Chernobyl Murders (52 page)

The other part of the scene Nikolai would never forget was Captain Brovko at the door about to come out while Major Komarov aimed his pistol at Brovko’s back. The look on Komarov’s face was alarming. Time stopped. The men in the chairs stared with pleading eyes. Komarov aimed his pistol at Brovko. Then time resumed and Komarov emptied his pistol into the floor. After this incident Brovko went back inside and closed the door.

The shots attracted the attention of the rest of the men. While Nikolai was on duty at the front door, several held a lengthy conference near the parked Volgas. One of the men approached Nikolai and asked what he had seen in the house. While considering his answer, Nikolai thought of many things. He thought of the look on Komarov’s face. He thought of Pavel smiling up at him while blood gushed from his temple. He thought of Pavel’s wife at the funeral. Finally Nikolai told the other men that if he hadn’t opened the door when he did, he was certain Komarov would have shot Captain Brovko in the back.

Now, as Nikolai sat in the Volga watching the morning sky brighten, he wondered if he should go into the house and tell Captain Brovko what the other men, gathering in small groups before dawn, already knew.

Whenever he moved, Lazlo’s face felt as if it had expanded, creating more nerves to send messages of pain to his brain. Although he had lost track of time, he felt at least an hour had gone by since Komarov had stopped his beatings. The last thing Komarov had done was to blow cigarette smoke into their faces.

It was quiet in the room, so quiet he could hear Bela’s deep breaths. He hoped Bela would not begin snoring and rouse Komarov, who had apparently settled in the daybed behind them. Earlier, the man he now knew as Captain Brovko had given both him and Bela a drink of water. Now Brovko sat at the kitchen table. The phonograph was off the table and back in the cabinet. When Komarov finished beating them and placed Lazlo’s pistol on the table, Brovko had picked it up and tucked it into his belt. Now Brovko sat with his elbows on the table, staring out the window at the new dawn.

Last night, during Komarov’s beatings, there had been increasing evidence Brovko did not approve. Brovko attempted several approaches to convince Komarov they should return to Kiev with their prisoners. Each time, Komarov refused, insisting Lazlo knew where Juli Popovics was and Bela knew where the women and children were. After the incident in which Komarov shot Lazlo’s pistol into the floor, Brovko was especially watchful, never leaving them alone in the house with Komarov.

Lazlo recalled the man who opened the door. It was the same man he had sent back to Kiev in his Zhiguli after shooting his partner in Visenka. The man who had wept as his partner lay bleeding in his lap. He had heard Brovko call the man Nikolai. And now he recalled the partner’s name because it had been repeated over and over.

“Pavel! Don’t die, Pavel!”

Again, the question. Why would Komarov send an untrained agent on a dangerous mission? Were there more untrained agents outside? The man he had hit over the head had been young. Were they all fresh recruits primed to kill or be killed?

Lazlo opened his eyes wider and, although it was painful, moved his head slowly from side to side. He tried to get Brovko’s attention without speaking out loud, but Brovko continued staring out the window.

As the sun rose, its brightness through the windows overpowered the overhead light. When Brovko stretched and yawned, Lazlo stared at him, motioned with his head, and finally stuck out his swollen tongue and wagged it at Brovko.

Brovko stood and came to Lazlo. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I was trying to get your attention,” whispered Lazlo.

“Why?”

“I thought you might want to hear another Hungarian song. I can sing one for you.”

Brovko smiled. “You have a sense of humor.” Then Brovko looked over Lazlo’s shoulder and frowned. “However, I wouldn’t try any jokes on the major.”

“I know. My cousin and I didn’t laugh all night. Apparently he’s sleeping?”

“Your cousin?”

“Komarov.”

“He appears to be sleeping.”

“Then I’d like to ask you something.”

“What?”

“I’d like to ask the same question you did. Why does he want the women and children?”

Brovko stared at Lazlo for a moment. Then he went to the sink and came back with a glass of water. He held the water to Lazlo’s lips.

The rooster had crowed, the sun was up, and budding trees surrounding the house were capped in orange. Nikolai reached out and switched off the Volga’s engine. He lowered the window slightly and listened to the birds. It was a fine spring morning, and Nikolai relished the moment of peace until, in the distance, he heard the sound of an engine laboring up the hill.

