Chernobyl Murders (24 page)

If there had been a window in his small corner cubicle, Lazlo would have seen what appeared to be a typical noontime crowd in the street below. But the cubicle had no window. Lazlo never spent much time here. The only reason he came now was to try again to call the Moscow hospital treating Nina and the girls. But each time he called, the line was busy.

Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko, passing by and looking surprised to see him, leaned into the cubicle.

“I didn’t know you were here, Detective Horvath. I have a message for you. It came upstairs earlier this morning and …”

Lazlo grabbed the message. It said a woman was waiting at the downstairs desk. It said the woman chose to wait even when told Lazlo might not be in the office today. While Lazlo read the note, Lysenko stood before him, smiling like a fool. The note said the woman was young and attractive, and her name was Juli Popovics.

At first the Hungarian name made Lazlo think of the village of Kisbor, the farm where he and Mihaly grew up. But then he recalled the afternoon last winter when Mihaly confessed to him about his lover named Juli.

Citizens of Pripyat fleeing south to Kiev. It had to be. Mihaly’s lover here, to see him. Mihaly dead, Nina and the girls taken to Moscow, and Mihaly’s lover comes to him. Lazlo put the note down on his desk, and when he looked up, Lysenko was still there smiling.

“What do you want, Lysenko?”

“I thought I should fill you in. The trouble has begun. We’ve been told to watch for looters smuggling goods south in hay bales.

In villages farther from the power station, children were moved out ahead of adults, so we’ll have to watch for them at the roadblocks.”

“Anything else?”

“Since you ask,” said Lysenko, “I need to tell you Chief Investigator Chkalov questions why you did not visit the militia station when you were in Pripyat. Apparently he wonders if you might have something to add to the current Pripyat situation.”

Lazlo raised his voice. “Anything else?”

“Nothing else, Detective Horvath.”

“Then why do you stand there like a baggage handler waiting for a tip?”

Lysenko frowned, shook his head. “I thought we would be able to share a professional conversation, Detective Horvath. I thought this woman might relate to a case you’re involved in.” Lysenko straightened his tie. “Since I am Chief Investigator Chkalov’s assistant, it seemed reasonable to take an interest, just as you took an interest in the roadblocks, so much of an interest that you went to the chief investigator’s home last night.”

Lazlo wanted to grab Lysenko by his tie. But as he stepped closer, he controlled the urge. “Is my brother being killed a good enough reason?”

Before Lysenko could react, Lazlo moved past him and hurried down to the front desk.

Like a true refugee, Juli Popovics carried a small overnight bag and wore a scarf and a coat too heavy for the season. The scarf was not on her head, but tied loosely about her neck. Her hair was dark brown, brushed out straight. Her face had a look of innocence, perhaps because she wore no makeup or perhaps because her eyes, large and greenish-gray and unblinking, were full of questions.

“Detective Horvath, my name is Juli Popovics. I know your brother, Mihaly. I came from Pripyat, where there has been trouble.”

“I know.” Lazlo led her to the stairs. “I recognize the Hungarian accent in your Russian.” When she nodded, he switched to Hungarian. “Come, let me take your bag.”

As he climbed the stairs ahead of her, he replayed what she’d said in his head. “I know your brother, Mihaly.” He wondered if her use of present tense was similar to the talk of relatives at a funeral, speaking of the deceased in present tense. How could she be in Pripyat and not know Mihaly was killed?

Lazlo put her bag on his desk, pulled his chair out, and sat before her, feeling vulnerable to her penetrating eyes. In the moments of silence before speaking, he stared at her. She did not know about Mihaly.

“Forgive me, Miss Popovics, my name is Lazlo.”

“Mine is Juli. We traveled all day yesterday and most of the night. Friends dropped me north of the city and went to stay with relatives. I waited at the Hotel Dnieper until morning.”

“Is it bad in Pripyat?”

“People are leaving. No physical damage. The explosion and fire was several kilometers away. But the radiation … everyone who knows about radiation has gone by now, most coming south because the wind has been blowing north. On our way here, we saw buses and army trucks going north.” Juli stared at him, her eyes open wide. “You know something about Mihaly.” She forced a smile. “He’s come here. Mihaly and his family are here!”

