A Calculated Magic
by Robert Weinberg
scientia est potentia
(knowledge is power)
mundus vult decipi
(the world wants to be deceived)
To my mother, Dorothy Weinberg, the equal of any mom in this novel…
Prologue
That no one ever guessed that Boris Bronsky was nothing more than an unimportant member of the Russian State Department was directly attributable to sixty-three red Xs. The marks were engraved next to the names of those who incurred the wrath of the Soviet premier or the secretary of the Communist Party, The imposing list of his victims served as a grim warning to leave Boris Bronsky strictly alone. In a country where spies spied on spies spying on spies, Boris retained astonishing autonomy. He worked independently, without supervision, without interference, without controls.
Thus, on June 6, when Boris entered a dark alley of a disreputable section of Paris, no member of any secret organization followed. Not that Bronsky ever worried about such matters. He was, in fact, incredibly naive about the inner workings of the KGB and the Secret Service. It never once occurred to him that his own organization would monitor his movements. He probably would have been even more astonished to learn of the nine agents who had disappeared without a trace trying to keep pace with him over the years. But Boris was a man with absolutely no imagination. That, and his total lack of ambition, was why he had been chosen for this position in the first place a quarter of a century before.
His predecessor, Nikoli Valda, equally notorious in his time, had chosen Boris as his protégé after reviewing the records of hundreds of civilian employees working for the KGB. Valda never confided to his young assistant how he had made his choice. Many years later, Boris concluded it was because he was a man of simple tastes, not easily bored. Which was actually closer to the truth than he realized. For though he was respected by a few, feared by many, Boris Bronsky lacked ambition. And that, considering the power he wielded, was all-important.
Among his family and friends, Boris was affectionately nicknamed “the Bear,” Standing six feet four inches tall and weighing slightly more than 340 pounds, Boris’s resemblance to the animal was quite apparent. A layer of thick, curly brown hair that covered much of his body helped to further the illusion. As did his small, piercing black eyes. Bronsky looked the part of his namesake.
However, according to those who loved him, the title came from Boris’s gruff but friendly nature. To his fellow Russians, bears were creatures of the circus—huge, powerful animals without the least bit of meanness in their souls. Bears played with huge balls and buffeted clowns and suffered the most outrageous practical jokes with a seemingly unlimited amount of patience. It was Bronsky’s gentleness that earned him the nickname “the Bear.”
It was a measure of Boris’s skill at keeping his personal and professional lives distinct entities that none of his family knew his other nickname, the one whispered behind his back by his lackeys in the Kremlin. It was a title bestowed in fear, never written down, and known only to a very few. To those in power, Boris Bronsky was “the Permanent Solution.”
Elimination of the enemies of the state was Boris’s specialty. He was the final resort, the last protocol. Only after the secret police and the KGB had tried and failed was Boris summoned. His was a talent used sparingly and with great deliberation. For once unleashed, Boris Bronsky was relentless, unyielding, unstoppable. No one escaped “the Permanent Solution.”
He was, in a sense, one of the last Soviet institutions. In a time of one incredible change after another throughout Russia, he remained a solitary, steadfast, unmoving rock. Sixty-three missions of extermination had been assigned to Boris Bronsky. Of them, sixty-three had ended in the termination of the victim or victims. No one could explain his success. Or dared question his methods. They knew only that Boris never failed. Never.
Tonight, he was engaged in mission number sixty-four. At the end of the deserted alley was a single door leading to a basement apartment. As usual, the door was not locked. Opening it, Boris stepped inside. A single light bulb burned above the entrance. It shed just enough radiance to illuminate one end of an old wood table extending into the inky blackness. Set in front of the table was a rickety old chair. As best Boris could tell, it was the same table and chair that had been there on the first of his visits twenty-five years ago.
Boris sat down. His hosts never arrived until a few minutes after he was settled. That, too, was part of the ritual. They came after him and left before him. Never once had he caught a glimpse of them. They moved in absolute silence and remained always in the shadows. Yet he knew immediately when they entered the room. Their smell betrayed them.
Boris’s nose wrinkled in disgust. The most liberal doses of perfume could not hide the stink that announced the arrival of his three hosts. It was a pungent, unforgettable smell that somehow reminded Boris of reptiles.
Ignoring the odor, Boris leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I want a man killed. He betrayed his country, Mother Russia. His death is necessary for the good of the state.”
“You know our price,” said the woman who usually did most of the talking. Her deep, gravelly voice was barely more than a whisper, but it filled the entire chamber. Like her companions, she never offered her real name. Instead, she used a title. “The Retaliator.” It fit.
“The money has already been transferred to your Swiss bank account,” said Boris, fidgeting in his seat. No matter how many times he dealt with these women, he could not shake the feelings of dread that accompanied the visit. Their very presence frightened him. There was something inhuman about them.
“Detail his crimes,” said another woman. Her voice was higher and shriller than her companions’. She took the name “the Rager.” Righteous anger boiled through her every word.
“The traitor’s name is Sergei Karsnov,” began Boris. “He is forty-seven years old, stands one hundred and seventy centimeters, and weighs a little under ninety kilos. He has black eyes and black hair and speaks five foreign languages, including English, perfectly.”
“His crimes,” interrupted the Rager impatiently. “What were his crimes?”
“Sorry,” said Boris, mentally shaking himself. He should have remembered. The three killers didn’t care about their victim’s appearance. They could learn that from the files he provided them at the end of the meeting. However, for some unexplained reason, they preferred hearing aloud their quarry’s transgressions.
“In 1989, working for the Department of Chemical Warfare, Karsnov developed a new strain of the disease anthrax that could be administered by airborne spores. When tested on laboratory animals, the new plague virus proved to be extremely efficient. Unfortunately, Karsnov felt the results were not conclusive without a human sample. So, unbeknownst to his colleagues, he released a tiny sample of the spores in St. Petersburg.”
“He poisoned his fellow countrymen to test the effect of a plague virus?” repeated the Rager, sounding properly outraged. “What happened?”
“Exactly what you would expect,” said Boris. “Anthrax symptoms are very similar to those of pneumonia but the treatment for one and the other are entirely different. The disease is deadly unless handled properly. Nearly a hundred people died before Karsnov’s crime was detected. It took a massive effort by the army and the KGB to stop the spread of the plague. By the time Karsnov was implicated in the crime, the scientist had managed to flee the country.”