a relic in the back of a drawer.
Komarov held the knife in both hands and slowly unfolded the blade. He wiped skin oil from his forehead-his receding hairline apparent-and applied the oil evenly to the blade with his fingers. He shined the blade on his trouser leg, carefully, because the blade was as sharp as it was when he pushed it deep into Gretchen’s abdomen while, at the same time, caressing her and staring into her eyes.
It happened at the “safe” house outside Berlin. Agent Pudkov, a devilishly handsome recruit, was using the “safe” house to rendezvous with Gretchen. Komarov had opened the door noisily.
They were naked and quickly pulled a blanket about them. Komarov feigned surprise, then smiled, saying he would wait in the hall, saying he would be next to share a bed with Gretchen. And he did wait. He waited until Pudkov came into the hall. The knife entered the flesh of Pudkov’s neck smoothly, the passion of a few moments before draining his blood quickly. Komarov held his hand over Pudkov’s mouth as he died and left him on the floor.
In the bedroom Komarov kept his hands behind him so Gretchen would not see his gloves and the bloodied knife. When he got into bed, Gretchen complained about his rough uniform and boots.
But she smiled when he spread her legs, touching her intimately with his leather-gloved hand. While she searched his eyes, staring at him without blinking, without shame, he thought of Barbara the Hungarian, who’d humiliated him. Pushing the knife home with his right hand, Komarov felt Gretchen’s legs close about the fingers of his left hand like a vise for a moment until the twisting of the knife drew the strength from her. Then he closed her eyes and slit her throat.
At his desk Komarov held the knife the way he’d held it when he ended Gretchen’s short but active life. Underhanded, his thumb along the length of its handle. He thought of the two ways smokers held their cigarettes. Between the two first fingers-western-or between finger and thumb-continental. The grip he used with his knife was elegant, just as the Sherbitsky affair was elegant. Even the bullet through Sherbitsky’s head was elegant. A shot from the front, a shot proving he had defended himself from the murderer. A shot fired in the woods several kilometers from the “safe” house at a man on the run.
After killing Sherbitsky and returning the knife to its rightful owner, the investigation commenced. It was an investigation ac-companied by the incessant weeping of Sherbitsky’s widow. In the end, when Sherbitsky’s known hotheadedness and jealousy were revealed, the case became so clear-cut even Komarov, while testifying, was able to momentarily suspend his true knowledge and feelings.
At the time he wondered if this ability to create, in his mind, an alternate reality was a sign of instability or schizophrenia. But this was not the case. Temporary alteration of reality was simply a method to survive the hearings unscathed. After all, he had killed a senior officer, and this killing had to be rigorously justified.
Recently, whenever Komarov thought of the Sherbitsky affair, he felt in a festive mood, but he could share the mood with only one friend, a friend who was not here because he dare not bring a bottle to his office. He saved his friend for evenings alone. In summer and most of the spring and fall, he spent evenings on the back porch of his house. Even when cold weather drove him indoors, even with his wife in the same room, he was alone with his friend because, while she watched her television, he would wall himself in and dream of success and triumph.
The cigarette in the ashtray had smoldered down to a couple of centimeters. He took one last suck on it and smashed it out. He folded the knife blade into its alabaster handle and put it into his inside jacket pocket, where it rested reassuringly against his chest.
Finally, he reopened the Chernobyl personnel report Azef left on his desk and began studying it.
5
February 1986
During the cold war, some KGB agents worked in post offices. They were part of the PK Service operational branch, short for Perlyus-tratsiya Korespondentsii, a term rarely used except within the walls of KGB branch offices. Even the abbreviation PK was not widely known because PK agents were supposed to be viewed, by the public, as ordinary postal workers. In back rooms of selected post offices across the Soviet Union, PK agents spent their days opening mail, reading it, making notes or copies as necessary, then resealing the mail, and passing it on to the real postal workers, whose job was to transport the mail to its rightful owners.
The postal service was busy during the months of December and January. Religious holidays revolving around the birth, two thousand years earlier, of a boy child in the Middle East had created a season of familial joy and letter writing. Yet, a few weeks into the 1986 new year, with continued cold war quibbling and shortages at the markets, the Soviet people settled in, bracing themselves against the winter winds. No matter how much talk of love and peace took place during the holidays, no matter how much talk of a new openness in the Soviet Union, it seemed the world’s fate was in the hands of irrational forces. Even the deaths of seven astronauts in the United States in late January reinforced the depression as winter settled in.
On the first Monday in February, in a small, windowless back room of the Pripyat post office, PK agents Pavel and Nikolai went through the morning mail presorted for them and passed through a slot in the wall by legitimate postal workers. Pavel and Nikolai were trained in languages, one fluent in Hungarian, and the other in Ukrainian. But they always used their Russian mother tongue as they sat across from one another at a long table opening- reading-resealing, opening-reading-resealing. The room was warm and humid because of the small electric steamer on the table.
“No more letters to Saint Nick,” said Pavel.
“The season to be jolly is over,” said Nikolai.
Open-read-reseal. Open-read-reseal.
“Several mentions of the American astronauts,” said Pavel.
“From the looks of the explosion on television it must have been in-stantaneous. Do you think they felt anything?”
“They must have felt something,” said Nikolai. “Perhaps like a blow to the head.”
“Americans advertise everything,” said Pavel. “Even failures.”
“An odd practice,” said Nikolai.
Open-read-reseal.
“Ah,” said Pavel. “Here’s another letter to Mihaly Horvath.”
“He’s under observation,” said Nikolai. “You’ll have to copy it.”
Pavel glared at Nikolai. “I know. I’m not an idiot.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you were an idiot, Pavel.”
“Then why must you always remind me of the obvious?”
“I don’t know,” said Nikolai. “Perhaps I’m tired of reading the same things over and over. ‘How is everything there?’ ‘All is fine here.’ ‘How were your holidays?’ ‘Our holiday was joyful, and all are in good health.’ It’s enough to drive one mad! Don’t these people have any imagination?”
They both laughed, the outburst designed to relieve boredom.
“So,” said Nikolai, “what does Mihaly Horvath’s brother say today?”
“Again,” said Pavel, “he refers to a matter they spoke of last summer at the farm. Detective Horvath pressing his brother about some kind of decision, just as he has in previous letters. He implies everything will not be well if his brother does not act.”
Pavel turned to the second page of the letter. “Here’s something.” He raised the pitch of his voice slightly as he always did when translating a letter. “‘Mihaly, I’m sorry I was unable to visit during the holiday season. Things were busy in Kiev and I had to remain on duty. But I’ll make up for it and be able to see you and Nina and the girls the third Sunday in February. I’ll drive up in the morning and should be there by noon. Perhaps you can tell me of your decision in the matter we discussed. Tell Nina not to cook anything special…’ And it goes on.”
“What do you suppose this ‘matter’ is?” asked Nikolai.
“I don’t know,” said Pavel. “But since Mihaly Horvath is under operational observation, and his militia detective brother has been worried about something since summer, Captain Putna and Major Komarov will be interested.”
“By now,” said Nikolai, “Detective Horvath must also be under operational observation.”
