Major Komarov tried to relax as Captain Azef drove slowly through Kiev’s noon-hour traffic. On the far side of Kirov Street, beyond Petrovsky Promenade, office workers lunched on benches beneath chestnut trees and on the green April lawn of Pervomaisky Park. Beyond the park, the river sparkled in the sun. Out in the river, the beach on Trukhanov Island glowed like a hot ember.
While he drove, Azef talked about automobiles. “Although the Zil is still used by high officials and has certain prestige, I still prefer the Volga. Even modified Chaikas with yellow fog lights are no match for the well-equipped Volga. Look at all those pieces of shit everyone else drives. Even the militia drives shitbox Zhigulis.”
Azef glanced to Komarov. “Sorry, Major. I’m speaking too much again.”
“Sometimes, Captain, it’s not how much you speak. It’s the nature of your conversation. Perhaps it would be better to concentrate on our visit to militia headquarters.”
Azef stopped the Volga behind a line of traffic waiting for pedestrians crossing to the park. “Will you tell Chief Investigator Chkalov about the investigation into shoddy parts from Yugoslavia?”
“Shoddy parts relates to new construction,” said Komarov. “Detective Horvath’s brother works in unit four, which is fully operational.”
“What about the woman?” asked Azef. “Will you tell Chkalov about her?”
“Detective Horvath’s brother managing to impregnate a co-worker is of no concern to the Kiev militia. Our purpose today is simply to determine whether the letters Detective Horvath sent his brother earlier in the year might have some relation to Chernobyl.”
“Chkalov is a brutish fellow,” said Azef.
Komarov glanced at Azef and had to restrain a smile. Azef of the KGB and Chkalov of the militia, what a pair of plump brutes they both were.
When they got out of the Volga at militia headquarters, Komarov had a quick cigarette before entering the building. Azef seemed about to mention the cigarette until Komarov glared at him. Then Azef simply waited for Komarov to finish his smoke.
Chief Investigator Chkalov’s office did not look like the office of a man who worked for a living. Except for a brass pen set, an intercom, and telephone, the desk was clear. Behind Chkalov on either side of an ornately curtained window stood flags of the Soviet Union, the Ukraine, the city of Kiev, and the Kiev militia. The walls contained photographs of appropriate officials surrounding a larger rendering of Lenin looking skyward. There were no maps of the city with stickpins, no scheduling boards, no piles of reports. A room meant for giving proclamations rather than the office of the chief of Kiev’s detectives, who sat behind the desk picking remnants of his lunch from his teeth with his fingernails.
Captain Azef sat to Komarov’s left, slouching in one of the plush guest chairs. Komarov had turned his chair at an angle so he could view both brutes at once. Because there was no ashtray, he did not smoke.
“So,” said Chkalov, “the KGB wishes to inquire about Detective Horvath.”
Komarov was about to speak when Azef broke in. “Yes, Comrade Chief Investigator. We would like to know something about him.”
Komarov glared at Azef. “If you don’t mind, Captain.”
Azef gripped the arms of his chair as if to pull himself from its depths. “Certainly, Major.”
“Thank you,” said Komarov, turning to Chkalov, who seemed amused at this pettiness. “Chief Investigator Chkalov, as you know, it is often in the state’s interest to gather information about certain citizens. This is not to imply these individuals have broken laws; it is simply part of the overall fact-gathering responsibility of the KGB.”
Komarov knew he was stating the obvious. He often used this technique when interrogating officials. A few minutes of this, and Chkalov would relax his defenses. Komarov went on, stating in general terms the need for militia and KGB cooperation. During the speech, Komarov noticed Chkalov sit back, fold his hands on his desk, and smile. When he felt Chkalov was sufficiently relaxed, Komarov began the questioning.
“Chief Investigator Chkalov, is Detective Horvath a convinced or an unconvinced Communist?”
Chkalov’s smile changed to a frown. “These are questions of conscience. My men do their duty.”
Komarov sat forward, stared at Chkalov. “Surely you know your men. Especially a man like Detective Horvath who has been with you for many years. Is he convinced or unconvinced?”
“He’s not a Party member.”
“Party membership has nothing to do with it. I want to know if Detective Horvath, who originates from a frontier area and is of Hungarian descent, does his job simply to maintain his position, or if he does it for the good of the system.”
“He’s a hard worker,” said Chkalov, sounding defensive. “Detective Horvath is a bachelor and often makes use of his own time to solve a case.”
“Are you aware he has relatives in America?”
Chkalov smiled. “Many Ukrainians and Russians have relatives in America, so it would not surprise me if Detective Horvath has an American relative or two. Perhaps you should have visited the American consulate instead of coming here.”
Komarov ignored the smile. “A second cousin visited Detective Horvath here in the Ukraine while he was on holiday.”
“I know,” said Chkalov. “He told me about it.”
“Did you also know Detective Horvath associates with members of the artistic intelligentsia in Kiev?”
“He’s a lover of the arts,” said Chkalov. “Especially music.”
“Hungarians do love their music,” said Komarov. “Gypsy music.
Contrived emotion so they can alternately dance and weep.”
“What does this have to do with anything?” asked Chkalov.
Komarov glanced to Azef.
“Background data,” said Azef, obviously glad to join in. “Major Komarov is simply establishing Horvath’s character.”
“I suppose next we’ll go into his preferences in women,” said Chkalov.
“Perhaps,” said Azef.
Komarov nodded to Azef, a signal to continue.
“For instance,” said Azef, taking his notebook from his pocket.
“Were you aware Detective Horvath has been seeing a Miss Tamara Petrov, who is editor of a literary review known to publish the works of anti-Soviets?”
“A detective’s personal life is none of my business,” said Chkalov.
“A moment ago it was,” said Azef. “A moment ago you said Detective Horvath has much free time because he is a bachelor, and he uses this time to put in extra duty.”
“He doesn’t give up all his free time,” said Chkalov, obviously annoyed. “I simply meant he is often available on call.”
“He should be,” said Komarov. “He has a car at his disposal, which he is also permitted to use for personal trips.”
“It is valuable to have our detectives in their own cars, Major.
This is a large city, and a detective can be called to duty at a moment’s notice.”
“Do you also permit out-of-town trips?”
“Occasionally.”
“A hundred kilometers away?”
Chkalov sat forward, fists clenched on his desk. “I see no point to this questioning. If militia policy is in question, perhaps you would be candid enough to say it.”
“On the contrary,” said Komarov. “I don’t question militia policy. I simply want to inquire about several trips Detective Horvath made to Pripyat.”
Chkalov smiled. “Detective Horvath was visiting his brother.
Even so, there is a militia office in Pripyat, and it is not uncommon for our detectives to communicate with one another.”
“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.
