Sergey Kostenko

Fifteenth Main Directorate – Especially Important Facilities Operation, protection and defense of "special facilities" – reserve command posts, underground bunkers, secret storage facilities. Interestingly, it was this department that could partially supervise the Chernobyl nuclear power plant as a strategic object, although city departments worked on the ground.

Sixteenth Directorate - Radio Interception Interception and decryption of foreign radio signals, technical intelligence. Another high-tech and top secret structure.

The Main Directorate of the Border Troops The border guards were part of the KGB. They guarded the state border of the USSR - from Central Asia to the Far East.

Personnel Department, Economic, Medical Units Ensured the functioning of the system itself: trained personnel at the Higher School of the KGB, managed property, treated employees in departmental clinics.

Each of these departments was an independent vertical of power. The general task of protecting the Soviet system was solved in a distributed manner, and each central administration was responsible for its own section.

Fourth Directorate - Transport Counterintelligence work on rail, water, and air transport. Kostenko may have interacted with them occasionally, for example, when screening personnel handling cargo for the station.

Fifth Directorate - Ideological Security This department, created in 1969 from the departments of the Political Security Service of Voronezh State University, was tasked with combating "ideological sabotage": dissidents, anti-Soviet elements, nationalists, religious activists, and distributors of samizdat. The "Five" is most often portrayed as a "punitive agency," although in reality it was more of a political investigation and prevention service.

While working in Chernobyl, Kostenko partially performed the functions of the Fifth Directorate—controlling the reliability of personnel at the strategic facility directly affected the ideological sphere.

Sixth Directorate - Economic Security Protection of the Soviet economy: the fight against currency speculators, black marketeers, and embezzlers of socialist property, as well as counterintelligence protection of industrial facilities. Seventh Directorate - External Surveillance The "Toptuns" were the same plainclothes men who sat in cars for hours near embassies, conducting covert surveillance, and tracking the movements of suspects. Kostenko, as an operative, could request surveillance through this department, but he did not serve in it himself.

Eighth Main Directorate - Cipher and Decryption Service Cryptography, protecting government communications, breaking other people's codes. A completely closed organization, with which Kostenko had virtually no contact.

Ninth Directorate - Security of the First Persons The personal security detail for the General Secretary, members of the Politburo, and high-ranking guests. The Kremlin "Nine." Kostenko had no connection with them.

The KGB was more than just a "secret police," but a vast, multifunctional agency operating at the union and republic level. Essentially, it was a state within a state, handling everything from foreign intelligence to border protection and government communications. Created on March 13, 1954, and transformed into the independent KGB of the USSR on July 5, 1978, by the mid-1980s, it had a complex, clearly hierarchical structure.

Main Directorates and their functions

Each area of ​​work was assigned a separate department. Here are the key ones:

First Main Directorate (PGU) - Foreign Intelligence This was the most elite and "romantic" unit. The PGU was responsible for intelligence activities outside the USSR: residencies abroad, recruiting foreigners, and scientific and technical intelligence. Serving there was considered the pinnacle of a Chekist's career. Kostenko most likely knew about the PGU, but he wasn't assigned to it—his work was "on the ground."

Second Main Directorate (SMD) - Counterintelligence This is the same department to which, according to our character development, Sergei Kostenko belonged before his transfer to Pripyat. The VGU was responsible for combating domestic espionage: identifying foreign agents, monitoring diplomats, tourists, and journalists, and screening Soviet citizens for contacts with foreigners. It was "internal counterintelligence," and it oversaw the work of city and district KGB departments across the country.

The Second Main Directorate had 12 departments, each responsible for its own zone: the American embassy, ​​the British embassy, ​​the German embassy, ​​tourists, foreign students, journalists, and so on. Kostenko, working in Moscow as a junior detective, likely served in one of these departments. Third Main Directorate - Military Counterintelligence The famous "special departments" in the army and navy. They monitored the reliability of servicemen and combated espionage within the military. Kostenko rarely interacted with them, except that the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant was formally a strategic facility with paramilitary security.

Moscow contacts

He maintains rare, sporadic contact with his former colleagues from the Second Main Directorate. One or two calls every six months, a New Year's card. Their names are unnamed, their faces blurred by time. For Kostenko, Moscow is a past he respects but tries not to dwell on.

Father

A unique figure. Kostenko has a complex and deep relationship with him. His father is a veteran, a front-line soldier. He once wanted his son to join the army, the "real" troops, not the "office." But when Sergei entered the KGB Higher School, his father resigned himself to it and even respected his choice. Now they correspond once a month. The letters are short: "Serve honorably. Take care of yourself. Your mother is worried." For Kostenko, these letters are a connection to home that he cherishes.

Dyatlov is neither Kostenko's friend nor his protégé, but a figure with whom he is forced to interact. Their relationship is complex: Dyatlov is a fanatic about his work, tough, demanding, and intolerant of interference in his work, including from the KGB. He considers the "Chekists" to be parasites who understand nothing about nuclear energy yet insist on intruding on him with inspections.

Kostenko, for his part, respects Dyatlov's competence but is wary of his uncompromising approach. Too self-assured, too blunt—people like that sooner or later make mistakes that no one will protect them from. They meet at scheduled meetings, exchanging dry, formal phrases. There's always a slight tension in the air between them.

IV. Agent network and contacts at the station

“Nikolaich” (Vasil Nikolaevich Bondar) Electrical engineer at Shop No. 2 of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant, an unofficial informant

A man of about 45, he's been working at the station for about fifteen years. He's a deeply Soviet man, a Party member, with an impeccable record. He collaborates with the KGB voluntarily and ideologically—he sincerely believes he's helping the Motherland.

Bondar is a source of information about the mood on the shop floor. Some have started drinking, some haven't shown up for their shift, some are grumbling at their superiors, some are overly interested in technical documentation. He doesn't snitch out of pettiness or fear—he believes he's doing an important job. Kostenko understands this and treats him with respect, almost like a colleague. They meet rarely, always discreetly: in the evening, in an inconspicuous park or in a car outside the city.

"Librarian" (code name, real name - Tamara Grigorievna Shevchenko) An employee of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant technical library

A woman of about 35, inconspicuous and quiet. She doesn't have access to classified documents, but she handles requests for literature, forms, and lists of authorized personnel. She keeps track of who's interested in what: if a staff member starts requesting overly specific materials unrelated to their direct responsibilities, it's a red flag.

