Dripping rain on the worn carpet runner, fishing a set of keys from his trenchcoat pocket, Stefan went to the inner door. Like the outer portal, it was made of steel with concealed hinges. However, it could be unlocked only with two keys turned in tandem—one belonging to an authorized employee, the other carried by the guard on duty. The work being conducted at the institute was so extraordinary and secret that even the night watchmen could not be trusted to have access to the labs and file rooms.
Viktor put down the phone. “How long are you staying, sir?”
“A couple of hours. Is anyone else working tonight?”
“No. You’re the only martyr. And no one truly appreciates martyrs, sir. You’ll work yourself to death, I swear, and for what9 Who’ll care?”
“Eliot wrote: ‘Saints and martyrs rule from the tomb.’ ”
“Eliot? He a poet or something?”
“T. S. Eliot, a poet, yes.”
” ‘Saints and martyrs rule from the tomb’? I don’t know about fellow. Doesn’t sound like an approved poet. Sounds subversive. ” Viktor laughed warmly, apparently amused by the ridiculous notion that his hard-working friend could be a traitor.
Together they opened the inner door.
Stefan lugged the suitcase of explosives into the institute’s ground floor hallway, where he switched on the lights.
‘ ‘If you’re going to make a habit of working in the middle of the night,” Viktor said, “I’ll bring you one of my wife’s cakes to give you energy.”
“Thank you, Viktor, but I hope not to make a habit of this.”
The guard closed the metal door. The lock bolt clanked shut automatically.
Alone in the hallway Stefan thought, not for the first time, that he was fortunate in his appearance: blond, strong-featured, blue-eyed. His looks partly explained why he could brazenly carry explosives into the institute without expecting to be searched. Nothing about him was dark, sly, or suspect; he was the ideal, angelic when he smiled, and his devotion to country would never be questioned by men like Viktor, men whose blind obedience to the state and whose beery, sentimental patriotism prevented them from thinking clearly about a lot of things. A lot of things.
He rode the elevator to the third floor and went directly to his office where he turned on a brass, gooseneck lamp. After removing his rubber boots and trenchcoat, he selected a manila folder from the file cabinet and arranged its contents across the desk to create a convincing impression that work was underway. In the unlikely event that another staff member decided to put in an appearance in the heart of the night, as much as possible must be done to allay suspicion.
Carrying the suitcase and a flashlight that he had taken from an inner pocket of his trenchcoat, he climbed the stairs past the fourth floor and ascended all the way to the attic. The flashlight revealed huge timbers from which a few misdriven nails bristled here and there. Though the attic had a rough wood floor, it was not used for storage and was empty of all but a film of gray dust and spiderwebs. The space under the highly pitched slate roof was sufficient to allow him to stand erect along the center of the building, though he would have to drop to his hands and knees when he worked closer to the eaves.
With the roof only inches away, the steady roar of the rain was as thunderous as the flight of an endless fleet of bombers crossing low overhead. That image came to mind perhaps because he believed that exactly such ruination would be the inevitable fate of his city.
He opened the suitcase. Working with the speed and confidence of a demolitions expert, he placed the bricks of plastic explosives and shaped each charge to direct the power of the explosion downward and inward. The blast must not merely blow the roof off but pulverize the middle floors and bring the heavy roof slates and timbers crashing down through the debris to cause further destruction. He secreted the plastique among the rafters and in the corners of the long room, even pried up a couple of floorboards and left explosives under them.