Chernobyl Murders (11 page)

Snows of February and March have nourished the winter wheat.

Father has planted our vegetable crop and all is well.’ I’m sick of hearing how all is well.” Nikolai opened a new letter, examined it.

“Here’s another to Juli Popovics, the Chernobyl technician babe.”

“She’s under observation,” said Pavel. “Who’s it from?”

“I know she’s under observation,” said Nikolai, somewhat annoyed. “It’s in Ukrainian from Aunt Magda in Kiev. She has prepared a room so Juli Popovics can visit for several months while the medical matter is addressed.”

“Sounds like she’s a Mommychka-to-be,” said Pavel.

“There must be much activity at Chernobyl,” said Nikolai.

“Aside from radioactivity.”

Nikolai put the letter to Juli Popovics in the tray for copying and began opening another.

“Still no mail for the engineer stud?” asked Nikolai, glancing at a list on the table headed by the words official observation.

“Nothing for Mihaly Horvath since February,” said Pavel.

“First his American cousin bugs him, then a batch of letters from his brother asking about some matter, then nothing.”

“The letters we copied may have had an effect,” said Nikolai.

“Like other Chernobyl workers before him, he’s gone mad and had to be taken away. Perhaps we’ll go mad. It’s spring and I feel like a caged animal. Can you imagine the heat in this room come summer?”

“I doubt if Mihaly Horvath has gone mad,” said Pavel. “As for us, the post office should supply chilled mineral water. Did you hear Gorbachev is now mineral secretary since he replaced vodka at official functions?”

“You already told me,” said Nikolai, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

“Don’t worry about the heat,” said Pavel. “Tomorrow we’ll have a fan to cool us, courtesy of our ersatz supervisor, the noble comrade postmaster.”

Because it had been stored in the underground garage, the inside of the Volga was cool and comfortable. Major Komarov tried to relax as Captain Azef drove slowly through Kiev’s noon-hour traffic. On the far side of Kirov Street, beyond Petrovsky Promenade, office workers lunched on benches beneath chestnut trees and on the green April lawn of Pervomaisky Park. Beyond the park, the river sparkled in the sun. Out in the river, the beach on Trukhanov Island glowed like a hot ember.

While he drove, Azef talked about automobiles. “Although the Zil is still used by high officials and has certain prestige, I still prefer the Volga. Even modified Chaikas with yellow fog lights are no match for the well-equipped Volga. Look at all those pieces of shit everyone else drives. Even the militia drives shitbox Zhigulis.”

Azef glanced to Komarov. “Sorry, Major. I’m speaking too much again.”

“Sometimes, Captain, it’s not how much you speak. It’s the nature of your conversation. Perhaps it would be better to concentrate on our visit to militia headquarters.”

Azef stopped the Volga behind a line of traffic waiting for pedestrians crossing to the park. “Will you tell Chief Investigator Chkalov about the investigation into shoddy parts from Yugoslavia?”

“Shoddy parts relates to new construction,” said Komarov. “Detective Horvath’s brother works in unit four, which is fully operational.”

“What about the woman?” asked Azef. “Will you tell Chkalov about her?”

“Detective Horvath’s brother managing to impregnate a co-worker is of no concern to the Kiev militia. Our purpose today is simply to determine whether the letters Detective Horvath sent his brother earlier in the year might have some relation to Chernobyl.”

“Chkalov is a brutish fellow,” said Azef.

Komarov glanced at Azef and had to restrain a smile. Azef of the KGB and Chkalov of the militia, what a pair of plump brutes they both were.

When they got out of the Volga at militia headquarters, Komarov had a quick cigarette before entering the building. Azef seemed about to mention the cigarette until Komarov glared at him. Then Azef simply waited for Komarov to finish his smoke.

Chief Investigator Chkalov’s office did not look like the office of a man who worked for a living. Except for a brass pen set, an intercom, and telephone, the desk was clear. Behind Chkalov on either side of an ornately curtained window stood flags of the Soviet Union, the Ukraine, the city of Kiev, and the Kiev militia. The walls contained photographs of appropriate officials surrounding a larger rendering of Lenin looking skyward. There were no maps of the city with stickpins, no scheduling boards, no piles of reports. A room meant for giving proclamations rather than the office of the chief of Kiev’s detectives, who sat behind the desk picking remnants of his lunch from his teeth with his fingernails.

