SAINT PETERSBURG STATE University. One of the oldest and largest universities in Russia with a teaching staff of nearly seven thousand faculty. Its list of graduates included Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin, Russian President Dmitry Medvedev, American novelist Ayn Rand and Nobel Prize winners Ivan Pavlov, Joseph Brodsky and Lev Landau. Though impressive, the list of notable alumni had little to do with Dr. Dmitry Zolkin’s decision to take the teaching job.
In 1980, upon the completion of Sarah’s Oxford literature degree, Dmitry and Sarah jointly decided to move to Saint Petersburg to begin their married life together. It was Dmitry’s home, after all, and Sarah had instantly been charmed by the city’s sweeping grandeur. A qualified candidate like Dmitry would have no trouble securing a teaching job at the celebrated university, and though Sarah’s still-burgeoning command of Russian would prove an obstacle to her own job search, she had an alternative plan -- to begin work on her first novel. A romance, of course.
They settled into a cozy, bright apartment on Nevsky Prospect. Just a three-minute walk from the Mayakovskaya metro station, the location allowed them to travel freely about the city without the need of a car, as neither of them had ever learned to drive.
A large arched window in their ample living room afforded them a view of the quiet courtyard below and the entire city beyond. It seemed a perfect start.
They readily adjusted to life in their new home. Dmitry accepted a prestigious faculty position in Saint Petersburg State University’s physics department. Sarah remained unemployed, but began writing her first novel, Lost in the City of 101 Islands, which she very often was. Dmitry was dedicated to both his research and teaching and would often work into the wee hours of the night, exploring new ideas and theories. They both set their work aside on the weekends and intimately came to know every nook and cranny of the city, whether by foot, train or bicycle.
It was during this time that Dmitry first truly explored the theory of “soul energy” or Dusha, which had been the subject of his Oxford doctoral thesis. Having felt the overwhelming power and persistence of love, he was quite certain that the human soul was a potent, viable energy source. He wondered if there really was some higher power and if, perhaps, that higher power harvested and fed upon the lost energy of the soul upon a person’s passing? It would explain the creator’s desire to inflict upon his creations a lifelong exposure to extremes in love, hate, joy and sorrow. If the soul is a muscle, one would need to flex it, no?
His colleagues found the theory embarrassing and a waste of time for a man of such brilliance, but Dmitry persisted. He spent every free moment running the theory over and over in his mind, considering each and every potentiality. But conceptualization and putting the theory to test were two completely different animals. How does one capture the energy of the soul? And if there is a Heaven, will a worthy soul still pass through the gates or will it be forever trapped in a state of scientific limbo? Though thrilling, the idea felt akin to challenging God to a chess match. Dmitry fully acknowledged the questionable ethics of working on real-life applications of his Dusha Theory, but he was a scientist first -- and scientific advancements required proof and sacrifice. Besides, if the energy was as powerful as he anticipated, it would be for the good of society as a whole, or so he convinced himself.
Dmitry had heard the rumors regarding the Central Investigation Institute for Special Technology, which operated under the aegis of the KGB. It had previously been referred to as Laboratory 1, Laboratory 12, and the more ominous name, Poison Laboratory of the Soviet Secret Services. The Institute functioned as a covert research and development facility, running poison tests and experiments on Russian state prisoners. Only two years earlier, the Institute and the KGB had facilitated the assassination of dissident Bulgarian writer Georgi Markov, who was shot with a tiny pellet laced with the deadly toxin ricin. Markov had been waiting for a bus in London when he felt a sharp sting in the back of his thigh. He spun around to find a man picking up an umbrella off the ground, who then fled off in a taxi. Markov died three days later. His assassination was commonly referred to as “the umbrella murder.”
Dmitry knew the Central Investigation Institute for Special Technology would be interested in the Dusha experiments. If Dmitry’s hypothesis proved correct, Dusha could potentially have powerful weapons applications. And while weaponization certainly wasn’t his goal, collaborating with the Institute would allow for him to test his theory on animals and then, potentially, human subjects. He mentioned the plan to Sarah only once. She was appalled at the thought of him having anything to do with KGB or the Institute. If he pursued it, he knew he would not have her support. He dropped the idea.
•••
Saint Petersburg, Russia - Grand Hotel Europe
GORDON HAD SPENT the previous two days in the air. He departed from West Virginia, briefly touched down in Detroit, flew on to Amsterdam, and from there he flew to Saint Petersburg. All totaled, it was about fourteen hours of flight time and a grueling fifteen hours of layover.
