“I’ve visited the Pripyat militia office myself,” said Komarov. “I must say, the captain there is also a person of interest. But we’re getting off track. I’m here to reveal information regarding Detective Horvath.”
“Please do!” said Chkalov abrasively.
“Detective Horvath’s brother holds a key position at the Chernobyl Nuclear Facility operated by the Ministry of Energy. The KGB is assigned to protect the facility. Recently, Detective Horvath’s brother has had personal problems and has been involved in gossip with co-workers, some of which involves the questioning of authority. In letters from Detective Horvath to his brother, Mihaly Horvath, Chernobyl matters were alluded to. Detective Horvath has subse-quently inquired whether these matters were resolved. Now, instead of writing, Detective Horvath has made several trips to Pripyat. Our concern, Chief Investigator Chkalov, is not with an individual’s personal life unless his personal life is dedicated to wrongdoing.”
Chkalov stood, walked to his window with his hands clasped behind him, then turned. “Detective Horvath is one of my best men. He would not be involved in wrongdoing.”
“I didn’t say he was,” said Komarov.
“Then what the hell are you getting at?”
“His brother,” said Komarov. “We’re concerned about his brother, and we’d like you to let us know if you hear anything. A compromised Chernobyl engineer is my concern.”
“Such methods you use,” said Chkalov, shaking his head. “In the militia, when we want to know an answer, we simply ask the question. But I suppose KGB procedures are different.”
“They have to be,” said Komarov. “In counterintelligence, there are times when we do not know the questions. We simply know a situation exists in which questions should be asked. In the KGB we do not wait for a crime to occur before we do something.”
When he and Azef walked through the anteroom after leaving Chkalov’s office, Komarov heard what sounded like the violent slamming of a desk drawer behind him. He turned to see Azef smiling gleefully like a fat-faced child.
Although the North Atlantic was over a thousand kilometers away beyond all of Europe, the distant ocean affected Kiev’s weather. In winter, northwesterly winds blew across Scandinavia, causing snow squalls, which sometimes paralyzed the city. But now, in late April, the winds had reversed their course, bringing warmth from the Black Sea.
It was evening, and Major Komarov was on the back porch of his small home on the outskirts of Darnitsa, a suburb of Kiev. This afternoon, Komarov had succeeded in intimidating Chief Investigator Chkalov of the Kiev militia. As he sat in the dark on his porch sipping vodka on ice with a lemon peel, he could still see Chkalov’s angry round face and Captain Azef’s smiling round face. Con-temptible brutes, both of them.
The porch faced a grove of trees bordering a creek at the southern edge of the yard. The south wind was fragrant with greenery, momentarily overpowering the smell of vodka and the acrid aroma of the cigarette he had just put out.
Dinner was finished, and Komarov could hear the muted bab-ble of the television inside the house. His wife remained captivated by television, while Komarov, weather permitting, spent evenings on his beloved porch. On the small wooden table beside his chair were cigarettes, a lighter, an ashtray, a bowl of ice, a peeled lemon, his glass, and his bottle.
When he sipped vodka, Komarov’s elbow brushed against his side where he felt the weight of the knife in the inside pocket of his jacket. Keeping the knife with him rather than locked away in his desk coincided with his introduction last summer to the suspicious actions of three Hungarians. Although he had not met them, the three had been under operational observation for many months, and Komarov felt he knew them well.
Two of the Hungarians, Mihaly Horvath and Juli Popovics, worked at the Chernobyl facility. If the need arose, the actions of these two would be of interest to the Ministry of Energy, to the power-plant Party secretary, or even to KGB headquarters in Moscow. Somehow Komarov felt this need would arise. He had been requested confidentially to watch for incidents in which Chernobyl personnel questioned safety at the plant. Although he did not know the reason, he felt a Moscow crackdown might come. If it did, he would be ready. He would have his three suspects: a Chernobyl engineer, a technician, and a detective in Kiev.