She cooperates for different reasons—out of both fear and a sense of duty. Long ago, she had a brother who got into trouble, and the KGB helped hush it up. Now she's "working it off." Kostenko is careful with her: he doesn't pressure her, doesn't intimidate her, and speaks quietly and politely. He understands that such people hang on by a thin thread, and if that thread breaks, she'll close up shop or do something stupid. Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant shift supervisor – Igor Maksimovich Dyatlov (a real historical figure, so I'll keep it brief and to the point)

Secretary of the department - Nina Andreevna Ponomareva

A woman of forty-five, permanent secretary of the Pripyat City Guard of the KGB. She had seen Gorobets' predecessor and, God willing, she would sit out Gorobets himself. He knows everything and everyone. She has tea, sugar, tea leaves and a folder with the "right" phones in her desk. She is the unofficial center of communication of the department.

Kostenko treats it with emphatic, old-fashioned respect. "Nina Andreevna, be kind" is the only person in the department to whom he speaks such phrases. She repays him in the same way: she makes sure that he has fresh tea, that there are blank forms on the table, so that visitors do not rush without a report. When he stays late, she puts a plate of sandwiches in front of him, silently, without comment, like a mother.

III. Subordinates and wards

Junior Lieutenant Oleg Volkov Trainee, Assistant to the Detective Officer

The youngest in the department. 22 years old, fresh out of training. Local, from Pripyat, his parents were engineers at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. Light-eyed, with a boyish face and a desperate desire to prove himself.

Kostenko took him under his wing—not out of the kindness of his heart, but because Gorobets had asked, "Take the guy, train him." And he trains him. He drives him mercilessly. He makes him rewrite reports three times if he finds a mistake. He teaches him surveillance: stand for hours in the entryway, don't smoke, don't move, memorize everything down to the smallest detail. He teaches him interrogation: don't press, but listen, wait, seize the moment.

Volkov is terrified of Kostenko, yet he worships him. He sees him as the ideal officer: collected, impeccable, and knowledgeable about everything. He copies his manner of dress, his spare gestures, his intonation. Kostenko notices this and chuckles to himself, but doesn't stop him. The boy has potential. Given time, he'll become a good detective—if he doesn't break down.

Ensign Dmitry Zakharovich Litvin Driver of the operational vehicle, employee of the economic department

A man in his forties, a former military man. He served in the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany, then transferred closer to home, to the Ukrainian SSR. He's strong, quiet, and has golden hands. He doesn't just turn the wheel—he keeps his Rafik in perfect condition, knows all the roads, all the bypasses, all the hidden entrances. Litvin is a man without ambition. He doesn't need titles, positions, or recognition. He wants a stable job, a salary, and to be left alone by his superiors. Kostenko values ​​him for his absolute reliability: Litvin never asks too much, never spills the beans, never lets him down. On trips, they can spend hours in silence, and both are happy with that.

Kravchuk is the perfect executive. He doesn't make decisions, but his paperwork is always in perfect order. If Kostenko needs the background of an engineer, he goes to Kravchuk—and within an hour he has a folder with all the applications, CVs, and references.

There's no friendship between them—just a working relationship. Kravchuk is Kostenko's tool, a good, reliable, but heartless one. Kravchuk repays him in kind: he respects him as a professional, but considers him overly blunt, a "Moscow upstart."

II. Equal in rank and position

Captain Anatoly Petrovich Ryabchenko An operative, a peer and colleague of Kostenko

The same age, both around 29-30 years old. Unlike Kostenko, he's a local, from the Kyiv region, and graduated from the KGB School in Moscow, not the KGB Higher School in Moscow. He's strong, stocky, with a simple face and manners, but behind them, however, lies a keen practical mind.

Ryabchenko is the department's workhorse. He's not a brilliant analyst or a master of complex schemes, but he has a phenomenal memory for faces, names, and connections. He knows Pripyat inside and out: who drinks with whom, who owes money to whom, who has a mother-in-law in Kyiv, who has a brother abroad. This "people's database" has repeatedly come in handy during personnel background checks.

The relationship between them is a discreet, male friendship built on mutual respect. Ryabchenko is one of the few who can allow himself to crack a joke in Kostenko's presence, and Kostenko won't cut him off with an icy glare, merely a chuckle. Sometimes, after a hard day, the two of them sit together in the office: tea, cigarettes, a silence that holds more understanding than some conversations.

Ryabchenko is married with two children and lives in Pripyat. Kostenko secretly envies his ability to combine service and family—he himself can't do that.

Senior Lieutenant Grigory Savelyevich Kravchuk Operative officer, Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant Personnel Department

Formally assigned to the station's human resources department, he oversees personnel screenings for the KGB. He's dry, pedantic, and a bit tedious. He's about 35. He wears thin-framed glasses, his lips are always pursed, and he speaks quietly and monotonously.

Structure of the environment

Kostenko doesn't have a large social circle. All his social connections are work-related. He doesn't go out to visit people casually, and he doesn't make friends among civilians. His world is the Pripyat city KGB department and his operational contacts at the station.

I. Immediate superiors Lieutenant Colonel Viktor Stepanovich Gorobets Head of the Pripyat city department of the KGB

Around fifty years old. A former frontline special agent, he also served in SMERSH. He'd been through the war, seen everything possible and impossible. He's heavyset, short of breath, with a wrinkled face and eyes that seem incapable of surprise.

Gorobets is a complex figure. On the one hand, he's a veteran serviceman, thoroughly steeped in the system and doesn't ask unnecessary questions. On the other, over his years of service, he's acquired a rare quality: the ability to distinguish between the important and the merely ostentatious. He won't chastise his subordinates for an imperfectly made bed, but if something goes wrong at the station, he wants to be the first to know, without embellishment or omission.

He treats Kostenko with a fatherly, slightly mocking warmth. He sees in him his former self thirty years ago—just as committed, zealous, and ready to fight tooth and nail for the Motherland. Sometimes he allows himself a good-natured, "Chill out, Captain, not everything at once." Kostenko respects Gorobets—he's perhaps the only person whose opinion he accepts without internal resistance. Gorobets, in turn, values ​​his Moscow training and analytical mind, often consulting him before making decisions.

