The Red Horse (chapter five）

Written by Carolus Warza. (myself) Hope you enjoy it. February 3, 1905, Old Style (February 16, 1905, New Style) Although I often visited Moscow University and attended the secret societies of liberal students, I had never imagined that a laboratory for terrorists to make bombs could be built there. Alexei and I came at Heinrich’s invitation to an old building in the university’s eastern quarter at dusk. The building had once belonged to the Faculty of Natural Sciences. Its window frames had blackened with age; unshoveled snow lay piled beneath the porch; on the wall still clung the torn notices left behind from the students’ strike the previous year. Heinrich did not lead us in through the main entrance. Instead, he brought us around to the rear courtyard, pushed open a narrow door half-eaten by rust, and finally stopped before a dust-covered oak door. “I applied for a research room as an assistant, but you know how it is—the Mendeleev school has never been popular in Moscow.” He fumbled clumsily through his pockets for the key. “But by some accident, they assigned me this broken old room. The professors dislike it because it is cold; the students dislike it because it is remote. No one is ever seen here, and one can come and go through the side door… Ah, found it.” From the pocket of his coat he drew a cast-bronze key, pushed his spectacles up his nose, and opened the heavy door with some effort. “Comrades, welcome to my laboratory!” A smell rushed out from within: alcohol, dust, and some sharp acid mingled together. Heinrich lit a kerosene lamp. The flame trembled inside the glass shade, revealing rows of dust-covered bottles, jars, beakers, measuring cylinders, and several copper balances that had long since lost their shine. Old wooden crates were stacked in the corner. The windows had been covered from the inside with thick cloth, leaving only the narrowest thread of twilight. I saw a fireplace thick with soot, and by instinct wanted to light it to warm this drafty old building. I took out a box of matches. “If I were you, I wouldn’t do that.” Heinrich’s voice came from behind me. My hand stopped. “There are too many substances in this room that should not be brought near fire. If you really struck that match, there would be no need to assassinate Sergei tomorrow —half the Faculty of Natural Sciences would be martyred with us.” “That would certainly shake the earth.” Alexei burst into laughter at a most unsuitable moment. “Where the hell did you get so many dangerous things?” “The danger, dear Comrade Alexei, never lies in the substances themselves.” Heinrich removed his gloves as he spoke, calm as ever. “It lies in the people who combine and use them.” With that, he turned toward the desk. I watched him lift a basket covered with white cloth in one hand and a cold platter in the other. On it were sliced cheese, ham, and black bread. He set both things gently on the laboratory table. “Allow me to introduce you,” he said. “This is Comrade Nobel.” As he spoke, he picked up a piece of cheese and put it into his mouth. “How is this thing used?” I blurted out. It was the first time I had seen a “bomb” of this kind. “An excellent question, Comrade Georgi.” Heinrich swallowed the cheese and pushed up the black-rimmed spectacles that kept slipping down his nose. “Strictly speaking, it is not complicated. The principle lies in the explosive substance sealed inside the container undergoing an instantaneous reaction after a violent impact, while the outer metal and fragments are thrown outward in an extremely short—” “Stop. I have only one question.” Alexei raised his hand in a gesture of command. “After I throw it, can it blow the old bastard sky-high?” “As long as you don’t blow yourself sky-high first, yes.” Heinrich picked up another piece of cheese and placed it in his mouth. “But remember: according to the boss’s requirement, to avoid harming innocents, Comrade Nobel’s range is only about the size of a carriage. So you must wait until you are close enough—close enough to see who is sitting inside. Otherwise the one it kills may not be Sergei, but you, the coachman, or some innocent passerby.” “Yes, yes, I know.” Alexei was in excellent spirits. He turned to me. “Boss, any other questions?” “I have no objection.” “Then let’s go over the plan one final time.” Alexei pulled from his pocket a rolled-up route sketch, acquired from God knew where, and spread it forcefully across the table, sending up a burst of dust. Heinrich frowned and hurriedly lifted away his supper, while Alexei pretended not to see. The sketch was crude, but simple enough to understand: from Nicholas Palace to the mottled white wall, then to the place where the patrols changed shifts. “He will come out from here.” Alexei tapped the paper with his knuckles. “There is shadow from the wall here, and trees beside it. I’ll wait until the carriage enters the turn, then confirm who is inside.” “And the cover?” I asked. Alexei shrugged. “None.” “None?” “That place will be full of police and guards. A carriage can’t get in, and the escape routes can’t be trusted. If I can get out, I’ll head toward the river. If I can’t…” He smiled. “Then there’s no need to arrange cover.” I wanted to rebuke him for being reckless, but found that he was speaking the truth. “Don’t forget to identify the target,” I reminded him once more. “I know.” “No.” I looked at him. “You don’t know. You only promised me.” Alexei raised his head. The ease on his face slowly withdrew. “Then I’ll promise you again,” he said. “If there are children, I won’t act.” “Oh, Comrade Alexei, may you succeed.” Heinrich took a bottle of wine and three glasses from a cabinet and poured a little for each of us. “Georgi, if I don’t come back, tell my mother I love her, all right?” “I promise.” Night swallowed the revolutionaries raising their glasses, leaving only the spark of revolution behind. (To be continued) (edited)