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Chelyabinsk is a closed city. To travel there one needs special permission from the state. Chelyabinsk is like a Russian nesting doll, a matryoshka. Matryoshka dolls are traditional symbols of Russian fertility: a mother carrying a child within her womb, that child carrying a grandchild within her womb, and so on and so on... Thus, a family’s legacy is passed down from generation to generation along a chain of mothers.
Inside the closed city of Chelyabinsk is the secret City 40 (Ozersk). And inside City 40 is Mayak, where nuclear weapons are researched and manufactured.
Thus, the legacy of Chelyabinsk and her progeny is radioactivity, two to three times higher than that of Chernobyl.
***
THE USELESS WAR IN Afghanistan had severely affected unit formations in the rest of the Red Army. That included the garrison that protected City 40 and Mayak. This was why the Kremlin justified a heavy KGB presence in the form of border guards in the entire Chelyabinsk region. It was a necessary supplement. To call the army unit inside the city commanded by Captain Mikhail Khalatsyn a “company” was indeed being charitable. It comprised thirty nine armed riflemen in one platoon and another five support and clerical staff. But his men were Afghan veterans and worth an entire regiment of border guards. A few had entered the army as teenage conscripts, survived the rigors of war, and were now battle-tested, hardened men. They all knew of their black Russian commander’s reputation of serving with Spetsnaz. They trusted, respected, and loved him.
Mikhail felt honored to command such men.
Since he was in charge of security inside City 40 and the Mayak facility, and his “garrison” was understaffed, Mikhail could not devote all of his time to the Katkov investigation. Since their first lunch together at the café, they’d only been able to eat there one other time; again they happened to run into their Eurasian friends from the border guards. After that, Mikhail had not seen Katkov in nearly a month. Then one evening while he was doing paperwork in his cramped office, Mikhail heard a timid knock on the door. That knock could not be from one of his soldiers.
In his command voice, “Enter,” said Mikhail.
Comrade Katkov poked his head inside. He apologized for disturbing Mikhail.
Mikhail grinned. “Well don’t just stand there, friend, please come in.”
Nervously, Katkov invited him to dinner in town this upcoming Saturday night. “I hope you can make it, Mishe, I’ve also invited some comrades from the lab I’d like you to meet. You are suddenly quite popular with everyone in our facility.”
Mikhail was glad his friend did not say Mayak. Katkov was learning. It did surprise him, however, that in Mayak Mikhail had become, like the Americans say, something of a rock star. Mikhail would accept the invitation. The more he knew about Katkov’s colleagues, the easier it would be to find out if one of them was a KGB informant. Mikhail had become convinced that Katkov’s problems with the GRU and the state lay under the jackboots of the KGB.
“I will not miss this opportunity even if Comrade Brezhnev himself invites me to a state dinner at the Kremlin.”
Katkov smiled. “And once again, I shall pay for your dinner.”
Mikhail insisted otherwise, but Katkov would not hear of it. “For so long I’ve had no friends here. And now, thanks to you, people are beginning to see me and not simply the color of my skin.”
Perhaps it is the color of both our skins that intrigue them, friend. “The Americans have a phrase for that, Smart Mishe. You are now BOMC, big man on campus.”
“Strange people those Americans.”
As he opened the door about to exit, Katkov turned and shot Mikhail a shy smile. “One of my new friends is named Alexandra. She is quite special to me.”
Mikhail bounced back and forth in his chair, clapped his hands, and roared with laughter. “Friends in the Chekka’s border guards and now a special friend named Alexandra — Smart Mishe, you never cease to amaze me.”
***
ON SATURDAY NIGHT AT six o’clock, Mikhail arrived at the main gate to wait for Katkov and his friends. He was happy to see two of his Eurasian comrades on duty, and the guards were equally glad to see him again. Also, no Ukrainians meant Mikhail and company could pass through the gate without being pestered.
