“You feel a more experienced man might have performed better?” asked Dumenko.
“I do not wish to blame the captain entirely, Deputy Chairman.
I take responsibility for giving him the field assignment.”
“I see,” said Dumenko. “I suppose I should also take some responsibility for assigning Brovko to you, and even the chairman is responsible for giving me authority to assign men, and so on up the line all the way to the president and general secretary. Is this how you view your responsibilities, Major?”
“No, Comrade Deputy Chairman. Not at all. I take full responsibility. I did not mean to imply you were responsible in any way.”
Dumenko waved his hand. “Enough of who is responsible and who is not. Times have changed. These days everything hangs in the open like laundry. So, what are you going to do about the investigation?”
“I will continue to pursue it, Deputy Chairman. One of my men is dead, and Detective Horvath is a suspect in another murder case, a poet who was apparently an informant for Horvath. He’s a dangerous man. We have a twenty-four-hour guard on the woman who told us where to find him.”
“Tamara Petrov. I read your report.” Dumenko raised his eyebrows. “And I’ve seen photographs of her in the interrogation room.
Quite a handsome woman, one worthy of our protection.” Dumenko polished the top of his head with his palm and smiled. “Perhaps someday you can introduce me to Tamara Petrov. I find the literary arts fascinating.”
Dumenko placed his hands back on the desk. His smile vanished.
“Major Komarov, I must tell you the initial reason for your investigation seems weak in light of new information. Yesterday I spoke with the chairman of the State Atomic Energy Committee.
He seems convinced the incident at Chernobyl was an accident.”
Komarov stood and paced back and forth behind his desk to emphasize his seriousness.
“Comrade Deputy Chairman, I’ve been involved in this case long enough to know I am not mistaken. Juli Popovics, hiding her treachery behind outspokenness for the environment, is a key figure. Transcripts from meetings with Mihaly Horvath and his fellow engineers often refer to ‘the bitch.’ I have evidence to convince me
‘the bitch’ is none other than Juli Popovics. She was most likely recruited long ago by Aleksandra Yasinsky, currently imprisoned for anti-Soviet activities. Mihaly Horvath is also a key figure, but weaker than Juli Popovics. In correspondence with his brother, Mihaly Horvath spoke often of his greed-purchasing an expensive car, getting a larger apartment, the usual capitalist goals. He indicated he might be able to obtain funds from his American cousin, Andrew Zukor.”
Komarov paused dramatically before continuing. “I know I’ve sent reports saying the situation at Chernobyl is under control. And the explosion and resulting fire remain under control to the best of our ability. However, if I am guilty of anything, it is my nayivete concerning the Horvath brothers, their American cousin, and Juli Popovics. There is conspiracy here.” He pointed to his chest. “I can feel it. I’ve heard the reports of human error at Chernobyl, and I still feel it. Of course, the ministries in charge are saying human error. What else can they say? But later, with all the facts on the table, when the radiation has diminished sufficiently to find clues indicating tampering, the KGB’s investigation will pay its dividends, Comrade Deputy Chairman. We’ll be ready to stand before any committee of inquiry. And if they are captured, Juli Popovics and Detective Horvath will confess. They have already lost one of their own. On Friday afternoon, when the shutdown was originally scheduled, Mihaly Horvath would have been able to escape. They were tricked by fate, Deputy Chairman. We should not be tricked so easily!”
When Komarov finished his speech, he was breathless. He sat back at his desk, stared at Dumenko, and waited. After a minute of silence, Dumenko spoke.
“You present a strong case, Major. Very well, you may continue the investigation.” Dumenko stood and walked to the door, where he turned back and pointed his finger at Komarov. “But remember, Major. I will not tolerate another Hotel Dnieper incident. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Comrade Deputy Chairman.”
