Traffyck: The Thrilling Sequel to Chernobyl Murders

by Michael Beres

  “In what way?”

  She stared at him a moment before answering. “You have also begun to refer to them as children, even though many have been gone long enough to be considered adults.”

  Janos thanked Eva Polenkaya and was about to leave when she asked him to wait. She went to a cabinet, pulled out a folder, and handed it to Janos. “Take a look. I want you to have an idea who you are searching for.”

  Janos opened the folder. Inside were many pages containing photographs of young women dressed in see-through blouses, short skirts, tall boots, and fur jackets. They wore heavy makeup, but through the makeup Janos saw innocents caught up in the trafficking network.

  “These are photographs taken from Web sites and printed advertisements used to lure soldiers to bars and brothels located outside the gates of military bases. These include US, Russian, UK, French, and even UN bases. All pretty girls … but flip to the last pages, and you will see the pretty boys who lure gay men and sometimes even women in the military.”

  Janos looked at the boys in the photographs. Most wore tight blue jeans and sleeveless tee shirts. Rather than smiling like the girls in the folder, the boys had serious looks, like the faces of movie actors. Although they flexed their muscles, they had an oddly dangerous look about them. Was the danger aimed at the viewer of the photographs, or was the danger a reflection in a mirror? Yes, like boys at play, their testosterone levels rising. Boys looking for trouble, yet in some ways apprehensive.

  Janos closed the folder and handed it back to Eva Polenkaya. She began speaking rapidly as she went to the cabinet, put the folder away, and walked back to her desk, standing while she said things she apparently needed to say.

  “I wanted to give you some idea of what you are dealing with. These are only the young people situated outside military bases. The folders for other locations are thicker. Even though my missing grandchild is a boy, 95 percent or more are girls. The International Organization for Migration estimates over a quarter million females have been trafficked since the collapse of the Soviet Union. The Orange Revolution here in Ukraine had some effect on trafficking, but it is a matter of supply and demand. If the numbers of girls, or boys, available in Kiev dries up, traffickers move farther east to poorer cities and towns and villages. Interpol in Kiev is no help. I know a Kiev militiaman on assignment with the UN working in Albania. He said it is hopeless to convict pimps there. Law enforcement corruption is rampant, militia officials are on the take from traffickers, and bribes are handed out to border guards. In Greece, they have corrupted the police totally. And these days, with Germany and Netherlands having legalized prostitution, how can anyone stop sexual slavery?

  “First, the recruiter makes a promise of a job outside the country, waiting tables or doing some innocent-sounding go-go dancing. Next, she is driven or flown under guard, and she finds herself in Moldova or Romania or Albania or Croatia or Serbia. Her papers are taken away, and she is told she must work off her debt. Her relatives at home will be in danger if she does not give in. She may be turned over to Bedouins who march her across the desert to Israel or one of its enemy neighbors. Do you know that when girls work in the Middle East, it does not matter if they are on their period? These so-called men, who claim to be devout believers, do not even look at the girls! And, Janos Nagy, I have not even mentioned the very young girls and boys trafficked to the Far East, where sex holidays involve children!

  “Yes, La Strada is a good organization. But bureaucratic meetings are not enough. We live in a mobster society. Warnings to beware of trafficking appear on television, radio, billboards, and newspapers. Yet Mafia organizations in our once Soviet Republics rule the henhouse. Finally, because there are fewer women and children available, traffickers resort to kidnapping. This is what your friend, Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved, was investigating when he died. Kidnappers would need a place to hold the children until they are properly programmed, or aged. I fear, as did Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved, that trafficking has been turned into an assembly line somewhere in Ukraine. And I pray you can do something to find and destroy this assembly line before it destroys you!”

  Eva Polenkaya straightened her hair and sat behind her desk. Her face was red. “I apologize for my outburst. Sometimes I become emotional. I simply wish for someone to find an answer for the parents before the loss of their children, or something else, destroys them.”

