Black Knight in Red Square (25 page)

Bintz shrugged and reached eagerly for the menu.

The service was almost as slow as Rostnikov remembered it. The KGB men had discovered each other and were watching from a far table. The restaurant was not at all crowded.

“We shall see,” sighed Bintz.

In the next hour, Bintz managed to eat an amount that awed Rostnikov, who could eat with the best. The German downed a crab salad,
kholodets
—a beef, veal, and chicken gelatin appetizer—an order of chicken Kiev, a bottle of white wine, and a whole loaf of bread.

When Rostnikov returned from the bathroom, Bintz had finished Rostnikov's remaining beef Stroganoff and had ordered a special dessert.

“I'd like to stay for the dessert,” he said, wiping his mouth and rising as Rostnikov sat.

“I'm afraid not,” said the chief inspector. “The exit door is to the right of the men's bathroom. I'll eat your dessert.”

“Thank you, and good luck,” said Bintz, putting down his napkin and walking toward the rear of the restaurant. He carried himself with great dignity in spite of his weight.

Rostnikov ate some more bread and made sure that neither of the KGB men had followed Bintz. Why should they? The man had simply gone to the men's room before his dessert was served.

The ride to the airport was approximately 32 kilometers. In five minutes, if he had no trouble finding a taxi, Bintz would be on the Leningrad Highway. He would pass the massive Dynamo Sports Stadium and go by the Petrovsky Palace where Napoleon had once stayed after being driven out of the Kremlin. Then, Rostnikov imagined, he would pass the monument in honor of the Moscow defenders who drove off Hitler's army, speed by the few remaining
isby
, or log cabins, and pull in to the airport.

If Rostnikov had timed it correctly, even allowing a margin for error, Bintz should make the plane and be well on his way to West Germany at about the same time that the KGB men began to wonder why he was staying so long in the bathroom.

Again, assuming nothing went wrong, Bintz would land safely in West Berlin before the KGB even thought of checking his room, let alone flights out of the country.

When the KGB man with the balding head showed the first signs of concern, Rostnikov beat him to it by examining his own watch, rising with annoyance, and stalking toward the rear of the restaurant. This caused the KGB man to sit down. Rostnikov checked his watch once more and slowly returned to the table.

Still looking annoyed, he called the waiter and asked for the nearest phone. His KGB man followed, leaving Bintz's man to head for the toilets. Rostnikov's first call, well out of earshot of the bald man, was to the airport. The flight, he found, had just left. His second call was to Sarah, as planned.

“Yes,” she said.

“I will be home soon,” he said and hung up. If they asked whom he called, they would have no trouble confirming the call home.

It was done. He paid the check, which was more than he had ever paid for a meal in his life, and went home. It was seven o'clock, the very moment Bintz was supposed to have detonated the bomb.

There was only one place it could be, Karpo concluded, looking at the copies of the maps he had given Rostnikov. It was not likely that she would attack another movie theater. He was unaware that a bomb was being planned for the swimming pool and that Rostnikov had effectively defused it.

What he did know was that the woman had only a few hours if she was to board the plane on which she had a reservation as Louise Rich. He assumed she was probably on her own at this point.

Karpo sat erect at his desk, demanding that the maps yield more than they had to give.

The target had to be something that, when destroyed or damaged, would deeply affect the Soviet Union and whose destruction could not be hidden from the outside world. Thus, it would have to be something very public.

“Something irreplaceable,” he said softly to himself, looking up. His eyes went across the room to Zelach, who had just finished a report and was about to go home, but Karpo's gaze had caught him in a moment of guilty thought about a bribe someone had offered him, and one he was seriously considering. How much could it hurt to forget about a few illegal telephones? It wasn't political, probably not even very criminal, and the amount of the bribe was considerable. Yes, Zelach had made up his mind to accept the payment, until he found himself gazing into the steely eyes of the Vampire. The man, he thought, is a damned fanatic. He can probably read my mind. Zelach wilted under the intensity of Karpo's stare and resolved to turn in the capitalist offender. He got up, walked past Karpo with a grunt, and headed out.