The last time Komarov spent an evening alone on his back porch was the night after Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics escaped the Hotel Dnieper. The investigation had stalled, and he had relapsed, fallen victim to the bottle’s talons. When he awakened the next day, his wife told him she and Dmitry had carried him into the house and, unable to awaken him, almost called the doctor. It had taken his system two days to recover. Having vowed never to drink again, having come to his senses enough to convince Dumenko this afternoon to allow the case to continue, he was out on his porch again, alone and sober.
To the west, three kilometers away, was the metro station where the Volga had been found. Across the river was the Hotel Dnieper and a million other places in which to hide. Detective Horvath would know them all. But were they still in Kiev, or had they moved on?
Komarov lit a cigarette and thought back to his boyhood outside Moscow, where he’d seen groups of Gypsies camped across the river.
He remembered hearing violins in the forest late at night while he was trying to fall asleep. He remembered the talk at school about Gypsies being run off by militia because they had been caught stealing livestock from local farmers. It seemed innocent then. Gypsies taking a few chickens to eat, the way he and his friends took a tomato or an onion from the fields when they were hungry. But later, when the Gypsy landlord confronted his father after the opera, he knew Gypsies were not the children of the forest they claimed to be.
Gypsies hid among civilized citizens. The landlord who killed his parents was a Hungarian Gypsy. Barbara, who seduced and humiliated him during his hazing in the GDR, was half-Russian and half-Hungarian. Hungarians, Gypsies, people famous for their supposed contribution to the arts. The musical Czigany. The so-called poets and writers. Perhaps Horvath and Popovics were among them, hidden away in a Kiev garret.
Komarov inhaled deeply on his cigarette, thinking of Tamara Petrov. Earrings flashing, bracelets clanging, hair as black as the night, black hair making her olive skin appear lighter than it was as she wept in his office, weeping because she had turned in one of her own.
This afternoon, even Deputy Chairman Dumenko had fallen briefly under Tamara Petrov’s spell when looking at photographs of her in the interrogation room. Tamara Petrov grimacing and frowning and even laughing at the hidden camera while Captain Brovko questioned her. More trickery, appearing courageous when she was really a coward. Or was she?
Komarov felt something on his finger and realized his cigarette had burned down to a butt. He put the cigarette out and lit another. He rubbed the surface burn, brought his finger to his nose, and smelled the acrid odor of burned flesh. The odor brought back memories of his years in the GDR at the “safe” house outside East Berlin. An old captain from the Great War named Alexeev used the method often. The captain would lean close to the victim, speaking softly, like a grandfather whispering to his grandchild. Then he would lock the victim in a grip with one arm and press his lit cigarette to the victim’s neck. Komarov had smelled this mixture of cigarette smoke and smoldering flesh many times when passing the interrogation room and hearing the screams of victims. It was a smell he had never forgotten.
If Captain Alexeev had come back from the dead to terrorize Tamara Petrov in the interrogation room, would more have been revealed? Perhaps it would be wise to interrogate her again. Perhaps he could do a better job than Captain Brovko, especially if he did it under different circumstances.
Komarov stood and put out his cigarette. He went into the house, where the only light came from the glow of the television in the living room. The television showed a rerun of Gorbachev’s spineless Chernobyl speech. On his way out the front door, he told his wife he would be gone at least two hours on business. Her only response was to raise her hand limply.
Komarov parked a block away from Club Ukrainka and walked. He would be able to check on his men. And if his men did not recognize him, there was no need to explain his follow-up questioning of Tamara Petrov. Better to visit Club Ukrainka as a stranger in an overcoat with the collar drawn up about his face. When he passed the Volga, he saw both men inside. A flashlight lit up the seat between them for a moment. They were playing cards. He walked on, purposely giving himself a slight limp, and entered Club Ukrainka.
The place was dark, the air thick with smoke and the smell of Turkish coffee. He sat at a table near the entrance and put out the candle on the table. He ordered coffee and paid for it as soon as it was delivered. He kept his coat on and held the cup in front of his face.
Tamara Petrov was on the far side of the room at a table to one side of the small stage. Onstage, a thin, bearded man made his saxophone sound like an old man who had eaten too many beans. When the man stopped