Three suspects with the blood of Gypsies running through their veins. Three Gypsies whose photographs, especially the Horvath brothers, reminded him of photographs of Bela Bartok, the so-called composer who collected simpleminded folk tunes and pawned them off as art, the so-called composer who went to America to die with his old-fashioned music.
Komarov took a sip of vodka and again felt the weight of the knife against his chest. He reached into his inside pocket and held the knife. If only he had owned the knife earlier in his career and used it. Perhaps on Barbara, the dark-haired Gypsy who humiliated him. If only he had started his climb on the ladder sooner, perhaps in the army before joining the KGB. If only he had been old enough to use the knife to avenge the death of his father, a lover of music, especially Prokofiev.
Komarov gripped the knife tightly and thought again about the night he met the man who would kill his parents. It was some years after the end of the Great Patriotic War. Komarov paused to drink to the victory of the Great War, then regripped his knife and thought back.
It was in Moscow during the time of rebuilding. Although he was only a few years old, the scene was vivid. He and his father had left his mother in the one-room apartment and gone to the opera house to see Love for Three Oranges. His father loved Prokofiev’s music. “The music of the future,” his father said. “Did you know Prokofiev traveled to America, dear Grigor? Of course, Americans did not understand his music. Prokofiev’s music of the future belongs here in the motherland.” Unfortunately the motherland’s future was something his father would never see, because after the opera, the Gypsy landlord killed his parents. In the street outside the apartment building, the landlord, his sinister foul face hidden in the shadow of a brimmed hat, argued with his father about the rent, equated the rent with the cost of opera tickets.
A week later, they were forced to move in with Uncle Ivan in the village north of Moscow. A month later, his father put Uncle Ivan’s pistol to his head in the barn. A year later, his mother died of pneumonia in the cold corner of Uncle Ivan’s farmhouse, and little Grigor was sent to the orphanage, making the army barracks, years later, seem luxurious.
In the army Komarov learned the old Russian saying and reversed it. Where he should have licked, he did lick; where he should have barked, he did bark. He kept his opinions to himself, praising officials even when he thought they were fools, as when Khrushchev knuckled under to Kennedy during the Cuban missile fiasco. The army gave Komarov comfort and discipline. The army gave him the chance his father never had. While gripping the knife tightly, he wished he’d had its power the night of the opera.
As a boy he would have wanted to be a Brezhnev rather than a Gorbachev, not allowing himself to be duped the way the current administration allowed themselves to be duped. But perhaps, like all things in this modern world, the current situation was a charade, the talk of perestroika a ruse by Gorbachev to lure the movie actor Reagan into his clutches.
Komarov had seen much during his years in the KGB. Orthodox Church leaders working for the KGB after being compromised by Romeo agents. Spy planes collecting air samples routinely doctored by those being spied on. A Brezhnev rather than a Gorbachev.
How could he possibly accomplish it today? Perhaps Gypsies were the answer. Gypsies, after all, were much like the Muslims in Afghanistan-male-centered, out of touch with modern culture, using superstitious religion to undo the world. Gypsies allowed their children to smoke. He’d seen them in the slums of Moscow, eight-and nine-year-old boys smoking. Not girls. Boys. The boys in the culture growing up to overthrow governments. The boys of deviant societies bent on destruction while he went into the army and then into the KGB to serve Mother Russia.
; Muslims and Gypsies. He’d known of a Hungarian CIA station chief code named Gypsy Moth. Perhaps the code name could be used again. Perhaps the cousin visiting the Horvath brothers had objectives beyond a familial visit. Western secret services actively recruited spies and provocateurs. Perhaps uncovering a network of spies and provocateurs was the key, someone hired by American intelligence to compromise a Chernobyl engineer.
“A Brezhnev rather than a Gorbachev,” he mumbled.
Komarov was not certain how long he had been on the porch, perhaps an hour, perhaps two. But he did know he had refilled his glass several times. He was now in the most comfortable state of his day, a euphoric state in which the cares of the past and present fade and the vodka has not yet completely taken over. It was difficult to maintain this feeling for long. But while it lasted, each evening, he felt it would last forever. Unfortunately, the bottle required one to become drunk and uncomfortable in order to pass through this state. He thought about this for a moment, tried to analyze the logic of it, then took another drink.