Karpo scarcely noticed him. It would be the Lenin Mausoleum, he decided. If he had read her ego correctly—the use of exotic poison, her impersonation of Aubrey's widow, the murder of the Frenchwoman—everything indicated that she had a massive sense of her own power.

Of course, he could be wrong. He knew he could be wrong but, by the same token, he had little choice, and so he folded the maps neatly, put them into his top drawer, and rose slowly. His left arm ached slightly, but it was a dull ache, as if he had slept on it. There was no migraine, though he had expected one. It was time.

* * *

Vladimir Ilich Lenin died on January 21, 1924. A wooden mausoleum pyramid was designed and built within two days of his death to hold the embalmed body. In January of that year, the mausoleum was rebuilt and stood until 1930 when it was replaced by the present mausoleum of red granite and black labradorite. The stone structure is exactly the same shape as the wooden one it replaced, but it is permanent. The entrance to the mausoleum, which faces Red Square and the massive GUM, or State Universal Stores, is marked only by the name of Lenin, encrusted in dark red porphyry.

The mausoleum is an essential stop for Russians visiting the capital. It is both a political and cultural mecca and very nearly a religious one. Thousands visit the tomb each month to enter solemnly and gaze at the perfectly preserved face of Lenin, and most of those who come make a point of being in the square to watch the changing of the guard at the mausoleum, which takes place every hour, day and night. The guards, dressed in gray uniforms with two rows of brass buttons down their chests, carry their rifles in their left hands pointing straight to the sky. If the square is not too crowded, a visitor can hear the guards' black boots strike the pavement as they march from the mausoleum, which lies in the shadow of the Kremlin Wall.

Since it was a Sunday evening and nearly seven-thirty, Karpo did not arrive in time to watch the changing of the guard. Lenin was the symbol of all that Karpo believed in. A photograph could suffice to remind him of the leader, but the mausoleum was the central symbol for the entire nation. And he had made it his responsibility to protect it.

He stood on 25th October Street at the corner of the square scanning the crowd of tourists for a familiar face. But it was still too crowded for him to be confident of catching all the faces in the crowd. This was both a disadvantage and an advantage, for if he did not see her, then she would also have difficulty seeing him.

The clock in Spasskaya, the main Kremlin tower, told him that it was now twenty minutes to eight. He maneuvered slowly, carefully, and watchfully through the crowd. People were gathered in clusters before the bronze doors of the red pyramid of the mausoleum. He slowly approached the mausoleum, glancing at the two uniformed guards who stood stiffly at the door with rifles bayoneted and ready at their sides. Karpo joined a group of about twenty men and women being led by a guide, who jabbered at them in heavily accented German and pointed beyond the mausoleum to the towers of the Kremlin.

It was time either to move toward the greatest humiliation of his life or to engage in the most meaningful act he had ever performed. In his pocket was a small book containing the constitution of the Soviet Union. He took it out and pretended to look at it as if it were a guidebook.

Easing away from the tail end of the crowd of Germans, Karpo, eyes on the book, said in a clear voice to the guards, “I am a police officer. My name is Karpo, and I have reason to believe that an explosive device has been placed inside the tomb.”

He lifted his eyes to the two young, clean-shaven faces and noted that the one on the left reacted slightly.

“Do not react,” Karpo went on, raising his head as if to admire the inscription over the door. “The person who intends to detonate this device may well be watching. I will remain where I stand while you do whatever you are supposed to do in an emergency.”

Karpo, without watching, turned his back on the two guards, glanced up at the Spassky tower and let his eyes drift around the square once more, but there was no sign of the woman. Of course it was possible that she would send someone else, but he doubted it. This was her moment.

Behind him he could hear a movement, slight but distinct. He assumed that one of the guards had a microphone or some other device with which he could summon help. Karpo hoped this was true, for he could not stand there for more than a few minutes without attracting attention, especially if the Germans moved away and no other group moved close.