Nikolai left the Volga and walked out on the road. When the bus carrying farm workers topped the hill, Nikolai signaled it to stop. The driver, a heavy man with several chins, looked worried.

“Bela Sandor won’t be going with you today,” said Nikolai.

“Is he ill?” asked the driver.

“Yes. You can try again tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow is Sunday. We won’t be working tomorrow.”

While the bus turned around, the few farmers on the bus looked out at Nikolai as if he were a monster. When Nikolai returned to the Volga, Captain Brovko was inside.

“I told the bus driver Bela Sandor was ill.”

“He’s better now,” said Brovko. “Komarov is napping.”

“What will he do when he wakes up?”

“I don’t know. I called two men in to relieve me. If Komarov wakes up, he’ll probably chase them out of the house.”

A pause, then Brovko turned to Nikolai. “You have something to tell me about what happened earlier. Something you couldn’t say in front of Komarov.”

“How did you know?”

“I saw the look on your face when you came through the door.”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you, Captain. I wouldn’t if I had any doubt.”

“Go on.”

“When I opened the door, Major Komarov had his pistol pointed at your back.”

When Brovko reached into his belt and pulled out a pistol, Nikolai froze.

“Don’t worry, Nikolai. I simply wanted to show you the pistol.”

He held it out for Nikolai to see. “It’s an old Makarov belonging to Detective Horvath. The same pistol he used to shoot your friend Pavel.

The same pistol Major Komarov emptied into the floor of the house.”

“I … I don’t understand.”

“Major Komarov aimed this pistol at my back. Why would he aim Detective Horvath’s pistol instead of his own?”

“I don’t know, Captain.”

“Do you think the major was prepared to shoot me?”

“It’s hard to say. He looked … like he had lost control.”

“The major has become emotional about the case. He can’t be left alone.”

“What should we do, Captain? You’re the officer in charge.”

“Major Komarov is the officer in charge.”

“But if he’s emotionally unbalanced …”

“What do the other psychiatrists think?”

“I don’t understand …”

“The other men. What’s the consensus concerning Major Komarov’s mental health?”

“Not good, Captain. Not good at all.”

On the far side of the room, beyond the Gypsies, Komarov could see the two men who had relieved Captain Brovko. The men leaned close to one another, their faces almost touching as they whispered.

They were young men, the same age as Dmitry. Perhaps, while in KGB school, they roomed together …

Although the men on the far side of the room stared at him, they did not know he was awake. Rather than sleeping, Komarov had opened his eyes only enough to see out. Back here in the shadows on the daybed, no one knew he was awake. If he had been a little closer, he might have heard everything Brovko said to Horvath. But he’d heard enough—Brovko and Horvath discussing his lack of humor while Brovko played nursemaid with drinks of water.

Komarov knew he could trust no one. Not Captain Azef, who was most likely looking out Komarov’s office window this very moment, planning a takeover of Kiev operations. And not Captain Brovko, sent by Deputy Chairman Dumenko to “assist.” Obviously Brovko had stood by, allowing Komarov to perform the old-school, iron-fisted work, waiting for the climax so he could hurry back to Moscow and seize credit for the discovery of a conspiracy to destroy Chernobyl. Komarov’s anger became so intense he could no longer lie still.

When Komarov sat up, one of the men hurried for the front door.

“Where are you going?”

“Outside for a moment, Major.”

“Stay here! I want two guards on the prisoners at all times!”

“But the captain asked …”

“Never mind what the captain asked!” Komarov stood and walked to the man. “I’m in charge, and I told you to stay!”

The man stepped back from the door, looked to his partner.

“Yes, Major.”

Komarov walked in front of the prisoners. Horvath stared at him. Bela Sandor was waking up, his eyes blinking.

“A new day has dawned,” said Komarov, adjusting his shoulder holster and tucking in his shirt. “Perhaps you’ve had time to recall where your bitches have gone. Perhaps they’ve found a stallion or some other barnyard creature with which to satisfy themselves.”

