Chernobyl Murders (50 page)

Nikolai gripped his machine pistol, turned off the safety, and aimed it at the man who had now begun running to the side of the house.

“Hey! Stop!”

The man did not stop, and suddenly Nikolai realized he was running after the man. He heard car doors opening and other men running and shouting. When he rounded the side of the house, he saw the man’s legs dangling from the window. He aimed the machine pistol at the man’s legs but could not pull the trigger. He watched as the man disappeared inside the house.

Men shouted and gathered. One man said his partner was tied up and his clothes had been taken. Another said it was Horvath.

Nikolai felt a hand on his arm, a hand pushing his arm and the Stechkin machine pistol down. He was turned around. Brovko stared at him in the shadows.

“Nikolai! Did you see him? Was it Horvath?”

The profile, a moment before he passed the corner of the house.

“Yes. I saw him, but …”

“Never mind! Come with me!”

The bedroom was warm. He tried to control his heavy breathing. Of all things, he was aware of the smells in the bedroom. The comforting smells of clean linen, the sweet smells of children’s bedclothes. If he was going to die, he might as well die here. If only he could be certain the women and children were safe. If only he could be certain Juli was safe.

When the music stopped, it was dead silent, until Komarov shouted from the other room.

“I wouldn’t shoot through the door, Horvath, unless you wish to kill your cousin!”

The sound of a chair being pushed across the floor. Bela shouted, “I’m here in a chair! Shoot high, Laz! He’s …” Then Bela screamed.

Komarov shouted, “Horvath! Come out now! The knife is at his neck!”

Lazlo aimed the AKM at the door, aimed high, but did not fire.

If he fired, men outside would open fire. He could hear their voices, closer, outside the window.

“To prove my point!” shouted Komarov.

Bela screamed in agony.

“Stop! I’ll come out!”

Other men joined Komarov. Lazlo could hear them running about the room. No choice. He put down the AKM and reached for the door. His life no longer mattered. In a few hours Juli would be across the frontier into Czechoslovakia, where Komarov could not get her.

When he opened the door, three agents were on him, one grabbing his pistol from his rear waistband.

The goal Komarov had pursued was finally within his grasp. He sent one of the men to the van for handcuffs, rope, and a bandage for the cut on Bela’s neck. “After all,” he said to his men, “we’re not brutes.”

Horvath and his cousin were put in kitchen chairs, their ankles tied to the front chair legs; their hands cuffed behind, pulled down tight with rope looped over the cuff-link chains, and tied to the back chair rungs. Horvath stared at Komarov. Bela stared at his lap.

It was clear to Komarov. A conspiracy had been bred long ago, perhaps after 1956, by Hungarians angered by having been made to live like everyone else. Hungarians in the Ukraine Republic instead of in their own spineless province. When Komarov returned to Kiev, he would bring evidence of this conspiracy. If the evidence he brought back consisted only of dead bodies, then the substantial evidence he had already assembled in Kiev and in Moscow would stand. The Hungarians would be found guilty of having used technical expertise and help from the CIA to cause the Chernobyl explosion. It was time to carve his conspiracy into stone.

Komarov began asking questions of Detective Horvath and his cousin. His goal was not to get at the truth, but to create a new set of truths his men, and especially the captain, would substantiate.

As Komarov questioned the two, he received the negative replies he expected. Often he received no reply, especially when he mentioned the American cousin, Andrew Zukor. Between questions, Komarov began using the back of his hand. When the back of his hand became sore, he used his palm. When he began using his fist, Captain Brovko, the supposed experienced interrogator, did the unexpected.

Captain Brovko questioned Komarov’s authority.

“Shouldn’t we simply arrest them and return to Kiev, Major?”

Komarov turned to glare at Brovko for a moment, then calmly lit a cigarette in preparation for presenting his case.