Captain Azef sat to Komarov’s left, slouching in one of the plush guest chairs. Komarov had turned his chair at an angle so he could view both brutes at once. Because there was no ashtray, he did not smoke.

“So,” said Chkalov, “the KGB wishes to inquire about Detective Horvath.”

Komarov was about to speak when Azef broke in. “Yes, Comrade Chief Investigator. We would like to know something about him.”

Komarov glared at Azef. “If you don’t mind, Captain.”

Azef gripped the arms of his chair as if to pull himself from its depths. “Certainly, Major.”

“Thank you,” said Komarov, turning to Chkalov, who seemed amused at this pettiness. “Chief Investigator Chkalov, as you know, it is often in the state’s interest to gather information about certain citizens. This is not to imply these individuals have broken laws; it is simply part of the overall fact-gathering responsibility of the KGB.”

Komarov knew he was stating the obvious. He often used this technique when interrogating officials. A few minutes of this, and Chkalov would relax his defenses. Komarov went on, stating in general terms the need for militia and KGB cooperation. During the speech, Komarov noticed Chkalov sit back, fold his hands on his desk, and smile. When he felt Chkalov was sufficiently relaxed, Komarov began the questioning.

“Chief Investigator Chkalov, is Detective Horvath a convinced or an unconvinced Communist?”

Chkalov’s smile changed to a frown. “These are questions of conscience. My men do their duty.”

Komarov sat forward, stared at Chkalov. “Surely you know your men. Especially a man like Detective Horvath who has been with you for many years. Is he convinced or unconvinced?”

“He’s not a Party member.”

“Party membership has nothing to do with it. I want to know if Detective Horvath, who originates from a frontier area and is of Hungarian descent, does his job simply to maintain his position, or if he does it for the good of the system.”

“He’s a hard worker,” said Chkalov, sounding defensive. “Detective Horvath is a bachelor and often makes use of his own time to solve a case.”

“Are you aware he has relatives in America?”

Chkalov smiled. “Many Ukrainians and Russians have relatives in America, so it would not surprise me if Detective Horvath has an American relative or two. Perhaps you should have visited the American consulate instead of coming here.”

Komarov ignored the smile. “A second cousin visited Detective Horvath here in the Ukraine while he was on holiday.”

“I know,” said Chkalov. “He told me about it.”

“Did you also know Detective Horvath associates with members of the artistic intelligentsia in Kiev?”

“He’s a lover of the arts,” said Chkalov. “Especially music.”

“Hungarians do love their music,” said Komarov. “Gypsy music.

Contrived emotion so they can alternately dance and weep.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” asked Chkalov.

Komarov glanced to Azef.

“Background data,” said Azef, obviously glad to join in. “Major Komarov is simply establishing Horvath’s character.”

“I suppose next we’ll go into his preferences in women,” said Chkalov.

“Perhaps,” said Azef.

Komarov nodded to Azef, a signal to continue.

“For instance,” said Azef, taking his notebook from his pocket.

“Were you aware Detective Horvath has been seeing a Miss Tamara Petrov, who is editor of a literary review known to publish the works of anti-Soviets?”

“A detective’s personal life is none of my business,” said Chkalov.

“A moment ago it was,” said Azef. “A moment ago you said Detective Horvath has much free time because he is a bachelor, and he uses this time to put in extra duty.”

“He doesn’t give up all his free time,” said Chkalov, obviously annoyed. “I simply meant he is often available on call.”

“He should be,” said Komarov. “He has a car at his disposal, which he is also permitted to use for personal trips.”

“It is valuable to have our detectives in their own cars, Major.

This is a large city, and a detective can be called to duty at a moment’s notice.”

“Do you also permit out-of-town trips?”

“Occasionally.”

“A hundred kilometers away?”

Chkalov sat forward, fists clenched on his desk. “I see no point to this questioning. If militia policy is in question, perhaps you would be candid enough to say it.”

“On the contrary,” said Komarov. “I don’t question militia policy. I simply want to inquire about several trips Detective Horvath made to Pripyat.”

Chkalov smiled. “Detective Horvath was visiting his brother.

