Something might have to be done about him, and soon. Just as decisive a something as the act soon to unfold at the uncurtained Window opposite.
"Door's open," a voice whispered in the shadows of the room, disembodied — unnerving except that Serov knew it came from the small transceiver clipped to his overcoat.
"Go ahead," he murmured in reply. The room seemed charged with the static from the open channel. He raised to his eyes a small Pair of binoculars, suitable for low-light conditions. And studied Rodin's form stretched on the bed.
The team was in the flat. Breathing, quick and tense, filled the room. Lock picker, two heavies, and a doctor to administer the overdose of drugs — whichever drug Serov decided upon in the next few minutes. They were in the hallway. Rodin lay on the bed, robe in disarray, deeply unconscious; drink and hashish. He was a drugged, incompetent, dangerous mess—
— rubbish to be thrown out. Serov listened to the team's combined breathing, felt his muscles tighten and contract with their tension. For himself, he was prepared to assume the calm of the detached observer, certain of the outcome of the drama he was witnessing.
The door opened behind him, startling him. He turned angrily. A young radio operator, carrying his set, apologized awkwardly.
"You said, sir—" he began.
The older sergeant, accompanying him, merely snapped: "The communications unit you requested, comrade Colonel." i "Yes, very well, get it installed and working — over that side of the room."
He turned away abruptly, in time to see the door of Rodin's bedroom opening. He stared. The team was in black civilian trousers and sweaters; ski masks. He felt excited by the menace they so thoroughly portrayed on the screen of the window. Two, three of them, and the doctor.
Rodin sitting up, startled awake, one of the team moving to him, another to the curtains at the window, dragging them closed—
— sharp disappointment, Rodin's distant, tinny voice protesting, breathing from one of the team as if engaged in strenuous exercise, the heartbeat of another, all filled the room. Serov's frustration at being cut off from the unfolding drama was as audible to him as the sounds from the transceiver, and the noises of the two men behind him.
"OK, sir," the Sergeant murmured.
"Not now!" Serov stormed, hand moving as if to clutch at his heart. Then he added more softly: "In a moment, Sergeant."
"Sir." The sergeant clumped away.
He uncovered the transceiver on his breast like a treasured pet-Breathing, Rodin's repeated, frightened questions, the laughter of one of the team — Grigori, possibly. The comms set at the back of the room crackled and hummed, awaiting his attention. Serov stared at the closed curtains, as if anticipating some vivid shadow play to be thrown upon them by the lights of Rodin's bedroom.
He could trust the team, just as he could trust the two mebehind him. There was no risk in using them to dispose of a general's son. They were his creatures.
General Rodin would be an implacable enemy, should he ever discover the truth of his son's death. However, there was no danger of that. But a sacrificial goat might divert any suspicion from himself. He recalled the generals cold, stiff features looking down at him. The glittering eyes had seen Serov's capacity to destroy his queer son. When he heard of Valery's death, Serov might be the first person he would think of in connection with the event. Might indeed.
Suicide, then. Serov rubbed his chin. There was the smell of cigarette smoke in the room now, the scrape of matches as the sergeant and the radio operator lit acrid Russian tobacco. Serov wrinkled his nose fastidiously. Watched the curtains opposite, then looked at his watch. Three-ten in the morning. Rodin hadn't been gagged — no bruising must appear around his mouth.
"Why, why, why?" came repeatedly from the transceiver, not "who? who are you, what do you want?"
Serov could not resist saying, "You know why."
"Who?" Rodin blurted. Someone laughed once more — yes, Grigori, whose stereotyping even included the slightly manic giggle; it was surprising how often members of his special teams fulfilled their cinematic stereotypes. Then: "Serov? Is that you, Serov? For Christ's sake, where are you? What do you want, man?" It was both question and bribe.
"Yes — I'm across the street, Rodin. Where your friend Priabin had his men installed." The sergeant cut off a guffaw of laughter in the shadows behind him. "You remember your friend Priabin? What you spoke about together?"
"You've been watching me?" Rodin's voice was terrified, certain of its future.
"Everyone's been watching you, dear boy."
"For God's sake! I told him nothing!" Rodin bellowed; but the small noise from the transceiver was contained, even swallowed, by room. "My father — he can't want you to do this, he can't—"
"He doesn't even know."
"Then you can't do it!" Hysterical relief, the voice at the point of breaking. "You need his order—"
"Security is my concern."
"I told him nothing!"
I don't believe you." Serov stared at his gloved hands, flexing the fingers, spreading them in front of him. He smoothed the gloves as he had seen the general do only hours earlier, on the steps of the officers' mess. Businesslike, fastidious rather than sinister.
"I told him nothing!"
"Now you're protecting him, too," Serov observed calmly. "Security is my responsibility. It's security I'm interested in here. I'm ensuring things remain — secure." He listened for a moment to Rodin's ragged breathing, then he said: "Very well — do it." And above Rodin's scream of protest and terror, he added loudly: "Make it suicide. Suicide!"
He stared at the curtains. A delicate blow to the head or neck, or a gripped nerve to render Rodin unconscious, silence the noise he was making.
"Don't bruise him," he snapped, as if he could see the struggle taking place on the bed rather than simply overhearing it.
A narrow tube down the throat, and whiskey or cognac — the choice was unimportant — and then the Valium or whatever tranquilizer or sleeping pill the doctor discovered in Rodin's bathroom cabinet or bedroom drawer. No overdose of heroin or cocaine, but a signposted suicide; sleeping pills washed down with drink. The boy would be unable to avoid swallowing the mixture. The tube would leave nothing but a little rawness at the back of his throat, unlikely to interest the coroner. Murder would not be a possibility.
The initial spluttering, the exerted breathing of the team, the murmured instructions, went on for some time, but slowly, inevitably subsided. There was a cadence about it, a diminuendo, which Serov quite liked; and a decency in the violence taking place offstage, as it were — behind closed curtains. Something domestic and suburban and inescapably ordinary. So fitting. So belying. Rodin's father would believe in the suicide, and if he wondered why, then-'
Serov turned abruptly from the window. The room could be redressed with KGB surveillance paraphernalia, easily. Now he had given himself the option of incriminating Priabin, should it prove necessary. Over the transceiver he could hear calm breathing noises, movement, whispers, routines; as if they were arranging the body for viewing — which, in a sense, they were. Yes, it might be best to implicate Priabin, arrest him — tonight? Certainly today. He postponed decision. If he didn't use the suicide to involve Priabin, then it would simply bring the pain of guilt to the general. And that was satisfactory, too.
He turned to the window, briefly. Still curtained. They'd draw them back before they left, switching off the room lights. Someone would see the body from this block of flats when daylight came. Yes, all very satisfactory, neat.