The clerk returned, accompanied by a man of about forty years of age, with dark hair parted low on one side and full mutton-chop sideburns. His expression was careworn around his eyes, but one eyebrow was kinked wryly. The line of his mouth was grim, though not without an angle of scepticism or reservation.
‘What is all this about?’
‘You are Ludwig Nobel?’
‘I am. And you?’
‘I am Porfiry Petrovich, investigating magistrate. This is my colleague, Pavel Pavlovich. We are here because we believe your factory may be in imminent danger. Tell me, if one wanted to wreak the maximum damage through an incendiary attack, where would one launch it?’
Nobel’s features contracted into a frown. He did not seem alarmed, rather he was an engineer engaged in calculating an interesting but essentially abstract problem. ‘I would suggest the munitions storeroom. We store a quantity of gunpowder there, amongst other combustible and highly volatile materials. However, it is practically impregnable.’
‘But if someone were to find a way to ignite it, the damage would be widespread?’
‘It is built to reduce the impact of any unfortunate accident. However, the sheer quantity of material stored there would be sufficient to inflict damage on adjoining sectors of the factory.’
‘I would be very grateful if you could take us there immediately.’
Nobel nodded decisively. ‘This way, gentlemen.’
They crossed a vast warehouse which led to a locomotive and rolling stock workshop. They witnessed the slow rotation of a skeletal engine on a massive turntable in the centre of the floor.
‘I must say, I am impressed by the diversity of your factory’s output,’ said Porfiry as he hurried to keep up with Nobel.
‘It is the way we have always done business. The world is so rapidly changing that one cannot afford to tether one’s self to any one technology or endeavour, in case it is supplanted. We are always looking for new channels of diversification. It is the way to the future.’
‘And armaments are an important part of your business?’
‘The Russian army is a good customer of ours. Which leads me to wonder why there is no military presence here with you, to safeguard this important source of supply.’
‘There has been no time for that.’
‘Are you confident that the two of you alone will be sufficient to frustrate this attack?’
Virginsky’s frown echoed the uncertainty of Nobel’s question. Porfiry answered both with a wince. They continued in silence.
Eventually, they entered a room in which the temperature noticeably increased. It was soon clear why: all around flames licked up from the floor. The air was thick with noxious fumes, each breath a chemical punch into the lungs. It seemed to Porfiry that they had entered someone’s vision of hell. He remembered Perkhotin’s words to Father Anfim.
Porfiry saw that the flames, which never exceeded knee-height, only emerged from certain points. Covered channels ran across the floor; fissures in the coverings released the flames. The heat now was oppressive.
Workmen in heavy protective clothing wielded long rods to handle a massive vat suspended on a chain. An incandescent stream of molten iron was released from a chute and flowed sluggishly into the vat. The workmen jabbed at it as if they were goading a bear. The men swung the laden vat along a gantry and then tipped it, so that the blinding surface spilled out into a heavily encrusted receptacle.
‘They are skimming off the impurities,’ said Nobel. ‘They will use what remains to cast cannonballs.’
‘Cannonballs,’ repeated Porfiry, vacuously.
The engineer’s frown betrayed something of the contempt a practical man feels for a theorist.
Nobel opened a door and led them outside once more. The cold wind was a relief after the heat and poisonous air of the workshop. Across a narrow passageway was a low, brick-built outhouse, entirely lacking in windows, and sealed with a single door of steel.
‘As you can see, we keep the munitions storeroom heavily secured, and, for obvious reasons, at some distance from the foundry. There is no way in or out, other than through that door, which is kept locked at all times. Do you wish to go in?’
‘Who has a key?’ asked Porfiry.
‘Myself, of course. And the director and several of the foremen of the munitions section.’
‘Are they all trustworthy individuals?’
‘I believe so.’
Porfiry looked anxiously over his shoulder. ‘If we open the door, we may provide him with the opportunity for launching his attack. My only fear is that he is inside already.’
‘Impossible,’ asserted Nobel.
‘You would like to think so but we are dealing with a ruthless and resourceful individual here. We have every reason to believe that he has been planning this attack for some time. He may already have gained the confidence of one of the keyholders. Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin can be a very persuasive man.’
‘Apollon Mikhailovich?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘I have engaged the services of one Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin to teach a series of evening classes here. I met him through my philanthropic activities. I have always encouraged my workers in their efforts at self-improvement.’
‘That is commendable. But now we see how it all begins to fit together. To your knowledge, did any of the munitions foremen attend his classes?’
Nobel nodded hopelessly. Suddenly the careworn slackness around his eyes spread to the rest of his face. ‘Fedya Vasilevich.’
‘What do we do?’ The question, strained to the point of panic, came from Virginsky.
‘I am consoled by the fact that he has not yet blown up the storeroom,’ said Porfiry. ‘However, I fear that if we go in now we may precipitate the very event we are anxious to prevent. At the same time, we must ask ourselves for what is he waiting? For an audience, no doubt.’
Porfiry put his ear to the steel door but heard nothing. He nodded to Nobel to open up.
‘Porfiry Petrovich, are you sure this is wise?’
‘Don’t be afraid, Pavel Pavlovich. We must find a way to talk to him. We will achieve nothing, if not.’
The door slid open heavily on its runners. The smell of gunpowder rushed out as if in flight.
‘Tell me, Ludwig Immanuelevich, just so that I might be prepared … I have heard of your brother Alfred’s experiments. Are there any of the substances he has invented stored in here?’
Ludwig Nobel shrugged his shoulders. ‘Alfred has returned to Stockholm. It is eight years since he successfully tested the explosive potential of nitroglycerine in the Neva. However, I cannot say for certain that he took all his toys with him.’
A glimmer of light was visible at the rear of the storeroom, shining up from behind dim shapes.
‘He has taken a light in there!’ Nobel’s face rippled with incredulity. ‘One spark from that could take the whole building up.’
‘Apollon Mikhailovich!’ called Porfiry through the open doorway. ‘Come out. You are placing yourself and others in grave danger.’
There was a scuffle of movement, footsteps scraping. Tense hissed whispers echoed between the looming racks of massed ammunitions.
‘What does this achieve?’ continued Porfiry. ‘Your self-destruction will not bring about a more just society. We need you alive, Apollon Mikhailovich, to help shape the future. Russia will be nothing without its great men!’
‘There can be no future,’ came an answering cry. ‘Until we have swept away the present.’
A stifled sob broke out.
‘Maria Petrovna? Let her go, Apollon Mikhailovich. I will come in in her place, and we can talk about how we can bring about the changes you desire.’
‘Destroy everything!’
Porfiry flashed alarm towards Virginsky. ‘I’m coming in,’ he called back to Perkhotin. ‘I only want to talk. I am alone. Unarmed. I wish to learn from you. To be your disciple.’
Porfiry held up a hand to deter Virginsky from following him. ‘Close the door behind me and see to it that the area is cleared.’ With a nod of resolve to Ludwig Nobel, he stepped inside.