Even so, there is a militia office in Pripyat, and it is not uncommon for our detectives to communicate with one another.”

“I’ve visited the Pripyat militia office myself,” said Komarov. “I must say, the captain there is also a person of interest. But we’re getting off track. I’m here to reveal information regarding Detective Horvath.”

“Please do!” said Chkalov abrasively.

“Detective Horvath’s brother holds a key position at the Chernobyl Nuclear Facility operated by the Ministry of Energy. The KGB is assigned to protect the facility. Recently, Detective Horvath’s brother has had personal problems and has been involved in gossip with co-workers, some of which involves the questioning of authority. In letters from Detective Horvath to his brother, Mihaly Horvath, Chernobyl matters were alluded to. Detective Horvath has subse-quently inquired whether these matters were resolved. Now, instead of writing, Detective Horvath has made several trips to Pripyat. Our concern, Chief Investigator Chkalov, is not with an individual’s personal life unless his personal life is dedicated to wrongdoing.”

Chkalov stood, walked to his window with his hands clasped behind him, then turned. “Detective Horvath is one of my best men. He would not be involved in wrongdoing.”

“I didn’t say he was,” said Komarov.

“Then what the hell are you getting at?”

“His brother,” said Komarov. “We’re concerned about his brother, and we’d like you to let us know if you hear anything. A compromised Chernobyl engineer is my concern.”

“Such methods you use,” said Chkalov, shaking his head. “In the militia, when we want to know an answer, we simply ask the question. But I suppose KGB procedures are different.”

“They have to be,” said Komarov. “In counterintelligence, there are times when we do not know the questions. We simply know a situation exists in which questions should be asked. In the KGB we do not wait for a crime to occur before we do something.”

When he and Azef walked through the anteroom after leaving Chkalov’s office, Komarov heard what sounded like the violent slamming of a desk drawer behind him. He turned to see Azef smiling gleefully like a fat-faced child.

Although the North Atlantic was over a thousand kilometers away beyond all of Europe, the distant ocean affected Kiev’s weather. In winter, northwesterly winds blew across Scandinavia, causing snow squalls, which sometimes paralyzed the city. But now, in late April, the winds had reversed their course, bringing warmth from the Black Sea.

It was evening, and Major Komarov was on the back porch of his small home on the outskirts of Darnitsa, a suburb of Kiev. This afternoon, Komarov had succeeded in intimidating Chief Investigator Chkalov of the Kiev militia. As he sat in the dark on his porch sipping vodka on ice with a lemon peel, he could still see Chkalov’s angry round face and Captain Azef’s smiling round face. Con-temptible brutes, both of them.

The porch faced a grove of trees bordering a creek at the southern edge of the yard. The south wind was fragrant with greenery, momentarily overpowering the smell of vodka and the acrid aroma of the cigarette he had just put out.

Dinner was finished, and Komarov could hear the muted bab-ble of the television inside the house. His wife remained captivated by television, while Komarov, weather permitting, spent evenings on his beloved porch. On the small wooden table beside his chair were cigarettes, a lighter, an ashtray, a bowl of ice, a peeled lemon, his glass, and his bottle.

When he sipped vodka, Komarov’s elbow brushed against his side where he felt the weight of the knife in the inside pocket of his jacket. Keeping the knife with him rather than locked away in his desk coincided with his introduction last summer to the suspicious actions of three Hungarians. Although he had not met them, the three had been under operational observation for many months, and Komarov felt he knew them well.

Two of the Hungarians, Mihaly Horvath and Juli Popovics, worked at the Chernobyl facility. If the need arose, the actions of these two would be of interest to the Ministry of Energy, to the power-plant Party secretary, or even to KGB headquarters in Moscow. Somehow Komarov felt this need would arise. He had been requested confidentially to watch for incidents in which Chernobyl personnel questioned safety at the plant. Although he did not know the reason, he felt a Moscow crackdown might come. If it did, he would be ready. He would have his three suspects: a Chernobyl engineer, a technician, and a detective in Kiev.

Three suspects with the blood of Gypsies running through their veins. Three Gypsies whose photographs, especially the Horvath brothers, reminded him of photographs of Bela Bartok, the so-called composer who collected simpleminded folk tunes and pawned them off as art, the so-called composer who went to America to die with his old-fashioned music.