flame from his lighter. After closing the lighter, he inspected the cigarette’s tip. He thought of the shortness of life and the necessity to make the best of it while the glow still existed. Although he could not see the smoke, he saw a slight darkening of the slit of light shining beneath his office door. A shadow was there, and when he waved the smoke away, the shadow remained.
Three quick knocks on the door were soft and tentative. He waited a moment, then said, “Come in!” rather loudly.
Light from the hall swept across the office, and a sizable creature stood in the doorway.
“Are you here, Major Komarov?”
“I am, Captain Azef.”
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“I’m helping the state in this time of energy shortage, Captain. I was not in need of light at the moment, and one of our major generating plants is incapacitated. You can turn it on now.”
Despite the initial glare of the overhead light, Komarov kept his eyes open wide and watched as Azef sat across from him. Azef looked tentative, the initial darkness in the room putting him on the defensive.
Azef glanced at Komarov’s pistol and shoulder holster resting atop his desk, then looked to the window. “Still dark outside.”
“Never mind how dark it is, Captain. After days of silence, a twig has snapped in the forest. Yesterday a man without papers was interviewed at the Kopelovo collective to the west. Being without papers is not unusual, but he was with a younger woman he claims is his wife. The man said his name was Zimyanin. After interviewing him, officials on the scene questioned others about Zimyanin because the name was not on the refugee list. The questioning revealed Zimyanin is not a peasant but an educated man who speaks Russian, Ukrainian, and Hungarian. The man and his supposed wife fit the description of Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics.”
Komarov felt the heat rushing to his face and knew he would no longer be able to contain his anger. He finished in a loud voice after smashing his cigarette out in the ashtray.
“All of this was known to the Interior Ministry yesterday! And when am I told?” He looked at his watch. “A full sixteen hours after the fact! Shcherbina in the Zhitomir branch office learned about it and called me at home. Unfortunately he was not informed by phone. The ministry fools sent a note via the republic militia! The note didn’t reach Shcherbina until this morning when he arose for his morning exercise!”
Azef waited an appropriate few seconds to make sure Komarov’s tirade was finished. “What are you going to do, Major?”
“I’m going there myself as soon as the idiot driver arrives! If Zimyanin is Horvath, the ministry asses and local militia will most likely let him escape if I’m not there!”
“He most likely moved on after the questioning.”
“I know. But if he was staying at the collective with Juli Popovics, there will be evidence remaining, people who saw them or spoke with them. There may even be evidence of contact with outside intelligence. I refuse to trust local idiots to do any more interviewing!”
“I understand, Major. Will you be gone long?”
“However long it takes. If the Zimyanins have left and if I find evidence proving they are Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics, I will have Horvath in my grasp.”
“How will you have him in your grasp if he escapes?”
“Put yourself in his place, Captain. Try to think like him, as I have. Why would a clever man with militia connections giving him access to fake papers, perhaps even confiscated passports and visas, not have crossed the frontier by now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you see, Captain? He can’t leave. He needs to wipe the slate clean by eliminating those who know of his involvement in sabotage. Our agent in Visenka was just the beginning. The poet, an associate of Tamara Petrov, was next. And, before leaving Kiev, Horvath obviously murdered Tamara Petrov. A vengeful man becomes desperate, and a desperate man becomes careless. He will be captured if someone doesn’t bungle it! I will not let him escape!”
“What about Chkalov, Major? He called twice yesterday wanting to speak with you.” Azef smiled slightly. “He told my secretary an underling would not do. When I asked if he considered me an underling, he said the secretary had put words in his mouth.”
“Not words,” said Komarov. “His foot, or something else if he could reach it over his belly. Don’t worry about Chkalov. He won’t have any choice but to speak with you because you’ll be in command while I’m gone. Chkalov’s only concern now is the fact he allowed a saboteur and murderer to remain under his command in the Kiev militia!”
Komarov stood. “Leave me for now, Captain. My driver and the men who will accompany me are waiting… I have things to gather before I go.”
Azef paused at the door. “Should I use your office while you’re gone, Major?”
“By all means, Captain.”
After Azef was gone, Komarov put on his shoulder holster, with extra cartridges loaded into the strap holders. He pulled on his jacket, put his overcoat on his arm, and picked up the valise containing two changes of underwear and a dozen packages of cigarettes. At the door he put the valise down and patted his pockets. He had not forgotten. The knife was there, resting against his chest.
A shame about Tamara Petrov. He admired her defiance. Like a true Gypsy, she had spit in his face. But once the knife went in and twisted, she opened her eyes wide and, like the others, glowed for a few moments in the ecstasy of dying.
Komarov picked up his valise and went to join his men.
As Juli walked along a dirt road on the farmland belonging to the Kopelovo collective, her overnight case tugged at her fingers. The sunrise, initially bright, was now cut off by clouds hanging low at the horizon. The land was flat, with plowed fields on both sides of the road. A dog barked in the distance, perhaps at the collective village a kilometer or two behind her. But it wasn’t the bark of a dog she listened for. What she wanted to hear was the sound of a car.
Lazlo had left long before dawn to get the car. A white car, he said. He had purchased it yesterday and left it hidden several kilometers away so as not to arouse suspicion. He planned to meet Juli on the dirt road heading straight west out of the village. She was to keep walking along the road until he picked her up.
Yesterday, Lazlo’s journey to the town of Korostyshev, the purchase of the car, and the long journey back had taken hours. She’d been alone most of the day and well into the night. It had been cold last night, more so because after sunset Lazlo was not beside her.
He returned near midnight and left again early this morning. During the few hours with him, she held him tightly. Now he was gone again, and she shivered with cold as she listened intently for a car on the road.
After a few minutes, she heard tires thumping into ruts in the road behind her along with the struggle of a misfiring engine. When she turned, she saw it was not a white car. As it came closer, she saw it was a battered old bus.
She wondered if she should hide. After spreading the news yesterday, saying she and Lazlo were leaving on the relocation bus early in the morning, could she afford to be seen out here? Obviously the bus coming down the road was not the relocation bus, but the dilapidated bus used to transport collective workers. She looked about and realized the ditch at the side of the road was too shallow to hide her. But why should she hide? If the people on the bus saw a woman walking along the road, what would it matter? She would simply look away when the bus passed.
When the bus approached, she turned the overnight case so the lettering she had applied faced out into the field. It would not do to have passing passengers see a radiation warning sign now. The farmers on the bus might remember her and Lazlo, especially if agents came to the village asking questions.
Instead of going past, the bus pulled to a stop, coughing and sputtering as the front door scissored open. The door was slightly ahead of her. She placed the overnight case on the ground with its message facing the field and watched as a thin man wearing a leather cap leaned out. The idling engine clattered like a thousand mechanical hearts.
“Where are you going?” asked the man in the local Ukrainian dialect.
“I’m waiting for someone.”
