“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.
