“The posse,” said Viktor. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Sort of a ragtag assortment, aren’t you?” said Gogunov, turning in his chair to face us. There was something rehearsed in his manner, and I found myself liking him for that. Here was a drug runner who really thought about the impression he was making, and you don’t see that every day. “You look like graduate students,” he said. At this, Viktor cringed.
“You like any of the girls out there?” Gogunov said to him. “We could have them sent up.”
“Not just yet,” said Viktor. “We’d like to do the filming first.”
Gogunov eyed me. “What’s the story with the American?”
I wasn’t sure how he’d been able to tell that I was American before I even spoke.
Viktor looked at me. “What’s the story, American?”
“Mr. Bezetov hired me,” I said. “I’m fixing the syntax on the English subtitles.”
Gogunov regarded me, then turned to Viktor. “Is he fucking her? He could do better.”
“All right,” said Viktor. “Enough. She’s our colleague.”
“Your colleague? Oh, great,” said Gogunov. “What, you’re going to make her chairman of the Central Bank? Whatever, I don’t care. You can keep the American. I’m sure it’s all part of Bezetov’s master scheme for world domination. Or capitalist utopia. Whatever it is this week. Hey, you have that way of obscuring the face in the film, right?”
“Right.”
“And a way to distort the voice? My voice is very distinct. I want that thing that makes the voice low and terrifying.”
“Yes,” said Boris. “Fine.”
“I don’t give a shit about your documentary,” said Gogunov. “Just so you know.”
“Fine,” said Viktor wearily. “We are not asking you to give a shit. We are not paying you to give a shit.”
“You can put it underneath my name. Not my real name, of course. ‘Former Soldier: Does Not Give a Shit.’ You can write that.”
“Anything for you, soldier,” said Boris.
“I don’t think your Bezetov’s going to get anywhere with this,” he said. “I want it on the record. I want it noted that I’m not stupid. If Bezetov’s trying to commit suicide, he could do it a lot more cheaply than this. He wouldn’t need all the fancy equipment. He wouldn’t need to buy the rights to American pop songs. There will be pop songs, right?”
“If this is suicidal, it’s very nice of you to join us,” said Boris.
“Oh, I’m not joining you, friends,” said Gogunov. “My people know all the tricks. Anyway, why bother a small businessman?”
“Why bother a small businessman if you haven’t already, you mean.”
Gogunov made a face. “I just want to get my revenge on the fucking Russian ground forces. Worst years of my life. Half those people were common criminals before they signed their contracts, you know? Hard to have a civilized conversation with anybody. I’m a man of letters. And then you don’t know what fun is until you’ve had dysentery in Siberia. Ever had shit freeze to your ass? It happens. Now, how much are you paying me?”
“What are you telling us?”
“Depends on what you’re paying me.”
“You seem like you do fairly well already,” said Boris. “For a small businessman.”
Gogunov frowned. “Entrepreneurs are the backbone of society.”
“I only hope you can manage the tax burden,” I said.
“Just barely,” said Gogunov. “But I suppose it’s my civic duty.”
“Well,” said Viktor. “Consider this your civic duty, too.”
“For love of the motherland?”
“Whatever.”
“You can turn the camera on,” said Gogunov cheerfully. “Though it’s probably worth reminding you that my security apparatus is just as extensive as your Bezetov’s and probably somewhat less scrupulous. And they’re very, very defensive of my character.”
“Yes,” said Boris through gritted teeth. “We understand.”
“I can’t predict how they will react to any number of slights, such as a failure to obscure my face or voice, or failure to compensate me properly, or failure to be protective of my privacy.”
“Yes,” said Viktor. “We got it.” He set up the camera, and Gogunov settled back in his chair.
“How do I look?” he said.
“You should be in the pictures,” I said.
“Wrong answer,” said Gogunov.
“It doesn’t matter how you look,” said Viktor. “You’re going to look like a shadow.”
“Right answer,” said Gogunov. He leaned forward. “You understand I’m not fucking with you fellows, right? I’m addressing you, too, gorgeous. You have children, girlfriends, lesbian loves? Little expensive pets?”
“No,” said Boris. “But we’re awfully fond of ourselves.”
“Good,” said Gogunov. “That’s as it should be. I’m not doing this for democracy. So don’t think I won’t have you all killed if you screw me over.”
“We won’t screw you over,” said Viktor. “And we don’t care why you’re doing it.”
“I’m ready now,” said Gogunov.
Viktor assembled the camera, which issued a clinical red light. Gogunov looked down at his nails, then up at the camera. Suddenly, he seemed slightly bashful—he was self-conscious about arranging his face, even though he seemed to believe it wouldn’t matter. “Can I start?”
“Whenever the muse moves you,” said Viktor.
Gogunov waited a couple of moments more, and then he started. “I was a guard at the military facility,” he said. “I wasn’t supposed to be on duty that night.”
“And what night was this?” said Viktor.
“This was the night of September 3, 1999.” Something about talking on camera—even though it wouldn’t be his voice or his face doing the talking—had made Gogunov polite, almost deferential. It occurred to me that this man—this drug runner, this soldier—was mildly afraid of public speaking.
“The night before the first of the bombings,” said Viktor.
“Right.”
“The one at the mall.”
“Right,” said Gogunov. “I’d switched schedules with one of the other guards, who was sick that night. He was always getting sick—maybe he was faking, I don’t know—but it worked out for me either way. We had a deal. I wasn’t in charge of the RDX silo, but I had a good view of it. Most nights we’d spend half the shift drinking cognac and bullshitting each other. But that night I’d opted out of all that and gone to stand by the door. I was stone-cold sober, and I know what I saw.”
“What made you go stand by the door?”
Gogunov winced. “I was texting my wife, to be perfectly honest, and I didn’t want the guys to see. I’d just gotten texting on my phone, and she was always making me text her. That should have been a clue. We were married seven years, and the texting should have been the first clue. Don’t put that in, okay? You’ll edit that out, right?”
“Yes,” said Viktor tiredly. “Probably.”
“Anyway. This was maybe quarter to three in the morning. A convoy of trucks wheeled up, and the door was opened for them.”
“What did you think of it at the time?”
“It’s the military’s facility. It exists for their use. It’s not uncommon for orders to be placed for these materials—although less so then, before the second war, and rarely, it’s true, in the middle of the night.”