Chernobyl Murders (34 page)

My dear Detective Horvath

The when is now

The who is one plus someone more

The where is east of the river

The what is danger to the one plus someone more Foreshadowing the fate of Vasyl Stus

The why is a flower with deadly pollen

Flattening the grass to wormwood

A friend of a friend of Shevchenko

Who would be a friend of a dead nineteenth-century poet? A poet?

The bearded poet in the Zil who brought the message from Tamara. A friend of a friend could mean the message was from Tamara.

Lazlo read the lines again. East of the river. East of the river in Visenka there was danger for Juli and her baby—the one plus someone more. Tamara said Vasyl Stus was a poet who died in a labor camp. Danger to Juli because of the deadly pollen of Chernobyl, the Chernobyl grass, the wormwood Mihaly had spoken of. He recalled telling Tamara about the biblical Chernobyl star. She would know.

She would refer to the fate of Vasyl Stus.

He ran down the hall to the stairway. He pushed through the front entrance of militia headquarters, almost knocking down a uniformed militiaman coming in. Was the message literal? Was Juli really in danger? If so, how would Tamara know?

The van followed him around the corner. Chkalov had said to return the Zhiguli to the motor pool, so he was simply following orders. He sped into the fenced-in motor-pool yard where marked patrol cars were parked. One of the garage side doors was open, and he skidded inside to a stop amid the shouts of mechanics.

“Imbecile! Who are you trying to kill?”

Too many mechanics around to switch cars. They would question him, demand papers. Although cars were parked in the aisle, he was able to drive through with no more damage than removing a side mirror from another turd-green Zhiguli.

“Madman! Stop!”

The back door of the garage was closed. He jumped out and pushed the door up on its rollers. While running back to the car, a mechanic threatened him with a large wrench. The mechanic dropped the wrench and stepped back when Lazlo drew his pistol. Other mechanics gathered at the back door to watch him drive down the alley.

From the front of the garage, everything would seem ordinary, the KGB men in the van waiting for him to come walking out of the garage. Lazlo drove slowly so he would not attract attention. He turned northwest, went several blocks at traffic speed to make sure the van did not follow. If a car followed, he could not tell because there were too many on the street.

When he turned southeast, back through the heart of the city, he sped up, back to Khreshchatik, past the post office and the cafe, where he had stopped for tea. Khreshchatik would take him to Lenkomsomol Square. He would go through the underpass, branch south onto Kirov Street. If he took the ramp fast enough, he would be able to see if anyone followed, because they would also have to speed through the underpass. If not, they would lose him in the maze of ramps and exits.

Ahead, the gaping mouth of the underpass was busy swallow-ing slower traffic. When he plunged into the underpass, he flashed his headlights at cars ahead, moving them out of the way. He was below Lenkomsomol Square, where he often walked to lunch in hot weather. Would he ever walk here again? Would Kiev, his world, ever be the same again? Would he get out of the underpass without killing himself and perhaps others?

A sputtering Zaporozhets nearly lost control as it fishtailed to avoid being rear-ended. Lazlo had never driven this fast through the underpass. The sunlight coming through drainage grates on Lenkomsomol Square flashed like strobe lights. The Zhiguli’s tires squealed, the echo screaming through the tunnel. When he hit a wet spot in the tunnel, the Zhiguli lunged sideways, tipped up on two wheels, dropped back to the pavement, and slid into the wall. The wall straightened the Zhiguli, clawing away metal on the passenger side as he exploded up onto the Kirov Street ramp to daylight.

There had been many turns in the underpass, and he had been too busy to see if anyone followed. But now, as he shifted the Zhiguli into high gear and sped onto Kirov Street, he saw a gray Moskvich driving like mad behind him.

They were after him and would not let go, two men in a gray Moskvich, one of the cars alternating with the van earlier in the week, probably radioing the van right now. If he was going to lose the Moskvich, he had to hurry.

