, crouching down in the water and then floating on his back.
“It will be difficult enough to remain alive when that woman finds that I do not blow up this pool. I don’t also confess to Russian police that I am involved with terrorists. But what difference? You have me. I swim, and we go.”
“The bomb?” asked Rostnikov.
“I am a maker of movies,” said Bintz with pride. “I work with pictures and spaces. I found the bomb by moving along the edge of the pool and reaching into all the drains. It is now inside my bathing trunks.”
Rostnikov stopped floating and looked at Bintz.
“I’m very cool, nein?” said Bintz. “Like Charles Bronson.”
“Very cool,” agreed Rostnikov.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I take great care. Even if one of them watches me, I have an hour. I must swim long enough so all of those trailing behind me single file can see that Bintz really wants to swim and is not here just for some mischief. But so…you are going to arrest me?”
“No,” said Rostnikov. “I’m going to save you. Let’s leave, and I will explain. I trust Comrade Konvisser will not follow us into the men’s changing room?”
“Unfortunately, you are right,” Bintz sighed. “Let’s give them a sight
, you and I, and get out of the pool together, huh? The level will go down an inch, and small children will stand at the shallow end with their noses above water.”
It was with some difficulty that Bintz managed to get Comrade Konvisser to leave him with Inspector Rostnikov for the day, but she finally agreed, and as they changed clothes in the men’s room, Rostnikov outlined the details of his plan. Bintz gave him the enormous swimming trunks containing the bomb.
“Then you are agreed?” Rostnikov said, slipping on his trousers.
“The risk is mostly yours,” said Bintz. “A young man helped me take my pants off when I came in, but I am for obvious reasons unable to get them back on. Chief Inspector, if you would…”
“Of course,” said Rostnikov and, with the bomb jiggling under his arm, he helped the massive man get dressed.
Outside the pool, Rostnikov found a sewer outlet and bent to tie his already tied shoes. He dropped the trunks he had obtained from Bintz and let them tumble through the hole. It was most likely that neither of the KGB agents noticed. It was clumsy, but Rostnikov did not relish the idea of carrying the burden any farther.
They found a taxi and headed for a restaurant that Rostnikov had chosen carefully. In the cab, they didn’t speak nor did they turn to see if their entourage was behind them.
Rostnikov had eaten in the restaurant once and had bad reports on it from others. In a city where service was generally poor in restaurants, the Destrovya on Arbat was in a class by itself. The meal would take several hours to serve. Best of all, Rostnikov knew from experience, there was a rear exit near the rest rooms.
“I think we will catch her,” said Rostnikov once they were seated by a surly waiter. “The woman who threatened you.”
Bintz shrugged and reached eagerly for the menu.
The service was almost as slow as Rostnikov remembered it. The KGB men had discovered each other and were watching from a far table. The restaurant was not at all crowded.
“We shall see,” sighed Bintz.
In the next hour, Bintz managed to eat an amount that awed Rostnikov, who could eat with the best. The German downed a crab salad, kholodets-a beef, veal, and chicken gelatin appetizer-an order of chicken Kiev, a bottle of white wine, and a whole loaf of bread.
When Rostnikov returned from the bathroom, Bintz had finished Rostnikov’s remaining beef Stroganoff and had ordered a special dessert.
“I’d like to stay for the dessert,” he said, wiping his mouth and rising as Rostnikov sat.
“I’m afraid not,” said the chief inspector. “The exit door is to the right of the men’s bathroom. I’ll eat your dessert.”
“Thank you, and good luck,” said Bintz, putting down his napkin and walking toward the rear of the restaurant. He carried himself with great dignity in spite of his weight.
Rostnikov ate some more bread and made sure that neither of the KGB men had followed Bintz. Why should they? The man had simply gone to the men’s room before his dessert was served.
The ride to the airport was approximately 32 kilometers. In five minutes, if he had no trouble finding a taxi, Bintz would be on the Leningrad Highway. He would pass the massive Dynamo Sports Stadium and go by the Petrovsky Palace where Napoleon had once stayed after being driven out of the Kremlin. Then, Rostnikov imagined, he would pass the monument in honor of the Moscow defenders who drove off Hitler’s army, speed by the few remaining isby, or log cabins, and pull in to the airport.
If Rostnikov had timed it correctly, even allowing a margin for error, Bintz should make the plane and be well on his way to West Germany at about the same time that the KGB men began to wonder why he was staying so long in the bathroom.
Again, assuming nothing went wrong, Bintz would land safely in West Berlin before the KGB even thought of checking his room, let alone flights out of the country.
When the KGB man with the balding head showed the first signs of concern, Rostnikov beat him to it by examining his own watch, rising with annoyance, and stalking toward the rear of the restaurant. This caused the KGB man to sit down. Rostnikov checked his watch once more and slowly returned to the table.
Still looking annoyed, he called the waiter and asked for the nearest phone. His KGB man followed, leaving Bintz’s man to head for the toilets. Rostnikov’s first call, well out of earshot of the bald man, was to the airport. The flight, he found, had just left. His second call was to Sarah, as planned.
