‘No,’ Kate said — embarrassed at being so transparent. ‘I’m fine.’
The man cleared his throat. Kate looked for — but couldn’t find — the camera. ‘We’re going to ask you a series of questions. Most of them will be very innocuous — minor things about Mr Kartsev that you may find amusing because of their seeming insignificance. And most will, quite honestly, be unimportant. But we ask them anyway because you never know when some little piece will fit and be useful. You understand?’ Kate nodded. ‘But first, since most of the people present here are not going to stay long, I’m going to call your attention to the trip you took with Mr Kartsev to the Siberian training camp.’ Kate nodded again, swallowing the lump in her throat. ‘We are all familiar with your report on that trip. What we’re interested in is this. When you left for your return to Moscow, was Mr Kartsev still there at the camp?’
All eyes were on Kate now. She shrugged and nodded. ‘I never got out of the car. Kartsev got out, said something to the driver, and then the car left him there to take me back to the airfield.’
‘Excuse me,’ someone said from off to the side. ‘Is this the car?’ he asked. He rounded the sofa and showed Kate a photo of the limousine. It had been taken from directly overhead and appeared to be in black and white. ‘It could be, yes.’
The man returned to the wings, and Kate’s questioner continued. ‘What was Mr Kartsev doing when you last saw him? Did you see where he headed after you parted?’
Kate shook her head — as much to rid herself of her recollection of that unpleasant night as in reply to the question.
Another glossy eight-by-ten photograph was presented to her. The shot was also from directly overhead. It showed a complex of nondescript buildings visible through the canopy of trees. ‘Can you tell where the car was when Kartsev got out?’ her interrogator asked.
She grasped the edge of the photograph, squinting as she searched for some landmark. There was a gravel road and a white windowless building.
‘That building,’ she said — pointing for the man holding the photo. ‘That one right there.’
‘C nineteen,’ he said to her questioner. The man excused himself and joined a small group of people at the bar. They all leaned over a sheaf of papers.
The room was nearly empty of people within minutes. All politely bade her farewell. Her ‘liaison’ and two others remained. They asked her question after question for hours.
It was all very odd. The next few questions all centered on the flash and thunder of the attack. They were trying to gauge how far she had traveled when the bombs had fallen — how much time had elapsed since Kartsev had been let out.
‘You think he’s dead, don’t you?’ Kate finally asked. ‘Your bombs hit that building, and you think you killed him.’
They didn’t say a word.
There was a knock at the door. Pyotr Andreev saw that it was one of the men from the neighborhood watch and opened the door.
‘Pete! We got trouble, and the police ain’t here yet. There’s three guys in the parking garage wearing all that black get-up. Anarchists!’
Pyotr handed the pistol to a frightened Olga and took the shotgun. ‘Jesus,’ the man said as he stared at the pump. The two men wound their way through the building. The ground floor of the three-level garage seemed quiet. ‘They were on the second floor,’ the man whispered. Pyotr led the way to the stairwell.
‘Oh, there they are!’ the old woman who organized the group called out. Pyotr cringed on hearing her loud voice. She approached, waving at Pyotr who was crouched at the bottom of the steps. ‘Marge!’ Pyotr’s partner hissed. ‘Sh-h-h! For God’s sake!’ Pyotr sighed.
Before the others arrived, Pyotr whispered, ‘You stay here. Make sure nobody goes down or comes up.’ Pyotr headed up the rusty metal stairs. His running shoes made no sound at all. A car alarm suddenly went off. He hurried up the last few steps — his progress masked by the strident alarm.
The three ‘Anarchists’ were breaking into a sports car. Two black youths were crammed into the front seat — the third was keeping watch. As Pyotr crept his way in a crouch toward the three men, the alarm fell silent. Bumper by bumper Pyotr closed on the car. He took one final check of the scene, then rose. The shotgun was on his shoulder and aimed at the lone sentry’s chest. When the young man saw the ten gauge’s muzzle, his eyes widened in holy terror. ‘Hey! Hey!’ he shouted, holding up his hands and revolver in plea.
‘Freeze!’ Pyotr shouted. ‘If you move, I will kill you!’ The other two black youths rose up from the car. ‘Freeze! Freeze! Freeze!’ Pyotr shouted repeatedly — trying to get control through intimidation.
They ignored him to raise their hands in the air. They wore black, like Anarchists. Black overcoats. But why were they breaking into a car? Pyotr wondered.
‘Hey, man, just be cool,’ one of the boys said. Their coats splayed out around them like capes.
‘Move away from the car! Move! Move! Move!’ Pyotr shouted.
‘Yeah-yeah!’ one kid said — his posture more relaxed after seeing that Pyotr was all alone. ‘Anything you say, man.’ His arms sagged, and he ignored Pyotr’s order to move.
‘Get out here!’ Pyotr shouted again.
‘Yeah, man, sure,’ the kid said, casually edging closer to Andreev. ‘Say, man…’ he began.
‘Stop! Don’t move!’
‘Listen, blood,’ the guy said, slowly lowering his arms — a friendly grin spread wide on his face. He drew closer and closer. Pyotr considered one last warning, but a quick check revealed the other two slowly lowering their arms.
Pyotr squeezed the trigger. With a thunderous roar the shotgun hammered his shoulder. The shot caught the boy squarely in the chest. He was blown backwards onto the hood of the sports car. As Pyotr pumped the shotgun, the boom echoed through the concrete garage. When Pyotr spun the gun to the other two, he saw that they stood frozen with their arms stretched to full extension.
The door to the police station’s interrogation room opened. A graying officer in a well-pressed business suit interrupted the questioning.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘you can go.’
The detective who had been interviewing Pyotr said, ‘But I’m not through here yet.’
‘He’s outta here. The investigation’s closed.’
‘What the hell does that…?’
‘It’s closed, Kozlowsky!’ The detective sat silently for a moment, then slammed his notebook shut. His chair scraped noisily across the floor. The two men eyed each other before the detective headed out, leaving Pyotr alone with the older man. ‘You can go, cowboy,’ he said — not a trace of civility in his voice.
‘Is that all?’ Pyotr asked. ‘I am free?’
‘You can go, so go!’
When Pyotr headed out the door, the cop grabbed his arm roughly. Through gritting teeth he muttered, ‘Don’t kill anybody else in this town, you hear?’ The grip was painfully tight. The cop sent him on his way with a push.
As Pyotr walked through the open room filled with plainclothesmen, eyes followed him surreptitiously. The buzz of activity quieted a bit as Andreev passed.
Olga and the girls wrapped themselves around him. Olga cried inside his hug, and the girls squealed in joy at the return of their father. Pyotr’s eyes, however, scanned the uniformed officers behind the counter. Several averted their gaze. Something was up.
‘Come on, Stempel!’ Harold heard from a dozen voices. He tried desperately to recover as he dangled under the taut rope by his hands and locked heels. He had crawled half-way across the water obstacle, and now he was in dire trouble.