“I will soon be dead,” said Alexi, head up, looking at each man across from him. “If not from my malignancy, then by execution.”
“Your malignancy,” said Rostnikov. “The same thing that killed your father. Isn’t it odd that you chose a career in the field you hated?”
“I could be aware of what was going on and where,” said Alexi, “of who was responsible and how I might be instrumental in stopping it.”
“Can it be stopped, Alexi?”
The pause was long and then the prisoner said, “No, but it can be made more safe. The public can demand so, and the politicians will listen if there is enough protest.”
“Maybe,” said Rostnikov. “I have known politicians. They are a patient and determined breed where money and power are concerned.”
There was a sound from the scientist with the thick glasses. Alexi turned toward him, but the man was silent, watching, listening.
“I talked to your doctor, obtained all of your medical records,” said Rostnikov, tapping the envelope before him. “Scientific technician Paulinin, whose medical knowledge is considerable, has examined the information and consulted with others this very day. We have confirmed without a doubt that you are not dying.”
Rostnikov slid the envelope to Paulinin, who opened it and spread the contents before him, including X rays and graphs.
“The neurologist who you have been seeing,” said Paulinin, “is little more than an incompetent quack. You have no malignancy. You have no cancer. What you have is a small blood clot that has grown slowly since you were misdiagnosed. Your pain increased in frequency and severity because your infection has not been properly treated. Your therapy was of no use. A simple operation to remove the clot could have been done when you were first seen. It can still be done, but it will require a competent surgeon. I know such a surgeon.”
Alexi looked at the X rays and graphs. He knew a bit about reading such things but did not consider himself an expert.
“These are fakes,” he finally said, handing the envelope back to Rostnikov. “I am dying. You simply want me to give you the names, the evidence. These are old X rays, old graphs. I can read the code dates in the corner.”
“These are your father’s medical records, Alexi Monochov,” said Rostnikov, sliding another file, an old one across, to the bomber. “Your father didn’t die of exposure to nuclear material any more than you are dying from it. Open the file, Alexi. Your father committed suicide. He left a note. Read the note.”
Monochov opened the old file. On top of a small pile of reports and papers was a note. It was definitely in his father’s hand.
I have been exposed to high doses of radiation. The pain is unbearable. I would rather take my own life than let my family watch me suffer a long and painful death. You will be taken care of. I promise you.
He moved to the next sheet, a report, signed by his mother.
“She knew he committed suicide?” Alexi asked in confusion. “She knew all the time?”
“It would appear so,” said Rostnikov.
“And you’re telling me he did not die of massive doses of radiation?” he asked.
“Read the record,” said Rostnikov. “It is not an external contamination from which you and your father both suffered. Put simply, Alexi, it is madness.”
Alexi couldn’t take in the information. It was a trick, like the bomb he sent to the American embassy. They wanted the names. Somehow they thought this would make him give them the names of those his father had blackmailed.
“This is a trick,” said Alexi. “A lie.”
“No,” said Rostnikov.
“I don’t believe you,” said Alexi.
“But you do believe me,” said Rostnikov, gazing into the eyes of the man across the desk.
“I will die anyway for what I have done,” Alexi said, doing his best to regain a sense of dignity.
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Rostnikov. “The director of my office is a very influential man. I have asked him if he could assure you life in prison or perhaps in a hospital for the mentally ill in exchange for the names. I grant that our mental hospitals leave a great deal to be desired, but your mother and sister would prefer that you not die.”
“I don’t know,” said Alexi. “I have to think. My mother knew? All this time? She knew he had killed himself?”
“You will be given the opportunity later today to ask her,” said Rostnikov. “We are telling you the truth, Alexi Monochov. You have told yourself lies. You are not wrong about the nuclear dangers, but you and your family have not been singled out by them.”
Monochov looked at each man. He read nothing in the face of the gaunt man. He read something like pride and vindication in the face of the man called Paulinin.
“I’ll think about it,” said Alexi.
All three men across from the one who had been the bomber knew that those words meant that he would cooperate, would provide the names, would live the rest of what promised to be a long life in a Russian prison or mental hospital, which many considered to be far worse than a quick death.
Rostnikov knew that Monochov wanted time to think of another option. The only other one Porfiry Petrovich knew would be for Monochov to contact some of the more influential people his family was blackmailing and threaten them with exposure if they didn’t find a way to get him out of execution or prison. Corruption was almost always possible, but, Rostnikov concluded, in this case the evidence was too overwhelming. A confession had been made, and the media would be outraged. They would seek out the people who had perpetrated such an injustice, and they would be aided by leaks from the Office of Special Investigation. Monochov might try this approach, but it was doomed to failure.
“Yes, think about it,” said Rostnikov. “But since this is a very important crime, you will appear before a judge within two days and the state will be ready to take you to trial within a week. Think about it, Alexi Monochov, but think quickly and let the guards know when you want to talk to me again.”
Paulinin gathered the material from Alexi’s files and put it back in the envelope as Rostnikov and the man who had made a fool of Paulinin continued to talk.
Who must decide now? Paulinin thought. Which button do you push? Which wire do you cut? Who do you believe? A mistake, Alexi Monochov, could mean your death. Now you know how it feels. Now we are even, more than even. You have tricked yourself.
Though he said nothing, Paulinin believed that the balding man across from him would probably choose neither of the logical options open to him. Paulinin believed the bomber would try to kill himself in the next few days before having to appear before a judge, kill himself as his father had before him. That was if the bomber really had the courage to do so. He might not. In any case, should he kill himself, Paulinin wanted to conduct the autopsy. Normally he would have to wait until some incompetent pathologist butchered the body and either found nothing or drew the wrong conclusions. Only then, usually by official request from someone in Petrovka, would Paulinin get the corpse. Paulinin wanted this one first, wanted to examine the brain in detail. Rostnikov owed him that.
Rostnikov rose awkwardly, using the desk to brace himself. The two men on either side of Monochov rose also and so, finally, did Alexi. The tall, gaunt man who had disarmed him in Rostnikov’s office left the room to find the guard who stood nearby.
The guard returned and Alexi followed him through the door.
When Alexi was gone, Rostnikov said, “He will give us the names. He will consider his choices and choose life.”
“How do you know?” asked Paulinin.
“There was hope in his eyes yesterday when we told him he wasn’t dying,” said Rostnikov. “That hope was there again. And now he wants to distance himself from his father’s madness. He will grow angry. He will curse his father and mother, but he will not want us to think him mad. He wants to live, even if that life is in a prison or a madhouse.”