align="center">August 31, 8:09 PM
Dmitrovskaya Metro Station
Colonel Oleg Alexandrovich Grigoriev of Federal Security Service urged his driver again, “Come on, Sasha, step on it! You’ve got the flasher on.”
“I am trying, Oleg Alexandrovich.”
“Orders are not to be discussed!” The colonel adjusted his impeccably knotted tie and brushed an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder.
The black Volga was driving in the left lane along Butyrskaya Street, waving into the opposing traffic lanes every now and then. Despite the flashing light, drivers were reluctant to make way.
Grigoriev sat in the front. His fingers drummed on a brown leather portfolio, which he invariably carried into the field. His large head with closely cropped dark hair abundantly streaked with grey constantly turned this way and that in abrupt little motions. It seemed Oleg Alexandrovich couldn’t move his eyes and had to use his neck instead. There was a third person in the car, first lieutenant Yuri Vladimirovich Burkov. Everyone was in plain clothes. The strawberry blond Burkov sat behind his supervisor and reflexively followed the motions of his head.
“Ah, now that’s good,” the colonel approved an apt maneuver made by the driver. “We are a respectable organization after all. And we’re not going to Rizhskaya. Over there, it’s a huge traffic jam for sure. We, meanwhile, don’t have an explosion on our hands.”
“Oleg Alexandrovich?” Yuri Burkov made an awkward pause.
“What?”
“Why did Tomilin and his guys get sent to Rizhskaya, and we, here?”
“Why? You wanted to see dead bodies?”
“Over there, it’s serious. An act of terror. And we… Could be a crank call after all.”
“That’s what we’re to figure out,” Grigoriev replied firmly, signifying the end of the conversation.
Oleg Alexandrovich suspected that early next year, if not earlier, he would be asked to retire. That’s why he wasn’t given any complicated cases. On acts of terror, investigations can go on for months, even years. But his subordinates didn’t have to know that. His goal was to handle things in a responsible manner. And teach his workers to do the same.
The Volga rolled up to the Dmitrovskaya station.
“Get to the other side!” Grigoriev commanded. “Where the police are congregating, can you see?”
“Oleg Alexandrovich – » the driver tried to appeal to the supervisor’s reason.
“Come on, I tell you! You’ll have to turn around anyway. Turn on the siren and go ahead!”
The car, with flashing lights and wailing siren, abruptly turned around across several lanes of dense traffic. Grigoriev jumped out of the car to look around.
The metro station worked as usual, but many kiosks were closed. A dozen or so of policemen, including a canine unit, intensely looked into the passing crowds. Some were pulled aside for ID checks. People threw disapproving glances and walked faster.
The screw-ups, the colonel thought about the cops habitually. They can’t think, so they show up in numbers. Standing around like prison guards, that’s all they’re good for.
Near the beer kiosk, two senior policemen talked to witnesses. When the Volga arrived, they got tense.
Grigoriev motioned to Burkov.
“Yura, find the sales clerks from all pavilions and talk to them.” He, meanwhile, started walking toward the waiting policemen and introduced himself. “Colonel Grigoriev. From Lubyanka2.”
“Panteleyev, the head of the local precinct,” the policeman with colonel’s tabs replied, shaking his hand. “This is my deputy, Ignatiev.”
“Where are the prosecutor’s people?”
“On their way. Coming.”
“You mean, crawling? What have you found out?”
“So far, nothing’s definite. Witnesses contradict each other. Looks like someone wanted to incite panic.”
“What the hell? Why incite it here? Just turn on the news.”
“Yes, but – ”
“You reported there was a Shahid woman!”
“We did,” the precinct head agreed. “There was an Eastern woman, looked like a Shahid. She screamed ‘Allah akbar’, but no explosion followed.”
“I can see that no explosion followed!” Grigoriev lost his patience. “Stay on point. Where did the Shahid woman go? What are the witnesses saying?”
“Witnesses… There was panic, people ran away. We only have these,” Panteleyev pointed to the three beer lovers standing nearby, shepherded by two plainclothes operatives.
Grigoriev threw a dirty look into Panteleyev’s face; a verbal chewing-out seemed inevitable, but Oleg Alexandrovich kept his cool and walked over to the witnesses. He picked a fat man with surprised expression on his face and asked him, “What did that suspicious woman look like?”
“A stupid headscarf, ugly, mean. She screamed she’d kill everyone!”
“She screamed about killing?”
“Not exactly. Something about Allah.”
“Going forward, answer precisely.”
“Isn’t it the same thing?”
“That’s up to me to decide. So what exactly was she screaming? Try to recall the exact words.”
“She screamed ‘Allah akbar’! ” the skinny beer lover interjected.
“Yeah, that’s right,” the fat one confirmed.
Oleg Alexandrovich redirected his attention to the skinny one.
“Did she have an explosive device? A large bag or a thick belt under her clothes?”
“She did!” the witness rejoiced. “Something on her stomach. With wires sticking out.”
“Have you actually seen the wires?”
“Yes, she clutched at them. And she had an accomplice, too.”
“An accomplice?” Grigoriev frowned. “Have you seen him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he look like? Can you describe him?”
At that point, the witness in a flowery shirt joined the conversation. Waiving his hands, he explained to Grigoriev, “A typical Chechen! Wild eyes! Screaming!
The street in Moscow where the Federal Security Service’s headquarters is located. (Translator’s note.)