An important detail: Gorobets is approaching retirement. He's tired. He no longer throws himself into every task with the same zeal, preferring to let younger people handle the operational work. Kostenko is his best hope, his successor, although they don't say so out loud.

Soviet priority and shortage. It's not that he is outraged by the system – he understands the reasons. But the need to "get", stand in queues, have the "right people" to buy furniture or appliances causes him dull irritation. This is not the war he was preparing for. He knows how to solve issues through his official position, but the process itself is unpleasant for him.

In the Meaningless Reports service

. He understands that bureaucracy is inevitable, but he can't stand scribbling for the sake of ticking the box. When he is asked to give ten papers where one would suffice, he obeys, but inwardly grinds his teeth.

Political games. There are enough of them in the KGB. Apparatus intrigues, struggle for positions, sitting on the sidelines of colleagues. He tries to stay away from it, but he feels how this dirt is getting closer to him. He is an operative, not a courtier, and he despises careerists.

When the incompetent are in charge. The most difficult situation: the order was given by a fool. He is obliged to perform, but each cell resists. At such moments, he goes into deep silence and carries out the order with an icy face, not hiding what he thinks about the situation. Your own constraint in yourself

. Somewhere very deeply, he understands that stiffness, inability to relax, inability to spontaneous joy are his misfortune, not his virtue. He sees how others laugh, hug, live, and he understands that he himself does not know how to do this. This is not self-love or hatred – it is a vague, almost unconscious regret for what he has deprived himself of.

Their rare mistakes. He never forgives himself for them. He replays it in his head over and over again, punishes himself with additional work, insomnia. He is his own strictest judge.

In people

Sloppiness. The most hateful thing. A person who "forgot," "didn't have time," "so what, we'll redo it" evokes in him a cold, almost physical rage. He doesn't yell at such people—he erases them. From his life, from his department, from his case. A sloppiness, by his personal classification, is more dangerous than a spy, because a spy can be identified, while a fool is unpredictable.

Talkativeness. People who talk a lot and about nothing, people who can't keep their mouths shut, people who spread rumors—to him, they're trash. He distrusts chatterboxes and, if possible, eliminates them from his circle.

Flattery and sycophancy. He instantly senses when someone is fawning over him. It evokes not gratitude, but disgust. A person who tries to please rather than get things done is a waste of space.

Cowardice. Not fear—fear is natural, he experiences it himself, he just doesn't show it. Specifically, cowardice: when a person betrays, gives in, runs away, leaves others to deal with it. For him, a coward is finished.

Drunkenness. Not the drinking itself—he might have a few. But the systematic, mindless drinking that turns a person into an animal. He'd seen plenty of them in his career: drunken engineers, drunken brawls in the dorms, ruined shifts. An alcoholic is a burden that needs to be dealt with. In everyday life

Disorder. Scattered things, dirty dishes, dust on the windowsill—all of this irritates him at a subconscious level. In someone else's home, he'll remain silent, but he'll mentally note: "unclean."

Loud, unnecessary noises. A blaring radio, slamming doors, empty chatter in the hallway. He prefers the world around him to be muted. Loudness, for him, is a sign of a lack of self-control.

Sweets. Dislikes cakes, pastries, and jam by the spoonful. The only exception is dark chocolate, and even then, rarely.

Winter cold. He loves the cold. It makes him think easier, breathes easier, his body tightens, his mind clears. He tolerates heat, but despises it.

In service

When everything goes according to plan. A meticulously planned operation that goes off without a hitch is his personal drug of choice. Everyone's in place, everyone's working like clockwork, the goal is achieved, and the report lands on the boss's desk, clean and clear.

Archival work. It's a paradox: he's an investigator, but he loves digging through documents. Comparing facts, finding inconsistencies, untangling threads leading into the past. The quiet of the office, the desk lamp, the folders—it has its own special form of excitement.

A sense of rightness. The moment when his theory is confirmed, when his intuition proves correct, when the facts align. In such moments, he experiences a dry, professional satisfaction—almost like a chess player who has checkmated. In memories

Moscow. He rarely admits it, even to himself, but he misses Moscow. The morning bustle of the metro, the smell of the boulevards after rain, the feeling of a vast, vibrant city where everything is decided. He respects Pripyat, but Moscow is his youth, his formative years, his best years.

His parents' house. His mother's cabbage rolls, his father's stories about the front, his sister who used to drag him by the hand to the Christmas tree as a child. He loves these memories, but keeps them under lock and key—sentimentality isn't for a detective.

In people

Discipline. When a person knows their job and does it without reminders. They don't demand servility, but they appreciate it when a subordinate or colleague understands a task instantly and completes it precisely, on time, without excuses.

Directness. A rare quality he respects even in his enemies. If someone says what they think, looking him in the eye—even if it's unpleasant—Kostenko inwardly gives them a thumbs up. He's tired of fawning people, of those who say "as is proper" but mean something else.

Competence. He loves professionals. A good engineer who knows a reactor down to the last screw. An experienced driver who can detect a malfunction by the sound of the engine. A veteran operative who can "read" a person by the way they light a cigarette. Mastery in any field evokes almost aesthetic pleasure for him.

Silence. He values ​​people who know how to remain silent. They don't fill pauses with idle chatter, don't reveal too much about themselves, and don't gossip. Silence, for him, is a sign of intelligence and reliability.

In everyday life and habits

Order. His apartment is almost barracks-like in its minimalism. Everything is in its place. He likes things organized systematically: documents in color-coded folders, shirts ironed in a stack, shoes polished and lined up perfectly parallel. Chaos around means chaos in your head—he can't stand that.

The silence of early morning. The only time when the city sleeps and no one bothers him. He loves those half-hours before the workday begins: exercise, cold water, tea, the first cigarette on the balcony. At that moment, he's almost at peace.

Strong black tea. No sugar, sometimes with lemon if he can get his hands on it. For him, tea is fuel, a ritual, a break, a way to recharge. He doesn't like coffee: he tried it in Moscow, didn't understand the taste, and anyway, he considers it a "bourgeois habit."

Smoking alone. He smokes a lot, but only experiences conscious pleasure when he smokes alone. He can stand by the window, look at the lights of Pripyat, think of nothing, and simply breathe in the smoke.