He turned again, glancing along the wall and beyond the marble stands at the foot of the Kremlin tower to the Nikolsky tower and the gate below. Two men in uniform were moving forward quickly, hands on their flapping holsters. Karpo sauntered in their direction through the group of Germans, still trying to look like a tourist, but knowing that he would fool no one.

He intercepted the two men about a hundred yards to the right of the mausoleum and kept his hands in front of him and clearly visible.

“Major,” he said, stepping in front of them.

The major, a hard-faced man of about forty-five with jaw clenched, flipped open his holster as the officer behind him took two steps to one side and did the same.

“If you will be as inconspicuous as possible,” Karpo said, noting that a few people were looking their way, “you can remove my identification from my right coat pocket. May I warn you that someone may be watching us? If we do not act with speed and caution, we may be too late.”

The major nodded toward the other officer, a young lieutenant, who advanced on Karpo, one hand still on his open holster. Reaching into the policeman's pocket, he removed the wallet and handed it to the major, who opened it, examined it, and looked at Karpo.

“Lieutenant Aronsov will remain with you while I check on your credentials,” the major said softly.

“There may not be time,” Karpo said, looking at the tower clock which now showed fifteen minutes to eight.

“Damn you,” hissed the major. “Why didn't you go through proper channels with this?”

“There was no time,” Karpo replied evenly. “I wasn't sure until a short while ago.” He did not add that he was not certain even now.

The major's hands drummed against the leather of his holster as he appraised Karpo. Evidently he was properly impressed.

“Come,” he said. He walked past Karpo and the lieutenant and headed directly for the mausoleum. Karpo turned and followed with the lieutenant behind, watching him.

“No one can enter the mausoleum carrying anything,” the major said, “not a briefcase, flight bag, camera, anything.”

“The detonator would be quite small,” said Karpo.

The major grunted, pushed aside a startled Asian tourist and strode to the bronze door.

“With a dozen men we could do this in one minute,” the major said impatiently, “but I suppose…”

“It would be rather conspicuous,” finished Karpo, “and the terrorist might simply decide to detonate if she is watching. She might do so anyway.”

“She,” grunted the major, waiting for the guard to open the bronze door.

“Yes,” said Karpo.

They entered and picked up an echo in the near darkness.

“And what we have already done might be sufficient to set her off,” the major observed, nodding at the lieutenant to move. The major did not take his eyes off Karpo. The lieutenant moved swiftly, clearly knowing every inch of the interior, every place a bomb could conceivably be placed. Karpo watched, wanting to help and knowing that he would not be allowed to. The slight hum of the air conditioning played above the rapid movements of the lieutenant as they moved down the stone staircase. The light around the sealed case was dim, but the young officer's hands were swift. Karpo watched with fascination as the young man moved behind the glass-covered face of the corpse of Lenin.

“Here,” cried the lieutenant, emerging from the far side of the casket holding up the small black box. “Plastic on the outside held it in place. No way to judge how powerful it is.”

“One of her bombs went off a few hours ago at the Zaryadye Cinema,” said Karpo.

“That was a bomb?” asked the major. “We heard…”

Karpo nodded.

“Out with it,” the major said, and the lieutenant moved swiftly to the stairs.

“I suggest you put that in your pocket,” Karpo said, hearing his voice echo back. “If she is out here and…”

The young man looked at the major who shrugged and said, “The important thing is to get out of here with it. Let's go.”

“I'll take it,” said Karpo, moving forward as the lieutenant passed him. He grabbed the small box and heard both men respond almost immediately with drawn guns.

“If I were the one, I wouldn't have waited till I was in here,” he said.

“What do you—” began the major, holding his pistol aimed at Karpo's chest. “Forget it. We'll deal with this outside. Move.” He motioned with his gun as Karpo plunged the box into his pocket and moved quickly up the stairs through the cool tomb.

Beyond the bronze doors, the sun nearly blinded them. Karpo had been ready for this, and he dashed forward into a crowd of sailors and began to run across the square. He was heading toward an open area not far from the Lobnoye Mesto, the Place of Execution, the Skull Platform of white stone more than four centuries old where the czar's edicts had been proclaimed and public executions carried out.