Owen Matthews - Black Sun

On the second floor, Efremov tugged a brass bellpull. After a long pause the heavy door swung open. At first Vasin thought that a boy had opened it. But it was a young woman with pale, close-cropped hair. She wore a pair of checked trousers, cut fashionably short, and a loose sweater. Her eyes were set wide apart, and her body was long-waisted and thin, like an elegant weasel’s. She exuded an icy glamour.

The young woman leaned her head on the door and gripped the handle with both hands. She said nothing, but her eyes shone with an unnatural brightness.

“Excuse the disturbance. I believe I have an appointment with Professor Adamov?” Vasin stammered a little under the intensity of the young woman’s stare. “Major Alexander Vasin.”

“One second.” She spoke in a whisper. She crossed the wide hallway, swaying unsteadily, leaving the two KGB men standing at the open door. He heard a murmur, and then Adamov’s voice.

“Come.”

Adamov sat at the head of a dining table of dark wood surrounded by high-backed chairs with carved arms. The young woman took her place beside the Professor. An elegant, old-fashioned lamp that hung over the table illuminated empty plates and the two diners’ hands, but left their faces in shadow. Adamov eyed his visitors with unconcealed distaste.

“Comrade Majors. Sit.”

Vasin took the chair to Adamov’s left, leaving Efremov to settle at the far end of the table. Vasin felt that he had wandered into some kind of interrogation scene from a historical film. In the half-light, Adamov’s face looked cadaverous. Next to him the girl sat poised and motionless, as if posing for a portrait.

“Professor Adamov, thank you for seeing me. It has also been explained to me very clearly that your work is of the utmost national importance.”

“I protest this waste of my time, especially at this critical juncture in the fate of our nation. But when I receive a call from a member of the Politburo, I have no choice but to obey. So. Quickly. Fyodor Petrov.”

“Exactly, sir. Was there anything about his behavior in his last days that seemed strange to you? Did you notice any signs of distress?”

“I noticed nothing amiss. I have already spoken of this to your colleague. Him.”

Adamov gestured down the table at Efremov as though indicating an inanimate object.

“I have read your statement. Perhaps you would describe your relationship with Petrov to me?”

“Petrov was one of my most promising assistants. He had a good mind. Our relationship was perfectly correct and professional. He will be missed.”

“So Petrov was generally well liked?”

A pause.

“Everybody loved Fedya.” The young woman uncurled herself and leaned forward into the light. Her voice was low and slurred. “Everyone. Just. Loved. Fedya Petrov. Especially my husband .”

Tension snapped like an electric spark down the table. The woman was young enough to be the Professor’s daughter. Vasin watched her face tighten into a little smile. Mascara was starting to run from one eye. The whine of a boiling kettle rose from the kitchen.

“Maria.” Adamov spoke firmly, as if to a child. “Would you bring us some tea, please?”

She stood, abruptly, and stalked out of the room.

Adamov turned back slowly to Vasin.

“Continue.”

“How long did you know Petrov?”

“Have you spoken to the boy’s father? Our esteemed Comrade Academician Arkady Vasilyevich Petrov?”

“I have, sir. I spoke to the Academician two days ago in Moscow.”

Vasin thought of Petrov senior, slumped and weeping under his dripping dacha eaves a few days before. A plump man, punctured by grief.

“So doubtless Arkady Vasilyevich told you that we have known each other a long time. Since Fyodor was a boy, in fact.” A tremor entered Adamov’s voice. “You see, his father and I were colleagues, once. Back in the thirties. The heroic days.”

His voice was bone-dry, like papers being taken down from dusty shelves.

“Are you still on good terms with Academician Petrov?”

“Very good.”

“And his son Fyodor Arkadiyevich came here to work for you….”

“In 1955. You will surely see that in the files. Please, Major, let us spare each other the pro forma questions.”

Maria returned with a tray laden with clinking china. It seemed to take all her concentration to pour out three cups of weak tea. She passed them to Vasin, Efremov, and Adamov with great formality, then resumed her place in silence.

“Tell me about the safety procedures in your laboratories.”

“Speak to Dr. Vladimir Axelrod, if you must. He is aware of the technical aspects of the work he did with Petrov. He will be at his post tomorrow.”

“The pathologist expressed doubt that Dr. Petrov could have received such a large dose by accident. Not in the laboratory.”

“I defer to his opinion.”

“But if the doctor’s estimation is correct and it was not an accidental poisoning…”

“Then the poor soul knew what he was doing.”

“Or someone gave it to him,” said Vasin.

Adamov’s face did not flicker.

“You are saying someone in this city could be a murderer?”

“I am saying that someone in your laboratory could be a murderer.”

“The stoker sees other stokers everywhere.” Adamov pronounced the old Russian proverb in an indifferent voice. “An investigator, I imagine, sees murderers everywhere. I pray you are wrong. But the fact is, Comrade Major, that with the work we are undertaking at the laboratory, nobody has time to pursue your theory. Project RDS-220 is too important to be interfered with. Eight days from now the most powerful bomb the world has ever known will be detonated. That is all you need to know. So let me put it more plainly. Objectively, I cannot afford to give a flying motherfuck how Petrov died.”

Adamov pronounced the words precisely. In the Professor’s clipped voice the profanity was as shocking as a bucket of turds tipped onto the white tablecloth. Vasin was stunned into silence.

“I mean you no disrespect, Major,” Adamov continued smoothly. “Indeed it is quite possible that you are an intelligent young man. You show some signs. You are courteous, certainly, which is not the case with many of your colleagues. But please. File your report. Allow us to work in peace.”

“Professor, I care what happened to Petrov.”

Adamov sipped his tea. The four of them sat in silence for a long moment. Vasin could sense Efremov’s pent-up anger radiating down the table like heat from a stove, but refused to catch his colleague’s eye.

“Why?” Maria’s voice cut abruptly across the room, slightly slurred. “ Why do you care, Comrade Major?”

Vasin could barely see her shadowed face. Could this girl be the professor’s wife?

“Comrade… Adamova? Because we cannot live by lies.”

“I see,” said Adamov. “You are a believer in General Secretary Khrushchev’s brave new world. The end of Comrade Stalin’s personality cult. A new heaven and a new earth. Very laudable.”

Maria gave a soft snort.

“Can it be that we have lived to see the day?” she drawled. “An officer of State Security who tells us about truth.”

“Masha. Enough.”

She leaned forward once more into the light. Vasin had seen drunken bravado before. But Maria Adamova was different. Her green eyes shone with an almost supernatural intensity. She took a breath, as though to continue, but her husband interrupted.

“We are all tired, I think.”

“A final question, Professor. When was the last time you saw the deceased?”

Adamov drained his teacup before answering.

“You are playing games now, Major. You know the answer already. We saw Petrov the evening before he was taken ill. He came here for dinner with Colonel Korin. We discussed the project, as usual. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Korin left at ten to catch a flight north, to Olenya. Petrov sat with us a little longer. We debated some technical issues. He appeared tired, but resolute. As we all are. Now, you must excuse us. Maria Vladimirovna will see you out.”