Snows of February and March have nourished the winter wheat.
Father has planted our vegetable crop and all is well.’ I’m sick of hearing how all is well.” Nikolai opened a new letter, examined it.
“Here’s another to Juli Popovics, the Chernobyl technician babe.”
“She’s under observation,” said Pavel. “Who’s it from?”
“I know she’s under observation,” said Nikolai, somewhat annoyed. “It’s in Ukrainian from Aunt Magda in Kiev. She has prepared a room so Juli Popovics can visit for several months while the medical matter is addressed.”
“Sounds like she’s a Mommychka-to-be,” said Pavel.
“There must be much activity at Chernobyl,” said Nikolai.
“Aside from radioactivity.”
Nikolai put the letter to Juli Popovics in the tray for copying and began opening another.
“Still no mail for the engineer stud?” asked Nikolai, glancing at a list on the table headed by the words official observation.
“Nothing for Mihaly Horvath since February,” said Pavel.
“First his American cousin bugs him, then a batch of letters from his brother asking about some matter, then nothing.”
“The letters we copied may have had an effect,” said Nikolai.
“Like other Chernobyl workers before him, he’s gone mad and had to be taken away. Perhaps we’ll go mad. It’s spring and I feel like a caged animal. Can you imagine the heat in this room come summer?”
“I doubt if Mihaly Horvath has gone mad,” said Pavel. “As for us, the post office should supply chilled mineral water. Did you hear Gorbachev is now mineral secretary since he replaced vodka at official functions?”
“You already told me,” said Nikolai, wiping his brow with his sleeve.
“Don’t worry about the heat,” said Pavel. “Tomorrow we’ll have a fan to cool us, courtesy of our ersatz supervisor, the noble comrade postmaster.”
Because it had been stored in the underground garage, the inside of the Volga was cool and comfortable. Major Komarov tried to relax as Captain Azef drove slowly through Kiev’s noon-hour traffic. On the far side of Kirov Street, beyond Petrovsky Promenade, office workers lunched on benches beneath chestnut trees and on the green April lawn of Pervomaisky Park. Beyond the park, the river sparkled in the sun. Out in the river, the beach on Trukhanov Island glowed like a hot ember.
While he drove, Azef talked about automobiles. “Although the Zil is still used by high officials and has certain prestige, I still prefer the Volga. Even modified Chaikas with yellow fog lights are no match for the well-equipped Volga. Look at all those pieces of shit everyone else drives. Even the militia drives shitbox Zhigulis.”
Azef glanced to Komarov. “Sorry, Major. I’m speaking too much again.”
“Sometimes, Captain, it’s not how much you speak. It’s the nature of your conversation. Perhaps it would be better to concentrate on our visit to militia headquarters.”
Azef stopped the Volga behind a line of traffic waiting for pedestrians crossing to the park. “Will you tell Chief Investigator Chkalov about the investigation into shoddy parts from Yugoslavia?”
“Shoddy parts relates to new construction,” said Komarov. “Detective Horvath’s brother works in unit four, which is fully operational.”
“What about the woman?” asked Azef. “Will you tell Chkalov about her?”
“Detective Horvath’s brother managing to impregnate a co-worker is of no concern to the Kiev militia. Our purpose today is simply to determine whether the letters Detective Horvath sent his brother earlier in the year might have some relation to Chernobyl.”
“Chkalov is a brutish fellow,” said Azef.
Komarov glanced at Azef and had to restrain a smile. Azef of the KGB and Chkalov of the militia, what a pair of plump brutes they both were.
When they got out of the Volga at militia headquarters, Komarov had a quick cigarette before entering the building. Azef seemed about to mention the cigarette until Komarov glared at him. Then Azef simply waited for Komarov to finish his smoke.
Chief Investigator Chkalov’s office did not look like the office of a man who worked for a living. Except for a brass pen set, an intercom, and telephone, the desk was clear. Behind Chkalov on either side of an ornately curtained window stood flags of the Soviet Union, the Ukraine, the city of Kiev, and the Kiev militia. The walls contained photographs of appropriate officials surrounding a larger rendering of Lenin looking skyward. There were no maps of the city with stickpins, no scheduling boards, no piles of reports. A room meant for giving proclamations rather than the office of the chief of Kiev’s detectives, who sat behind the desk picking remnants of his lunch from his teeth with his fingernails.
Captain Azef sat to Komarov’s left, slouching in one of the plush guest chairs. Komarov had turned his chair at an angle so he could view both brutes at once. Because there was no ashtray, he did not smoke.
“So,” said Chkalov, “the KGB wishes to inquire about Detective Horvath.”
Komarov was about to speak when Azef broke in. “Yes, Comrade Chief Investigator. We would like to know something about him.”
Komarov glared at Azef. “If you don’t mind, Captain.”
Azef gripped the arms of his chair as if to pull himself from its depths. “Certainly, Major.”
“Thank you,” said Komarov, turning to Chkalov, who seemed amused at this pettiness. “Chief Investigator Chkalov, as you know, it is often in the state’s interest to gather information about certain citizens. This is not to imply these individuals have broken laws; it is simply part of the overall fact-gathering responsibility of the KGB.”
Komarov knew he was stating the obvious. He often used this technique when interrogating officials. A few minutes of this, and Chkalov would relax his defenses. Komarov went on, stating in general terms the need for militia and KGB cooperation. During the speech, Komarov noticed Chkalov sit back, fold his hands on his desk, and smile. When he felt Chkalov was sufficiently relaxed, Komarov began the questioning.
“Chief Investigator Chkalov, is Detective Horvath a convinced or an unconvinced Communist?”
Chkalov’s smile changed to a frown. “These are questions of conscience. My men do their duty.”
Komarov sat forward, stared at Chkalov. “Surely you know your men. Especially a man like Detective Horvath who has been with you for many years. Is he convinced or unconvinced?”
“He’s not a Party member.”
“Party membership has nothing to do with it. I want to know if Detective Horvath, who originates from a frontier area and is of Hungarian descent, does his job simply to maintain his position, or if he does it for the good of the system.”
“He’s a hard worker,” said Chkalov, sounding defensive. “Detective Horvath is a bachelor and often makes use of his own time to solve a case.”
“Are you aware he has relatives in America?”
Chkalov smiled. “Many Ukrainians and Russians have relatives in America, so it would not surprise me if Detective Horvath has an American relative or two. Perhaps you should have visited the American consulate instead of coming here.”
Komarov ignored the smile. “A second cousin visited Detective Horvath here in the Ukraine while he was on holiday.”
“I know,” said Chkalov. “He told me about it.”
“Did you also know Detective Horvath associates with members of the artistic intelligentsia in Kiev?”
“He’s a lover of the arts,” said Chkalov. “Especially music.”
“Hungarians do love their music,” said Komarov. “Gypsy music.
Contrived emotion so they can alternately dance and weep.”
“What does this have to do with anything?” asked Chkalov.
Komarov glanced to Azef.
“Background data,” said Azef, obviously glad to join in. “Major Komarov is simply establishing Horvath’s character.”
“I suppose next we’ll go into his preferences in women,” said Chkalov.