“And what dirt do you have that could help me?” I asked.
“The head of physics at the academy,” she said briskly. “He’s interested in the universe, wants to find out where we’re all from–that stuff. For five years now he’s been secretly swapping letters with a professor of astronomy at MIT via a mutual friend in Istanbul who sends the mail with his cousin when he runs soap in and moonshine out on the black market. There’s nothing political, but it’s enough.”
“You’ve used this before?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes. Sometimes he goes for it, sometimes he doesn’t. He’s been shot twice and exiled to the gulags three times, but usually, if you handle him right, he comes good. You get it wrong, that’s your own fault.”
“Well then,” I murmured, “I’d better not get it wrong.”
Chapter 36
Blackmail is surprisingly difficult to pull off. The art lies in convincing the target that whatever harm they do themselves–for, by definition, you are compelling them rather than coaxing them into obedience–is less than the harm which will be caused by the revelation of the secrets in your power. More often than not the blackmailer overplays their hand, and nothing is achieved except grief. A light touch and, more importantly, an understanding of when to back away is vital to achieve success.
I’ve employed plenty of dirty tricks to achieve my goals; employing them against people I like is harder. Professor Gulakov was a man I liked. I liked him from the moment he answered his door with a polite smile of enquiry, a grizzle-chinned man in a thick brown jumper, to the moment he offered me thin boiled coffee in a china cup no thicker than a fingernail and invited me to sit down in a room laden with scrounged, begged and borrowed books. In another life I might have enjoyed his company, shared thoughts on science and its possibilities, hypothesised and debated with him. But I was here with a very precise purpose, and he was my means to achieve it.
“Professor,” I said, “I am looking for a man by the name of Vitali Karpenko. Can you find him for me?”
“I don’t know this man,” he replied. “Why do you want to see him?”
“A relative of his died recently. I was instructed by his lawyer to find Karpenko. There is a matter of some money.”
“Of course, I’d help you if I can…”
“I’m told Karpenko is a scientist.”
“I don’t know all the scientists in Russia!” He laughed, uneasily swirling the coffee around his cup.
“But you could find out.”
“Well I… I could make some enquiries.”
“Discreetly. As I said, there is a question of some money, and his relative did not die within Russia.” Gulakov’s face twitched–he was beginning to sense where this might lead. “I understand,” I went on calmly, “that you have dealings with scientists outside the Soviet Union?”
His hand stopped still, but the coffee kept tumbling around inside his cup, whipping up the granules from the bottom. “No,” he said at last. “I don’t.”
“A professor in MIT, do you not correspond with him?” My smile was fixed, but I couldn’t quite meet Gulakov’s gaze, my eyes transfixed by the coffee in his cup. “There’s no harm in that,” I added brightly, “no harm at all. Science should be beyond the boundaries of politics, should it not? I merely suggest that a man of your influence and ability should have no trouble–discreetly–finding this Vitali Karpenko, if you wanted to. The family would be very appreciative.”
My work done, I shifted the subject at once and for another half an hour talked about Einstein and Bohr, and the question of the neutron bomb, though in truth Gulakov made little more than empty noises to my speech, and then I left him alone in silence to consider his next move.
Gulakov didn’t call for three days.
On the fourth the phone rang in the Cronus Club, and he was there and frightened.
“Kostya Prekovsky?” he asked. “It’s the professor. I may have something for you.”
He was talking slowly–a little too slowly–and there was a clicking on the line like the amplified rattle of an insect’s skin.
“Can you meet me in twenty minutes? At mine?”
“I can’t get to yours in twenty,” I lied. “Can you make it to Avtovo Metro?”
His silence–a little too long. Then, “Half an hour?”
“I’ll see you there, Professor.”