Chernobyl Murders (29 page)

It was beginning to darken and a light mist fell. In Red Square, final preparations were being made for the May Day parade. Komarov walked along the Kremlin Wall to the Senate Tower. Beneath the tower, the queue of people in front of the Lenin mausoleum was short, probably because of the rain.

While Moscow’s parade was surrounded by Kremlin walls and paved squares wet with rain, spring greenery and lilacs blooming along paths down to the river surrounded Kiev’s parade. The morning was sunny, but by midday the wind changed, and an ominous cloud descended.

Kiev’s parade went along Khreshchatik past the university with its red facade, past the post office, past the Hotel Dnieper, and onto Lenkomsomol Square. Speeches were typically patriotic, with no mention of the Chernobyl incident. The assembled crowd was quiet, so much so, traffic in the underpass below the square could be heard.

The absence of the usual food vendors was obvious. News of roadblocks and technicians with Geiger counters had spread throughout the city. Although in subdued voices, rumors made the rounds.

“Did you hear? Ration coupons may be issued, along with compensation for evacuees.”

“Collectives are full, and they’re sending Chernobylites to vaca-tion on the Black Sea.”

“Whatever you do, don’t eat leafy vegetables or drink milk.”

“Be careful on the phone. If you even mention Chernobyl, the line goes dead.”

“Perhaps we should put our shortwave radios back in the attic for the time being.”

The mood on the square during the speeches was somber. Even the sound of traffic, which could be heard through storm drains in the floor of Lenkomsomol Square, became ominous. Heavy traffic meant many citizens were leaving Kiev and perhaps the danger was greater than anyone imagined. Some in the crowd referred to the radiation as “the silent killer.”

Two days after the parade, Major Grigor Komarov was back in Kiev, standing at his office window smoking a cigarette. He looked down to where he would have seen the parade had he been in Kiev on May Day. From his office, the people would have looked like multicolored beetles, the vehicles like toys, the banners like miniature flags used in cemeteries.

Even though it had drizzled, attending the Moscow parade was a high point in his career. The parade, with thousands of more participants than any Kiev parade, was impressive. And by simply glancing over his left shoulder, he could see Gorbachev and other members of the Presidium. Perhaps some of them, even Gorbachev himself, wondered who stood with Deputy Chairman Dumenko.

Someday soon, they would know.

Were some in Moscow already speaking of Komarov? Had gossip remained behind? During the dinner party at Deputy Chairman Dumenko’s residence, he reassured Mrs. Dumenko and several other guests. He spoke of the orderly movement of evacuees, the generous aid provided, and the cooperation of Kiev’s citizens and surrounding collectives. Later, after most guests were gone, Dumenko took him aside and commended him for his tact.

Because many were leaving Kiev rather than going to Kiev, Komarov had spent the peaceful trip back with an empty seat beside him. He’d thought about puzzles and chess games and how easily even intelligent men could be manipulated. He drew a diagram in his notebook in which Detective Horvath was represented by a circle surrounded by women—Juli Popovics, Nina Horvath, Tamara Petrov—all of them with power over this man, each a string connected to the superstitious puppet. And if Komarov could manipulate the strings …

On the plane, Komarov had imagined himself as clever as Dos-toevski’s Porfiry in Crime and Punishment. Detective Horvath a brooding Raskolnikov. But in this case he would have to be more clever than Porfiry. The potential existed others would step in to take credit or, worse, discover some bit of evidence to set the Gypsy anarchists free. The line between revolutionaries, anarchists, and terrorists was a fine one.

Komarov went to his desk and called Captain Azef. He told Azef to send Captain Brovko, the new man assigned by Moscow, up to his office.

“Deputy Chairman Dumenko and Captain Azef filled me in on the case, Major.”

“So now you are an expert?”

“Definitely not. I wish to gain more knowledge from you.”

Captain Brovko was thirty-five, unmarried, formerly stationed in East Berlin as a counterintelligence interrogator. His training in nuclear engineering was from the army. He was tall and muscular, his hair the color of sand, his eyes blue. He spoke fluent German and, in the GDR, was probably mistaken for the grandson of an SS

officer. All of this had been in Brovko’s file, which Komarov studied earlier.