"The Right Life" is his formula If he were asked to formulate how one should live, he would say something like this: "Live honestly. Do your job well. Don't talk too much. Help your people. Don't let your comrades down. Be on guard. And then everything will be fine." This short formula encapsulates Kostenko. No philosophy, no doubts, no self-reflection. Only duty, order, and vigilance. That's enough for him—for now.

Attitude to truth and lies

A paradox: a professional counterintelligence officer, who has dealt with lies his entire life (legends, disinformation, operational games), deep down despises lies. He believes that the truth is what's written in the regulations, in the protocol, in the order. Anything beyond that is just empty words. He himself lies only in the line of duty, and for him, these lies aren't lies, but "operational necessity." He has drawn a clear line: there are lies to save the Motherland—that's acceptable—and there are lies for personal gain—that's vile.

Interestingly, he's not yet ready for the state's lies. He sincerely believes that the state speaks honestly to the people. Time will pass, a catastrophe will occur, and this faith will crack—but for now, in early 1986, he sleeps peacefully.

Attitude towards death He's not afraid of death—or so he tells himself. Danger is part of the profession, and he accepted that long ago. Far more than physical death, he's terrified of professional death: resignation, decommissioning, irrelevance. And also, a meaningless death. If he dies while apprehending a saboteur, that's an honor. If he dies of a heart attack at his desk, that's stupid. He's not superstitious; death for him is simply the end of a function, a period at the end of a report.

Attitude to happiness He never asked himself if he was happy. Happiness is a category of private life, a world of family, comfort, laughter, and relaxation. He had all of this—in fragments, in the past, in Moscow, in his youth. Now he had put off "happiness" until better times—retirement, someday. He convinced himself that happiness wasn't a goal, but a byproduct of a job well done. He fulfilled his plan—drank tea, smoked on the balcony, looked out at sleeping Pripyat. This was happiness. He needed nothing else.

Attitude to the Motherland and the State

For him, the Motherland isn't an abstract slogan, but rather concrete things: the lights of Pripyat over the river, the smell of wet leaves in Kyiv's parks, Levitan's voice on the radio, snow outside the window of his office apartment, his parents waiting for letters, the turbines of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant humming steadily and powerfully. All this is his Motherland, and he loves it. He loves it silently, without pathos, without toasts or poetry. He simply knows that it is his, and he will never give it up to anyone.

For him, the state is an instrument that defends the Motherland. The Party, the KGB, the army, the ministries—all are cogs in a single machine. He doesn't deify his superiors or kiss their portraits, but he believes that the people at the top are generally competent, know more than he does, and make the right decisions. If a decision is unclear, it means he simply lacks the information to understand it. This faith isn't fanatical, but rather pragmatic: "My job is to carry it out; those responsible will do the thinking." It also frees him from the agony of choice and guilt.

Attitude towards people in general

In his view, humans as such are weak creatures. Most people are neither heroes nor villains, but simply material: malleable, controllable, and driven. They want simple things—a salary, an apartment, sausage on the table, healthy children. This is normal. But precisely because people are weak, they easily succumb to panic, rumors, and outside influences. They need to be guided, protected, and—yes—controlled. Not out of contempt, but out of an understanding of their nature.

For him, heroes are exceptions. They are those who are able to overcome fear, pain, and the instinct for self-preservation. He respects such people immensely, but he also views them with some caution: heroism is good in war, but in peacetime, a hero often proves inconvenient.

Traitors and enemies are also exceptions. He doesn't understand them. Or rather, he understands them rationally (money, blackmail, resentment, ideology), but he doesn't accept them emotionally. For him, selling out his homeland is like selling out his mother. It's beyond the pale.

The world as a system

Sergei Kostenko perceives the world not as chaos, but as a vast, complex, yet fundamentally understandable system. In this system, every detail has its place, function, and purpose. There is the state—it protects and guides. There is the party—it shows the way. There are the people—they build and work. There are enemies—they want to destroy it all. And then there is he, the KGB captain—the one who stands guard, ensuring that the enemies don't get through.

This worldview is simple, logical, and therefore reassuring. There's no room for chance: every event is the result of someone's will or someone's mistake. If an accident happens at the station, it means someone botched it or, worse, deliberately caused harm. If someone behaves strangely, it means they have something to hide. If information disappears, it means it was stolen. The "it just happened" theory never satisfies him. In Kostenko's world, there's always a reason, and he's obliged to find it.

Black and white morality

He divides the world into "right" and "wrong" with almost no gray areas. Right is to serve the Motherland, observe the regulations, tell the truth to your superiors, keep your word, and be vigilant. Wrong is to be lazy, to talk nonsense, to put the personal above the public, to doubt the Party's rightness, to disobey orders.

This black-and-white perspective isn't stupidity, but a defense mechanism. If we accept that the world is a vast gray area, where everyone is partly right and no one is entirely right, then his work becomes meaningless. It's unclear who to protect and from whom. And he needs clarity. So he deliberately simplifies his moral picture of the world—not because he's incapable of complex reasoning, but because complexity paralyzes. He prefers action to reflection.

Credo

If he were asked what the meaning of his work was, he would answer briefly: "To keep things quiet." This is "calm" - silence over Pripyat, the peaceful hum of the Chernobyl turbines, the lack of orientation about spies, the absence of emergencies in the reports. He guards the peace of a huge country, and so far he has succeeded.

Attitude to the object of protection - the Chernobyl nuclear power plant

for him is not just a place of service, but a symbol. A symbol of Soviet scientific power, a symbol of the peaceful atom, a symbol of the fact that the country is going into the future. He treats the station almost like a living organism that requires constant supervision. He studies the technical documentation not out of duty and not for the sake of ticking the box - he is really interested in how the RBMK reactor works, how the safety systems are arranged, how operator shifts live. He is aware of the gossip and rumors circulating among the station staff: who has drunk, who has an affair on the side, who is dissatisfied with the salary. All this is part of his "household", and he takes care of it carefully.

Attitude towards subordinates and wards

He has few direct subordinates: a couple of junior officers, a driver of an operational vehicle, a secretary of the department. He is strict with them, but fair. He does not raise his voice, but he almost never praises him - praise from Kostenko is an event that is then discussed for a week. At the same time, he does not let "his own" offend: if his people are run over by his superiors, he will stand like a wall and dryly, with facts in his hands, smash any claims.