A noise in the bushes to his left. Komarov sat forward, put down his glass. A figure moved swiftly along the side, then the front of the porch. Komarov took the knife from his pocket. For an instant he thought of Chkalov, of militia vengeance. He recalled one of his agents, Allika, who had been mysteriously killed last year. He was out of his chair and had begun to open the knife when he recognized his son coming up the stairs.
“Dmitry!”
“What’s new, Pop?”
He slipped the knife back into his pocket, allowing it to close within its handle. “You frightened me.”
“What else is new?”
“Why don’t you use the front door?”
“Why do you sit out here every night?”
“Why do you always ask questions in response to mine?”
“Why do you always ask questions?”
It was no use. Komarov sat back in his chair, took a drink of vodka, lit a cigarette.
Instead of going into the house, Dmitry sat on the steps facing the yard. Komarov stared at the dark outline of his son. So thin he seemed unhealthy. His hair, cropped on the sides and long on top, sticking straight up. His damnable earring catching the light from the house.
“I got a job today,” said Dmitry.
“A job?” No. He must not sound overly excited. “What kind of job?”
“At the art museum in Kiev.”
“Which one? There are several art museums.”
“Not the Museum of Russian Art. This one’s a few doors away.”
“What matters is you’re employed, Dmitry.”
“So now you don’t have to say your son was kicked out of the university and he’s a parasite. Am I right? Is this why you’re so impressed?”
“No,” said Komarov. “I’m interested. Which museum is it?”
“Oriental and Western Art. I’ll work in the gift shop. Fyodor got me the job.”
Fyodor, the one Dmitry brought to dinner last month, the one who put his arm around Dmitry as they walked down the street.
Komarov took another drink, then another. His own son, the son of a major in the KGB, a homosexual. And now his… his what?
Mate? Bed partner? Lover? And now his son’s lover had gotten Dmitry a job.
“So, what do you think, Pop?”
“I think it’s good to have a job.” Komarov wanted to be alone with his vodka but knew he must go on, he must try despite the fact he had left the state of euphoria and was descending into the depths of drunkenness. “I also think relationships should be with the right people.”
“Like who?”
The wind blew across Komarov’s face, but he could not smell the air. All he could smell was the vodka.
“A long time ago,” said Komarov, “when I was stationed in East Berlin, there was a woman named Gretchen. Golden blond hair, eyes like fine crystal, skin soft and fair…”
Dmitry stood and walked to the back door.
“Where are you going? I was speaking!”
“I’ve heard this story before, Pop.”
“No. You… you couldn’t have.”
“I have. And so has Mom. You always talk about Gretchen when you’re drunk. You always tell us how she was murdered and what a hero you were to have avenged her death. You’re drunk like this every night. Go ahead. Try to stand up. See? You can’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about. There are no Gretchens here.
I have my own friends. Telling me about the old days in Berlin when you used your whore, Gretchen, to lure poor bastards to be tortured doesn’t mean anything here. Maybe you killed the bastards she brought to you. Why don’t you get your gun and kill me? You can’t even get out of your chair!”
Komarov reached into his pocket and pulled out the knife. Before he could open it, Dmitry snatched it away.
“Ha! A knife! You pull a knife on your own son?”
Dmitry opened the knife, held the blade up to the light coming from the window. “Such a big knife for such a little man.” Then Dmitry stabbed the knife into the door frame and went into the house, leaving the back door to slam shut like the shot from a pistol.
Komarov held the arms of his chair and twisted to stare at the knife sticking out of the door frame, the knife he’d used so he could be where he was today. But where was he? Was this hell? Was there really a vengeful God? If so, why didn’t God kill the Gypsy landlord so he could live a different life? A life along the other path instead of this one with its marriage producing a homosexual son who, despite his appearance, had become stronger than him. What was a man?
