Magda’s reporting a prowler. Two hours later, after talking twice to Juli, he called Visenka headquarters again, disguising his voice and again reporting a prowler.
The hours before dawn alternated with a strange feeling of peace during his brief conversations with Juli, and intense feelings of anger as he waited to see Chkalov. By sunrise he decided he would tell Chkalov the KGB was harassing him. And Chkalov, who had no love for the KGB, would agree with him, at least in principle.
But at eight o’clock when he walked into Chkalov’s office, he could not complain about the KGB because the KGB’s Kiev chief, Major Grigor Komarov, was there, sitting in Chkalov’s chair behind the desk.
Komarov smiled, saying nothing as Chkalov closed the door. Komarov’s head was lowered, his eyes partially hidden by his thick eyebrows and high forehead. The skin on Komarov’s cheeks was mottled, the red lines of a drinker. Lazlo smelled stale tobacco smoke. Even though he had never met Komarov, he hated him.
Chkalov circled the desk while introducing Komarov. Obviously Chkalov expected Komarov to give up the chair behind the desk.
Finally, when Komarov did not relinquish the larger desk chair, Chkalov sat in the guest chair beside Lazlo.
“Major Komarov would like to ask a few questions,” said Chkalov.
Komarov glanced to Chkalov. “Only a few, Comrade Chief Investigator? I didn’t know there was a limit.”
Chkalov stared back at Komarov with a look of contempt.
Komarov looked to Lazlo. “Chief Investigator Chkalov tells me you left your post last night, Detective Horvath.”
“I had important personal business.”
“Personal business.” Komarov nodded to Chkalov. “Personal business.”
“I heard,” said Chkalov, gripping the arms of the guest chair.
“No need to repeat.”
“I simply want to be certain Detective Horvath’s desertion of his post is a matter of record.” Komarov turned back to Lazlo. “Detective Horvath, where exactly did you go when you left your post at eleven thirty-five last night?”
“I drove across town to Club Ukrainka in the theater district.”
“Why did you go there?”
“To see a friend.”
“What is this friend’s name?”
“Tamara.”
“Her full name.”
“Tamara Petrov.”
The questioning went on like this. Komarov asking a simple question, Lazlo giving a minimal answer, which prompted the next question. A game, Komarov obviously trying to make Lazlo angry enough to blurt out something. But Lazlo maintained his composure.
Eventually, through the back-and-forth questioning, he told Komarov he visited Tamara because she was frightened. He told Komarov about Mihaly being killed and how Tamara was with him Sunday morning when he learned about the Chernobyl explosion.
He told Komarov about Juli Popovics coming to see him and the un-pleasant task of telling Juli about Mihaly’s death. He told all of this because he knew Komarov, being head of Kiev’s KGB office, either knew these things already, or could easily find them out.
Because he was himself a skilled interrogator, Lazlo knew exactly how much information to give in order not to appear he was holding back. He told Komarov the obvious. The details of events of the past several days amounted to nothing more than his movements about Kiev. He and Tamara at the bakery hearing news about Chernobyl, him at the Ministry of Energy trying to find out about Mihaly, Juli coming to Kiev and finding him, him taking Juli to the hospital, then to Visenka. All obvious to Komarov because of the agents following Lazlo and Juli.
During the interrogation, Lazlo watched Komarov’s eyes. Despite apparent outward calm, Lazlo recognized the eyes of a man who asks questions as a device with which to examine the suspect’s character. Two interrogators watching one another’s eyes. But there was something else in Komarov’s eyes. Lazlo had seen it in the eyes of hardened criminals. Komarov was full of deceit, saying what he needed to say in order to twist the facts in a certain direction.
After Lazlo told of Easter dinner with Aunt Magda and Juli, Komarov paused and reached into his jacket pocket. Lazlo’s initial reaction was defensive, an awareness of the position of his own pistol in its shoulder holster. A reaction ingrained during years of investigation in Kiev, where a black market Makarov or Stechkin could turn up anywhere. But of course, Komarov did not produce a weapon. Instead he withdrew an aluminum film can. He placed the small can on Chkalov’s empty desk, unscrewed the cap, placed the cap beside the can, and waited.
Chkalov coughed and shrugged his shoulders. Lazlo knew Chkalov would like nothing better than to invite Lazlo to draw his pistol so the two of them could blast this idiot to hell. Finally the purpose of the film can was revealed. Komarov took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and began smoking, using the film can as an ashtray.
“On my last visit, there was no ashtray,” said Komarov.
Komarov drew deeply and often on the cigarette, filling the room with smoke.
Komarov cleared his throat before speaking. “Since there is so much speculation these days, why don’t you and I speculate a bit, Detective Horvath? We are both investigators. We know crimes are solved through speculation.”
“I’ve told you everything I know about what’s happened the last few days,” said Lazlo. “If you want to speculate, fine.”
Komarov blew smoke in his direction. “Very well. Assume for a moment the Chernobyl explosion was not an accident. Anything is possible, even sabotage. Not out of the realm of possibility, is it?
So, who would do it? Better yet, who could do it? Someone who works at the reactor. Suppose this someone, in the process of committing sabotage, is killed. Who knows why? An explosive device gone off too soon? No. Too obvious. A Chernobyl worker would be smart enough to make it seem an accident. A Chernobyl worker could simply compromise safety systems until a so-called accident becomes inevitable.”
Komarov put his cigarette out in the film can and immediately lit another. “Of course, if this was the case, if the saboteur established an environment in which an accident were inevitable, he probably wouldn’t want to be there. But what if it could not be avoided? If he suddenly excused himself because of illness, how would it look?
So, he creates an escape plan. He has an accomplice, another person working at the facility ready to help him escape. Better yet, the accomplice works in an area where radiation cannot penetrate. There is such place at Chernobyl. It’s the low-level counting laboratory operated by the Department of Industrial Safety. The deepest basement of the building is buried beneath concrete and steel. In fact, two technicians, a man and a woman, were rescued from the basement of the building. Instead of running away from the area, as most did, they made a rational decision. They gathered what food they could find, showered, found fresh clothing, and went down to the deep sub-basement of the building. When rescued, they were found to have received a lower radiation dose than farmers many kilometers away. So you see, if someone worked at Chernobyl, if someone knew how to protect himself from radiation, he could survive.”
The interrogation was having its effect. So easy to use Mihaly because he is dead. So easy to use Juli and Mihaly together. But Lazlo knew he must control himself. And, though it went against his nature, he feigned ignorance.
“This man and woman,” said Lazlo, “the ones found in the counting laboratory. Do you think they were involved in sabotage?”
Komarov blew out another stinking cloud. “What do you think?”
“Perhaps if you gave me their names, I could ask Juli Popovics about them. She also worked at the Department of Industrial Safety and might be aware of something pertinent to your investigation.”
Komarov looked to Chkalov and shook his head. “Your Detective Horvath speculates quite well, doesn’t he?”
Chkalov coughed and cleared his throat. “If you say so, Major.”
Komarov turned back to Lazlo. “An investigator should understand that no stone can remain unturned.”