Traffyck: The Thrilling Sequel to Chernobyl Murders

by Michael Beres

  Leonid turned toward the back. “Where are those driver’s licenses?”

  “Hidden beneath the carpet,” said Katerina.

  “When Semyon returns, put his there, too.”

  “Are some of the others coming to replace us here?” asked Katerina.

  “That is Vasily’s decision,” said Leonid.

  “I’m glad we are going back,” said Katerina. “Aren’t you, Lena?”

  “Yes,” said Lena.

  But Lena knew if it were not for Nadia being on the peninsula, she would prefer escape.

  Across the street, a large black Zil pulled up in front of the rental agency. Semyon got out, ran into the agency, and was out a few seconds later, running across the street. Semyon got in through the van’s sliding door.

  “Did you remember to put the license plate back on?” asked Leonid. “I could not see from here.”

  “Of course,” said Semyon, putting his arm around Katerina and giving her a kiss. “Drive on, my chauffeur. We have big celebration tonight.”

  “I know,” said Leonid, turning to smile at Lena as he started the van.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  After the Gypsy was gone and his office door closed, Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza stood and walked to the window. An opening between two buildings on the far side of the street provided a view of a small city park. Rogoza stared at the park where children swung on swings, a mother pushed a stroller, and boys played soccer. Farther away, on a shaded knoll, a couple on a blanket resembled a postage stamp whose honored figures had come alive.

  Rogoza went to his desk and retrieved his binoculars from a drawer. The pair on the blanket embraced. The boy’s back was to him, the girl’s hand gently massaging the boy’s rump. As Rogoza watched, the boy’s loins undulated, and because the rise and fall of Rogoza’s chest increased, he leaned forward, steadying the binoculars against the window glass. If only he could see the girl. If only he could see more than her arms and thin legs and sneakers.

  Suddenly, the couple turned as if on a spit, and Rogoza gripped the binoculars more tightly. Bitter disappointment caused him to lower the binoculars and return to his desk. However, the image of two teenaged boys was difficult to erase, especially because they were not much older than his two sons in pre-seminary.

  Rogoza felt pain deep in his chest. He put the binoculars away and braced himself, taking slow breaths. Finally, when the pain diminished, he stared at his hands, noticing, as he often did, the way the flesh of his fingers threatened to engulf the gold and even the jewels of his rings.

  Guilt awaited him at every turn—his wife’s purity, the innocence of his sons, and his bejeweled fingers, constant reminders of his association with prostitutes, discarding his cassock while touring distant cities like a common thug. But now there were more recent indiscretions Rogoza wished he could forget. The young women at Pyotr’s compound who were ordered to lie down with a nameless elder in order to prove devotion to Pyotr. And, of course, there was the murder of the bewitching, raven-haired prostitute who’d nearly ruined him. Not having committed the murder himself did not diminish the guilt. The fact that young men from Pyotr’s compound murdered the prostitute increased the guilt—boys killing his mistress in his name, boys killing his mistress because he siphoned funds from his Synodal Department to Pyotr’s compound.

  Rogoza recalled the meeting at the compound after the killing. It was the first of many meetings in which he and Anatoly Lyashko and Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov laid bare their souls. Lyashko, head of the SBU’s Main Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organized Crime, provided SBU funds, guards, and supplies. Lyashko had a weakness for the compound’s teenaged boys, Rogoza for young women, and Andropov for … children.

  Reluctantly, Rogoza sat at his desk, unlocked a drawer, and pulled out the telephone secured by Lyashko’s SBU men. He touched out the memorized number. There were several clicks on the line, then three ring tones.

  Pyotr answered, “Yes?”

  “Vladimir here. The Gypsy is back.”

  The phone was silent for a moment. Then Pyotr said, “You cannot deal with him?”

  “He is determined to damage the Patriarchate. In Kiev, anything is possible.”

  “A noble adversary,” said Pyotr, his voice deepening. “Wait a moment while I get some information I have been saving.”

  While he waited, Rogoza recalled his envy of Pyotr’s deep, resonant voice.