Lazlo stared into her eyes as he spoke. “Until this morning, I knew only about an accident at the Chernobyl plant. I was at the roadblock on the road from Korosten all night waiting for Mihaly and Nina and the girls to come. Anna and Ilonka would run to their uncle, and he would lift them up in the air. I would have driven them to my apartment. I’d still be there if this were true. I’d be celebrating with my brother and his family. But they did not come.”

Juli’s eyes moistened, her lips held tightly together, trembling.

Suddenly he felt very close to her. A link to his brother, as though he were about to tell Nina her husband had died. Where was his anger at this woman who might have torn Mihaly away from Nina?

Tears began to flow down the cheeks of this woman named Juli, tears like his at the cathedral where he’d protested the injustice of Mihaly’s death, as if there were such a thing as justice in this world.

Despite her tears, Juli continued staring at him. “It’s Mihaly.”

“He’s dead.” Lazlo had to swallow to continue. “I found out this morning.”

He expected her to break down. But she simply blinked her eyes and said, “What about Mihaly’s wife and little girls? I went to the apartment. A neighbor said they’d gone to the plant to see about him.”

“They’ve been taken to Moscow. I don’t know any other details except they are at a hospital there.”

A noisy pair of officers passed, and Juli glanced their way. She continued staring at the doorway as if the news were not true, as if Mihaly would appear there. For some time she sat this way, her youthful profile stained as tears began to flow. Her cheeks were smooth, her nose rounded, her chin jutting ever so slightly. Although he had fought the feeling, she reminded him of Nina.

Lazlo stood, went to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up, leaned her head, and raised her shoulder, pressing his hand against her cheek, squeezing his hand hard between her cheek and shoulder. Finally, she trembled and wept openly.

“Nikolai Nikolskaia?” shouted Komarov. “Who the hell is that?”

Captain Azef shrugged his shoulders. “He said he spoke with you by phone this morning. He was reluctant to give information to anyone but you. I had to show him my identification before he would reveal he is a PK agent from Pripyat. He said Captain Putna ordered him and his partner to locate Chernobyl workers. They followed a worker to Kiev last night. I would have questioned their motive for following a single worker until he told me the worker they followed is Juli Popovics.”

“Yes,” said Komarov. “I did speak with him this morning.”

“Before we followed Horvath to the cathedral?” said Azef, looking puzzled.

“I had my reasons for not telling you. Where is Nikolskaia’s partner?”

“The other PK agent followed Juli Popovics to militia headquarters where she inquired about Detective Horvath. Shall I bring Nikolskaia in?”

“Yes, Captain. I’ll speak with him alone.”

Azef looked disappointed. “Does this have to do with the Horvath’s American cousin?”

“Send Nikolskaia in on your way out, Captain. I’ve gained his trust, and I’ll fill you in later. Have my secretary bring tea.”

Komarov stood at his window while he waited for Nikolskaia.

He remained at the window as his secretary put the tea tray on his desk. Because his secretary was almost deaf, he did not turn to thank her and knew she did not expect to be thanked. Over the years, the old Slav had become good at coming and going unnoticed.

Even though he could not see it, Komarov stared out his window in the direction of Chernobyl. With Juli Popovics in Kiev contacting Detective Horvath, Mihaly Horvath dead, Azef confused, and Deputy Chairman Dumenko backing him, an impression of conspiracy was created. For Komarov, the more killed and injured, the better. Grigor Komarov, the diligent Soviet citizen who helped the union save face in the wake of nuclear catastrophe.

Nikolai Nikolskaia wore a soiled imitation leather jacket, wrinkled shirt, and no tie. He was a young man with soft features reminding Komarov of his son, Dmitry. Nikolskaia watched warily as Komarov adjusted his uniform lapels and tie after sitting at his desk.

“Please sit down,” said Komarov in a tone he usually reserved for higher officials.

Nikolskaia sat nervously, staring at the tea tray. “Thank you, Major Komarov.”

“I understand you followed Juli Popovics here to Kiev.”

“Captain Putna instructed us to observe her. We felt badly about having to leave the area. We would have liked to stay and help.”

“I’m sure you would have,” said Komarov. “Just as I wish I could be there to help. But critical counterespionage work needs to be done here in Kiev.”

