Rostnikov reached in and pulled out the contents of the package, laying each piece neatly on the desk-the fake bomb and clay, the thin sheets of lead, the block of birch, and the three sheets of paper. Rostnikov laid the paper before him. The top page was typed and said: “I wonder how many hours and how much sweat were spent before you decided to open this. Probably enough so that it is past today’s mail delivery and the letter bomb I sent has already gone off. Meanwhile, enclosed is the declaration to be made on television. I will have made my point if it is delivered to the people of Moscow. I will stop the bombs and I will wait to see what, if anything, will be done. I expect nothing will be done. I expect I will resume my bombing. More will die, more from the hands of those in power than from me.”
It was unsigned. Rostnikov handed the letter to Karpo, who read it slowly where he stood.
Rostnikov read the two single-spaced pages titled “Declaration to the People of Russia.” The declaration was a demand to dismantle and destroy all nuclear facilities, to clean up all Russian nuclear dump sites, and to cease any nuclear research, whether military, industrial, or medical. The declaration cited examples of the dangers of each and the threat to Russian citizens. The writer was educated, well-informed, and probably as out of touch with reality as Paulinin, Rostnikov concluded.
“Now?” asked Iosef.
“Now,” said his father, “we wait for the bomb to go off and the bomber to call me.”
“Television?” asked Iosef.
“I will ask,” said Rostnikov. “I am confident that the demand to read the declaration will be denied.”
“Paulinin would like to examine whatever remnants or traces of past letter bombs exist,” said Karpo.
Rostnikov picked up the phone on his desk and pushed three buttons. Pankov answered. Rostnikov asked to speak to the director and was put through immediately.
Karpo and Iosef stood listening as Rostnikov reported on the package and Paulinin’s request. Rostnikov listened and then hung up.
“You can pick up the bomb remnants from the bomb squad. They are being informed that they are to cooperate. It is almost certain that the bomber’s demands will not be met.”
Karpo nodded, turned, and left the office with Iosef right behind.
Rostnikov then ate at his desk, a sandwich prepared by his wife, who had made a request that he would take care of that very evening. Sarah had also prepared a thermos of tepid but sweet tea. Rostnikov had four reasons for eating in today. First, he was waiting for the report of a letter bombing that the bomber had promised. Second, he was waiting for a call from the bomber, who would want to know if Rostnikov had received his package. Third, he was waiting for a call from a former black marketeer who was now a legitimate businessman. The man had promised to find the ducting Rostnikov needed to work on Belinsky’s synagogue. The fourth reason for eating at his desk was that it was easier than walking on the artificial leg. He had been getting plenty of practice at doing that. He could use an hour or two seated at his desk.
The phone rang before Rostnikov had finished his sandwich.
Avrum Belinsky sat reading in a wooden chair that had been placed outside of Rostnikov’s office by Akardy Zelach, whose desk was in the room of five cubicles across the hall. Belinsky had not called in advance. He had slept fitfully, dreaming of a war in the streets of small towns, shooting at Syrians, being shot at. Flimsy walls of small one-and two-story buildings crumbled or exploded from shells that would have made small holes or scraped out ruts in larger, more solid buildings of the big cities. He had seen friends die, and he had killed more than once. That was both long ago and not long ago in his memory.
Avrum had come to Petrovka after his morning prayers. It had been a long journey with a stop at the synagogue to see if it was still there. It was. Untouched. But a truck was waiting at the door when he arrived, and a man sat in the cab of the truck, a burly man with a coat and cap and a scarf around his neck. The man was smoking and looking lost in thoughts or memories. The motor was not running.
Belinsky had approached the truck and startled the driver, who rolled down his window, no mean feat in this weather and considering the age of the truck.
“Belinsky?” asked the driver in a rasp of a voice that suggested a tonsillectomy had been botched in his childhood.
“Yes.” The man rolled the window up, got out of the truck, and closed the door with a slam.
“I knocked,” he said.
“It’s still early.”
“I have many things to do,” said the truck driver, who was thin and much older than he had first appeared. “Are you strong?”
“Reasonably,” said Belinsky.
“Good. This isn’t one of those days you can’t work?” asked the man, holding back a sniffle. His nose was quite red.
“No,” said Belinsky. “That’s Friday night and Saturday.”
“Good. Yuri has a sore back. He’s my helper. He’s good for nothing, but he’s strong and he’s my sister’s son,” said the driver. “Let’s go.”
The driver moved to the rear of the truck, pulled out a ring of keys, and opened the padlock. Belinsky stood back and watched as the doors squeaked open to reveal shiny aluminum sheets of various sizes and a variety of joints and angles.
“Let’s go,” the man said with resignation, and driver and rabbi slowly began to move the metal into the small synagogue.
It was especially slow because the driver was old and the rabbi probably should have been in a hospital.
That had been several hours ago. At Petrovka, Avrum asked to see Rostnikov. The young uniformed man at the guard cage looked at him with less than respect when he said his name was Rabbi Belinsky. The guard made a call and apparently got Zelach, who told the guard to let the rabbi in.
A second guard, who was supposed to be outside the cage, arms at the ready, had come into the cage to warm up a bit, though it was not particularly warm there. The second guard, who looked younger than the first, stepped out and pointed toward the entrance of the U-shaped building. The courtyard was a white rolling garden of snow hills. A wind, chill and whistling low, swirled around the U, sending up puffs of snow.
The lobby of Petrovka was dark. There was a desk inside with another uniformed man. This man was older than the guards and wore a brown uniform and no hat. His head was practically shaved at the sides, and his short brown hair was brushed back. Behind him stood a uniformed guard carrying Kalishnikov automatic weapons. Belinsky recognized the guns. He had seen them in the hands of the PLO, Syrians, Lebanese. Uzis against Kalishnikovs. Belinsky told himself that was another place and time. This was a new Russia. Another armed guard stood at a stairway nearby.
All three armed guards looked at Belinsky, though they pretended not to. Four people came down the stairs arguing. All were in their forties or fifties; only one wore a uniform. It was a military uniform. The military man was doing all the talking. Emphatic, certain, loud, confident, he spoke slowly while the others listened with respect.
“Yulia Piskovaya,” said the military man in disgust. “We bring the case against Yulia Piskovaya. She spends eleven years as a court stenographer and then, suddenly, she’s a judge. How do you talk to someone like that?”
“She’ll find him guilty,” one of the other men said wearily. “She finds everyone guilty. Don’t worry, Constantin.”
“I don’t like dealing with fools,” the older, disgusted man said.
They passed and Avrum turned his attention back to the man with short hair behind the desk.
“Someone will be down for you,” said the man, writing in the ledger before him. “Belinsky, David.”