Mikhail, with the finely tuned hearing of a Spetsnaz warrior, turned his head in the direction of soft footfalls that normal people would not notice. Four figures, two in the lead and two following, approached. Shadowy shapes in the twilight, Mikhail recognized the silhouette of Mikhail Katkov coming towards him. The man who walked to his immediate right was a couple of inches taller and with the same narrow build. Gangly best described the man’s gait, like an adolescent still learning to control loose limbs. His hair was big and curly, and he appeared to be wearing eyeglasses.
Walking behind them were a man and a woman. The man was quite short and pudgy. He was animated using both hands while chattering incessantly to a petite woman. From this distance she seemed quite shapely, but her walk favored her right leg over her left. She was not talking. Perhaps the pygmy had not given her the opportunity or she was not interested in anything he had to say.
When the four scientists reached Mikhail, Katkov began introductions in Russian. First he presented Mikhail and the guards to his colleagues. Mikhail was pleased when he referred to the guards by their names, Nikita and Timofey. Katkov had showed them proper respect; they deserved no less.
Then he added, “Mikhail, Nikita, Timofey, here are my colleagues: Lev Bronstein (the tall one), Antonio Santos (the short one) but we call him Tono, and Alexandra Popovitz (the pretty one).” He added that Tono’s father was from Cuba and his mother from Moscow.
Mikhail had to admit, despite her obvious handicap, there was something enchanting about Alexandra. Might this enchantress also be a KGB informant? He could easily imagine a guileless Katkov letting the wrong word slip to such a bewitching girl. Her hair was long and golden brown. Most of it hung halfway down her back while two thick strands ran straight down the front. The hair framed a cherub face. Whenever her soft brown/green eyes did engage with Mikhail’s, she would quickly look away like a frightened doe. He guessed she was in her early twenties. How was it possible that someone so young could have advanced degrees and be a top notched scientist? The Red Army harvested only the cream of the Soviet’s brain crop for its closed weapons facilities. Mikhail assumed she was either a prodigy or someone with Party connections. He’d go over her dossier along with those of Bronstein and Santos tomorrow regardless of his duties as commander of internal security.
To match his sad, droopy face Lev Bronstein had a sad, droopy chest. Given the man’s build and profession, Mikhail wondered if he had ever lifted anything heavier than a test tube. That flat chest made the bulge around his middle even more pronounced. His black, thick, curly hair was flecked prematurely with gray. His eyeglasses were thick enough to withstand severe pressures that built up at the bottom of the ocean. Given the man’s surname, Mikhail guessed Lev was of Jewish ancestry.
A pale-skinned Hispanic, Tono let his delight show on his face. He was short and round and as jolly as one of Father Christmas’ elves. No wonder he’d been so vigorously chatting up Alexandra. She might be one of the few women in City 40 shorter than he was.
Both Lev and Tono looked to be about the same age, late thirties or early forties.
In the cab on their way to the café, the four men were crammed in the back seat while Alexandra sat up front with the driver. Lev asked many probing questions about Mikhail’s experiences in Afghanistan and life in the army — genuine curiosity or the curiosity of an informant?
As for Tono, he spoke fluent Russian tinged with a Cuban accent. “Mishe has told us so much about you, comrade captain,” he said. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”
“Thank you, Tono. And please call me Mishe.”
Said Katkov, “That’s sure to confuse everyone.”
“True,” said Mikhail. “Then please call me Army Mishe and him Smart Mishe.”
He shot a glance at Alexandra. She blushed and turned shyly to look out the window. She would not say a word during the ride to Chelyabinsk.
“We all know about the incident at the gate, Army Mishe,” said Lev, suddenly brightening and shedding that sad, hound dog face. “The entire nuclear section admires you now, Comrade Captain.”
“We hate the guards,” growled Tono.
“I hope you’re not speaking about my friends Nikita and Timofey, Tono,” said Katkov, feigning insult.
