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in Monchegorsk for a reasonable period of time.
    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