Authors: Michael Beres
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical, #Ukraine, #Chernobyl Nuclear Accident; Chornobyl; Ukraine; 1986, #Chernobyl Nuclear Accident; Chornobylʹ; Ukraine; 1986
When I do, I want to speak to someone who knows about safety at Chernobyl. Someone technical.”
Asimov stared silently up at Lazlo, his jowls visibly shaking.
“Who will I be speaking with this afternoon, Comrade Minister?”
“Who?”
“Yes. Who is your resident technical expert?”
“Vatchenko, the deputy chairman of the engineering council.
He knows about safety.”
“And he’ll be here?”
Asimov nodded his head. “Yes, Detective Horvath. But please listen. There’s something Moscow has instructed me to say.”
“What’s that?”
“They said no news is to leak out except through official channels. They said we are to report to them and to no one else.”
The room blurred, and Lazlo took out his handkerchief to dry his eyes.
Asimov pushed his chair back and stood up. “Please believe I’m sorry, Detective Horvath. At times like this, there is nothing one can say or do to set things right.”
“Yes, there is.”
“What?”
“Find out about my brother’s family and have Vatchenko here this afternoon.”
The shade of a chestnut tree across the street from the Ministry of Energy made the inside of the Volga comfortable. A few minutes earlier, unable to stand it any longer, Komarov had lit a cigarette.
Captain Azef rolled his window partway down and said, because of the nuclear accident, air drawn through a cigarette filter might be better than the air outside.
Komarov knew about the death of Detective Horvath’s brother, Mihaly Horvath, the engineer in charge at the time of the so-called accident. These facts, plus the work his KGB branch office had done concerning the Horvath brothers, their American cousin, and Juli Popovics, prompted Deputy Chairman Dumenko to place Komarov in charge of an aggressive investigation in spite of the Chernobyl accident.
Already, an agent digging into Soviet army records had uncovered a questionable shooting incident involving Detective Horvath.
The detective was his to watch and, perhaps, catch, like a fish out of water in this scheme, whatever the scheme might turn out to be. And now two of Captain Putna’s men had followed Juli Popovics from Pripyat. She was in Kiev, and the PK agent named Nikolai was to meet Komarov at his office later in the day. On the phone this morning, Nikolai sounded gratified to be out of the back room of the rural post office. The same PK agents who first revealed the possible Gypsy Moth connection were here in Kiev. Was it coincidence that, prior to visiting his cousins last summer, Andrew Zukor had stopped at the CIA station in Budapest? Perhaps Zukor wanted to obtain information about the plant from Mihaly Horvath in order to discredit the Soviet nuclear program, or perhaps he was digging deeper, searching for plutonium production numbers the way the Americans had always done.
As they waited across from the Ministry of Energy for Detective Horvath to emerge, Komarov wondered why Juli Popovics had come to Kiev instead of going directly to her aunt’s house in Visenka. She might contact Detective Horvath, her lover’s brother; such a contact would definitely suggest conspiracy. Yes, everything was falling into place. Even Juli Popovics’ pregnancy with Mihaly Horvath’s child added to the growing evidence.
Komarov found the business of childbirth and pregnancy distasteful. When he saw duck-shaped women waddling down sidewalks, he was reminded of the birth of his son. At the time, he reacted as anyone would expect. Grigor Komarov, proud father of a son who would grow into a man, follow in his father’s footsteps, and carry on his name. But Dmitry had betrayed him. Instead of normal courtship, instead of sewing the customary wild oats, Dmitry was a lover of men, forcing into his father’s mind the image of another man’s penis in his son’s anus or even his mouth. A son who had been held up for him to see while moisture from the womb was wiped from him. These private thoughts of Dmitry made Komarov think of Gretchen, made him recall the feel of the knife entering her womb … It was as if he had tried to kill the womb.