  After a minute of silence, Pyotr was back. “I have information courtesy of the international media. Do you recall hearing news of a band of Gypsies captured in Moldova?”

  “Authentic Gypsies?”

  “Yes,” said Pyotr. “They were chased from private land. They lived in camping trailers and became a nuisance to farmers who joined with citizens of local towns to drive them out. Following their departure, two local boys were discovered missing. News of the missing boys spread throughout the region and to Kiev. Although it was determined the boys had run away to join the Gypsies, and the Gypsies had refused to take them, the story still spreads about this particular band of Gypsies kidnapping children for trafficking to other countries.”

  “An enterprise with which you are familiar,” said Rogoza.

  “My enterprise is caring for Chernobyl orphans.”

  “Please forgive my remark,” said Rogoza. “But what has this to do with our Gypsy?”

  “The power of the media is available through your Patriarchate. Lyashko’s SBU research indicates Investigator Nagy spent time in Roman Catholic school, and also the owner of the video store, husband of Mariya Nemeth, spent time in Roman Catholic school. Imagine the dramatization in the media when Gypsy myths combine with investigative work by the Vatican’s secret police concerning men brought up in their schools here in Ukraine.”

  “Are you saying the Vatican is involved?” asked Rogoza.

  “Anything can be implied through your contacts in Kiev. A Gypsy trained in Catholicism might work for the Vatican. Very little needs to be said, Vladimir. Put the necessary words on the tongues of news organizations, and they spread the word.”

  “I will prepare the wording myself,” said Rogoza.

  “Good,” said Pyotr. “There’s one more thing. A contingency plan. If matters reach a boiling point, arrange to come here instead of calling on the phone.”

  “I thought Lyashko took care of our phones.”

  “Up until now, yes. But Lyashko acted strangely during recent conversations. Perhaps it is nothing, but I wanted you to know.”

  Rogoza hung up the phone and walked to the window. In the park, children still swung on swings, and boys still played soccer. But the illicit lovers, as if in answer to his prayers, had gone.

  Pyotr kept his secure phone atop his desk and made a call. It took a full minute before Anatoly Lyashko’s voice came on the line.

  “Why are you calling?”

  “I’m concerned about the Gypsy. The package delivered to his office did not suffice. My people are skilled at certain things, but I do not know if they can handle him. He disappeared for a time, but is back in Kiev investigating a sensitive matter. I would like pressure put on.”

  “I can spare two men in Kiev. Do not overreact.”

  “Would it be possible to have a few more men at the left bank house?”

  “Five is not enough?” asked Lyashko.

  “I need insurance.”

  “You must slow down. The peninsula is overcrowded, and the episode in the mountains taxed my resources. Younger men climb the ladder behind me, and I need to be vigilant. We are both getting older, Pyotr. Young people are not investments you pass from generation to generation. Eventually the peninsula must be vacated, and—”

  Pyotr interrupted. “Do you recall a conversation we had about the ancient Greeks, who often had boys in apprenticeship?”

  Lyashko’s voice was quieter. “What are you getting at?”

  “At this very moment, one of my most trusted young men is bringin
g someone. They are on their way by train via the western route through Kharkiv and will arrive day after tomorrow. You know the effects of a certain substance. You will appreciate his receptiveness. He was almost dead when he arrived here, and hopelessly addicted.”

  There was silence for several seconds.

  “Did you hear me, or did we lose our connection?” asked Pyotr.

  Lyashko did not answer. There was simply a click on the line, after which Pyotr hung up, stood from his desk, walked to the back of the room, and opened a door to another room.

  Inside the room, darkened by window shades, a lanky form, seemingly a teenaged boy, sat on the edge of a small bed. The figure was thin and frail. But this was not a boy. It was the new arrival named Lyudmilla, a girl of eighteen who had been traumatized in the mountains, so much so that she would not eat or speak. She needed comforting. Pyotr entered the room and closed the door.

  It was good to have a friend. And although Lena seemed naïve in some ways, Nadia had grown to depend on her. So, when Lena returned to the compound, Nadia felt a spark of happiness. It was a foreign feeling, producing guilt because ever since the mountains, she did not feel she deserved happiness … But it was happiness.