Tono laughed. “Of course not!” and then to the other scientists, “Who knew our comrade Smart Mishe would have connections in the army and the border guards.”
Alexandra blushed again and covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.
When the cab pulled up in front of the café, Tono, Lev and Katkov briefly had a friendly argument about who should pay the fare. When Mikhail offered to settle the dispute and pay, “Or we’ll starve to death out here,” the three men insisted absolutely not! Then, to everyone’s surprise, Alexandra reached into her purse and paid the driver.
“Hooray for Alex!” said Tono.
“You bad boys,” said Alexandra, “this was your plan all along to get me to pay, no?”
The girl had the sweet voice of an angel. Mikhail hoped she’d speak more at dinner. It was a pleasure to listen to her soft melody.
Inside the café, Mikhail noticed Katkov and Alexandra maneuvering to choose chairs so they would be seated next to each other. Their communication, however, was limited to an occasional exchange of shy smiles and short sentences like, “Would you please pass the pita, Mishe,” and “Of course, Alexandra,” and “Thank you,” and “Would you please pass the hummus, Alexandra,” and on and on and on...
Getting way ahead of himself, an amused Mikhail thought: Wonder if they’re planning on having children?
The evening went from pleasant to wonderful. The geek squad thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. Even conversation between Katkov and Alexandra had progressed from short sentences into short paragraphs. And apparently it had been agreed upon beforehand that Mikhail Katkov would pay the entire check.
“My turn next time,” said Tono.
So there would be a next time. Mikhail thought that was good, another opportunity to make assessments.
When the cab brought the scientists back to the gate at City 40, and to avoid another silly squabble between the eggheads, Mikhail, who made sure he sat up front this time, paid the driver.
“I appreciate the kindness you have all shown me,” he said.
Alexandra, Tono, and Lev headed off in one direction — apparently their living quarters were in the same building — while Mikhail and Katkov walked off together in another.
They spoke in English.
“Where are you quartered, Mishe?” asked Katkov.
“Not far,” and not true. Mikhail lived in a secluded section of City 40 with the rest of his soldiers. He deliberately went out of his way to walk Katkov home so he could pick the man’s brain.
“Alexandra is quite pretty, yah?” Mikhail casually asked. “How long have you known her?”
“We see each other at the facility quite often, but tonight was the first opportunity we had to speak with one another.”
Mikhail grinned. Is that what you call it? “Please pass the hummus.” “She likes you, Mishe.”
Katkov gave him an Aw Shucks grin.
“Now that the two of you know each other so well,” Mikhail added, “you can ask her on a date?”
Suddenly Katkov went silent as he struggled to choose the right words. Finally, “What will people say? What will they think? We both have to work here.”
“It’s no one’s business. Given that we find ourselves in a closed city, I’m sure there are plenty of romances going on. And,” he added with emphasis, “this is the Soviet Union. In our beloved Fatherland everyone is fucking everyone else.”
Mikhail was speaking literally as well as figuratively. Katkov’s white heritage seeped through his dark skin: he blushed.
“Sorry for my rough talk, comrade, but I am a soldier.”
“It’s not that... She’s white, Mishe. Many people will not approve.”
“Then those people can go fuck themselves!” Mikhail’s anger was genuine. “My wife is a white Russian and so is my mother.” He poked hooked fingers in the air.
“You did that to the Ukrainian. What does that mean?”
“It’s an old Spetsnaz gesture. It means, ‘I’ll poke your eyes out, you fucker.’ ”
Katkov chuckled. “How crude. And colorful.” Then, serious again: “What about our supervisors. We could both lose our highly paid positions.”
Mikhail suddenly stopped and looked his friend in the eyes. “Do you like this girl, Mishe?”
“Yes. Very much.”
“Then don’t worry about it. You’re my friend. You have my word, Smart Mishe; no one will bother you or Alexandra.”
A squinty eyed, “You have such power, Army Mishe?”
“I do, Smart Mishe.” More than you can imagine.