Komarov’s wife, in her ignorance, welcomed Dmitry’s friends into their house. Several nights ago, he watched her kiss Dmitry’s current
“lover,” Fyodor, on the lips. Normally it would have been an innocent greeting, but he could not forget it. Last Saturday night, after intercourse, his wife asked why he no longer kissed her. What was he to say? He could not kiss her because her lips had kissed lips that sucked her own son’s penis? He might as well tell his wife her body had, in his imagination, become Gretchen. Gretchen beneath him in the bedroom of the “safe” house. Gretchen musklike following her union with Pudkov, who lay dead in the hall. Gretchen moaning as he touches her with one gloved hand, while in the other hand …
“Insane,” said Azef, interrupting Komarov’s thoughts.
“What are you talking about?”
“The entire situation,” said Azef. “An accident occurs, and Kiev’s public prosecutor opens an investigation. It does nothing except take our men away from us.”
“Only a few men,” said Komarov. “Not our best men.”
“I agree,” said Azef. “We save our best men for genuine investigation. While the Regional Party Committee tells Moscow what it wants to hear, we seek the truth.”
“This is why I’ve assigned men to Chernobyl,” said Komarov.
“Even though rescue and evacuation take precedence, those in charge must be questioned. Unfortunately, it leaves us shorthanded in Kiev.”
“Rather than going to the accident site, you and I must take care of matters here.” Azef paused. “But I wondered what you thought about the possibility of another explosion?”
“Nonsense,” said Komarov. “I spoke personally with Colonel Zamyatin this morning. He’s in touch with scientists from the Energy Ministry at the site. Soon all will be under control at the reactor.”
“Some who might know what caused the accident are in Moscow,” said Azef.
“I’m aware of that,” said Komarov, somewhat annoyed. “The Moscow office assured me they will handle interviews in Hospital Number Six. In case you forgot, Captain Azef, I was fully briefed before you arrived this morning. The evacuation of Pripyat is under way, directors of surrounding collectives will find space for evacuees, Black Sea hotels and campgrounds have been reserved, and komsomols will provide food. During my conversation with Moscow, we estimated as many as one hundred thousand people will need to be evacuated from around the power station. Therefore, Captain, since recovery operations are being handled, we are responsible for determining whether the explosion was an accident or sabotage!”
Komarov realized he had raised his voice. “We are all under pressure, Captain. Because we are not at the disaster scene, you and I must follow through in Kiev before suspects vanish.”
“I still wonder whether more resources should be committed to evacuation.”
Komarov lowered his window, threw his cigarette out, and stared at Azef in silence.
“I’m sorry, Major. I simply wondered about the justification for Moscow assigning security troops to Kiev instead of assigning them to the Chernobyl region.”
“Captain, we have been assigned by the directorate. If you wish to help with evacuation, perhaps I should reconsider your assignment!”
“I wish to continue my current assignment, Major. I was simply considering the magnitude of the situation. The pledge of secrecy issued this morning does not allow me to discuss these things with anyone else.”
They sat in silence for several minutes before Azef spoke again.
“There’s Detective Horvath. He’s coming out of the building.”
“Do you notice a difference in his composure?” asked Komarov.
“Possibly,” said Azef. “He’s looking down as he walks. It’s difficult to say if he received news of his brother. He looks like any other person walking down the street with nothing particular on his mind.”
Azef started the Volga and followed the Zhiguli, which sent out a puff of smoke at each shift of the gears. Detective Horvath turned onto Volodimirski Street and drove slowly, sometimes stopping and waving pedestrians across. Several times, because they drove so slowly, Azef pulled into a parking space and waited before proceeding.
“Do you think he sees us?” asked Azef.
“I don’t know,” said Komarov.
Detective Horvath parked the Zhiguli across from the Cathedral of Saint Sophia, crossed the street, and entered the portico of the cathedral with a group of people being led by a uniformed tour guide.
“Do you think he came to pray?” asked Azef.
“I don’t see why. The cathedral hasn’t had services since the state made it into a museum. Go see what he’s up to.”
While Azef was gone, Komarov watched the cathedral grounds to make certain Horvath would not escape, perhaps finding a back way out. For a moment, Komarov found himself lapsing into his earlier thoughts of Dmitry, his wife, Gretchen, and the knife. But he forced this out of his mind and concentrated on the cathedral.