“I understand you have skills as an interviewer,” said Komarov.

“Interrogation was my specialty in KGB training,” said Brovko.

“We are from the same mold, Captain. I also trained as an interrogator. Of course, the mold might have changed somewhat since then.”

Brovko laughed politely.

“As for your nuclear training. Can you tell me exactly what happened at Chernobyl?”

“Not without more facts.”

“Deputy Chairman Dumenko said you would look into the situation. I assumed you had.”

“I’ve looked into a Pandora’s box, Major. Chaos and confusion make it impossible to come to a conclusion at this time.”

“I need your best guess as to what happened, and what will happen. Please be concise.”

Captain Brovko leaned both elbows on Komarov’s desk. “Very well. The Chernobyl RBMK reactors are pressure tube devices with graphite blocks to slow neutrons. Apparently the plan was to test reactor number four at low power during maintenance shutdown.

Normally this would be a routine test, except for two factors. The RBMKs are notoriously unstable at low power, and several safety systems were disabled too early in the test. A power surge could not be handled by control rod insertion, the temperature rose quickly, a steam explosion cracked the concrete shell, steam came in contact with hot graphite, and there was a second explosion exposing the core and igniting the graphite. The first firefighters were fatally exposed to radiation and will die. The fire still burns, and there is talk of tunneling beneath the reactor to keep the molten core away from the water table to avoid another, more serious, explosion. Radioactive dust blown into the air required evacuation of an area of thirty kilometers around the reactor. I spoke with Colonel Zamyatin, who is in charge of the evacuation. He said on May Day, Pripyat was a ghost town in which one could hear only the barking of dogs abandoned by their owners. He ordered his men to shoot dogs and cats because they carry radioactive contamination on their fur. And during my briefing here from Captain Azef, I was told trains have been readied on the chance there is a second explosion and Kiev must be evacuated.”

Komarov lit a cigarette and blew the smoke over Brovko’s head.

“You have done your research, Captain. However, evacuation of Kiev is fantasy. There will be no second explosion. As for the first explosion, correct me if I’m wrong, but unless one were actually there at the time, unless one could reconstruct the reactor as it was before the explosion …”

“Correct,” said Brovko. “Even with a thorough investigation, close approximation is the best we can expect.”

“It’s too bad, with all the facts at hand, we can do nothing to limit idiotic rumors. People claiming milk and vegetables and even Kiev’s water are contaminated. Have you come across rumors during your investigation before coming here, Captain?”

“I heard many from agents and soldiers in the zone. Fish with two heads, alien space vessels, a military plot. One old man on a train heading north claimed the explosion was manufactured in order to move the Ukrainian population to Siberia, where the Stalinist work camps were already rebuilt.”

“Our battle against disinformation has begun,” said Komarov.

“The West will provide more rumors. Imagine our general secretary wanting us to put more trust in the West. Sometimes I think we here in Kiev have become more Soviet than those in Moscow.”

Brovko did not react, but simply stared at Komarov.

“So,” said Komarov, “you were stationed in the GDR. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Sherbitsky affair. I can’t imagine anyone in East Berlin these days knowing of it.”

“On the contrary, Major. You’re the man who caught Sherbitsky.”

“I didn’t mean to boast, Captain. I simply wondered, since so many years have passed …”

“It’s still spoken of in the region. In fact, the ‘safe’ house is still there. The room where the murders were committed is called the Sherbitsky room.”

“Quite a grisly affair,” said Komarov, putting out his cigarette.

“Walking into the room and seeing the bodies is an image I cannot forget. And when I discovered the knife belonging to a man I admired … Enough, we’re here to do a job.”

“What can I do?” asked Brovko, sitting more erect.

“For almost a year prior to the so-called accident at Chernobyl, our office has had several individuals under operational observation. I assume Deputy Chairman Dumenko briefed you about the Chernobyl employees, the Kiev militia detective, and the Horvaths’

American cousin?”

Brovko took a notepad from his pocket and referred to it. “One Andrew Zukor, who may also be called Gypsy Moth by the CIA.”

“You are aware we have reason to believe Zukor visited the CIA station in Budapest prior to visiting his cousins last summer?”