His attitude to the agent network is instrumental, but not cynical. He doesn't look at whistleblowers as dirt — he thinks they're doing the right job, even if it's not the cleanest one. If the informant takes a risk, Kostenko provides him with cover. If the informant fails, he does everything to get him out. Not out of sentimentality, but out of professionalism: an agent who has been abandoned is a stain on the reputation of an operative. Workaholism as a

norm Vacation is a punishment for him. He does not know what to do in his free time. On weekends, he still goes to the department to check the reports, re-read the orientations, call the station. Even when he sits at home and reads, this reading is a continuation of work. He sincerely does not understand people who live "from bell to bell". His life is service, and he does not see a tragedy in this. On the contrary, he believes that this is how a real officer should live.

"Service is a form of existence"For Kostenko,

work is not a way to earn money, not a career ladder, not a place in a team. This is the core on which his entire personality is strung. If you take away his service, there will be nothing left. He is not religious, but he treats his work with almost religious fervor: serving the Motherland, protecting the state, protecting secrets are his sacred concepts. He pronounces them rarely and without pathos, but he believes in them as one believes in God.

Perfectionism to the point of

self-destruction He always brings the entrusted task to the end. There are no unfulfilled tasks – there is not enough time, and then it takes time away from sleep. He can sit over the reports until the morning, double-check every line in the report, run the operation plan three times. He does not forgive mistakes - neither to himself nor to others. If a subordinate was negligent in the matter, Kostenko will not arrange a public flogging. He would call him into the office, close the door and in an even, quiet voice, looking point-blank, dismantle the hole so methodically and destructively that the offender would come out wet.

He arranges the same analysis for himself mentally, without witnesses. On sleepless nights, he replays in his head: where he took the wrong turn, what fact he missed, whose signal he did not check.

Faith in the system

He believes that the structure of the KGB, the party, the state is a single, generally correctly working mechanism. There are local failures – there are fools and slackers everywhere, but the system as a whole is fair and reasonable. This faith gives him moral support: if he acts according to the regulations, according to orders, according to instructions, he is right. The concept of "the order was criminal" does not yet exist for him. It is this faith that will face a crushing test when the catastrophe occurs, but so far, in March-April 1986, it is unshakable.

With women

He views women as a separate, complex category. He's neither a prude nor a misogynist, but his profession has conditioned him to see women as either a source of information or a risk factor. His romantic relationships have been brief, infrequent, and almost always initiated by the woman. He's no good at courting: he buys flowers because "that's the way it's supposed to be," and his compliments are dry and formulaic. The closest he came to genuine affection was in Moscow, but that story ended in failure—he chose the service. Now, in Pripyat, he's alone. Sometimes, looking at young couples strolling along Kurchatov Avenue, he experiences something akin to melancholy, but he quickly dispels it with the thought: "Family is vulnerability; I can't have it."

description of his office An office on the second floor of the Pripyat city KGB department. The door is covered in leatherette, with a plaque reading "Senior Detective Kostenko S.I." The walls are a formal green, with a portrait of Dzerzhinsky and a map of the region. A desk covered in green cloth: a lamp, two telephones, and folders with security stamps. The chair for visitors is deliberately hard. A metal safe holds files, dossiers, and a service pistol. A cabinet with regulations, a refrigerator stocked with Borjomi. A window overlooks the courtyard, the curtains drawn for interrogations. The only light is a desk lamp, dimness in the corners. It smells of paper, tobacco, and gun oil. Silence, clocks, and phone calls. Here he works, interrogates, and is left alone until nightfall.

· The third circle is "aliens". Persons under investigation, foreigners, dissidents, swindlers, random suspicious persons. There are no emotions at all here, only a function. He speaks to them evenly, correctly, even politely, but this politeness makes your skin crawl. He does not raise his voice, does not insult, does not use force unless absolutely necessary - he presses with logic, evidence, silence. He can "disassemble" the "alien" like a mechanism, and at this moment he is absolutely ruthless. Not out of sadism, but out of the conviction that the enemy does not deserve mercy.

Attitude to weaknesses

He diagnoses human weaknesses instantly: drinking, talkative, greedy, cowardly, loving. But he doesn't brand them morally—he uses them as a tool. A drinker will blurt out too much over a glass - you need to have him in the agent network. A greedy person will sell out - you need to monitor his income. A cowardly person will crack during interrogation - one look is enough. He does not condemn people for these vices, he catalogs them. The only thing he does not forgive is stupidity and sloppiness. A fool is more dangerous for him than an enemy, because the enemy can be calculated, and a fool is unpredictable.

Rare exceptions

There are people for whom he respects. These are always those who take the blow: they do not fawn, do not make excuses, do not try to please. If the defendant calmly, without hysteria, defends his position, Kostenko internally gives him a "pass". If a colleague makes a mistake, but admits it directly, without wagging, he will not drown him. And very rarely, once every few years, he meets a person with whom there is an almost human contact. Then Kostenko becomes almost normal for a short time - he can even smile out of the corner of his mouth. But such moments do not last long, and he himself is the first to cut them off.

The general principle: "everyone is a potential object"

Kostenko does not divide people into good and bad in the everyday sense. He divides them according to the degree of danger and usefulness. This is a professional deformation that has become his nature. Any person who comes into his field of vision first undergoes an unconscious "check": who you are, why you are here, what you are hiding. Only after that does he allow himself some emotion – and even then in doses.

Three social

circles· The first circle is "insiders". These are colleagues, proven operatives, several people from the central office in Moscow, with whom he worked. With them, he allows himself microdoses of warmth: a dry handshake a little stronger than usual, a short nod when meeting, a miserly "how are you holding up?", thrown in passing. He doesn't pat on the shoulder, doesn't drink at the Brudershaft, doesn't tell jokes. But "insiders" know: if Kostenko undertook to cover for you, he will get you out of any scrape, even at the cost of his own career. For him, betrayal of "his own" is the only thing that can pierce his armor and cause not just anger, but a deep, almost childish resentment, which, however, he will never show. · The second circle is "citizens". These are the ones he protects. ChNPP engineers, doctors, teachers, workers, party functionaries. He treats them as a strict pastor to his flock. He sincerely believes that the Soviet man is weak, prone to temptations, talkative, prone to panic, and therefore needs vigilant but fair supervision. He does not despise them, he takes care of them. Like children who should not be allowed to go to an open fire. If trouble happens, he will rush to protect them, but he will never sit at the same table with them as an equal. There is always glass between him and the "citizens".

