Chernobyl Murders (57 page)

Ilonka stares past Lazlo and is silent for a time. But then she whispers again.

“There’s a man over there I recognize. Wait, don’t look yet. He followed me from one of my classes several days ago. When I confronted him, he said he was a journalist doing a Chernobyl story from a conspiracy angle and is also writing a book. He said he’s hunting for remaining suspicions. Okay, he’s turned away. You can look now.”

Lazlo recognizes him. It is the bald man from earlier in the day on European Square.

“He questioned me this morning,” says Lazlo. “He said he was a tourist, but he knows too much and speaks too many languages.

Why is he still wearing his sunglasses?”

“I think he’s an intelligence agent,” says Ilonka.

“Whom could he possibly represent?”

“What does it matter?” whispers Ilonka, smiling an evil smile.

“We’ll confront him. Two against one.”

Lazlo shrugs. “What language shall we use?”

“Native Ukrainian,” whispers Ilonka.

They stand and quickly walk over to the man, who takes off his sunglasses and backs away when he sees them, almost bumping into the streetlight.

“So what can you tell us?” asks Ilonka, her whisper in Ukrainian harsher than before.

The bald man puts away his sunglasses and eyes them both with a smile, but not really a smile. “About what?”

“Chernobyl, of course,” says Lazlo. “The murders. Tell us about the conspiracy and murders at Chernobyl.”

The man shifts the sport coat he carries from one arm to the other. “All right. You’ve got me. I’m here to ask about Chernobyl, but it’s simply a matter of cleanup.”

“Cleanup?” asks Lazlo.

The man eyes Lazlo’s tie draped over the sport coat on his arm.

“A side job for Hungarian State Security while here in Kiev. Nothing active. They simply want to know the fate of an American who was doing work for them.”

“Andrew Zukor?” asks Lazlo.

The man turns to Ilonka. “How did he know about Zukor?”

Ilonka shrugs and smiles back at the man. They both look to Lazlo.

“You should go to the United States for your research,” says Lazlo. “Zukor’s widow was quite open with U.S. authorities before her death.”

“Unfortunately, they sent me here,” says the young man. “For cleanup, you go where they tell you to go, ask predetermined questions, and report back. Have either of you heard of a KGB major named Grigor Komarov?”

Lazlo looks to Ilonka, who smiles back at him, a large infectious smile with one finger to her lips. Soon all three are smiling like old friends who have met beneath the streetlight.

“I guess they sent me to the right people,” says the young man.

He holds his hand out to Ilonka. “By the way, my name is Zandor.”

Zandor continues after shaking hands with Ilonka and Lazlo.

“Anyway, Hungarian authorities want to know if Major Komarov had a reason to order Andrew Zukor’s assassination in 1986, or if he simply disliked the man. There have been many investigations into Komarov’s activities, going back to the cold war. We know Zukor was with U.S. intelligence, and we know a Major Dmitry Struyev in Komarov’s office may have given the order. So, my friends, what can you tell me?”

It is an unusual interview, all three of them smiling and talking like old friends while they wait for the bus from Chernobyl. At one point, without realizing it, they switch from Ukrainian to Hungarian. When Zandor asks the identity of the Gypsy Moth, both Lazlo and Ilonka shrug.

“No one knows who the Gypsy Moth was,” says Lazlo. “For all we know, he, or she, never existed.”

“A fabrication for Komarov’s grandiose plan?” asks Zandor.

“A fabrication,” says Lazlo. “A name from the past.”

After leaving Slavutych, the town built for Chernobyl cleanup workers, they switch from Anton’s van to the larger bus at the Dytyatky Control Point. The evening bus transports both tourists and workers going off shift back to Kiev. It is a comfortable bus with better air-conditioning than the van, as well as ceiling-mounted television monitors. Because it is Lyudmilla’s last tour for this shift, she rides back to Kiev with the tourists. She sits across the aisle from the young American couple. At the end of the tour, she noted their names on the tour sheet. The woman is Tamara Horvath, Hungarian. Because of her tears at the visitor center, Lyudmilla assumes she is related to a Chernobyl victim. The young African American man is Michael Richardson. Both are from Chicago. While the driver closes the door and settles in, Lyudmilla leans across the aisle and smiles at the Americans.