“I am.” Brovko looked at the ashtray where Komarov’s cigarette still smoldered. “Of course, Deputy Chairman Dumenko reminded me you were his only source for this information.”

Komarov stood and walked to his window, staring up to the sky where thick clouds obscured the sun. “Perhaps you have misunder-stood your assignment, Captain.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Komarov turned to face Brovko and raised his voice. “I am in the midst of a serious investigation, which could very well involve sabotage, Captain! The Gypsy Moth may be a spy simply trying to uncover information about Chernobyl, or he could have been actively recruiting his cousins! In either case, I would very much appreciate your help!”

Captain Brovko stood halfway up, then sat back down. “My role as an interrogator is sometimes spontaneous, Major. I’ll do what I can to carry your investigation to its conclusion.”

Komarov returned his desk. “Thank you, Captain. I’m sorry.

Sometimes one’s involvement in these cases is personal. You say Azef filled you in on Detective Horvath?”

“He did.”

“Then you know about the women in his life. I want you to interrogate one of them. I want you to bring her here Monday and find out what she knows.”

Komarov walked to the window again. He stood with his back to Brovko and lit another cigarette. His decision not to trust Brovko with his inner feelings had been the correct decision. Perhaps there was even a chance Dumenko had assigned Brovko to observe him.

No matter. He would put his plan in motion in spite of what others thought. Part of the plan was being played now as he waited to see how long Brovko waited before asking which woman to pick up Monday, the day after Russian Orthodox Easter, the day of resurrection.

After a quick dinner of borscht and buttered bread, Lazlo drove to militia headquarters before returning for the overnight portion of his fifth sixteen-hour shift. He didn’t bother looking for the KGB

tail. They had followed him all week. Monday it was the faded red Zhiguli when he took Juli to Aunt Magda’s. Tuesday through Thursday a different car or sometimes a van would stay far back, and he would have to turn several corners before detecting them.

This morning, Saturday, they had switched to a Chaika.

In his office he called Tamara.

“You haven’t called in days, Laz. I was worried.”

“I’ve been on sixteen-hour shifts. Evacuees are angry, and I can’t blame them. We’ve been told to watch for looters. The people escape, and their belongings follow them to Kiev. We caught one looter on a hay wagon with radios and televisions stuffed into the bales of hay.”

“Did you learn anything more at the Ministry of Energy?”

“Only what I’ve told you. I’m still trying to contact Mihaly’s wife in Moscow. I’ll try again after I hang up. I’ve met a woman who knew Mihaly. Her name is Juli Popovics …”

“I assume from your hesitation, she was involved in some way with Mihaly?”

“Yes. Involved. She spoke with Mihaly the night before it happened. I’m going to talk with her again tomorrow. Her aunt invited me for Easter dinner.”

“Good,” said Tamara after a pause. “You’ll get something nourishing to eat. Perhaps soon things will be back to normal. Perhaps I’ll acquire a taste for chicken paprikas.”

“It will be better next time. The last chicken was too skinny.”

Tamara laughed. “But I didn’t have to hug a skinny chicken in bed.”

He said good-bye to Tamara and asked the operator to put him through to Municipal Hospital Number Six in Moscow.

He was transferred from one operator to another. When he did get through, the operator said she didn’t have a list of arrivals from Chernobyl. But this time the operator mentioned transferring him to someone in temporary housing. Suddenly, before he could think of what to say, a woman came on the line and said she would get Nina Horvath, who was down the hall.

“This is Nina Horvath.” Nina’s voice was soft, like a child anticipating punishment.

“Nina. It’s Lazlo.”

“Lazlo. Laz …” She began crying. A few seconds later she spoke again. “I’m sorry, Laz. I’m so sorry …”

“You don’t have to say anything. There’s nothing we can do now.”

“I … they buried him today. I went to the service.”

“I wish I had been there, Nina.”

“The girls ask for you, Laz. First they ask about Mihaly. But now they know, and they ask for Uncle Laz.”

“Do you want me to come get you? I’ll bring you back here to my apartment …”

“Don’t come to Moscow, Laz. They’re sending us to Kisbor.”