The old man sounded genuinely concerned.
Chislenko took a mint. As he put it into his mouth, he wondered neurotically if perhaps it was drugged, then grew very angry with himself. These were silly fantasies. If anything, he was safer in this car than anywhere. In a sense, the car, he decided, was a time-capsule. Outside the car, all the old rules applied. But inside, it was truth-time. Serebrianikov had shown the way.
He took a deep breath and said, ‘I found out that the Minister’s brother, Fyodor Bunin, died in an accident in what was possibly the same lift on Friday, July 13th, 1934.’
‘Possibly?’
‘There were two lifts, Comrade Secretary. The records do not show whether the one in which the accident took place in Leningrad fifty years ago was used as the north or the south lift in the Gorodok Building.’
The old man nodded approvingly.
‘Good, good. You are using your intellect, Lev. Go on, go on.’
Go on where? wondered Chislenko. He found he was surprisingly eager to continue to impress the old man but his brain was groping in a fog of vague possibilities. He tried to focus on what he knew. Fyodor Bunin. The Encyclopædia
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