The voice is the same as himself: not a low bass, but rather a dry, even tenor with a metallic tinge. The diction is perfect, the Moscow school of speech is felt in the clear pronunciation of the endings. He speaks quietly. This is more frightening than screaming: the interlocutor has to calm down and strain his ears to understand the words. This is how he takes control of the acoustics of the space. He keeps pauses for a long time. He can be silent for five to ten seconds, looking at the interlocutor point-blank, and this time drags on like an eternity. The pace of speech is slow, but inside the phrase there is a dynamic, chopped rhythm.

Temperament in communication He does not interrupt, but there is a feeling that he expects you to make a mistake every second. In the company, he keeps to himself, speaks little, but if he enters into a conversation, it is always to the point. He jokes rarely and in a very specific way: with an absolutely serious face, he gives out a dry phrase, which can be either a threat or black humor, and the interlocutor wonders to the last whether to laugh or stretch to attention.

Features of non-verbal communication Height 162 cm requires special psychophysics. Kostenko never tries to seem taller. He uses a different tactic - invasion of personal space. He comes close to the interlocutor. He does not tilt his head back to look up at the tall opponent from below - he, on the contrary, slightly tilts his head forward, from under his forehead, as if aiming. This creates an extremely uncomfortable, oppressive impression: a large man feels strange, because physically he is larger, but psychologically the "small" captain crushed him.

Gestures Gestures are extremely sparse, almost ascetic. Hands never dangle idly in the air.

· Adjusts his watch: The most frequent gesture. Mechanical, sharp. With the index finger and thumb of his right hand, he adjusts the strap on the wrist of his left, even if the watch fits perfectly. Signal: Pent-up irritation or contemplation of a difficult issue. · Finger on the table: The index finger is placed on the tabletop, and it makes one, maximum two almost silent presses. This replaces his screaming. If the finger is used, expect to be smashed. · Buttoning: If the conversation is standing, sometimes he will unbutton and immediately fasten the top button of his jacket. A gesture that means, "The conversation is over, I'm going into formal mode." · In conversation, his hands are almost always busy: a cigarette, a pencil, a folder. He rarely opens his palms completely - this is his subconscious secrecy.

Face, hair, eyes

Hair In the period described, he still has youthful hair. Hair is blonde, blonde, soft, prone to a slight wave if it grows a little. He combs them carefully back, strictly according to the shape, without gel or briolin, fixing only with water and a comb. The parting is impeccably even. With a sudden movement or at the end of a long day, one light strand can be knocked forward, but he mechanically, almost nervously, immediately drives it back with his palm.

The eyes are brown-gray. The color is very complex, changing depending on the lighting: in daylight, cold steel gray prevails, in artificial, yellow light, a warm, almost swampy shade of brown appears. But the main thing in the eyes is not the color, but the look. The gaze is direct, not blinking, heavy. He does not look into the eyes of the interlocutor, but as if two centimeters deeper, into the bridge of the nose and brain. This is a professional manner that is taught during interrogations, but Kostenko has it innate. When talking to someone who is unpleasant to him, his eyes turn into two icy beads that express nothing - neither anger nor joy. In moments of rare rest, a deep hidden longing or fatigue slips into the gaze, which is immediately masked by an ironic squint.

Facial features The face has a clear, almost graphic structure. The nose is sharp, straight, with a thin back. The cheekbones are clearly defined, but do not protrude, but rather are guessed under the taut light skin. His lips are thin, most often compressed into a straight line - this is his "neutral expression", which outsiders take for disapproval. If he does not control his face (which is extremely rare), there is a bitter crease at the corners of his mouth. Due to his small stature and thin build, his face seems younger, but the heavy look and the vertical wrinkle between his eyebrows "age" him, making him exactly the age that the opera needs.

Plasticity in motion He moves surprisingly silently for a man in uniform shoes. The gait is soft, creeping, without army typing of the step. The step is not long, but frequent and clear. He does not enter the room - he "seeps". He has something of a predator or a dancer: complete control over the center of gravity, the ability to freeze instantly without body hesitation. When he needs to take a position in space, he does it sparingly – he never makes unnecessary movements. If he sits, he does not fall apart, but keeps his torso straight, leaning forward slightly, as if ready to stand up at any moment.

Body and physique (Height 162 cm)

General build: "Compressed spring" Sergey Kostenko is a man of small height, 162 centimeters, but there is absolutely no subtlety or frailty in him. His physique is best described as lean, compact, and explosive. He looks like a bantamweight boxer: the muscles are not prominent and protruding, but flat, long, tight-fitting bones. Not a gram of fat. The physique is rather leptosomal - a narrow chest, thin bone, but at the same time incredible endurance.

Features of posture Due to his short stature, he subconsciously, but without fuss, always keeps his back as straight as possible, emphatically vertically. He never slouches, does not shrink in space. The line of the spine is perfectly straight, the chin is slightly upturned. This is not pomposity, but a professional habit: he compensates for the lack of physical mass with absolute control over his body and occupied volume. From the outside, it may seem that he is standing "on tiptoe", although his heels are on the ground - so collected is his figure.

· He does not carry a lot of money with him - only the necessary minimum for lunch and transport. · He always carries his ID with him (in the left inner pocket of his jacket), even when he goes out for five minutes to take out the garbage. · Before going to bed, he puts his shoes strictly parallel to the bed, folds his clothes on a chair in a certain order - in case of a night call, in order to get dressed instantly. · He does not like sweets, the exception is dark chocolate, which he occasionally allows himself as "fuel for the brain". · In the morning, he drinks only tea, he does not recognize coffee, considering it "bourgeois pampering". · He has a habit of adjusting the watch strap when he is nervous or pondering a difficult question - this is his only visible "tick".

