Mistress(77)

And then I hit the pavement hard, facedown, followed closely by the clang of metal crashing to the ground and the unforgettable whump of human bodies landing in the street.





Chapter 88



I open my eyes. I don’t know how long I was out. I raise my head and think, This is what mass chaos looks like.

People are scattering. Everyone is shouting. Sirens are blaring. Multiple helicopters are overhead now. Fighter jets are patrolling the skies. Fire and rescue trucks are arriving.

Bodies lie everywhere. I’m too far away from the epicenter to have a good sense of the number of casualties, but some of the bodies, thank God, are moving. Others are prone.

The air is thick with the smell of fire, gasoline, smoke. Of death.

I get to my feet on wobbly legs. I’m in one piece. I shake my head and shards of glass fall out of my hair. The street is littered with broken glass.

I start toward the wreckage, to offer any help I could possibly provide, but police officers are already pushing people away from the scene and setting up blockades.

There’s nothing I can do. Not here, anyway.

I look up at the sky, at the cloud of black smoke hovering above the spot where the Russians’ SUV once sat. The thugs inside that vehicle were blown to pieces, no doubt. And that, clearly, was the point of this overkill. This wasn’t just a suicide, a cyanide pill crushed between the teeth to avoid interrogation by the enemy. No, these assassins didn’t just want to avoid capture.

They wanted to avoid identification.

The Russians, and Alexander Kutuzov, have covered their tracks well.





Chapter 89



Two hours pass. I watch helplessly from the police barricade as emergency medics treat patients feverishly, as they haul some others away silently, with less urgency. Buildings adjacent to the explosion have suffered damage—broken windows and collapsed storefronts.

There’s no reason for me to stay. I’m not providing any help. I’m not solving any problems. But maybe it’s time I did.

I get on my bike and pedal away from the pandemonium. Rescue vehicles are speeding past me in both directions. I pray that they will succeed in their mission. But contrary to the hope that strangles my heart, that burns through my chest, I know that innocent people have died back there. More deaths attributable to me. I brought the Russians to that barricade. I caused that barricade.

I find the house easily, burned into my memory. There were many visits over the years, but one in particular sticks out, less than a month after Mother died. It was just a simple lunch out on Andrei’s back patio, sausages and kebabs on the grill. It was the first time, other than Mother’s funeral, that I had smelled fresh air since her death.

I remember standing by the garden, counting the petals on these beautiful flowers in a kaleidoscope of colors, wondering how something so vibrant and beautiful could exist in a world that was so cold and dark. I remember him coming up behind me and putting a hand on my shoulder. At first I thought it was Father, but of course Father would never have laid a tender hand on me like that. Father didn’t like physical contact.

Anyway, there I was by the garden, and he came over and smiled at me and looked over his shoulder, to be sure that Father was a good distance away. Then he said to me, If you ever feel that you’re in danger, you can call me, Benjamin. I will help you.

But what did an eight-year-old kid know about danger? Your parents tell you something and you accept it. Your father tells you that your mother killed herself and you say, Yes, Father. He tells you not to talk to the police and you say, Yes, Father. He tells you he’ll protect you and you say, Yes, Father. You don’t listen to what is rumbling inside you, those wicked, incomprehensible fears. You don’t tell yourself that your father killed your mother and, for good measure, set you up as the fall guy just in case.

I carry my bike up the steps and ring the doorbell. I don’t know if he’s home, but if he is, it will take him a while to answer.

He finally does. “Benjamin,” he says. He always called me by my full name.

“Andrei,” I say. “I think it’s time we had another talk.”





Chapter 90



Professor Andrei Bogomolov leads me through his house toward his back patio. But I stop in the den and watch the television, which of course is covering nothing but the events I just witnessed firsthand. An aerial view of the scene shows a black crater where the Russians’ SUV once rested. Rescue vehicles are everywhere, and bodies are being lifted on gurneys. Too early for a casualty estimate. The fact that this event took place about eight blocks from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, after a 911 call from an anonymous cell phone warned of an attack on the White House, seems to be occupying the thoughts of the reporters and commentators more than anything else.