  Yet, Nadia noticed a change in Lena after her return. Although her smile seemed pleasant, it could be insanity. Yes, everything and everyone here had become insane.

  After dinner and Pyotr’s evening video lecture, after the sleeping pills had taken effect for most residents, Vasily went to Ivan’s cabin. Several teenaged boys holding AK-47s and wearing red baseball caps stood in a circle around Ivan, who also held an AK-47.

  “We are in training,” declared Ivan. “First we do strength training, then weapons.”

  The reason Vasily had gone to Ivan’s cabin was that he had seen Ivan earlier in the day with the emaciated new arrival named Lyudmilla. As Ivan led Lyudmilla away from Pyotr’s cabin, she had stared down at the ground, but for her this was normal. Still, Vasily wanted to be certain Ivan had not brought her to his “training session.” Apparently, he had not.

  Vasily walked across the peninsula toward Pyotr’s cabin, checking things along the way and finding everything secure. As he walked, he tried to enjoy the cool evening air and calm himself. Instead, he became angrier.

  “Vasily, please come in.”

  “I know it’s late, but you insisted I be totally honest. I’m still concerned about Ivan. His increased weapons training is disturbing. Today he told me he is training God’s mercenaries.”

  “I confronted him this afternoon, Vasily. He assures me the training is strictly defensive.”

  “What else was he here for?” When Pyotr did not answer, Vasily continued. “I saw him with the new girl named Lyudmilla.”

  “I asked him to bring her here. I needed to see if her illness was serious enough to have her sent to the hospital. Ivan subsequently took her to the house on the left bank so the doctor can visit her. Speaking of matters off the peninsula, how was your debriefing?”

  Vasily stared at Pyotr before answering, the change of subject catching him off guard. “It was fine. No one left the symbol, or any other trace.”

  “What about the women? How did it work out with them along?”

  “The young men were distracted. It is better to send them alone.”

  “Very well,” said Pyotr. “Send them alone next time. Tell them they will receive privacy privileges when they return. Is that all?”

  Vasily did not answer.

  “What is it?” asked Pyotr, staring at Vasily.

  “The peninsula. It does not seem the same.”

  “In what way?”

  “With Ivan’s so-called training, the young men are harder to control. It is unwise putting automatic rifles in the hands of irrational young men who ignore you.”

  “Why would they ignore me, Vasily?”

  “Your speeches are completely dependent on our good works, caring for the Chernobyl orphans. But you rarely mention God.”

  “Your point is well taken, Vasily. Perhaps I should look back at past speeches. I assume you refer to the ones I gave after our abandonment of the trafficking business.”

  “Yes,” said Vasily, “those were effective. But my point is, we’ve put ourselves on the offensive by drawing the attention of investigators. First was Aleksandr Shved; now there is Janos Nagy. I’m wondering if we are serving the needs of the handicapped with these forays outside the compound.”

  Pyotr approached, put his hands on Vasily’s shoulders, and stared at him. “Do you recall the old days, Vasily? Parading about with Geiger counters, using the old aluminum boats to cross to the left bank, and exiling troublemakers to one of the islands for a night so they could have time to think and pray?”

  Vasily stared at Pyotr. “More than this, I recall the pledge in the old days. Before God’s fellowship lowers in final judgment of the children, I pledge.”

  Pyotr shook Vasily’s shoulders gently. “The pledge still holds, Vasily! I know you were fond of many residents we sent away, but that was long ago. I need you now more than ever! I make my own pledge, Vasily. I pledge to become a better clergyman.”

  When Pyotr let go of his shoulders, Vasily forced a smile and said good night.

  After Vasily was gone, Pyotr turned out the lights and went to the stairs. As he climbed slowly to his loft, he thought about what Vasily had said. Not the words, but the emotion behind the words. Was it true emotion? Or was Vasily testing him?