Were the brutes Chkalov and Azef men? Was he a man?
Komarov picked up the vodka bottle, felt the weight of it, the heft of poison, of slow death. He would fight it. He would regain his manhood. Perhaps he would uncover a conspiracy at Chernobyl, a conspiracy involving the Horvath brothers. Gypsies, whose relatives dress and dance like women while others pick pockets. Gypsies, who converse in languages others cannot understand. Gypsies, who wear earrings. A world of symbols. A world in which a spy from American intelligence can, if he wants, squirm in the bushes like a snake and mount a surprise attack on a KGB official simply trying to get through another evening at his own home.
Komarov stood up from his chair, holding onto the side of the house for balance. He studied the vodka bottle. Although the label was unreadable in the dark, lights from the house reflected in the glass. He tried to feel the reflected light with his thumb, and when he could not, he held the bottle high over his head and threw it against the porch railing. It shattered across the floor of the porch, and eventually he heard vodka dripping through the floorboards to the earth below. He stood swaying in the dark, listening, waiting, and planning his next move.
8
Spring rains had moistened the Ukraine soil, preparing its rich farmland for the job of feeding the USSR. In the far northern Ukraine, waterfowl had returned to the Pripyat marshes. East of the marshes along the Uzh and Pripyat Rivers, gulls followed tractors, feasting on unearthed insects. Farther east, where the Uzh and Pripyat emptied into the Dnieper for the journey to the Black Sea, waterfowl congregated at a large pond. The pond bordered the Pripyat River but was separated from the river by a man-made dike. Water in the pond was warmer than the water in the river or in any other ponds in the area because it was used to cool superheated steam emerging from several turbines.
From the far side of the pond, the sound from the Chernobyl Nuclear Generating Facility operated by the Ministry of Energy was a steady drone. To some, it was a sound of unlimited power. To others, trained in engineering and physics, it was not one sound, but many sounds. Pumps, turbines, generators, and transformers formed an orchestra. The failure of one instrument would diminish the score.
Early in the morning on Friday, April 25, 1986, a technician in an off-white uniform walked near a turbine and generator of Chernobyl’s unit four. The combined structure was over fifty meters long. On the generator side, thick copper bus ba
rs in protective pipe went through the wall of the building to the transformers outside.
On the turbine side, large pipes brought steam from the reactor to drive the turbine, and more pipes carried steam off to be cooled.
The concrete floor to which the structure was mounted vibrated.
The noise was deafening and there was the smell of oil and hot metal and graphite in the air.
One wall of the huge room was a mass of piping, wiring, gauges, solenoids, and valves. The technician paused in this area, watching solenoids and valves doing their work. But to stay long enough to watch every solenoid-valve combination go through a cycle would have taken hours, and the technician had further rounds to make.
The operators had already begun the hours-long process of reducing power leading to the tests to be performed during shutdown.
The technician mounted a metal stairway, pausing to watch a particular valve, painted red, being actuated. Then he continued his climb. He met another technician at the top of the stairs, and the two shouted to be heard above the roar of the turbine hall.
“How do the emergency cooling switches look?”
“They look… content!”
“They’d better be content because the idiots in the control room are insane!”
“Everyone working here is insane! Especially the bosses!”
“They were smart enough to build the bunker below their offices!”
“Who put Pavlov in charge of programming the computer? The dog doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing!”
“His name fits the situation! I hope we get this bitch shut down for May Day!”
“The parade banners kids make in school have construction superior to anything here!”
“Antiquated technology is our business!”
The two technicians laughed, slapped one another on the back, and went on their way.
In another wing of the building, in the relative quiet of the main control room, several technicians dressed in similar off-white uniforms sat at a semicircular console. At one end of the console, a two-by-six-centimeter rectangular panel lit bright red for two seconds, then went out. The technician nearest the panel was speaking on the telephone. After the red light went out, the technician looked in the general direction of the panel for several seconds, his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and resumed his conversation.
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