Right on Karl Liebknecht, left on Revolutsii, right on Mech-nikov. His city. His Kiev, the streets he knew. But the KGB agents also knew the city. They stayed behind him, seemingly anticipating each turn. This was not getting him to Juli, east of the river where there was danger. But if he drove to Visenka with the KGB in tow, and if the danger came from the KGB …

He turned onto Lesya Ukrainka and headed south. The boulevard was wide and straight, and he could maintain his speed by crossing from lane to lane, passing moving cars as if they were parked haphazardly in the street. He would soon cross over Friendship of Peoples Boulevard, the fastest route to the bridge over the Dnieper, the fastest route to Visenka.

He maintained his speed and stayed in the left lane as he approached the overpass. The ramp down to the boulevard was on the far right. He would cross several lanes of traffic and enter the ramp at the last possible second. He only hoped the Moskvich would miss the turn.

An old woman stepped from the island, and he had to brake and swerve to miss her. A marked militia Zhiguli passed in the opposite direction. In his mirror, he saw its roof light come on as it U-turned to join the chase behind the Moskvich.

The ramp coming up. No choice. Horns and tires screaming as he veered right across lanes of traffic and plunged down onto the ramp. A quick glance in the mirror, and the Moskvich was there, sliding sideways before entering the ramp.

He had to get to Juli! He had to get rid of these men now!

He turned the wheel, braked, spun the Zhiguli around, and sped up the ramp directly at the grinning grill of the Moskvich.

“Bastards!” he screamed.

The Moskvich turned abruptly to avoid him, lost control, and smashed into the guardrail. The militia car taking up the chase behind the Moskvich followed the Moskvich like a dog latched onto a rabbit’s tail, the driver thinking this was the only way to avoid the maniac coming up the ramp in the wrong direction. The militia car slammed into the back of the Moskvich, the sound of the impact making Lazlo look back to see if there was an explosion. No explosion. But both cars were disabled.

Lazlo drove north two blocks so that north would be the direction radioed to the KGB and militia headquarters. But once out of sight, he took side streets back to Friendship of Peoples Boulevard and sped onto the bridge across the Dnieper River. As the Zhiguli crested the bridge at high speed, he saw in his rearview mirror, through the haze of the city, flashing lights of multiple militia cars converging at the overpass crossing over Friendship of Peoples Boulevard.

Leaving Kiev, on the east side of the river, traffic became lighter.

During the frantic chase, he had shifted in the seat, his jacket twisting sideways, pressing his Makarov uncomfortably against his breastbone. He adjusted himself in the seat, listening to Kiev militia frequencies on the radio. A broadcast repeated a description of his Zhiguli, but the broadcast focused on Kiev west of the river.

There were thousands of Zhigulis the same turd-green color as his Zhiguli. He would get to Visenka, he was certain of it. But what would he do about the KGB men watching the house?

The message from Tamara by way of the bearded poet told him Juli was in danger. Had the KGB contacted Tamara again? Or did Tamara have underground contacts? And what about Komarov, who flew all the way to Moscow to question Nina, yet did not bother to question Juli? He knew where she was. His men were watching her.

Speeding to Visenka, Lazlo recalled the last time he visited.

There had been a KGB faded red Zhiguli, then a KGB black Volga, first one then the other following him before taking up positions down the street from Aunt Magda’s. Aunt Magda’s street a dead-end.

No way out if they tried to stop him from taking Juli …

The farmer’s field at the end of the street. He’d seen the twin ruts of its trail leading into the field. The sign for Visenka was ahead, so he turned east onto a gravel road peppered with ruts that shook the Zhiguli violently. The steering wheel was transformed into a frenzied serpent trying to escape his grasp. With any luck he would be able to see Aunt Magda’s house, with its spring flowers and its arbor, across the fields.

In spite of the sun shining through colorful curtains, the house was a prison. Like her unborn child, Juli could not escape. This morning she had gone out to look at the flowers. From the front of the house, spying through the arbor, she looked up the street and saw the black car. While she watched, another black car with two men arrived, and the first car drove away.

Aunt Magda was at the stove, putting cut-up vegetables into soup for lunch. Juli wondered if Lazlo would come for lunch again.

Falling in love so soon after Mihaly’s death tormented her. She tried to tell herself it was fear, her need to latch onto someone strong.