“If there is anything I … we can do, Major …”

“Tell me, Nikolskaia, did it seem to you Juli Popovics was running away from something other than radiation danger?”

“We thought of this … it could be.”

Komarov poured tea for himself and pushed the tray to Nikolskaia. “From the beginning, give me details of your observation.”

After a few sips of tea, Nikolskaia began with letters intercepted at the post office, including those between the Horvath brothers, and from the cousin, Andrew Zukor. Regarding letters from Juli Popovics, Nikolskaia concluded she was pregnant, as indicated in recent correspondence to her aunt. Next he told about their observation of the apartment and the arrival of “others” who drove Juli Popovics and her roommate quickly out of town.

“And then,” said Nikolskaia, “as we waited in line at the roadblock, she left the car and went on foot, passing through the roadblock without being stopped. She took the metro and stayed in the Hotel Dnieper lobby until going to militia headquarters this morning.”

Komarov swiveled his chair, facing away from Nikolskaia. “Perhaps I should provide some background. During the past year, KGB

analysts, at my direction, have researched the Horvath family. The cousin, Andrew Zukor, was given the name Gypsy Moth because, as a moth flies to and from a bright light, Zukor has flown in and out of the Ukraine many times. We’ve had men watching him. Although he is a U.S. citizen, he bases his operations in Hungary. We believe he is part of a deep-cover operation collecting technologi-cal intelligence. Therefore, communicating with Mihaly Horvath, a senior reactor control engineer at the Chernobyl Power Station, has been a concern. To put it bluntly, I am now certain CIA operatives, perhaps answering directly to the movie actor President Reagan, have been working to discredit the Soviet nuclear program. And what better way to do this than to cause an accident at the plant?”

Komarov felt pleased with the scenario he had concocted. A CIA operative attempting to influence a Chernobyl engineer should get Nikolskaia’s blood boiling. He swiveled his chair back to Nikolskaia, waited a moment, and when Nikolskaia did not answer, continued. “It’s unfortunate we do not have this Zukor fellow here in our country where the court system could deal with him. With existing evidence, it would be a matter of charges, verdict, and prison term. Swift justice and, if necessary, perhaps some telephone justice for good measure.”

Komarov could see his conversation was having the desired effect. Nikolskaia looked confused and uncomfortable at having been told too much.

“I’m sorry,” continued Komarov. “I assumed you knew in cases of espionage, verdicts are often determined by a Party official’s phone call to a judge.”

Komarov stood and walked to his window. He turned around to face Nikolskaia, knowing he presented a dark figure against the bright western sky, as he continued a speech he felt would put Nikolskaia in the palm of his hand.

“We know Zukor visited the Horvath brothers at their ancestral farm last summer. We know funds were passed to Zukor from CIA operatives. Therefore, it is obvious the Gypsy Moth seeks to destabilize the union just as his namesake destabilized vegetation in his country. Zukor is a Gypsy, like his cousins. Have you noticed Gypsies have olive-colored skin? These races have a tendency to worship false gods, generate extremists, and do their best to disrupt civilized Soviet society. Haven’t we learned our lesson in Afghanistan?

“I’m concerned about our union, Comrade Nikolskaia. At first glance, openness and restructuring seem constructive. But if leaders in their embrace of restructuring fall into a trap, what will they find at the bottom of the pit? Not extremists. They will be at the edge of the pit, looking down. To climb the walls of the pit one must overcome religion, capitalism, homosexuality, and all extremism!”

Nikolskaia sat upright, expanding his chest and staring wide-eyed. Komarov’s rant had taken hold. He returned to his desk and sat down, picked up his teacup, and had a sip. Nikolskaia did the same, but his eyes were wide with anticipation. Komarov allowed a minute to pass, saying nothing before continuing in a calmer voice.

He commended Nikolskaia on his actions before he began preparing Nikolskaia for what would become a more elaborate version of Juli Popovics’ trip to Kiev.

First, because of the speed of the escape, it was obvious Juli Popovics was running from fear of capture. The men who tried to stop the car, Nikolskaia admitted, might have been other agents; indeed, they probably were, since his being a PK agent did not give him familiarity with all KGB operations in Pripyat. Next, instead of merely following others on back roads to avoid the reactor site, the car in which Juli Popovics rode purposely evaded pursuers.