During the final leg of his journey, he caught himself staring at a passenger who looked remarkably like his mother. She had the same gentle eyes and familiar smile that led to effortless conversation. Gordon fondly recalled that she would often return home from short jaunts with at least five or six new friends added to her always-growing Christmas card list. The ability to make small talk and connect with complete strangers was a gift he simply hadn’t inherited from her. He was more like his father in that regard. People respected him, but no one really considered him a close friend. He’d been to a few weddings, but never as a groomsman or best man. He led a solitary existence and had grown accustomed to it.
When in Saint Petersburg, Gordon typically liked to stay at the five-star Grand Hotel Europe, a fine example of the charm and splendor of nineteenth century tsarist Russia. He inserted his keycard in the security panel of room 305. The Pavarotti Suite. Hues of gold and red dominated the elegant room, but it was the antique grand piano in the living room that made it truly special. Gordon’s mother, Margaret, held firmly to the belief that every child should learn to play an instrument. From an early age, Gordon had difficulties forming and maintaining friendships, so it comforted her to know that music would serve as his companion through life’s many peaks and valleys. Gordon’s first instrument was the trumpet, which soon fell to the wayside after he displayed a proclivity for only practicing ridiculously high and low notes. His music teacher, Mr. Taylor, politely suggested that he might not be a “brass man,” and switched him over to piano. Gordon immediately took to the percussive, mathematical feel the piano offered, and to this day, he rarely passed up an opportunity to sit at a vacant bench.
He laid his bag down on the bed and peeled away his outer layer of clothing. The room was five or six degrees colder than he would have liked, but the slight chill helped to mitigate the effects of jet lag crashing down upon him. He took a seat at the piano and began to play Chopin’s Nocturne in E-Flat, Op. 9, No. 2. Chopin’s twenty-one nocturnes were among his favorite piano pieces. The melancholic melody, harmonies and rhythmic broken chords of Op. 9, No. 2, instantly washed his tension away.
As the last note still hung in the air, Gordon rose from the bench and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling living room window. He drew back the heavy gold drapery, revealing a scenic view of Saint Petersburg’s snow-covered main avenue, Nevsky Prospect, and the striking Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood. In his well-travelled opinion, there were certainly more beautiful churches and cathedrals in the world, but there was something uniquely special about this one, with its unparalleled mosaic artistry and checkered past. He vaguely recalled that the church had been used as a morgue during WWII, which, given the name, didn’t seem that outlandish. Just gazing upon the historical building stirred something deep inside him.
There was a knock on the door. Odd. Gordon was ostensibly here for the QuantumCon, but he hadn’t yet notified any colleagues of his presence. He answered the door to find an attractive young woman standing before him.
“I have a delivery for you from Dr. Pyotr Sidorov,” she said, handing him an unmarked white business envelope.
Gordon pulled a 50-ruble bill from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Thank you, sir. Can I be of any further assistance?”
“No, I’m all set. Thanks.” Gordon shut the door and took a seat on the elegantly patterned deep red armchair in his living room. He extracted the letter from its envelope. Typed on Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology letterhead, the letter read:
Dr. Pyotr Sidorov
Moscow Institute of Physics and Technology
Specialized Institute for Quantum Electronics
Mailing address: Russia, 117342, Moscow, ul. Vvedenskogo, 3
Phone: (495) 555-03-89 Fax: (495) 555-02-56
E-mail: PSmail@polyus.msk.ru
Dear Gordon,
Thrilled to find you will be attending QuantumCon. I tried ringing you, but it seems you have changed numbers? Would love to buy you that Kvass I owe you. Give me a ring on my cell when you feel up to it.
Sincerely,
Pyotr
Gordon set the letter down on the side table next to him. That’s funny. He remembered briefly mentioning QuantumCon to Pyotr on their recent call, but he certainly hadn’t told him when he would be arriving or where he would be staying. He picked up the phone Wilkinson had given him before he departed. It looked like any other cell, with a dark gray plastic shell and backlit keypad, but unlike other phones, this one relayed every call through the office of U.S. Army Lieutenant General John Wilkinson, and it was carefully monitored day and night. Gordon dialed the number specified in the letter.
Pyotr picked up immediately.
“Gordon! Have I impressed you with my detective work?”
“I didn’t know you had it in you, Pyotr. I’ll be sure to give you a buzz next time I lose my car keys.”
“Well, you did mention that you would be attending QuantumCon, and I seem to remember that you were partial to the Grand Hotel Europe.”
“I commend your elephantine memory. Now what about that kvass you owe me?”
“I’ve got a much better idea. Meet me downstairs in the Caviar Bar and I’ll get you properly drunk.”
•••
Saint Petersburg, Russia - Caviar Bar
The Caviar Bar and Restaurant was elegantly appointed in a regal palette of deep reds, golds and creamy whites. Not a fan of fish eggs, Gordon opted for a hearty plate of beef Stroganov, while Pyotr indulged in the more fitting Beluga and Osetra caviar. Both men enjoyed shots of cold, crisp fine Russian vodkas with their meals, and the conversation flowed.