Aunt Magda said she was being foolish, that it was natural to desire such a man. Aunt Magda said his knowledge of the baby made their feelings for one another even more powerful.

“These are untainted vegetables,” said Aunt Magda, turning from her soup pot. “I went to the market before the Chernobyl explosion. I have enough for another week, and then I’ll use the canned vegetables I put up last summer.”

Aunt Magda came to the table and sat across from Juli. She put down her paring knife and lowered her head, mimicking Juli.

“Don’t be sad, Juli.”

“There isn’t much to be happy about except being with you.

People forced from their homes, Marina and Vasily and his mother and sister at a collective somewhere, Pripyat probably abandoned forever, all the others who were at the plant. There’s always someone on duty at the building where I worked. I keep wondering what happened to them.”

Aunt Magda frowned. “Pripyat abandoned forever? Is such a thing possible?”

Juli reached out and touched her aunt’s hand. “Knowing what I know about radiation, it’s more than possible. The levels of radiation causing Mihaly and others to receive lethal doses in so short a time, the half-life of plutonium. And now, here sits a sad fool because the brother of her dead lover is not here.”

Aunt Magda grasped both Juli’s hands. “Finding a friend in a troubled world is not foolish. During the war … God forgive me, I said I’d never tell. Your uncle was my cousin. Why do you think we had no children?”

Juli stared into her aunt’s tear-filled eyes. “You didn’t have to tell me.”

Aunt Magda let go of Juli’s hands, took out a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes. “We were cousins, but we loved one another. And with war, love was the only thing left. Instead of wondering about those you cannot help, perhaps you can help Lazlo.”

“You’re right. I should be doing something instead of sitting here waiting for him to visit.” Juli stood. “Mihaly is dead, the Ukraine is coming apart, and I sit here getting fatter every day with his brother’s child!”

“Please don’t shout,” scolded Aunt Magda. “You’re not getting fatter. You’re not even showing. Besides, a baby growing inside is not called fat. It’s a human being!”

Aunt Magda stood and went to the kitchen sink. “It’s your baby.

You’re responsible for it. If a man loves you, responsibility is shared.”

“Is it love, Aunt Magda? We’ve known one another only a few days.”

Aunt Magda looked out the window. “If you keep asking about it over and over, it’s love. It’s love!”

“I hope he’s coming today.”

“He is.”

“What?”

“He’s coming.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s in the backyard.”

Aunt Magda opened the door, and when Lazlo came into the kitchen, Juli could see by the look on his face something was terribly wrong. It was the same look he had before he told her about Mihaly’s death. She ran to Lazlo and hugged him.

“We don’t have much time,” whispered Lazlo in her ear. “I’ve got to get you out of here.”

Juli let go of him, looked past him into the backyard. “Why do I have to leave?”

“I don’t have time to go into details. The KGB and the militia are after me. I was followed, but I lost them. It can’t be long before they decide I’ve come here. The head of the KGB in Kiev has dreamed up a plot involving your connection to Mihaly. We must leave now.”

Aunt Magda ran from the kitchen. “I’ll get a coat and your bag.”

“What about Aunt Magda?” asked Juli. “If they come and I’m not here …”

“I know.”

Aunt Magda came back with the coat and bag. “I already washed the clothes and repacked them. With a car out there night and day, I felt something would happen.”

Lazlo turned to Aunt Magda, held her shoulders. “Listen. This is important. After we leave, I want you to watch the street. If someone comes, I want you to call the local militia immediately and tell them I took Juli away. Tell them you protested but were unable to stop me.”

Aunt Magda took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “No.

You’re trying to protect me. I won’t tell them anything. I’m old. I don’t care what they do to me.”

Juli touched Lazlo’s arm, but Lazlo continued holding Aunt Magda’s shoulders and staring at her.

“It’s not for you,” said Lazlo. “It’s to get them off the trail, a diversion. You must call the local militia. If someone comes, call immediately and say we just left. If no one comes, call the militia exactly one hour after we leave. Do you understand?” Lazlo shook Aunt Magda’s shoulders gently. “Do you?”

“I understand. Call if I see them coming. But if an hour goes by and no one comes, call anyway. But …”