Komarov turned quickly, catching the two guards exchanging glances. “Guard them! Not one another!”

It was a sunny morning. Komarov got a drink of water, took a slice of bread from a bread box on a shelf. He chewed the bread and stared out the window. The downslope of the hill beyond the border of weeds made it impossible to see the land between the house and the village. Perhaps, in the dark, the women had been able to find a hiding place only they knew. He wanted to use the children. No one could stand watching a child suffer, not even a Kiev militia detective.

When he arrived the night before last, it had been dark. And although he had inspected the surrounding area with a flashlight, he had told his men to do a more thorough job during the day yesterday. If there had been a place to hide, his men should have been aware of it. But last night, before Horvath arrived, it seemed as though the earth had swallowed them up.

Where would little children hide? Children who might make noise because they are tired and hungry. Unable to play with their toys, they would become fidgety.

When Komarov looked at the stump in the yard with the ax embedded in it, he wondered if his men had adequately searched the chicken coop. Surely a group of women and children would have made an uproar with the chickens if they’d gone in there. Komarov was about to have one of the men search the coop again when he noticed something about the box out beyond the fire pit in the yard.

Yesterday the utensils and tin plates had been on the box. Now they were scattered along one side of the box.

Discarded tin plates and forks! An old box for a table! Children’s toys! Had one of his men knocked the plates and utensils off the box so he would have a place to rest? Or had someone else cleared the top of the box?

Komarov went to the back door and opened it. When he stood in the doorway looking out at the box in the yard, Bela Sandor whined behind him.

“I’m hungry.”

Komarov resisted the urge to go back inside and slap Bela.

“When can we eat? Feed me!”

There was something about the box. Could the Gypsy read his mind? Or had he simply noticed him looking at it? Perhaps there was something in the box.

Komarov threw his remaining bread aside. Ignoring Bela’s protests, he motioned for the guard near the back door to go with him.

When Komarov walked out into the yard, the guard from outside the back door and one of the men farther out in the yard joined him.

Because the tin plates and discarded utensils were scattered on one side, it appeared as if someone had lifted the box up on end.

There was a worn tablecloth draped over the box, but he noticed it was tacked on with nails. Komarov gripped the top edge of the box and lifted. It was surprisingly lightweight. Instead of the entire box tipping upward, only the top of the box with its tablecloth skirt lifted.

Beneath the top, Komarov saw a hole, a deep hole with a ladder leading down into the darkness. It could have been an old well or the entrance to a tunnel or an underground chamber dug during the war so the Gypsies could hide from invading troops. It could lead anywhere!

Once the cover of the hole was tilted back on its hidden hing-es, Komarov asked for a flashlight from one of the men. Using the flashlight, he could see to the bottom of the ladder. There was a dirt floor about three or four meters down. On the side of the hole opposite the ladder, about a meter down, there seemed to be an opening.

Above the opening there was a wooden timber. A smell drifted out from the hole, a smell like something beginning to go sour mixed with … yes, mixed with the faint scent of alcohol. A wine cellar!

Komarov held his finger to his lips so the men would remain silent. He leaned close and listened. Back in the house, he heard Bela shouting something in Hungarian. Komarov had patience now. In what seemed only a moment or two, his patience had paid dividends. Coming from deep in the hole, Komarov heard the un-mistakable whimper of a baby.

Rather than tell his men that the women and children were down in what was apparently a wine cellar, Komarov kept listening.

He could hear the baby’s cries being muffled. He imagined Bela’s wife clutching the baby to her bosom, perhaps suffocating the baby with her own flesh. Would the woman kill her own child? But then he heard the whimper again, followed by a clicking sound, and he realized the baby was feeding.

Komarov put the flashlight he held into his jacket pocket and lowered his head even farther into the hole. The sound of the baby suckling its mother’s breast reminded him of his wife breast-feeding Dmitry, reminded him of how he had sometimes substituted his finger for his wife’s nipple. He recalled the draw on his fingertip as Dmitry suckled it. Then he remembered Dmitry’s lover, Fyodor, and a wave of disgust and nausea enveloped him as though the hole in the ground were trying to suck out his insides.