The Habit of Observation

The deepest, almost manic habit is to observe. Once in a new place, the first thing he does is find a position from which all the entrances and exits are visible. In a restaurant or dining room, he will never sit with his back to the door. In the crowd, his eyes automatically pick out faces that do not correspond to the situation, nervous movements, suspicious packages. This habit has long become second nature and is no longer recognized by him as something special, just like breathing.

Hobbies and personal time

He does not have a hobby in the classical sense. In his free time, he reads: official literature, memoirs of military leaders, closed bulletins on new methods of intelligence work, technical journals on nuclear energy (to understand the object that he guards). From fiction - extremely rarely, and then almost exclusively military prose: Simonov, Bogomolov ("He reread The Moment of Truth" three times, considering it almost a manual). He almost does not watch TV, with the exception of the Vremya program. The radio listens as a background while working with documents.

Attitude to alcohol

Drinks rarely and only on occasion: a holiday, a colleague's birthday, a successfully completed business. He prefers vodka, but he knows his norm and never exceeds it, so as not to lose control. No one saw him drunk. At noisy feasts, he sits on the edge, drinks slowly, watches the others. Even when he relaxes, he does not cease to be an operative.

Handwriting and working with documents

He has a neat, neat handwriting with a slight inclination to the left (a sign of restraint, isolation, according to the graphological classification of those years). When filling out documents, he never makes mistakes. If he makes a mistake, he rewrites the entire sheet again. His papers are laid out in colored folders, each signed. There is perfect order on the table, he considers the chaos of paperwork a sign of unprofessionalism.

Speech and silence

Speaks little, uses words sparingly. In conversation, he pauses before answering – not out of uncertainty, but to weigh every word. The voice is even, without bright intonation jumps. Very rarely raises his voice, almost never interrupts. The emotional coloring of the speech is given not by intonation, but by stingy gestures: tapping his fingers on the table (irritation), slowly removing and wiping his glasses (if he wore them, he adjusts his wristwatch in the absence of glasses), abruptly closing the folder (the final decision, not subject to discussion).

Manner of

dress In civilian clothes, he dresses strictly and facelessly: a dark suit, a white or light blue shirt, a tie, shoes polished to a shine. No jewelry, except for a wristwatch (Soviet "Flight" or commander's). The collar is always buttoned up, even in the heat. He does not take off his jacket in the presence of strangers. In shape, he is impeccable: not a speck of dust, not a wrinkle. He learned this habit from his father, a front-line soldier, who said: "The appearance of a soldier is his morale."

Smoking

He smokes a lot, a pack a day, and more on busy days. He prefers Soviet cigarettes "Cosmos" or "Stewardess" - they are relatively light, but in Pripyat, due to good supplies, Bulgarian "Rhodopes" or even Cuban "Partagas" sometimes fall (he keeps them for special occasions or to treat the right person). He smokes nervously, deeply inhaling: by the way he extinguishes a cigarette butt in an ashtray - sharply, screwing it in - you can determine his level of stress.

Morning ritual

Getting up at 6:00 sharp, without an alarm clock (an internal chronometer has been developed). The first thing, even before breakfast, is physical exercise. He does not pump muscles for the sake of relief, his task is functional endurance: push-ups, squats, abdominal exercises, stretching. In winter and summer, cold wiping with a wet towel, a habit left over from cadet times. Then a short, almost Spartan breakfast: porridge, egg, strong tea without sugar.

Hidden warmth and suppressed humanity

Somewhere very deep, under the crust of official instructions, there is simply Seryozha Kostenko - a man who loves his mother's cabbage rolls, misses his sister and secretly feeds a stray dog near the department. He loves Pripyat, this young city with its wide avenues and the smell of young leaves in the spring. He loves the feeling of a huge, peaceful country outside the window, when at night you stand on the balcony, smoke and look at the lights of new nine-story buildings. But he does not admit this sentimentality to himself, and if someone notices, he will abruptly turn the conversation into a business channel.

Attitude to people: indifferent care

Divides people into three categories mentally. "Insiders" are fellow officers, proven personnel with whom he serves. He has a feeling for them, similar to brotherhood, but shows it very sparingly: he will share scarce cigarettes, cover them in front of high authorities, and give good advice. The "serviced contingent" is the citizens whom he protects and supervises at the same time. He treats them as a strict but fair father: to protect them at any cost, but also to punish them severely, despite the tears. "Aliens" are those who are under suspicion or outside the system. With them, he is cold to the point of cruelty.

He despises the weak. Drunkards, slackers, whiners, chatterboxes – for him these are not people, but "material for preventive work". But paradoxically, he can be imbued with respect for the defendant sitting opposite him, if he holds the blow competently and logically. He respects an enemy almost as much as he respects a friend, as long as the enemy is smart.

The only emotion that he allows himself relatively freely is dry, bilious irony, bordering on sarcasm. This is its protective valve.

Perfectionism and self-exactingness He brings any entrusted task to the end, even if it means sacrificing sleep, food, weekends. He is one of those who will double-check an already finished report three times for errors. The negligence of subordinates or colleagues causes him a dull, hardly restrained rage. He can spend hours, methodically, without raising his voice, "press" the guilty employee with logic and regulations, until he feels like a complete nonentity.

He is even stricter with himself. If Kostenko made a mistake, he does not look for excuses – he "eats" himself from the inside, replays the scenario in his head over and over again until he finds at what point the wrong conclusion was. Vacation for him is an empty time that must be endured. A favorite form of recreation is reading special literature or manuals on civil defense. He is, in fact, a workaholic who does not know how to rest.

The core of personality: "soldier of the system"

Kostenko is a person whose personality is almost completely formed by the service. He is one of those who were called "ideological Chekists" in the KGB. These are not empty words: he sincerely, without a shadow of cynicism, believes that he is defending the Soviet people from external and internal enemies. For him, the KGB is not a punitive body, but a cordon sanitaire that protects the country from filth. This belief gives him the moral right to do what would seem cruel to an ordinary person: to open other people's letters, to recruit informants from among friends and colleagues, to conduct covert surveillance of those who may not be guilty of anything. He sleeps peacefully, because "the Motherland ordered."