“Of course, we’ll arrest them, Captain. But as you and I both know, it is KGB policy to gather information, especially while the information is fresh. Zukor visited this farm and spoke with these men last summer. Directorate T confirmed Zukor’s CIA ties and his attempt to contact them in Budapest. Unfortunately, before our agents could speak with Zukor about his conversations with his cousins, he had a fatal accident in Budapest’s heavy traffic. There exists a trail from the CIA to Zukor to Mihaly Horvath, the engineer in charge at the time of the so-called Chernobyl accident! Simply assassinating their man does not let the CIA off the hook. I will not accept the failure of an investigation into a situation that is ruining the lives of thousands of Soviet citizens! I am in command, Captain, and in my judgment there is more information to gather! Therefore, we will have one more try at it … using one of your methods!”

Komarov approached Bela. He took a few puffs on his cigarette, put the cigarette down on the table edge, then spoke softly.

“You’re going to be a nice fellow, aren’t you, Bela? You’re a fine patriot, I know, and you don’t want your record blemished. I realize things have changed in our country, but still one can be a patriot.”

When Bela seemed to have calmed appropriately, Komarov took the cigarette from the table, puffed it a couple of times to get it hot, blew smoke in Bela’s face, made like he was going to put the cigarette back on the table edge, and instead turned back to Bela and pressed the glowing tip of the cigarette against his neck.

The scream from the house was almost as loud as the music had been. Several men who had gathered near the Volgas to console their friend hit over the head looked to the house. But what could they do? They shrugged their shoulders and got into the Volgas to keep warm.

As the hours wore on, the moans coming from inside the house changed to whimpers, which Nikolai could barely hear through the front door. During the last hour, one of the men from the Volgas approached Nikolai, asking him to go inside and ask Captain Brovko if there were further orders. The man said he’d seen Nikolai speaking with Brovko, and since they were friends, he should be the one to ask about the situation. Nikolai told the man he would think about this, and the man returned to his comrades in one of the Volgas.

Nikolai leaned against the wall of the house and held his watch up to the light filtering through the window curtains. It was after three in the morning, and he began to wonder if perhaps he should go in the house and ask about the situation.

The last time Juli had driven a car was during the past summer when Marina had borrowed Vasily’s car so they could both learn to drive. The Skoda protested fiercely when Juli tried to engage first gear without pushing the clutch all the way in. But she adjusted the seat, turned on the lights, and soon had the Skoda climbing out of the ravine.

All day and into the night she had been frightened the two men from the truck would return to dismantle the car. But she could not leave the place she was to meet Lazlo until three in the morning.

Earlier she had taken the wine Lazlo purchased at the train station from the back seat, and placed the unopened bottle up at the side of the road, hoping if the men returned, this would delay them. Luckily, the men had not returned. It was after three as she drove the Skoda down the road in the dark. She stopped at the crossroad.

To her left was the road to the frontier, where the guard on duty near Laborets Castle awaited his bribe. To her right was the village of Kisbor, where, according to Lazlo’s description, the farmhouse rested on a hill west of the village. Juli studied the night sky, asked the stars for help. But there was no help there. She would have to betray Lazlo. She would have to deny his last request. Life was short anyhow—words from a Ukrainian folk song. She gunned the engine, slowly let out the clutch, and turned right. A short distance down the dark road stood a sign for the village of Kisbor. She knew her father would have approved of her decision.

“Was it Zukor who bribed Mihaly?” screamed Komarov. “Or did you convince him yourself? Was part of the bribe given to Juli Popovics?”

Komarov smashed his cigarette on the floor and lit another.

“A senior engineer would know about dropping power levels, then pulling control rods to increase power enough to cause a disastrous surge! Technicians at the Ministry of Energy are not fools!

Was the plan simply to cause the steam explosion? Did the plan initiated by Zukor spin out of control?”

Lazlo took a deep breath, his nostrils on fire from the smell of his own flesh, his eyes swollen from having been beaten before Komarov started with the cigarette. He stared at Komarov through slits. He thought of the women and children in the wine cellar.

Tried to imagine himself and Bela there. Safe. A glass of wine, the smell of wine-soaked wood, bears gone into hibernation. Mihaly there, and perhaps even Cousin Zukor. Everyone dead or in danger hidden alive in the wine cellar. Yes, Zukor there, too. Komarov had said Zukor had an “accident” in Budapest.

When Komarov burned him again, Lazlo was suddenly transported to Kiev. The streets were a mass of traffic. People on sidewalks ran about bumping into one another.

