The police chief sprang to his feet, rushed into the corridor and called out something in Russian. A medical officer came in.
Rambler took a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his cheek. He backed away from the windows as far as he could. He tried his cell phone. No signal.
“There’s no cell service.” He turned to Ksenia Romanova. “How about trying the landline?”
The girl came up to the desk and picked up the receiver. “Nothing. It’s dead.”
“Shouldn’t we leave the building?” Rambler said.
“No,” the police chief said through the interpreter. “There could be a gas attack. It’ll be safer if we stay here.”
Ramses came up to the window. “Hey! Look at that!”
Their eyes glued to the window. The fireball had left behind a long white-and-yellow smoky trail. It was stretching across the sky.
Cars stopped on the curb. People got out of the cars and looked up at the sky in wonder. Everyone was pointing up at the double trail of smoke. Passersby yanked out their cell phones and started shooting videos and snapping pictures.
The police officers came out of the police station and joined them.
“Them dumb-ass aliens are trying to invade Russia,” Ramses said.
Ksenia Romanova looked at him ruefully.
The police chief opened the door and asked the duty officers to come in. They handcuffed Ramses.
“Where am I going now?” Ramses looked at Rambler.
“To a solitary confinement cell,” Rambler said and flinched in pain as the medic was treating his wound. “Until we receive further evidence, I can’t do anything for you. We’ll be in touch.”
The police officers convoyed him out of the office. The corridor was a mess. There were glass shards everywhere. One vent window had been completely knocked out off its frame. An overturned flower pot had scattered flowers, leaves and earth all over the floor.
In his cell, the Russian cops removed the handcuffs. The massive door banged shut behind him. The key turned four times in the lock.
Ramses turned around and looked at his cage. Heavy metallic door. A worn bunk on the dull gray cement floor. A john in the corner. Dark green walls. A tiny barred window under the high ceiling. There was a crack on the glass. Apparently, after the strange explosions. He could see the large trail of smoke coming across the patch of sky.
The morning sun shone brightly.
He sat on the bunk, clutched his forehead and closed his eyes.
“Welcome to Mother Russia,” he said to the empty cell.
THREE
In an hour, the phone connection had been restored and they had given Ramses permission for a brief conversation with Steve.
Their talk was being recorded.
“Hey, Steve!” Ramses said. “It’s Ramses.”
“What’s up, mi amigo? Still trying to hook up a Russian matryoshka doll in the Diorama?”
“I been busted, man.”
“Don’t worry about that seminar,” Steve went on chattering, paying no attention to Ramses’s words. “It was canceled. But, man, was I mad at you when you didn’t show up! That meteor strike was a perfect excuse for you, young man. Did you see it? It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!”
So, it was a meteorite fall, after all, Ramses thought.
Steve fell abruptly silent. After a short pause, he said, “You’ve been what?!”
“The police collared me and sent to jail.” Ramses looked at Ksenia Romanova, who was absorbing and analyzing his every word. “Some crackpots jumped me on the street outside the club yesterday. So I cracked the pot of one of ‘em.”
“Damn, Ramsey! Did the guy die?”
Ramses sighed and transferred the receiver to another hand. “Yes. I talked to a US consulate official this morning, and he said I’m gonna spend up to five years in prison.”
It was Steve’s turn to sigh now. He was speechless. He asked Ramses to give him the address and told him he would be in the police station first thing next morning.
“I’m in the police station on … hold on a sec … Prospekt Pobedy. But you better hurry, man. They’re gonna pack me off to another place tomorrow.”
His five minutes were up, and the Walrus took the phone from him. Steve’s voice was still booming in the speaker.
They led him in handcuffs back to his cell. It was not a Swedish-style prison. There was no TV there. No library. Only a tiny space, which measured barely two strides from wall to wall, and a stinking john in the corner.
There was enough room for push-ups, though. It was his only entertainment.
It got dark outside. The lights in his cell were switched off, too. He lay on the bunk and clasped his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and fell asleep right away. In his dream, he saw his little daughter Cherrylyn. They were on Venice Beach flying a kite in the image of SpongeBob. They were laughing. His wife was sitting on a blanket under a parasol not far away from them. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. A burning meteor reflected in them.
The sudden clang of the door tore him out of his dream. His eyes flew open. Saturday morning. The narrow slit in the middle of the door opened. An aluminum plate was put through it.
“Zavtrak,” the guard said.
Breakfast time, Ramses assumed. He took the cold plate, a spoon and two pieces of gray bread. The slit slammed shut.
He ate the soup in one go and put the empty plate on the floor.
He came in his thoughts back to his daughter. After the divorce, he was allowed to see her only on weekends. And it was always painful to wait for the whole week. Now he would not see her for five years. Cherrylyn would have turned eleven by the end of his prison sentence.
He clenched his fist and hit the wall in powerless rage.
A beam of sunlight penetrated through the window under the ceiling and touched his face.
Nobody came knocking on the door, demanding the plate and spoon in an angry voice.
He started doing push-ups, as he heard muffled shouts in the corridor. Multiple boots tramped on the floor. A scream.
He pressed his ear to the door. He could only hear noise and was not able to decipher any sounds distinctly. The door was thick, and he had the feeling of being underwater.
“Hey! What’s happening out there? Are we on fire?”
There was no reply. But on some intuitive level, he understood that something was wrong. He knew everything about fires. He used to be a firefighter. He had been on the job for three years. But right now he could not detect the smell of fire. So there was no immediate danger.
He heard a gun report. Somewhere outside. Then a series of gunshots. A loud male voice amplified by the megaphone spoke up in a threatening tone. Then there was an explosion.
He looked at the bunk. It was bolted to the floor, and there was no way he could move it to the wall and climb on it to look through the window.
He picked up the plate and started banging it against the door. “Hey, anybody! Let me outta here!”
He heard an explosion and right after that the rattle of submachine guns under his window.
“You guys got another revolution there or what?” He started shouting louder. He tried to not let the panic creep up on him.