“Yes,” she said.
“I will be home soon,” he said and hung up. If they asked whom he called, they would have no trouble confirming the call home.
It was done. He paid the check, which was more than he had ever paid for a meal in his life, and went home. It was seven o’clock, the very moment Bintz was supposed to have detonated the bomb.
There was only one place it could be, Karpo concluded, looking at the copies of the maps he had given Rostnikov. It was not likely that she would attack another movie theater. He was unaware that a bomb was being planned for the swimming pool and that Rostnikov had effectively defused it.
What he did know was that the woman had only a few hours if she was to board the plane on which she had a reservation as Louise Rich. He assumed she was probably on her own at this point.
Karpo sat erect at his desk, demanding that the maps yield more than they had to give.
The target had to be something that, when destroyed or damaged, would deeply affect the Soviet Union and whose destruction could not be hidden from the outside world. Thus, it would have to be something very public.
“Something irreplaceable,” he said softly to himself, looking up. His eyes went across the room to Zelach, who had just finished a report and was about to go home, but Karpo’s gaze had caught him in a moment of guilty thought about a bribe someone had offered him, and one he was seriously considering. How much could it hurt to forget about a few illegal telephones? It wasn’t political, probably not even very criminal, and the amount of the bribe was considerable. Yes, Zelach had made up his mind to accept the payment, until he found himself gazing into the steely eyes of the Vampire. The man, he thought, is a damned fanatic. He can probably read my mind. Zelach wilted under the intensity of Karpo’s stare and resolved to turn in the capitalist offender. He got up, walked past Karpo with a grunt, and headed out.
Karpo scarcely noticed him. It would be the Lenin Mausoleum, he decided. If he had read her ego correctly-the use of exotic poison, her impersonation of Aubrey’s widow, the murder of the Frenchwoman-everything indicated that she had a massive sense of her own power.
Of course, he could be wrong. He knew he could be wrong but, by the same token, he had little choice, and so he folded the maps neatly, put them into his top drawer, and rose slowly. His left arm ached slightly, but it was a dull ache, as if he had slept on it. There was no migraine, though he had expected one. It was time.
* * *
Vladimir Ilich Lenin died on January 21, 1924. A wooden mausoleum pyramid was designed and built within two days of his death to hold the embalmed body. In January of that year, the mausoleum was rebuilt and stood until 1930 when it was replaced by the present mausoleum of red granite and black labradorite. The stone structure is exactly the same shape as the wooden one it replaced, but it is permanent. The entrance to the mausoleum, which faces Red Square and the massive GUM, or State Universal Stores, is marked only by the name of Lenin, encrusted in dark red porphyry.
The mausoleum is an essential stop for Russians visiting the capital. It is both a political and cultural mecca and very nearly a religious one. Thousands visit the tomb each month to enter solemnly and gaze at the perfectly preserved face of Lenin, and most of those who come make a point of being in the square to watch the changing of the guard at the mausoleum, which takes place every hour, day and night. The guards, dressed in gray uniforms with two rows of brass buttons down their chests, carry their rifles in their left hands pointing straight to the sky. If the square is not too crowded, a visitor can hear the guards’ black b
oots strike the pavement as they march from the mausoleum, which lies in the shadow of the Kremlin Wall.
Since it was a Sunday evening and nearly seven-thirty, Karpo did not arrive in time to watch the changing of the guard. Lenin was the symbol of all that Karpo believed in. A photograph could suffice to remind him of the leader, but the mausoleum was the central symbol for the entire nation. And he had made it his responsibility to protect it.
He stood on 25th October Street at the corner of the square scanning the crowd of tourists for a familiar face. But it was still too crowded for him to be confident of catching all the faces in the crowd. This was both a disadvantage and an advantage, for if he did not see her, then she would also have difficulty seeing him.
The clock in Spasskaya, the main Kremlin tower, told him that it was now twenty minutes to eight. He maneuvered slowly, carefully, and watchfully through the crowd. People were gathered in clusters before the bronze doors of the red pyramid of the mausoleum. He slowly approached the mausoleum, glancing at the two uniformed guards who stood stiffly at the door with rifles bayoneted and ready at their sides. Karpo joined a group of about twenty men and women being led by a guide, who jabbered at them in heavily accented German and pointed beyond the mausoleum to the towers of the Kremlin.
It was time either to move toward the greatest humiliation of his life or to engage in the most meaningful act he had ever performed. In his pocket was a small book containing the constitution of the Soviet Union. He took it out and pretended to look at it as if it were a guidebook.
Easing away from the tail end of the crowd of Germans, Karpo, eyes on the book, said in a clear voice to the guards, “I am a police officer. My name is Karpo, and I have reason to believe that an explosive device has been placed inside the tomb.”
He lifted his eyes to the two young, clean-shaven faces and noted that the one on the left reacted slightly.
“Do not react,” Karpo went on, raising his head as if to admire the inscription over the door. “The person who intends to detonate this device may well be watching. I will remain where I stand while you do whatever you are supposed to do in an emergency.”
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