guard: Viktor something, a stout, fiftyish man with close-cropped gray hair and steel-rimmed spectacles, who was more pleasant-tempered than he looked and was in fact a mother hen who worried about the health of friends and acquaintances.
"Sir, what are you doing out at this hour, in this downpour?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Dreadful weather. Come in, in! You'll catch cold for sure."
"Kept worrying about work I'd left undone, so I thought I might as well come in and
do
it."
"You'll work yourself into an early grave, sir. Truly you will."
As Stefan stepped into the antechamber and watched the guard close the door, he searched his memory for a scrap of knowledge about Viktor's personal life. "From the look of you, I guess your wife still makes those incredible noodle dishes you've told me about."
Turning from the door, Viktor laughed softly, patted his belly. "I swear, she's employed by the devil to lead me into sin, primarily gluttony. What's that, sir, a suitcase? Are you moving in?"
Wiping rain from his face with one hand, Stefan said, "Research data. Took it home weeks ago, been working on it evenings."
"Have you no private life at all?"
"I get twenty minutes for myself every second Thursday."
Viktor clucked his tongue disapprovingly. He stepped to the desk that occupied a third of the floor space in the small room, picked up the phone, and called the other night guard, who was stationed in a similar antechamber at the front entrance to the institute. When anyone was let in after hours, the admitting guard always alerted his colleague at the other end of the building, in part to avoid false alarms and perhaps the accidental shooting of an innocent visitor.
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 what? 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 this 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
"Sir, what are you doing out at this hour, in this downpour?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Dreadful weather. Come in, in! You'll catch cold for sure."
"Kept worrying about work I'd left undone, so I thought I might as well come in and
do
it."
"You'll work yourself into an early grave, sir. Truly you will."
As Stefan stepped into the antechamber and watched the guard close the door, he searched his memory for a scrap of knowledge about Viktor's personal life. "From the look of you, I guess your wife still makes those incredible noodle dishes you've told me about."
Turning from the door, Viktor laughed softly, patted his belly. "I swear, she's employed by the devil to lead me into sin, primarily gluttony. What's that, sir, a suitcase? Are you moving in?"
Wiping rain from his face with one hand, Stefan said, "Research data. Took it home weeks ago, been working on it evenings."
"Have you no private life at all?"
"I get twenty minutes for myself every second Thursday."
Viktor clucked his tongue disapprovingly. He stepped to the desk that occupied a third of the floor space in the small room, picked up the phone, and called the other night guard, who was stationed in a similar antechamber at the front entrance to the institute. When anyone was let in after hours, the admitting guard always alerted his colleague at the other end of the building, in part to avoid false alarms and perhaps the accidental shooting of an innocent visitor.
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 what? 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 this 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
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