was a lover of men, forcing into his father’s mind the image of another man’s penis in his son’s anus or even his mouth. A son who had been held up for him to see while moisture from the womb was wiped from him. These private thoughts of Dmitry made Komarov think of Gretchen, made him recall the feel of the knife entering her womb… It was as if he had tried to kill the womb.
Komarov’s wife, in her ignorance, welcomed Dmitry’s friends into their house. Several nights ago, he watched her kiss Dmitry’s current
“lover,” Fyodor, on the lips. Normally it would have been an innocent greeting, but he could not forget it. Last Saturday night, after intercourse, his wife asked why he no longer kissed her. What was he to say? He could not kiss her because her lips had kissed lips that sucked her own son’s penis? He might as well tell his wife her body had, in his imagination, become Gretchen. Gretchen beneath him in the bedroom of the “safe” house. Gretchen musklike following her union with Pudkov, who lay dead in the hall. Gretchen moaning as he touches her with one gloved hand, while in the other hand…
“Insane,” said Azef, interrupting Komarov’s thoughts.
“What are you talking about?”
“The entire situation,” said Azef. “An accident occurs, and Kiev’s public prosecutor opens an investigation. It does nothing except take our men away from us.”
“Only a few men,” said Komarov. “Not our best men.”
“I agree,” said Azef. “We save our best men for genuine investigation. While the Regional Party Committee tells Moscow what it wants to hear, we seek the truth.”
“This is why I’ve assigned men to Chernobyl,” said Komarov.
“Even though rescue and evacuation take precedence, those in charge must be questioned. Unfortunately, it leaves us shorthanded in Kiev.”
“Rather than going to the accident site, you and I must take care of matters here.” Azef paused. “But I wondered what you thought about the possibility of another explosion?”
“Nonsense,” said Komarov. “I spoke personally with Colonel Zamyatin this morning. He’s in touch with scientists from the Energy Ministry at the site. Soon all will be under control at the reactor.”
“Some who might know what caused the accident are in Moscow,” said Azef.
“I’m aware of that,” said Komarov, somewhat annoyed. “The Moscow office assured me they will handle interviews in Hospital Number Six. In case you forgot, Captain Azef, I was fully briefed before you arrived this morning. The evacuation of Pripyat is under way, directors of surrounding collectives will find space for evacuees, Black Sea hotels and campgrounds have been reserved, and komsomols will provide food. During my conversation with Moscow, we estimated as many as one hundred thousand people will need to be evacuated from around the power station. Therefore, Captain, since recovery operations are being handled, we are responsible for determining whether the explosion was an accident or sabotage!”
Komarov realized he had raised his voice. “We are all under pressure, Captain. Because we are not at the disaster scene, you and I must follow through in Kiev before suspects vanish.”
“I still wonder whether more resources should be committed to evacuation.”
Komarov lowered his window, threw his cigarette out, and stared at Azef in silence.
“I’m sorry, Major. I simply wondered about the justification for Moscow assigning security troops to Kiev instead of assigning them to the Chernobyl region.”
“Captain, we have been assigned by the directorate. If you wish to help with evacuation, perhaps I should reconsider your assignment!”
“I wish to continue my current assignment, Major. I was simply considering the magnitude of the situation. The pledge of secrecy issued this morning does not allow me to discuss these things with anyone else.”
They sat in silence for several minutes before Azef spoke again.
“There’s Detective Horvath. He’s coming out of the building.”
“Do you notice a difference in his composure?” asked Komarov.
“Possibly,” said Azef. “He’s looking down as he walks. It’s difficult to say if he received news of his brother. He looks like any other person walking down the street with nothing particular on his mind.”
Azef started the Volga and followed the Zhiguli, which sent out a puff of smoke at each shift of the gears. Detective Horvath turned onto Volodimirski Street and drove slowly, sometimes stopping and waving pedestrians across. Several times, because they drove so slowly, Azef pulled into a parking space and waited before proceeding.
“Do you think he sees us?” asked Azef.
“I don’t know,” said Komarov.
Detective Horvath parked the Zhiguli across from the Cathedral of Saint Sophia, crossed the street, and entered the portico of the cathedral with a group of people being led by a uniformed tour guide.
“Do you think he came to pray?” asked Azef.
“I don’t see why. The cathedral hasn’t had services since the state made it into a museum. Go see what he’s up to.”
While Azef was gone, Komarov watched the cathedral grounds to make certain Horvath would not escape, perhaps finding a back way out. For a moment, Komarov found himself lapsing into his earlier thoughts of Dmitry, his wife, Gretchen, and the knife. But he forced this out of his mind and concentrated on the cathedral.
The upper domes of the cathedral glittered in sunlight turned off and on by clouds blowing across the sky. Scaffolding was set up on one side, with workmen refurbishing a lower greenish dome. All this expense to appease peasants. Someday a work crew would refurbish the office of Deputy Chairman Grigor Komarov. Perhaps someday soon.
Komarov lit a cigarette and waited.
Azef returned out of breath. “I… I had to run to stay ahead.
Here he comes.”
“What was he doing in there?”
“It was strange. He was praying.”
“In what way was it strange?”
“He joined a tour, and I followed. We were in the central nave when it happened.”
“What happened?” asked Komarov impatiently.
“He knelt on the floor. Right there in the middle of all those people, he knelt and started weeping aloud. He raised his hands like an icon. It was incredible. People backed away and made a circle around him. He looked to the ceiling, tears streaming down his cheeks.” Azef pointed out the window. “See those women? They’re still weeping. Everyone was weeping. It was contagious. Even I felt tears in my eyes.”
“He doesn’t look upset now,” said Komarov.
“But it’s true,” said Azef.
They followed Detective Horvath’s Zhiguli the few blocks to militia headquarters. Once Horvath parked and went inside, Komarov radioed for a nearby car to take over and told Azef to drive back to the branch office.
Komarov studied Azef, his eyes red because he had wept with the women in the cathedral. Komarov wondered if his cunning and intelligence instilled as much fear in his enemies as did this fear of the unknown, this irrational fear of a so-called God common among brutes and peasants. Christians, Muslims, Jews, and Gypsies. All the same.
16
On Monday, April 28, the rumor and speculation the government had tried to avoid spread across the Ukraine. Because of its nearness to the disaster site, an explosion of misinformation hit metropolitan Kiev. First came the evacuees who, without official news, brought stories out of proportion like snowballs rolling down hills. These accounts ranged from the entire Chernobyl complex exploding and the town of Pripyat on fire, to citizens collapsing in the streets like insects sprayed with insecticide.
Adding to the speculation was an announcement on Radio Free Europe about high levels of radiation coming from the Soviet Union.
