Mitch Silver - The Bookworm

Lara could see the woman was telling the truth. She pulled Tatiana close and spoke in her ear so she could be heard above the din. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Nikki has the Bible, the recordings, everything.”

The other woman drew back with a look of horror. “Oh my God, have you any idea what you’ve done?!”

Before Lara could explain, the woman had hurried off into the crowd.

Inside the production truck, Viktor was almost done with the transfer. The thin aluminum cladding of the metal box only amplified the thumping and stamping from outside. Pugachova was taking them higher, clapping her own hands high over her head, urging the crowd’s participation in the chorus of her beloved classic:

Russia’s beloved diva had everyone’s attention, artfully lowering her singing voice to little more than a whisper for dramatic irony as she reprised the opening verse:

It would only be clear afterward, when the feeds from the various cameras in the Square were played back, that the problem began with the gasp from the crowd, reacting to the new sequence of images on the Kremlin walls behind the dignitaries.

As big as a football pitch, the image of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge had its own kind of industrial beauty, in stark contrast to those of the dancers and roses it replaced: a working oilfield with at least a dozen structures large and small and drilling apparatus everywhere, set in a natural bowl carved out by the Canning River just before it emptied into the deep blue of the Beaufort Sea.

The Russian leader’s mistake came in trying to turn around and see what was going on behind him. He lost his balance on the risers and fell several steps to the bottom, just as Pugachova was striding off, blowing kisses to the crowd. His guards at first assumed he was heading down to the microphone, albeit awkwardly, for an impromptu speech. But he’d sprained his ankle in the fall. When he tried to stand up, the ankle wouldn’t support him. The second time he fell, he tripped over the exposed microphone cord and killed the mic.

Meanwhile, the scheduled fireworks display was going off in the night sky. But instead of a Stravinsky soundtrack, a woman’s narration took over, describing the visual splashed across the Kremlin: “You’re looking at the northernmost region of the state of Alaska, the very state in America where one of our honored guests announced his people had struck oil. Those of you with smartphones can go right now to Google Earth, and you can confirm for yourselves that this is what you’ll see.”

As his bodyguards came to the aid of the hobbled Russian president at the foot of the rostrum, the image behind them changed into one from halfway down the Refuge’s hill. Now, even the individual oilrigs were clearly visible. The woman’s voice, accustomed to projecting to the far reaches of lecture halls, continued. “This is the very spot where our American guest has walked and spoken with the workers. And seen the oil, oceans of it, that even now—at the start of the working day over there—is pouring up out of the ground.”

The American president on the podium didn’t know Russian, but when he heard the word Amerikanski, he decided to smile.

Now the visual everyone was watching changed again, and what had been oilrigs and production buildings became wooden props and circus tents. Another, louder gasp arose from the crowd. The man the Secret Service called Mogul turned from the scene and, looking down at his injured Russian confederate, shot him his most tight-lipped, anger-unmanaged grin.

Out in the Square, the cameramen were shooting whatever they could: now the giant images on the wall, now the President, now the crowd.

Trina, kneeling in the shadows well beyond the truck, was continuing her vigorous ministrations over the already-dry trousers of Alexei, who seemed lost in the moment. Two other men, though, were in motion; one lanky, one massive, both determined. Lara was perfectly placed to see them leave the anonymity of the crowd and hurry toward the truck.

The laughter started somewhere in the back of Red Square, a little tittering at first. It spread through the crowd with each successive image from Lev’s camera of faked canvas buildings and painted wooden props made to look like rigs.

The picture of the lone telephone pole holding up the largest tent—with the words ALASKA POWER AND TELEPHONE COMPANY clearly stenciled in yellow paint across the barrel of the pole—drew a guffaw among those who could read English. The laughing seemed to die down for a bit while the Anglophones translated the words for their Russian-only neighbors, then it burst out again, rebounding off the buildings surrounding the Square, amplifying it.

A line of nondescript oil tankers flying American flags came on next. A man on the video’s soundtrack was saying, “There, you can just barely see it, the one with the orange insignia: The Atlantic Pioneer. If you look carefully, you can see where they painted over the Russian name.”

Another man asked him, “ Kak dolgo vy budete nasosnoĭneftʹ ?” For some reason, the question of “how long will you be pumping the oil?” set the crowd off again.

The two thugs had reached the door of the mobile production suite with their guns out. The big one, Suslov, peered around the side of the truck, looking for the kid. “Alexei, zip up and get over here!”

The young man pushed Katrina away and joined the others at the entrance to the truck. He took out the knife from his back pocket.

Lara saw everything. In a panic she called Viktor’s mobile. “Did you lock the door? Nikki’s goons are right outside!”

Too late. In a matter of seconds, there was no longer a door to lock. The crack it made coming off its hinges and crashing to the ground just added to the noise when several fireworks were set off at once. But then the enormous individual who’d accomplished the feat filled the open doorway for a moment before dropping the heavy door on the ground, leaving a rectangle of light where the entrance had been. A second, taller man moved in behind him, and then a shot rang out.

The sound finally caused the TV cameramen to swing their lights away from the rostrum toward the scene, where a third, younger man had something in his hand, something that glinted in the lights.

There were two more shots. Then the whole son et lumière suddenly went dead, and the panicked crowd began racing for the exits. These Russians needed no reminder of what insurgents from the North Caucasus had done, bombing the airport in 2011 and the Metro a year earlier; or the Chechens’ deadly hostage-taking at a Moscow theater, and the massacre at the Beslan school, before that.