Owen Matthews - Black Sun

There was a squeak as the lectern light was dimmed. A film projector clattered into action. A bright white rectangle flung a series of numbers onto the screen, counting down.

“So, colleagues.” When Adamov spoke loudly the pitch of his voice also rose. “We will remind ourselves of the terrible forces that we believe are under our command. We watch. And we are humbled. You will see the film at one-twenty-fourth speed, frame by frame, so that we can visually establish the detonation stages of this device from ten years ago.”

A rumble began in Adamov’s chest that sounded like the start of a phlegmy smoker’s cough. The Professor rooted in the pockets of his tunic, drew out a crumpled packet of cigarettes, and struck a match.

The view from the hatch of an aircraft flickered onto the screen. In one corner, a tail fin intruded on the shot. Below, a landscape of whiteness. Sea ice, the outline of a sweeping bay with indistinct shapes on the horizon. An ungainly black shape tumbled earthward, neatly deploying a parachute a couple of seconds into its descent, then gaining stability as it drifted gently down. For nearly a minute, there was nothing but the projector’s whir. Then, a sudden flash, making the screen an almost perfect blank for several seconds.

“Now. Slow, please.”

On the screen, as the flash died, smoke rippled centrifugally. A small vertical blast of debris, as from a conventional shell, burst upward. Then a second horizontal ripple, and a third, each raising a ridge of earth and snow as it hurtled out across the landscape. A column of smoke rose and thickened, obscuring the detonation point. Light flashed inside the column as it rose. Then came another detonation, inside the cloud this time and far above ground zero, making the rising smoke suddenly bulge. The frames clicked by. The blast wave reached the aircraft and caused it to lurch crazily for several seconds before recovering. The cloud was level with the aircraft now, and climbing, and spreading. The cameraman pulled the focus back to encompass a vast mushroom of debris spread across the sky.

Vasin found no words for what he was watching. He turned to Kuznetsov, but his companion’s attention was still rooted to the now-static final image on the screen, transfixed as a child’s at a scary movie.

The lights in the hall at the lecture’s conclusion robbed Vasin of the anonymity of darkness. Plenty of the men were in uniform, mostly with the crossed-hammers insignia of military engineers. But Vasin’s KGB sword-and-shield badges immediately marked him out as an intruder.

The crowd on the stairs shuffled aside to allow Adamov to pass. Vasin felt the Professor’s eye catch on the telltale uniform, the officer’s bars on his collar, his face. The old man’s pale face momentarily creased with distaste.

The Professor moved on up the stairs. Vasin slipped into his wake. He heard Kuznetsov call something after him, and ignored it. Pushing forward among the bodies crushing through the doors with a skill learned on the Moscow metro, Vasin squeezed into the corridor and raced after the retreating figure of the Professor and his entourage of assistants.

“Professor Adamov? A moment, please.”

Vasin’s raised voice was enough to stop Adamov in his tracks, if only because it was clearly unheard of for anybody to shout the Professor’s name in the halls of the Institute. Catching up with Adamov, he felt the full weight of the Professor’s outraged glare.

“Major Alexander Vasin. State Security.”

Adamov did not speak, but stood motionless, waiting for one of his acolytes to interpret his silence. A white-coated youngster consulted a clipboard.

“Professor, there was a letter from the Kommandatura this morning. Major Vasin is here to investigate Dr. Petrov’s accident.”

Vasin saluted.

“My apologies for the disturbance, Professor. But I hope you understand….”

Adamov raised a long-fingered hand in front of Vasin’s face, as though stopping traffic. The gesture was imperious.

“A terrible tragedy. But I have spoken to one of you already. Major… Efremov? There we are. Thank you. Goodbye.”

Adamov turned to go, his palm still raised rudely in Vasin’s face.

“Sir?” Vasin flung the word hard enough to stop Adamov in his tracks once more. “I am afraid that there will have to be more questions. I have been sent from Moscow on the personal orders of General Orlov to conduct an independent assessment of the case.”

Slowly, Adamov turned back.

“General Orlov. ” Close up, Adamov’s face was gaunt as a corpse’s. He spoke slowly, and there was menace in his voice. “Now if only we had as many hours as we have generals . And what is it that your general needs from me?”

“Thank you, Professor. May I have the honor of speaking to you in private?”

An indecent hiss escaped the Professor’s dry lips.

“What will cost me less? Arguing with your generals, or making time to talk to you?”

“Professor, you answer your own questions so succinctly. Talking to me should take no time at all.”

The Professor’s mouth clamped tight as a trap. His pale blue eyes filled with fury.

My God, thought Vasin, his eyes connecting for a long moment with Adamov’s wrathful stare. This is a man who can hate.

“Perhaps. After the test.”

Adamov turned his back on Vasin and strode onward.

Vasin felt a strong hand gripping his upper arm. Kuznetsov pulled him to the side of the corridor with enough force to make a point. Young scientists and engineers streamed past them, chatting animatedly. Kuznetsov’s voice hissed into his ear.

“What the fuck was that?”

Vasin pulled his arm free and turned to his host. His handler.

“I wanted to make an appointment. Is there a problem?”

“A fucking appointment with Professor Academician Yury Adamov? Yes, there is a problem.”

“Is he not a witness in the Petrov case?”

“Vasin. So you’re a big shot from some top-secret cubbyhole of the kontora’ s top floor. Orders from above. I see. But Adamov…”

The crowd spilling out of the lecture theater pushed them apart for a moment before Kuznetsov could continue.

“…Adamov is Arzamas. The program is his . He is…”

“Above the law?”

“He’s off-limits to you. To everyone.”

“To you, Kuznetsov. Maybe he’s off-limits to you.”

Vasin saw a red flush of anger boiling up from Kuznetsov’s tight collar like a rising storm. But the man forced it down, like a child fighting to control a tantrum. Kuznetsov exhaled deeply, twice, and when he spoke again his voice was impressively calm.

“Vasin. Alexander. Or may I—Sasha? Sasha, listen to me. This place is not like other places. It’s not like anyplace you’ve ever been.”

“You don’t know the places I’ve been.”

“Nowhere in our broad, glorious Union is like Arzamas. Different rules.”

“I believe you. But would you be surprised to know I’ve heard that before?”

Kuznetsov raised his eyes to the heavens in a pantomime of exasperation.

“I give up. You really need to speak to Zaitsev.”

“I didn’t think I had a choice in the matter.”

The two men stared at each other. The corridor had finally emptied. The only sound was the distant clatter of a Teletype machine and the fading chatter of the departing crowd.

Vasin broke the tension first.

“That film was…”

Kuznetsov threw him a low glance.

“Terrifying? Yes.”

“You’ve seen it before?”

“It’s Professor Adamov’s favorite. It is why I brought you along.”

“And the bomb he’s building now. It’s…”