“Finally, end of duty for a few days.”

“Do you live in Kiev?” asks Tamara.

“With my husband, Vitaly. It is surprising how much I miss him.”

“How long have you been married?” asks Tamara.

“Since the fall of the Soviet Union.” Lyudmilla reaches across the aisle and touches Tamara’s arm. “Tell me. Are you related to one of the victims?”

Michael leans forward and smiles. “She was one of the Chernobylites. Of course, she didn’t fill me in on the details until today.”

He nudges Tamara. “A mystery woman.”

“You’re too young to have been a Chernobylite,” says Lyudmilla.

Tamara touches her tummy. “My mother was carrying me at the time.”

“She … it must have been terrible for her. Is she … how can I say it?”

“She died in the United States in 2000. My father was one of the engineers taken to Moscow, where he died within days of the accident. My stepfather came with me on this visit, but he stayed in Kiev. He was in the Kiev militia in 1986. He says he never wants to visit the plant or Pripyat again.”

Lyudmilla shakes her head. “I don’t blame him. For me, it’s a job. Are you visiting others during your stay?”

“My stepfather is bringing his niece to the museum to meet us, then we’ll go to dinner. Tomorrow we’re all going into the countryside to visit my mother’s roommate from Pripyat and her husband and family.”

Michael points to Tamara. “Her stepfather’s niece is her stepsister, if you can believe it.”

Lyudmilla nods while she tries to decipher the relationship. As the bus begins moving, the overhead television monitors come to life. The volume of the televisions, all tuned to a news station giving the latest statistics on global climate change records, is loud, but not so loud for Lyudmilla to tune out the voice of the inquisitive German tourist at the rear of the bus.

“Will we get more radiation screening at the museum?” demands the German in English. “I wonder if Dytyatky was the last.

Can anyone tell me?”

Lyudmilla wishes she could stand and tell the German to shut his mouth. But she is off duty and is not required to respond one way or another. Instead, she closes her eyes and thinks of home, wondering if Vitaly will be there, or if, like the last time they had an argument, he will be away with his friends when she arrives.

The television commentator is also speaking in English. “In Kiev, celebrating the traditional Day of Victory Parade, two elderly World War II veterans who managed to march remain in hospital suffering from heat stroke. In other news, lack of spring rain has caused water shortages on farms throughout Ukraine …”

Lyudmilla dozes during the bus ride to Kiev. When she awakens, it is almost dark. A small group of people waits beneath the streetlights in front of the Chernobyl museum, among them a handsome younger bald man talking to an older man and a young woman, both whom are wearing Sox baseball caps. The young woman has short hair beneath the cap, reminding Lyudmilla of how she wore hers when she was young and slender and could wear a short, tight skirt in public and feel good about it.

Suddenly, there is a surprise. Just as she is anticipating the hot evening walk alone to the Metro Blue Line, she sees Vitaly jump out of their car parked across the street. He runs to the bus stop like a younger man. He is smiling. He is carrying yellow spring flowers.

Kiev’s Casino Budapest throbs with everything from bump-and-grind to techno to rock and roll to disco, and even some traditional folk music. Tonight, while the striptease bar and the disco pound out their rhythms, the variety show for restaurant guests features a Gypsy orchestra playing traditional Hungarian music.

The restaurant is crowded with tourists. Americans at table twelve, which tonight seats five but can accommodate six, have brought along baseball caps. Two caps, inscribed with the word Sox, decorate the center of their table. No one wore the caps into the restaurant, and everyone is dressed casually but appropriately, men in jackets, women in skirts and blouses. The waiter has determined the man paying the tab will be the older, thin-faced man with a prominent nose and who is wearing a garish red, white, and green tie. All five at the table have finished eating, and the table has been cleared.

