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Volodya smiled. "A real amateur."
"Exactly," said Lemitov. "A disinformation decoy wouldn't do anything so stupid."
The Soviet Union was not finished yet, not quite, so Volodya had to carry on as if Willi Frunze mattered. "What did he give us, sir?"
"He says he and his fellow scientists are collaborating with the Americans to make a superbomb."
Volodya, startled, recalled what Zoya Vorotsyntsev had told him. This confirmed her worst fears.
Lemitov went on: "There's a problem with the information."
"What?"
"We've translated it, but we still can't understand a word." Lemitov handed Volodya a sheaf of typewritten sheets.
Volodya read a heading aloud. "Isotope separation by gaseous diffusion."
"You see what I mean."
"I did languages at university, not physics."
"But you once mentioned a physicist you know." Lemitov smiled. "A gorgeous blonde who declined to go to a movie with you, if I remember."
Volodya blushed. He had told Kamen about Zoya, and Kamen must have repeated the gossip. The trouble with having a spy for a boss was that he knew everything. "She's a family friend. She told me about an explosive process called fission. Do you want me to question her?"
"Unofficially and informally. I don't want to make a big thing of this until I understand it. Frunze may be a crackpot, and he could make us look foolish. Find out what the reports are about, and whether Frunze is making scientific sense. If he's genuine, can the British and Americans really make a superbomb? And the Germans too?"
"I haven't seen Zoya for two or three months."
Lemitov shrugged. It did not really matter how well Volodya knew Zoya. In the Soviet Union, answering questions put by the authorities was never optional.
"I'll track her down."
Lemitov nodded. "Do it today." He went out.
Volodya frowned thoughtfully. Zoya was sure the Americans were making a superbomb, and she had been convincing enough to persuade Grigori to mention it to Stalin, but Stalin had scorned the idea. Now a spy in England was saying what Zoya had said. It looked as if she had been right. And Stalin had been wrong--again.
The leaders of the Soviet Union had a dangerous tendency to deny the truth of bad news. Only last week, an air reconnaissance mission had spotted German armored vehicles just eighty miles from Moscow. The General Staff had refused to believe it until the sighting had been confirmed twice. Then they had ordered the reporting air officer to be arrested and tortured by the NKVD for "provocation."
It was difficult to think long-term when the Germans were so close, but the possibility of a bomb that could flatten Moscow could not be disregarded, even at this moment of extreme peril. If the Soviets beat the Germans, they might afterward be attacked by Britain and America: something similar had happened after the 1914-18 war. Would the USSR find itself helpless against a capitalist-imperialist superbomb?
Volodya detailed his assistant, Lieutenant Belov, to find out where Zoya was.
While waiting for the address Volodya studied Frunze's reports, in the original English and in translation, memorizing what seemed to be key phrases, as he could not take the papers out of the building. At the end of an hour he understood enough to ask further questions.
Belov discovered that Zoya was not at the university nor at the nearby apartment building for scientists. However, the building administrator told him that all the younger residents had been requested to help with the construction of new inner defenses for the city, and gave him the location where Zoya was working.
Volodya put on his coat and went out.
He felt excited, but he was not sure whether that was on account of Zoya or the superbomb. Maybe both.
He was able to get an army ZIS and driver.
Passing the Kazan station--for trains to the east--he saw what looked like a full-blown riot. It seemed that people could not get into the station, let alone board the trains. Affluent men and women were struggling to reach the entrance doors with their children and pets and suitcases and trunks. Volodya was shocked to see some of them punching and kicking one another shamelessly. A few policemen looked on, helpless: it would have taken an army to impose order.
Military drivers were normally taciturn, but this one was moved to comment. "Fucking cowards," he said. "Running away, leaving us to fight the Nazis. Look at them, in their fur fucking coats."
Volodya was surprised. Criticism of the ruling elite was dangerous. Such remarks could cause a man to be denounced. Then he would spend a week or two in the basement of the NKVD's headquarters in Lubyanka Square. He might come out crippled for life.