But in this same faith lies his main vulnerability. If the system he serves turns out to be deceitful or incompetent, his world will collapse like a house of cards. It is not ready for halftones. Betrayal, sabotage, negligence are absolute evil for him. A good worker is absolute good. There are almost no intermediate categories. Analytical mindset and emotional deafness

He is a pronounced "man of the left hemisphere". Everything that happens to him, he decomposes into logical chains: fact, motive, consequence. Before entering the room, he unconsciously scans it: where are the exits, who is, who is looking at whom, who has a nervous trembling hand. This habit of working as a "scanner" makes him unbearable in everyday communication - friends and rare acquaintances of women complain that he is never relaxed, always as if he is under interrogation, even if he is just drinking tea.

Emotional deafness is an acquired professional deformation. At the KGB School, they were taught not to succumb to feelings, so as not to become vulnerable. Over time, Kostenko ceased to distinguish where professional restraint ends and mental muteness begins. He does not know how to cry, does not know how to laugh out loud, does not allow himself anger (anger is a loss of control, and he is more afraid of it than death).

He has no personal life (a couple of rare business trips to Kyiv, fleeting acquaintances that do not develop into a serious relationship - he firmly decided that the family "is not for his profession"). His world is a folder marked "Secret", a telephone number for direct communication with the station attendant, a "rafik" with the task force and night vigils over reports. He does not know, and cannot know, that in a matter of weeks this world is destined to disappear in fire and radiation. For now, he is just doing his job - honestly, as he was taught, as he swore.

The transfer was agreed, assigning the rank of captain and the position of senior operative (confirmation of the rank from your introduction). For all his friends and relatives, he again used a proven legend: "The Ministry of Agriculture sends me to the Chernobyl region to oversee a land reclamation project, at the same time closer to my parents."

At the beginning of 1985, Captain Kostenko arrived in Pripyat. A young, fit Muscovite in civilian clothes, but with a military bearing and a tenacious look. Colleagues from the local department met him warily - as a "metropolitan thing" who wanted romance. But we realized very quickly: this one knows his business.

Life in Pripyat before the events of the

series In Pripyat, Kostenko received a one-room service apartment in a house on Kurchatov Street - the heart of the city, where the technical intelligentsia and the party elite lived. Its task is "prevention": checking the plant's personnel, identifying connections with foreigners, monitoring compliance with the secrecy regime in the scientific and technical departments of the Chernobyl nuclear power plant. He often visits the station, knows almost the entire management by sight. He has his own informants among engineers and ordinary workers - people who voluntarily inform him about violations, suspicious conversations, other people's weaknesses.

For a year of work, he built a clear, almost military discipline in his department. He does not have subordinates in the literal sense - the "wards" are rather a network of informants and a couple of young employees whom he takes care of, handing over a Moscow school to them. One of his wards is a junior lieutenant, a local guy, whom Kostenko drives up a sweat, realizing that in the event of an emergency, a lot will depend on the training of such young "Chekists".

Thus, by the spring of 1986, Captain Kostenko was a 29-year-old professional counterintelligence officer, who was at the peak of his form, completely immersed in the operational situation around the Chernobyl nuclear power plant.

Over the years of study, Sergey himself learned the legend so much that he could easily maintain a conversation about crop rotation of winter crops and milk yield, although in fact he mastered external surveillance, operational psychology, cryptography and recruitment methods.

He lived in Moscow for six years: first study (4 years), then another two years of work in the central apparatus of the KGB as a junior operative of one of the departments of the Second Main Directorate (counterintelligence). It was Moscow that forged a real professional out of a capable provincial guy. He was used to the rhythm of the capital: morning trips in the subway (from a rented room on the outskirts to Lubyanka), endless analysis of reports, planned activities to identify persons of operational interest. During these two years, he has never been to the real scene of the incident - only papers, analytics, reports. He wanted real operational work, "in the field".

Transfer to Chernobyl

And then an opportunity came up. In Pripyat, a satellite city of the Chernobyl nuclear power plant, the Pripyat city department of the KGB of the Ukrainian SSR functioned. The department was engaged in counterintelligence support of a high-security facility of special importance - the station itself. The amount of work was enormous: the Chernobyl nuclear power plant is not just a nuclear power plant, it is a strategic hub where tons of top secret documentation circulated, thousands of people with access to state secrets worked, and foreign specialists were present (Czechoslovak and Hungarian engineers came through the CMEA, equipment was supplied). The risk of espionage and technology leakage was enormous. In addition, the construction of new Chernobyl units (the fifth and sixth) required an influx of labor, among which unreliable elements, adventurers and simply enemies of the Soviet government, hiding under other people's documents, could always be lost.

At the end of 1984, Kostenko submitted a report on the transfer to operational work in the Ukrainian SSR. The management appreciated him, but understood the young captain's desire to prove himself on the front line.

Detailed biography of Sergei Kostenko (USSR, before the accident)

Early life and family

Sergey Ivanovich Kostenko was born in 1957 (the year of the launch of the first satellite, which the family would later be secretly proud of as a good sign) in a small town in the east of the Ukrainian SSR. His father was a war veteran, who after the victory settled in a Ukrainian city, where he worked as a foreman at a machine-building plant. His mother is a school teacher of Russian language and literature. There were two children in the family: Sergey and his younger sister (she lives with her parents, he rarely talks about her, keeps in touch with letters and rare calls). Parents doted on Sergei - he grew up as a serious, precocious boy who preferred reading or studying in a radio club to noisy games in the yard.

Already in high school, he stood out among his peers: he did not drink, did not smoke (he began to smoke later, already in Moscow, and then rather in order to blend in with the environment), had a firm goal "to serve the Motherland on the invisible front." The romance of intelligence captured him after the school military instructor, a former front-line osobist, gave him a book about the Chekists to read. Moscow. "Agricultural legend"

After school, having excellent grades and impeccable characteristics, Sergey entered Moscow, at the Higher School of the KGB of the USSR named after F. E. Dzerzhinsky (KGB Higher School). This is an elite educational institution that trains operational personnel for state security agencies. For all relatives and acquaintances, however, he is a student of the Moscow Agricultural Academy named after K. A. Timiryazev (the famous "Timiryazevka"). The legend was not chosen by chance: firstly, the academy is really located in Moscow, and it was easy to explain living in the capital. Secondly, "agriculture" is a boring, peaceful and absolutely unsuspicious field, about which people quickly lose the desire to ask in detail.