The sound of the window smashing comes from the western end of the museum, the side nearest the forest. I stand up, a thousand thoughts whirling through my mind. The first are volleys of questions laden with curses. Then, once I’m already running, I go through the various scenarios and everything that might conceivably go wrong.
It certainly can’t be Karoliina. To my mind we had an agreement, an understanding. On the spur of the moment I came up with a plan of my own, though one I have no intention of carrying out. I spoke for a long time as we stood there next to one another, close to one another. I said I would send her a text message from the museum once the coast was clear, but before that neither of us should be tempted to go off script. She brought her face even closer to mine, until eventually I felt her lips against my skin. She whispered into my ear that never before had she waited in anticipation for something like this, saying that I was exactly the kind of partner she’d been looking for. Then she moved away from me, pulled on a jumper and coat and left. For a good few minutes I remained sitting in the armchair in our half-darkened living room in silence, calmly steadying my breath.
This is a complicated situation. I have a rifle, yes, but it only has one cartridge. If I use it, I’ll be up against the kidnapper with nothing but a prop. That cannot happen. I need something in my hand, something heavy. I remember that in the first room there is a life-sized war-time mess, and on the table in the mess is an old iron kettle. I pick it up and run off again.
The intruders didn’t choose the western wing of the museum at random. Admittedly, the window they had to break is rather big – it’s what you might call a panorama window – but the route to the meteorite is shorter and more direct. I approach the meteorite room, trying to move silently, and make my way behind a large anti-aircraft cannon. Now I am only one door away from the meteorite room. I hear footsteps.
I’ll have to improvise, that’s for sure. But how much?
The meteorite is housed in a new glass cabinet, much stronger than the previous one. The casing is taking a battering. I creep from behind the cannon towards a wall of bazookas, then make my way behind them until I reach the wall of maps opposite the meteorite room. I edge towards the doorway, crouch on one knee and peer into the meteorite room.
There’s no mistaking the enormous man. He is attacking the glass cabinet with a hammer. There’s power behind his blows. The thick glass is cracked and will soon be in pieces. I can’t see anyone else in the room. I wait and listen. All I can hear is Leonid smashing the cabinet and the squeak of his shoes against the floor. Whichever way you look at it, his behaviour is utterly mindless. And if he’s operating alone, it’s even more mindless. And that’s what it looks like. Except for him, the room is empty.
The glass smashes and clatters to the floor. Leonid picks up a hiking backpack, which looks like a school satchel, and prises the meteorite from its stand. I know the meteorite weighs less than four kilos. He stuffs it into his bag, closes the bag with a drawstring and clips and shrugs it over his shoulder.
I can’t fathom what is going on. Leonid takes a few steps towards the window. I give him a head start, clench the iron kettle in my right hand. Once I am sure he is walking so quickly that he won’t hear my steps, I position my legs so that I can leap out behind him and—
I recognise it immediately. It is exactly the right size and weight, and all it needs is the support of a familiar voice. The barrel of a gun is pressed forcefully into my neck.
‘Change of plan,’ comes the voice. ‘Stay where you are.’
I am leaning slightly forwards, my left knee still touching the floor. Leonid stops and spins round, and from his expression I realise he was expecting this sudden turn of events. I have rushed headlong into an ambush, though that is specifically what I have been trying to avoid. I have experience of ambushes. And still I made a mistake like this. Before long I realise why. I can’t smell any perfume. I haven’t given the matter the least thought; I’ve internalised it. The perfume was supposed to warn me.
‘Get up. Slowly. Don’t do anything unless I tell you to. And keep that pot in your hand.’
‘It’s a kettle.’
‘Then hold your kettle. Stand up.’
I shift my weight to my right leg and slowly push myself upright. The barrel moves away from my neck.
‘Walk into that room, the one where the meteorite was.’
I try to turn, to look behind.
‘Don’t turn around. Walk. Calmly.’
Leonid watches as I go. It’s hard to read his expression. The vitrine is in smithereens on the floor. I stop before stepping on the shards.
‘Forwards,’ says Karoliina. ‘Right up to the cabinet.’
‘There is no cabinet,’ I say.
‘Of course there isn’t. You smashed it,’ she says. ‘Smash your kettle against that pedestal.’
I glance over my shoulder. I recognise the pistol she is holding. It’s the same gun that was once in Grigori’s hand – and it was pointing at me then too. Karoliina is wearing a woolly hat. The hair visible beneath the hat is wet; that would explain the lack of perfume.
‘Smash it,’ she says.
I look over at Leonid. He might be smiling. I’m not sure I would smile if I were him; I don’t know if I could trust anything I’d agreed with Karoliina. But a person in love will see whatever they want to see, even if it ends up killing them. I weigh the kettle in my hand and try to gauge my distance from Karoliina. About six or seven metres. There’s no way I’ll be able to reach her before she has a chance to pull the trigger. And I’m not sure I’d hit her if I tried to throw the kettle.
I decide to buy some time. I can basically guess what she’s up to: she wants it to look as though I decided to steal the meteorite, but that my accomplice shot me and disappeared with the meteorite alone. I turn and strike the pedestal with the kettle a few times.
‘What do you call that?’ Karoliina shouts. ‘For the love of Jesus, you look like you’re doing the dishes. Hit it, man.’
I hit the pedestal another few times, so hard that my hand hurts. I hit it because every blow gives me the extra seconds I need to think. The noise of metal against metal hurts my ears; it’s dizzying. The room is echoing, booming. I stop. My ears are ringing. I guess this must be the case for all three of us.
None of us could possibly have heard the arrival of a fourth person.