Before the government’s ironfisted clampdown on information pertaining to the “situation” in the Kola Peninsula, his office had received more than enough warning signs to warrant further investigation of a possible “biological incident.” The video smuggled out of Monchegorsk and released worldwide by Reuters cast serious doubt on the government’s assertion that employees of Norval Nickel had formed an armed insurgency. If he’d suddenly dropped his inquiry, he would have drawn even more attention to himself.
“Interviews,” the younger agent corrected him.
“That’s right. Interrogations were banned along with the cigarettes. Comrades, I have work to do, so if you don’t have any new questions, I don’t have time to give you the same answers to the old ones,” he said and started typing on his keyboard.
The older agent forced a smile, which Kaparov returned before turning back to the computer monitor, pretending to open emails. At least they weren’t asking questions about Stockholm. He could play this little bullshit cat-and-mouse game for the rest of his career if it suited them. He wondered how many times they would be required to return before someone interceded on his behalf.
“Thank you for your time, Alexei,” the gray-haired investigator said, sharing a glance that acknowledged the futility of this game.
“My pleasure, Boris,” he said.
Less than a minute later, his deputy walked in, closing the door behind him. Yuri Prerovsky crossed his arms and stared at Kaparov.
“Yes?” Kaparov said.
“What did they want?”
“The same thing they wanted three days ago. The same thing they talk to you about. Monchegorsk. It’s the same conversation every time. Why do you keep asking questions about Monchegorsk? I don’t ask questions anymore. Why did you keep asking questions after the government explained what happened? Because I’m not a fucking idiot. What does that mean? It means you’re all fucking idiots for thinking the government explanation has satisfied the population. And round and round we go.”
“Nothing more, huh?” Prerovsky said.
“No. Nothing more. We’ve discussed this.”
Kaparov was starting to get annoyed by everyone at this point. He’d shared his strategy with the nervous youngster, assuring him that as long as his “friend” in operations covered her tracks, they could not be linked to Stockholm. He’d draw a little heat with the Monchegorsk questions, which would divert any other attention away from them. Why would a veteran of the KGB era keep bringing up Monchegorsk and Reznikov if he had anything to do with Reznikov’s abduction? That’s the question he wanted internal affairs to ask themselves.
“I know. It just makes me nervous,” Prerovsky said.
“Internal affairs should make you nervous. They make me nervous…”
His statement was interrupted by the phone on his desk. He held up a finger and answered the call.
“Director Kaparov.”
He listened as Prerovsky glanced around at the piles of folders stacked haphazardly throughout the office.
“I’ll be right up, sir,” he said and replaced the receiver.
“That was Greshnev. He wants me upstairs immediately,” Kaparov said.
An audience with the Counterterrorism Director was something he typically avoided at all costs, but in this case, he relished the opportunity. His obstinate refusal to play along with Internal Affairs’ nonsensical semantics game had finally earned him the chance to put this nonsense to rest. He could simply throw his hands up and ask what his boss wanted from him.
“Did he say what he wanted?” Prerovsky said.
“Of course not. I guarantee you that Boris flipped open his cell phone once they were out of our section and reported that the interview went nowhere as usual. Maybe five interviews is the magic number for a crusty dog like myself.”
Kaparov reached into the ashtray on his desk and smothered the cigarette he had lit to annoy the younger Internal Affairs agent.
“Do you want me to wait here?” Prerovsky said.
“Don’t you have a fucking job to do?”
“Keeping you out of trouble is a full-time job,” he said and stood up to get the door for Kaparov.
Kaparov retrieved his suit jacket from a tree stand next to the door and squeezed the ill-fitting brown jacket over his saggy frame. He pulled down on the lapels out of habit, which did little to flatten the wrinkles.
“I think it’s time for a new suit,” his deputy said.
“Maybe it’s time for a new deputy director,” Kaparov said, raising an eyebrow.
“If you’re not back within the hour, I’ll start looking for my new deputy,” Prerovsky said, dusting off the shoulders of Kaparov’s jacket.
“If succeeding me gives you hope, who am I to crush the dream?”
“You can’t blame a young man for dreaming. See you in few minutes. Greshnev isn’t one for many words,” Prerovsky said.
Kaparov walked through the cluster of cubicles and workstations that defined his turf on the third floor. Few of his analysts looked up from their work to greet him, which was to be expected. His true mood, or whatever he chose to display, was rarely established before lunch, and nobody wanted to push their luck, especially after a visit from Internal Affairs. This suited him fine. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk on most days, and today was no exception. Despite this preference, he’d have to put on a smile and do some public relations work, regardless of the meeting’s outcome.
In a few seconds, word would spread like wildfire that he was meeting with Greshnev, fueling rumors limited only by their wildest imagination. Within two minutes, half of them will be despondent, convinced that the entire section would be dismissed, their careers forever tainted by Kaparov’s stubbornness. The other half would start to prepare their transfer requests, certain that Greshnev would appoint a ruthlessly cruel director to replace Kaparov and reform the section. He’d spend half of the remaining day smiling and assuring them that everything was fine. The smiling was the worst part. Kaparov hated smiling.
He proceeded past the boundary of his section and turned onto a central thoroughfare leading to the staircase. A few minutes later, he was standing in front of Greshnev’s secretary like a schoolboy waiting to see the principal for a spanking. She barely acknowledged his presence, and he silently refused to take one of the wooden chairs against the wall.
Inga Soyev, as her desk placard indicated, had apparently been a fixture in this building before Kaparov started his career with the KGB in 1973. With silver hair and graying skin, she looked old enough to have served as a secretary under Stalin’s regime. Despite her years, she looked sturdy. When she stood up to open the door to announce Kaparov to Greshnev, she showed no signs of advanced age so common among senior Muscovites. Wearing a pressed knee-length gray skirt and starched white blouse, she moved steadily and surely, with perfect posture. Kaparov suddenly felt self-conscious about his shabby appearance and unhealthy aura.
“The director will see you now,” she stated without smiling.
“Thank you,” Kaparov said, moving past her scornful gaze as quickly as possible without breaking into a run.
The door closed behind him.
“Alexei. Have a seat, please,” Greshnev said, indicating the cushioned, straight-back chair in front of his desk.
“Thank you, sir.”
He wondered if he would have the opportunity to say more than “thank you” to Greshnev. Actually, if that was all he was required to say, the meeting would be a success.
“I just spoke with Internal Affairs,” Greshnev began.