The two young women at the table are both beautiful in their own way. The young American woman has long brown hair and is buxom. She sits between the older man and a very tall, dark-skinned young African American man. At one point during the Gypsy orchestra entertainment, she puts her arms around both men and they sway back and forth. The young Ukrainian woman at the table is thin yet shapely with very short hair. She sits with a bald young man who leans very close so she can speak into his ear. She is not telling secrets. Early on, the waiter discovered her voice is a mere whisper and one must lean close to hear her.

After a short interlude, the Gypsy orchestra launches into a Hungarian number. A slow passage is followed by the traditional dance, the czardas. While the thin-faced older man at table twelve pays the tab, the other two men stand to pull out chairs. Before standing, the two young women at table twelve each take a Sox baseball cap and put it on. All five laugh as they leave the table. Rather than leaving the restaurant, they move closer to the Gypsy orchestra and the dance floor, where several couples have begun to dance.

The tall African American man offers his hand to the long-haired buxom beauty, while the bald young man offers his hand to the thin Ukrainian beauty who, with her short hair and shapely legs, looks like a fashion model.

Both couples watch others dancing the fast-paced czardas and try to do the same, but it is obvious they need practice. When the music slows to the solo violin, the couples move closer and sway on the dance floor. The older man in the red, white, and green tie stands to the side, smiling as he plays his own invisible violin.

The soloist is exceptional, reminiscent of Lakatos and his Gypsy Orchestra. The violin cries out on the dance floor, but it can also be heard up and down the hallways of Casino Budapest. As if on cue, intermission is called at other venues within the casino, and the cry of the violin alone travels outside onto the street.

From high on the Kiev hills, this could be any city, the heat of the day making its lights shimmer. The solo violin does not skip a beat as the soloist goes into his final, mournful note. It is as if the violinist possesses a bow of infinite length. This is music from the border regions to the south and west, music from Hungary and Romania. To the north, near the Belarus border, a pair of red lights on the Chernobyl towers blink slowly in the night as if they, too, can hear the violin. The red eyes of the predator, momentarily taken by the music, blinking to clear away its tears.

Photo by: KB

Michael Beres’ experiences

during the Cold War and his

interest in the environment have

shaped his novels. With degrees

in computer science, math, and

literature, he worked for the

government, holding a top-secret

security clearance, and in the private sector, documenting analytical software. His fiction reflects our age of environmental uncertainty and political treachery.

A Canadian publisher published Michael’s first novel Sunstrike in the eighties when environmental and political conspiracies were considered tall tales. Today we know differently. Medallion Press published Michael’s environmental novel
Grand Traverse
in 2005. It presents a realistic portrait of our frightening near future. His 2006 release, political thriller
The
President’s Nemesis
, was compared to
The Manchurian Candidate
by Library Journal and dubbed “a nail-biting thriller” by Midwest Review.

A Chicago native now living in West Michigan, Michael is a member of the Mystery Writers of America, International Thriller Writers, and the Sierra Club. He has driven a low-emissions hybrid vehicle since the beginning of the technology. His short stories have appeared in:
Amazing
Stories
,
Amazon Shorts
, the
American Fiction Collection
,
Alfred Hitchcock Mystery
Magazine
,
Ascent
,
Cosmopolitan
,
Ellery Queen
,
Michigan Quarterly Review
,
The
Missouri Review
,
New York Stories
,
Papyrus
,
Playboy
,
Pulpsmith
,
Skylark
, and
Twilight Zone
.

w w w.m ichaelberes.com

“Michael Beres skillfully leads us into the fragmented, frustrating world of the injured brain, giving us an engrossing story that blends violence with compassion, and an outcome that suggests hope is something worth clinging to.”

—David J. Walker, Edgar-nominated author of many novels, including the
Wild Onion, Ltd.
series.

MICHAEL BERES

Retired government agents in Florida cling to a decades-old secret that threatens to wreak havoc on the American political system.

A right-brain stroke victim related to a high profi le mobster dies mysteriously at a Chicago rehabilitation facility.

A fellow rehab patient with a left-brain stroke who was a detective in his former life launches his own investigation.

Th

e detective’s wife, desperate to help her husband connect to his past, joins the investigation, makes very large waves, and is kidnapped.