The building seemed unnaturally quiet for an autumn evening. Where were all the children? Why weren’t they out playing in the courtyard? Where were all the young couples? Usually, in a neighborhood like this, they’d be strolling in the moonlight, as would the retirees walking their dogs and packs of teenagers heading to the mall. Ever since the bombings across the country, the streets had been quieter, to be sure. Many were too scared to sleep at night, terrified their building might be next to be blown to smithereens. But they were simultaneously scared to be out, fearing the terrorists were hatching new plots, especially now that the massive and unrelenting bombing of Chechen strongholds was under way.
Daskin eased the basement door open with his foot. Holding his weapon in his right hand, he quietly drew his flashlight with his left hand and clicked it on. Then he pivoted into the stairwell, pointing both the flashlight and the barrel of his sidearm downward. He saw nothing, heard no one.
This call, like so many others in recent weeks, was almost certainly another false alarm. The public was on edge. People were overreacting, it seemed, to every strange sight, every unfamiliar person, as if Chechens were lurking in every shadow. The public wanted every noise to be checked out by the police, and Daskin knew he and his colleagues had no choice but to respond. People needed not simply to be protected. They needed to be reassured. Even in Ryazan.
Daskin flicked the light switch on the wall to his right and waited a few beats, listening for voices, for breathing, for movement of any kind. Hearing none, he clicked off the flashlight and slipped it back into the loop on his belt. Then, returning his left hand to the pistol, he slowly moved down the stairs, careful to set his feet at the far edge of each step to minimize the chance of the wood creaking from his weight. That was just the force of habit, of course. Anyone who might be hiding down there now knew full well he was coming.
As he descended the stairs, Daskin could feel his heart pounding and sweat collecting on his face and neck and dripping down his back. He wondered if Dima was okay and began to second-guess himself. Had he been right to leave the young man watching the door rather than ordering him to come to the basement as well? Probably. If there was something to this call—which he highly doubted, but if there was, in fact, a shoot-out, which he doubted even more—Dima would be no help in such close quarters. Far better that he hear the gunshots and radio for backup than that he be caught in the cross fire.
It had been less than six minutes since Daskin and his partner had received the radio call to “check out suspicious activity at 14 Novoselov Street.” The dispatcher had just received a panicked call from a man calling himself Alexei, who said he lived in the building. Alexei told the dispatcher he had seen two suspicious men entering the basement. He added that a third person—possibly a woman—was waiting across the street in an idling white car. Like Daskin, the dispatcher hadn’t been particularly worried—until the man mentioned, almost in passing, that the car was a white Lada, a four-door model. It was those details that had quickened the dispatcher’s pulse and now Daskin’s. After all, such information had not been released to the public. But every police department in the country was looking for just such a car after a witness had reported a similar vehicle at the site of the Guryanova Street bombing two weeks earlier.
The sergeant major continued sweeping his weapon from side to side, moving slowly, steadily, cautiously past the rows of cardboard boxes and piles of old furniture that cluttered his path. The place smelled of mold and cat urine. But Daskin kept pressing forward, and when he came around the next corner, his heart nearly stopped. For there, set under the massive furnace, was the first bomb he’d seen since his days as a sapper in the army.
Daskin told himself to take a deep breath and make sure he truly understood the situation before radioing for help. He continued to search the basement, but finally, convinced that no one else was there but him, he holstered his pistol, pulled out his flashlight, and got down on his hands and knees to examine the device more carefully. He could see several dozen sticks of what looked like TNT, duct-taped together. Each was connected to the others by a series of black, red, and green wires. What he did not see was a remote detonation trigger, and this gave him a small measure of comfort. Had there been one, and if the terrorists were watching the building and had seen him go inside, they could have detonated the bomb immediately. But this did not appear to be the case. What Daskin did see, however, that he could not explain, were wires running from the sticks of TNT to what looked very much like three sacks of sugar. He had no idea what might be in the sacks, so he maneuvered around to the other side of the furnace and dropped to his stomach, trying to get as close to the odd contraption as he could. Only then did he find the detonator, connected to a timing device, switched on, blinking furiously, and set for 5:30 a.m.
Horrified, Daskin slowly backed away from the bomb. Getting to his feet and trying to steady his breathing, he called his partner and instructed him to start waking up everyone in the building and ordering them to evacuate immediately. Then he radioed headquarters to tell them what he’d found. Within minutes, sirens and flashing lights filled the night. Dozens of squad cars converged on Novoselov Street from all directions, followed by fire trucks and ambulances. Quickly thereafter, reporters and TV news crews arrived.
As the police cleared the building and set up a perimeter to keep bystanders out of danger, the bomb squad arrived. Two specialists suited up and headed into the basement while a half-dozen more officers took bomb-sniffing dogs into the nearby buildings, just in case. The tension throughout the neighborhood was unbearable. The police were not giving out any information, but rumors were spreading like wildfire. As midnight approached, most of the people of Ryazan knew their quiet corner of Russia had been targeted for disaster. Eventually, two perspiration-soaked specialists reemerged from the building. They removed their bombproof suits and toweled off. Then they huddled with their police chief, the fire chief, and Daskin.
“It’s done,” said the lead bomb squad officer. “All clear.”
“Why did it take so long?” the police chief asked.
“This one wasn’t like anything we’ve seen before,” the officer replied.
“Why not?”
“Several reasons—one was the detonator.”
“What about it?”
“It wasn’t your garden-variety type—this thing was heavy-duty, combat quality, the kind of detonator we used to use in the Spetsnaz.”
Daskin gave the officer an appraising look. If he had served as an explosives expert in Russian Special Forces, he clearly knew what he was talking about.
“How would terrorists get their hands on something like that?” the chief inquired.
“I have no idea, but there was something else very odd—three sacks.”
“Right, what were those?” Daskin asked.
“Well, they sure weren’t filled with sugar, I can promise you that.”
“Then what?”
“We were stumped, so I told Misha here to bring me a portable gas analyzer.”
“And?”
“Hexogen. Military grade. This thing would have leveled this building and maybe several more. Hundreds would have died. A real bloodbath. We’re very lucky the sergeant major here found it in time.”
The men stood silently, contemplating the gravity of the disaster they had just averted.
Then Daskin turned to his boss. “Sir, with your permission, I think we should alert the FSB.”