When Komarov burned him once more, Lazlo imagined himself floating a hundred meters above Kiev, its residents asleep below.

Close by, as he floated, was the statue of Saint Vladimir. Lazlo prayed to Saint Vladimir for assistance. Saint Vladimir, who performed baptisms in the Dnieper River, could help him.

When Komarov burned him yet again, Lazlo laughed aloud, heard himself laughing and tried to stop. But he could not stop because now, in this place and in this time, laughing was his weapon.

Perhaps someone nearby would pay attention to his laughter. Perhaps the captain …

For a moment Lazlo thought of his small corner cubicle at Kiev Militia Headquarters. Down the narrow walkway between cubicles, Chief Investigator Chkalov sits in his office. Chkalov’s fat face smiling as he piles on yet another case because of the Gypsy’s bachelor status. But then Lazlo recalled dreaming this dream in the summer in the wine cellar. Dreaming the dream until he heard the wooden ladder at the entrance creak and saw bare legs and feet encased in red canvas sneakers descending the ladder. Mihaly.

In the village the only lighted window was on the lower floor of the Kisbor Hotel. Juli went into the small hotel lobby and rang the bell. After a few minutes, a tired-looking woman came out of a back room. The woman looked to Juli, looked up at the clock on the wall, looked back to Juli.

“Can you tell me where the Horvath farm is?”

“Horvath? It’s not there anymore. Their cousin …”

“Yes. I forgot. Sandor. Can you tell me where the Sandors live?”

The woman glanced about the small lobby as if looking for someone, but the lobby was empty. She went to the front window and stared outside. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m a relative,” said Juli. “I know it’s late. I had trouble getting here. I was evacuated from Chernobyl, and they’re waiting for me.”

The woman stepped back, stared at Juli for a moment, a look of concern on her face. Then she pointed west out the window. “Take the street out of town. When it becomes gravel, it will curve and go up a hill. The house is at the top of the hill.”

The woman turned back to Juli. “There have been men here.

Perhaps you should wait until morning.”

“I have to go now.”

“Is there anything you need?” asked the woman.

Juli realized the woman was looking at her tattered clothing.

“A drink of water.”

When Juli drove away in the Skoda, she could see the woman still standing at the window holding the empty glass.

Juli drove the Skoda to where the main street ended. Ahead she saw the dark outline of the hill against the stars. Atop the hill she could see the faint light from a window.

She parked the Skoda in an alleyway between two shops. She locked the doors and began walking up the road to the house on the hill.

The two Gypsies held their reddened faces high to relieve the burns on their necks. Komarov had allowed them to rest long enough.

Captain Brovko sat in the chair across from him. Brovko’s eyes were closed, but when Komarov stood, Brovko opened his eyes.

Komarov walked to the center of the room where the Gypsies sat. Bela had pissed his pants, and the room smelled of urine and cigarette smoke. The smell of burnt flesh had diminished. Komarov reached inside his coat, felt his knife there, but instead of taking out the knife, he removed his pistol from its shoulder holster. He carried his pistol to the kitchen table, where he had placed Horvath’s pistol beside the silenced record player. He held both pistols, comparing them.

“I see we both carry 9mm pistols, Detective Horvath. Yours is a Makarov, while mine is a Walther West German model. A more significant difference between our pistols is that yours appears to have seen a lot more action. I wonder how many victims there have been.”

Komarov put his Walther back in its holster and carried the battered Makarov with him as he approached the prisoners. He kept his questions simple. He asked Bela where the women and children had gone. He asked Horvath where Juli Popovics was. He repeated the questions loudly and clearly. When he received nothing more than a sneer from Horvath, he smashed the barrel of the pistol across Horvath’s face.

“Stop!” shouted Bela.

“No!” said Horvath. “Say nothing.” Then to Komarov, Horvath said, “You’ve got me. Let him go. He has nothing to do with this.”

“Your accomplice is still on the loose,” said Komarov. “These people were obviously prepared to hide you. Was your sister-in-law also involved in Chernobyl sabotage? Did she run away because she has something to hide? Technical knowledge of exactly how her husband caused the accident and how he’d planned to escape? Only he didn’t escape! And now …”