“No,” said Rostnikov. “I find it difficult to imagine that the Chinese would be swayed in any way by what you plan to do. I think the Americans would use it for propaganda to try to get us to gain more government control of storage. It would not affect the Americans at all. Of course, this is just my opinion.”
“It is worth trying,” said Alexi. “It will be the largest gesture of its kind. It may well start an international movement so powerful that governments will be unable to ignore it.”
“I doubt that,” said Rostnikov. “But, since none of us will be here to see it, we will never know. I talked to a psychiatrist about you. An American, by phone. Gave her your profile. She does this for the FBI. Would you like to know what she said?”
“No,” said Alexi, holding the wired detonator menacingly.
“Since I am about to be blown to pieces-with the exception of my left leg, which is already gone-I think it would be unreasonable of you not to allow me a few minutes to say what I wish. You’ve spoken and, given the circumstances, can speak again.”
“Talk, quickly,” said Alexi.
“Well, she says you are afraid of dying and want to show control by maiming or condemning to broken lives or even death those who might survive you. Nuclear energy is an excuse.”
“It killed my father. It is killing me,” Alexi insisted, partially rising from his chair.
“You are not dying, Alexi Monochov,” said Rostnikov. “Look at the back of the file before you. We found your appointment notes, went to the hospital where you were diagnosed, got the X rays and test results, and sent them to the Americans, who examined them. You went to incompetent doctors at an incompetent hospital.”
“As are most in Russia,” said Paulinin.
“You have an infection, Alexi,” said Rostnikov. “A prostate infection. It can be controlled with daily medication. It is not cancerous. Your life, except for the bomb strapped to your stomach, is in no impending danger.”
“You’re lying,” said Alexi, examining each of the faces around him. He could see no trace of a lie, but they were trained to deceive. His eyes scanned the desk as if it might hold some answer, but all it held was the file folder of photographs of his victims. He flipped open the file and in the back found the medical reports.
“Had the hospital continued to treat you,” said Rostnikov, “they may very well have killed you, but that is really of no consequence now. If you set off this bomb, the American psychiatrist will issue a joint statement with the director of the Institute of Psychosis here in Moscow. You will be remembered briefly as a dying lunatic who vindictively took the lives of innocent people.”
“But you will all die, too,” said Alexi. “You let me in here knowing you could die, probably would die.”
“You and your family live well,” said Rostnikov, ignoring the observation.
“What?” said Alexi, even more bewildered.
“Your father did not have much money. You do not earn much money. Your sister’s salary is more pitiful than a policeman’s, and your mother comes from a poor family.”
“What has that …?” Alexi began.
“Your father got the money by blackmailing important officials involved in corruption in nuclear production,” came the voice at Alexi’s right.
Alexi turned to the technician, the scientist who looked more mad than Alexi felt.
“Rumor, a word here and there,” said Paulinin. “Gossip in the halls of meetings of scientists. I seldom go to such things. The pompous asses there make me bilious.”
“Give us the names and tell us where the evidence is against these people,” said Rostnikov. “That will accomplish more than what you plan.”
“If I do that, my mother and sister will be reduced to poverty,” he said.
“Then,” said Rostnikov, sitting back in his chair with a deep sigh, “you are a hypocrite.”
“You are in no position to call me names,” said Alexi. “You’re twisting things.”
“I am giving you the opportunity to live and provide that life with a meaningful act against those who abuse the very creation you are willing to kill for. I am giving you the opportunity to speak out at a public trial where the criminals your father confronted can be denounced,” said Rostnikov. “Would you like to see my artificial leg?”
“What?” asked Alexi, sitting back in complete confusion.
“I’m reaching down for it,” said Rostnikov. “Don’t panic. I’m not reaching for a weapon. If it were simply a matter of shooting you and taking our chances, Inspector Karpo, to your left, would have done so minutes ago. Ah, here.”
Rostnikov put his prosthetic leg on the desk. It made a clunking sound.
“Marvel of science,” said Rostnikov, admiring the leg. “Prosthetics. They’re improving them all the time.”
“Made by people with no knowledge of human anatomy,” said Paulinin with disgust.
Alexi was in total confusion as he looked at the leg on the table before him. No one in the room seemed the least bit afraid except Alexi, who now believed that he might well not be dying.
“I don’t want to see your wooden leg,” Alexi said, staring right at the prosthesis.
“It’s not just wood,” said Rostnikov. “It has, in fact, almost no wood. It is metal and plastic. The plastic, as you can see, is made to somewhat approximate the color of human skin, but what is the point of that, I ask you? Anyone looking at it can see it is artificial. I believe in facing the truth, Alexi Monochov.”
As the bomber continued to stare in fascination, Paulinin made a gesture to Karpo. He mimed putting his hand in his pocket. Karpo’s nod was so slight that only the scientist caught it. Rostnikov’s eyes were looking at the artificial part of his anatomy.
Alexi was hypnotized by the leg before him, confused by the apparent fact that he was not going to die. This was going all wrong.
“No,” he said, sitting down. “No more talk.”
“The photograph,” Paulinin said.
“Ah, yes, the photograph,” said Rostnikov. “I think this will interest you.”
Rostnikov pulled an eight-by-ten out of his drawer and reached over his artificial leg to place the photo face-down in front of the perplexed bomber.
“You are all crazy,” said Alexi.
“You don’t include yourself?” asked Rostnikov.
“I … I … It doesn’t matter.”
Alexi took his hand out of his pocket and reached for the photograph. The next instant was a sudden shock. Something grabbed his left hand as he reached forward. Then there was pain up his right arm as it was pulled behind him.
Karpo ignored the detonator button in Alexi’s right hand and put the confused man in handcuffs behind his back while Paulinin reached into Alexi’s left pocket and came up with a small black plastic box the size of a key-chain flashlight with a black button. Paulinin smiled in triumph and unstrapped the explosives from Alexi Monochov’s body. Alexi didn’t struggle, but Karpo still pressed down, holding him in place. Paulinin continued to search Alexi and then said, “Nothing.”
Rostnikov nodded.
“I assume I may have all this for further study,” asked Paulinin, examining the explosive loot in his hands as he moved away from Alexi to his chair.
“Of course,” said Rostnikov.
“How did you know?” asked Alexi, looking at Rostnikov.
“I had no idea,” said Rostnikov. “It was Technician Paulinin. My hope was to persuade you with the truth, Alexi. You are not dying or even seriously ill. My hope was to get you to give us the names and the evidence your father had collected. That was my hope, that and your fear of dying once you knew you were not ill. That and the opportunity in open court to make whatever kind of political or environmental statement you might choose. I don’t think you would have pushed that button. But, just in case, Technician Paulinin was here to insure that you wouldn’t.”
Rostnikov turned to the scientist, who gently patted the strap-on bomb on his lap.