Pyotr pried a bit. “So, I’ve heard a rumor about you, my friend, and I must say, it really surprised me.”
“What would that be?” Gordon inquired as he shifted uneasily in his chair.
“An associate of mine from MIT mentioned that you’re on sabbatical,” Pyotr responded as he lifted a spoonful of Osetra to his lips. “I thought it odd.”
“News travels fast. Yes, I’m taking some time away from Caltech. Fully dedicating myself to my writing for a few months.”
“Writing? On what?” Pyotr had always been irrationally envious of Gordon’s Nobel Prize and no matter how hard he tried, he could never quite seem to disguise it.
“Funnily enough, I had planned on discussing it with you on this trip. I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly forthcoming in our last conversation.”
“Oh?” Pyotr’s curiosity was piqued. He had always known Gordon to be almost brutally direct and honest, not at all the type for intrigue.
“I’m writing a book on Zolkin.”
“Dr. Dmitry Zolkin? Why?” Pyotr could not, for the life of him, grasp why Gordon would set aside his groundbreaking research to focus on a man whose reputation and work were both littered with rumor and speculation.
“You don’t find his work fascinating?”
“Frankly, no. I find it to be embarrassing, unethical, misleading, irrational, irresponsible...what else? Oh, and dangerous.”
“Sounds like a bestseller to me.” Gordon laughed and raised a shot glass full of vodka. “To Dmitry.”
Pyotr reciprocated, “No, to you and your new career path, my friend.”
“So, can I count on your help with my research? You know him about as well as anyone, right?”
“I suppose that’s true, but it means little. Dmitry, like most of us, secluded himself with his work.”
“What about his wife, Sarah?” Gordon already knew the answer, but was interested to discover what Pyotr had heard.
“Sadly, she went missing at the same time as Dmitry. There are rumors...” Pyotr downed another shot. He was beginning to feel the effects of the vodka.
“Rumors?” Gordon, on the other hand, had drunk only one shot for every three that Pyotr drank and was just sober enough to steer the conversation.
“Well...some people are saying that Sarah discovered the dark side of Dmitry’s work and threatened to leave him...they say perhaps he ended her life and then his, but I have never known Dmitry to be a violent man. It seems out of character.” Pyotr shook his head and drank yet another shot.
“Any other rumors out there?” Gordon asked, as he indulged in another bite of his mouth-watering Stroganov. It was the first proper meal he’d had in days.
“There are those who believe he was successful with his Dusha studies and experiments, and perhaps a foreign or domestic power found the idea of weaponizing the energy to be highly advantageous. It makes far more sense than a murder and suicide. Think about it, if one were able to capture the power of the soul and it turned out to be a powerful, containable energy, then wouldn’t there be an eternally free-flowing supply? For every birth, there is a death, no?
Take it a step further and add a nefarious twist and one could also create and take life in a laboratory setting for the sole purpose of harvesting Dusha. Clone farms,” Pyotr posed as he waved down their waiter.
“Now you’ve made it sound like a bad Hollywood film, but I suppose you’re right. Scientific ethics have always taken a backseat to the research itself and no doubt to the real-world applications of said research.
“When was the last time you saw Dmitry?” Gordon glanced out the large window that looked out onto Nevsky Prospect. The snowfall was mesmerizing.
“I saw him a week before he disappeared. He was in Moscow and we had a meal and far too many drinks together at Kvartira 44.”
“Did he seem distraught or distracted in any way?”
“Well, I have never known Dmitry not to be distracted, but no...he didn’t seem distraught at all. In fact, just the opposite -- he was excited about an upcoming trip with Sarah to the United States, I believe. Now that I think about it, seems a bit odd given his disappearance around that time. You Yanks don’t have him locked up in some cell somewhere, do you?”
“I think the vodka is beginning to talk,” laughed Gordon, “and I need to get some sleep, but maybe we can pick this up again tomorrow? I can’t tell you how great it is to see you, Pyotr. Really.” Gordon rose from his chair, curtailing a prolonged goodbye.
The waiter approached with the guest check holder. Pyotr and Gordon both reached for it simultaneously.
“Gordon, this is on me. You are unemployed, after all,” Pyotr chuckled. He found more than a sliver of enjoyment in the truth of the statement.
“Next time, then. Oh...and Pyotr, would you happen to know Dmitry and Sarah’s last address? I just want to get a feel for their neighborhood...for the book.” Gordon was certainly not the most adept liar, but Pyotr was too drunk to notice or care.
“Sure. It’s on Bolshaya Morskaya at the southeast corner bordering St. Isaac’s Square. Second building in, on the third floor, I believe.”