“You’re quite the philosopher tonight, Grigor.”
“Abandoning the bottle has awakened my intellect.”
“I’m happy for you, Grigor.”
Tonight, for the first time in over a year, Komarov and his wife made love. But in the darkness of the room, Komarov thought only of Gretchen. While his wife moaned beneath him, he played back the scene again, this time to the music of Prokofiev. He closed his eyes and saw Gretchen staring at him in those moments before the knife went in.
After his wife was asleep and the night continued its journey, Komarov lay awake, alternately thinking of the vodka bottle in the cupboard, the look on Gretchen’s face as she died, the Gypsy witch from the past named Barbara, and of schemes, yet unrealized, as perfect as the Sherbitsky affair.
In central Kiev, Detective Lazlo Horvath of the Kiev militia was also not asleep. Sleep, he hoped, would come much later, perhaps near dawn. The reason he did not want to sleep was because Tamara was in his bed.
It was dark in the room. Lazlo rested his head on Tamara’s breast. He could hear her heartbeat. When he spoke, his upper lip brushed against her nipple.
“Can we stay like this forever, Tamara?”
“In this position, or at this age?”
“Both. Especially this age. The position…” He touched her thigh and gently spread her legs. “The position I would like to alter quite soon.”
Tamara laughed. “I know you would. That’s why I’m staying awake.”
“You’re a spring flower.”
Tamara laughed and pulled at his ear. “Spring flower? You’ve had too much wine.”
“I had to drink it before the campaign against alcoholism began.”
“Last year it had the reverse effect,” said Tamara. “When does this campaign begin?”
“May Day,” said Lazlo. “We have only a few days to consume all the Hungarian wine in Kiev. The local wine and the vodka we’ll leave to others.”
“When Kiev runs out of alcohol and everyone becomes sober and ethical, what will the Kiev militia do?”
“With no criminals, we’ll most likely be ordered to crack down on literary journalists.”
“Even members of the Ukrainian Writers’ Union?”
“Especially members of the Ukrainian Writers’ Union. You are the provocateurs who exposed lapses in construction quality at the Chernobyl reactors.”
Tamara giggled. “We are spies.”
“Better not to say it.”
“Why?” asked Tamara.
“Because there really are spies everywhere. My boss wanted me to do a little espionage the other day.”
“No.”
“When I asked for permission to drive to Pripyat to visit my brother, Chkalov tells me to visit the militia station and check on the captain there. And now, if you are finished questioning me, I’m hungry.”
Lazlo lifted his head and moved atop Tamara, who opened beneath him like a vast warm valley. Her tongue filled his mouth and made him feel as though he would never have to eat or drink again.
In the distance, as their breathing quickened, the bell of Saint Andrew’s Church tolled the one o’clock hour.
Most others in metropolitan Kiev were asleep. Captain Azef of the KGB slept alone, his apartment filled with the sounds of his snoring.
Chief Investigator Chkalov of the Kiev militia snored in harmony with his wife, the combined symphony shaking the bed frame.
Farther north along the Dnieper River, farmers and some of their wives also snored. Except for an occasional rendezvous of young lovers in a barn, it seemed the entire world was asleep. In Pripyat, Nikolai dreamed an avalanche of unopened letters buried him, while Pavel dreamed a dream that would have angered his jealous wife. On the other side of town, Juli had just fallen asleep after another long talk with Marina.
In sleep, the joys and fears and desires of life were diminished, making the world calm and peaceful. At dawn the population would begin to scurry about, many of them queuing up at Saturday markets. But for now, speaking in relative terms, all was silent.
At the Chernobyl Nuclear Facility, it was never completely dark or quiet. The security lighting along the fences shimmered in the cooling pond, and the hum of power continued unceasingly. In the yard outside the main control room, extra lighting had been erected, and a crew of workers in hard hats stood about a high-tension tower.
Some drank coffee or tea from thermos cups; a few smoked. Two workers held a measuring tape along a slightly bent lower section of the tower.
Inside the main control room, one could not tell whether it was day or night because the room was wrapped in light from the fluorescent fixtures and the glow of the control console. At the sides of the console, which was over fifteen meters long, more light illuminated the room. A crew of electricians had lit up the back of the console in preparation for their work.
The chairs in front of the console had been pushed into the center of the room. No one sat at the chairs. A dozen or so technicians of various grades, from operator first class to engineer third class, stood at the console, concentrating on the lighted panels before them. All of the technicians were dressed identically in off-white uniforms and caps. Several observers, who stood back from the console area, also wore off-white uniforms. Two of the observers were women, but this was only apparent when they were viewed in profile.
The technicians muttered among themselves, careful not to speak loud enough for the observers to hear. They spoke of the weariness of operating what they quietly called “the bitch” under manual control for so many hours. They spoke about the absence of the chief engineer on this special shutdown duty. Several wondered if “bitch number four” would be shut down soon so they could go home. Others joked about the chief engineer referring to each of the units not as bitches, but as toys.
“The chief engineer home asleep while we play with his toy,” whispered one operator.
“I’d like to be there,” whispered another.
“Playing with his toy?”
“No, in bed with his wife.”
Several laughed quietly.
“You wouldn’t know what to do.”
“I’ve got experiments to perform.”
“You’d have to do them on yourself. Like our experiment here, seeing how long we can keep the power in our system up after the orgasm is shut down.”
Several laughed again.
“Keep talking this way,” said one of the assistant engineers, “and the director will have you sent to a place where you’ll have plenty of time to play with yourselves.”
There were a few chuckles, but not the comfortable laughter of earlier.
The supervisor of the electricians walked out from behind the console and stood with his thumbs hooked into his tool belt. “I don’t understand. First it’s supposed to be down this afternoon, then this evening, now it’s already after one in the morning. Up-down.
On-off. Nobody knows what they’re doing around here.”
Mihaly Horvath, the senior engineer in charge, looked from the console to the supervisor of electricians. “Can’t you be a little patient? What’s all the noise back there?”
“We’re removing access panels,” said the supervisor. “How much longer before you shut down? Now? Or do we have to wait until Sunday?”
“Not long,” said Mihaly. “What’s the big hurry?”
“You should know,” said the supervisor. “You’re the ones who made us come in for this shift. My boss wants us finished with the lock-ons by the end of the shift, but we can’t start until you shut this damn thing down.”
Mihaly did not answer the supervisor. Instead he gave orders to the other technicians and told them to watch the panel indicators.
The shutdown process had been in progress twenty-four hours.
There were signs of boredom, technicians looking at the clock and yawning, something they would not have done if the chief engineer had been on duty.
During the slow process of lowering the control rods while maintaining steam and water flow, various valves and pumps in the system went through many cycles. It was an excellent time to watch for malfunctions. And, theoretically, it should be a safer time because if anything should go wrong, the reactor was already in the process of being shut down.