The upper domes of the cathedral glittered in sunlight turned off and on by clouds blowing across the sky. Scaffolding was set up on one side, with workmen refurbishing a lower greenish dome. All this expense to appease peasants. Someday a work crew would refurbish the office of Deputy Chairman Grigor Komarov. Perhaps someday soon.
Komarov lit a cigarette and waited.
Azef returned out of breath. “I … I had to run to stay ahead.
Here he comes.”
“What was he doing in there?”
“It was strange. He was praying.”
“In what way was it strange?”
“He joined a tour, and I followed. We were in the central nave when it happened.”
“What happened?” asked Komarov impatiently.
“He knelt on the floor. Right there in the middle of all those people, he knelt and started weeping aloud. He raised his hands like an icon. It was incredible. People backed away and made a circle around him. He looked to the ceiling, tears streaming down his cheeks.” Azef pointed out the window. “See those women? They’re still weeping. Everyone was weeping. It was contagious. Even I felt tears in my eyes.”
“He doesn’t look upset now,” said Komarov.
“But it’s true,” said Azef.
They followed Detective Horvath’s Zhiguli the few blocks to militia headquarters. Once Horvath parked and went inside, Komarov radioed for a nearby car to take over and told Azef to drive back to the branch office.
Komarov studied Azef, his eyes red because he had wept with the women in the cathedral. Komarov wondered if his cunning and intelligence instilled as much fear in his enemies as did this fear of the unknown, this irrational fear of a so-called God common among brutes and peasants. Christians, Muslims, Jews, and Gypsies. All the same.
Adding to the speculation was an announcement on Radio Free Europe about high levels of radiation coming from the Soviet Union.
Harsh news would require time for the Soviet News Agency to di-gest and adjust. Continued silence could mean the situation was so far out of control no one knew what to say. Technicians wielding Geiger counters at checkpoints terrified evacuees, as well as citizens of Kiev living on the outskirts near the roadblocks.
But Kievians were used to rumors, and in south and central Kiev life seemed normal. At lunchtime, office workers purchased lunches from vendors along Khreshchatik and, despite the threat of rain, picnicked in the parks along the river. Only a few Kievians hearing the news harbored thoughts of the world’s end, crawling into basements or spending the day on benches in metro air-raid shelters. The usual old women went to church to pray.
The few churches in Pripyat were empty. Residents not yet evacuated were told to seal themselves inside their apartments. Most left on buses Sunday afternoon, some of the evacuees chiding the soldiers forcing them to leave. Soldiers going floor to floor each time a contingent of buses lined up knew little and could only follow orders. The soldiers estimated Pripyat would be all but abandoned the next day.
The sounds in Pripyat came from helicopters passing overhead, army trucks traveling at high speeds, buses lining up, and soldiers shouting through gauze masks, telling residents they had two hours to gather what they could and assemble outside their buildings. Occasionally, when there were no helicopters overhead or trucks or buses on the roads, the soldiers could hear birds and dogs. Birds sang spring songs heralding the cycle of life, not knowing the nests they built here would most likely be doomed. Dogs barked in yards because of the soldiers and because masters had failed to feed them or take them for walks.
Some residents of Pripyat refused to leave. Many were inva-lids who lived alone. Among them was Mihaly and Nina Horvath’s neighbor, the old woman with a cane who had greeted Juli and Marina and Vasily at the Horvath apartment. The old woman stayed in her apartment, fearing looters would take her belongings. On Sunday the woman put her pet canary in its cage out on the balcony.
On Monday morning, finding the canary dead in the cage, the old woman made a flag saying, “Help!” out of a bedsheet and hung it out the window. The canary might have been affected by the radiation or, having been an indoor bird all of its life, might have simply suc-cumbed to the overnight chill. Whatever the reason, the old woman stood leaning on her cane at her window, waiting for soldiers to see her sign from the road and come get her.
In farming villages surrounding Pripyat, people waiting to be evacuated wondered what to do with their livestock. Some piled fodder in barnyards. Others released livestock into fields so they could fend for themselves. Inside farm cottages, kitchen tables were set with plates and cutlery for the number of people living in the cottage. This was for good luck to assure all the residents of the cottage would safely return.