  Perhaps Vasily was right. Ivan, so easily taken in by religious and sexual fanaticism, was becoming a nuisance. While Pyotr had stayed busy on the peninsula caring for his own needs and the needs of his Chernobyl orphans, Ivan had ignored Vasily and taken control of the boys, creating his own private army. Was it an army that would defend the compound? Or had Ivan developed radical plans similar to those of fundamentalist terrorists loose in the world?

  When Pyotr reached his sleeping loft, he went to his bed and sat in the dark. Vasily had given him much to think about, and he knew it would be difficult to fall asleep.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Although Chicago’s Humboldt Park Ukrainian neighborhood grew more ethnically diverse each day, there was still the Bakery Café within walking distance of Lazlo’s apartment. Here he could relax, sipping coffee or tea. Here he could stuff himself with pastries, hoping the delicacies would find it in their hearts to block an artery and take at least a few years off his life.

  It was a warm September morning, the heat of the sun warming his table through the linen window curtains. During summer, he often brought Jermaine to the Bakery Café. But as Ilonka said during her visit, Jermaine now rested in peace, perhaps looking down on his old friend. By now Jermaine would have been back in school with playground gangs vying for his soul. Perhaps Jermaine watched over the playground these days, ready to take vengeance on recruiters. Perhaps Jermaine watched over him.

  Jermaine would consider Lazlo’s wish to clog his arteries foolish. Causing one’s death would be unfair to those who had gone before him. And it would be especially unfair to his niece Ilonka and Janos Nagy, who both lived on the other side of the world. Because of these two, Lazlo kept his passport and Ukraine entry visa in order. Like any true Gypsy, he must be ready to travel at a moment’s notice.

  Ria, his favorite waitress, had already refilled his coffee, the traffic outside was easing as rush hour ended, and the shadow of his coffee cup had shortened. Earlier, when he told Ria he was not hungry this morning, she did not persist, but refilled his coffee cup and stood over him to be certain he took his blood pressure and cholesterol pills with plenty of water. He admired her figure as she walked back behind the counter.

  Ria was not a young woman, but younger than Lazlo, and ten years was ten years. Her hair was the color of bread crust, long and tied up in back. Although she was not Ukrainian, she did come from what was now the Czech Republic, not far from his roots in western Ukraine. He and Ria spoke often of changes the region ha
d been through. Behind the counter, when she turned to serve a young black man from a city work crew, Ria leaned to the side and winked at Lazlo. The young man was obviously ordering a huge bag of pastries for the morning shift. Within Ria’s smile and wink was the memory of Jermaine.

  When Lazlo’s cell rang, he knew it was Janos before he opened the phone.

  Janos spoke in Hungarian. “According to my calculation, you are eating pastry.”

  Lazlo laughed. “I am stuffed and sipping we-are-proud-to-serve-Starbucks.”

  “You do not sound stuffed. You ring hollow like a bell at the Uzhgorod factory, where grandfathers, fathers, uncles, and cousins worked.”

  “And you sound like someone filled with questions.”

  “Yes,” said Janos. “Do you recall the hornets we spoke of when you last visited?”

  “Have you ventured too close to a nest?”

  “I was trying to eradicate a nest in my old office, and now they are at my new office. Like a fool, I try to run, and I am stung repeatedly. It seems they nest everywhere in Kiev, from government buildings to cathedrals to brothels. What can I do to find the source?”

  Lazlo paused a few seconds before saying, “Aleksandr Vasilievich?”

  Janos paused a few seconds before answering, “Yes, the source. His search will be my search. But he left many unanswered questions. He was seeking very young hornets … not really the hornets themselves, but I think you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” said Lazlo, watching as the construction worker left with two huge bags of pastries. “I recall speaking with him some time ago. Were his findings repugnant?”

  “Yes,” said Janos. “The age of your friend who is gone.”

  Lazlo used his napkin to touch away tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “Have you spoken to Ilonka?”

  “She called when she returned to Kiev. I am sorry about your friend, Lazlo.”

  “Thank you … but back to the business of Aleksandr. He collects information and is fatally stung. My contact with him sent me to a department of what we in this country call Homeland Security. The mere mention of the department will be detected by worker bees, if you know what I mean. Tell me what happened with the queen you encountered?”