  Janos stopped for lunch at a new McDonald’s in east Pechersk. While he waited in line to order, he watched the workers, mostly young, but a few babushkas as well, preparing hamburgers and french fries. An assembly line, Eva Polenkaya had said—children taken from the streets of Ukraine cities and run through an assembly line until they have the desired flavor.

  While he ate his hamburger and french fries, Janos compared the telephone codes of the numbers he had copied from Aleksandr Shved’s list to the code pages he had torn from a Kiev phone book. One number, from which he received no answer, was in Odessa. He called the number several times while digesting the french fries he had pushed into his mouth one after another. Outside the window, a young man pulled up in an ancient Volkswagen Rabbit with a diesel engine. The man walked around the back of the McDonald’s and returned with two ten-liter cans of grease, which he loaded into the backseat of the Rabbit before driving off, leaving a trail of gray smoke and a chunk of rust that fell off the back door when it was slammed shut. Janos wiped grease from his cell phone with a napkin and tried the Odessa number again. Still no answer and no messaging, nothing but ring tones like the belches coming from his stomach. Janos considered complaining to the management at the new McDonald’s about the insufficient heat of the deep fryer, but knew he had more important things to do than the commonplace tasks of life. One thing he did do was visit the men’s room.

  That afternoon, while at Kiev militia headquarters seeking information from Investigator Nikolai Kozlov, Janos called the Odessa number several more times, but there was still no answer, and Kozlov was as informative as a street sweeper, refusing even to trace the number.

  At seventeen hundred hours—happy hour—Janos parked his rusty orange Skoda and took the funicular down to the river. He walked some distance from the terminal where boat tours and cruises originated and sat on a lower section of concrete at the river’s edge. In the distance, passengers wearing jackets on an excursion boat looked like multicolored peas in a pod. Back at the terminal, passengers carrying umbrellas walked down the ramp from a shuttle returning from the islands. Although it had rained earlier in the day, it had cleared and the umbrellas were closed, some being carried like sidearms.

  On the bottom level of concrete, with his feet dangling above the river, Janos was low enough so the sounds of metro and street traffic were cut off. The concrete on which he sat was brittle and crumbling from years of freezes and thaws. As he sat waiting for Comrade Strudel, he listened to the river lapping against rusted steel piling encasing the concrete and watched the passengers being shuttled out for an evening cruise.

  Comrade Strudel approached, a bulky sphere on legs, with a face puffy as if his cheeks and neck were perpetually stuffed with cream. Janos thought he looked nearly seventy but was probably younger. Drinking and overeating had given Comrade Strudel’s face a red shine, and he was missing most of his teeth. Other than his appearance, all Janos knew about Comrade Strudel was that he lived somewhere in south Podil and was one of the best informants in Kiev.

  Comrade Strudel was dressed, as usual, in his vagrant look-alike outfit—tattered coat and slacks, scuffed work shoes, out-of-season winter cap with rippled peak. Thin chunks of concrete cracked as he walked nearer.

  “I am hungry,” said Comrade Strudel, easing his bulk down beside Janos.

  “You are always hungry. But today, in order to eat, you must speak of young people.”

  “There are many young people around here. Especially in parks.”

  “Did you hear about Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved?”

  Comrade Strudel stared out at t
he boats. “His life on earth ended curiously.”

  “He was searching for missing young people and apparently had concluded pornography might be involved. The militia does not know if he was killed in the fire or not. I would like to know whether someone in Kiev or from outside Kiev might have set the fire. The wife of the store owner believes it was murder.”

  “Zhulyany Airport is not my usual territory,” said Comrade Strudel.

  “But you have friends there.”

  Comrade Strudel looked at him, smiling a three-toothed smile. “Yes, living in warehouses. They do not eat as well down there.”

  “The pay will be fair.”

  “You are always fair in this way.”

  “Shall we meet Sunday at the same time?”

  “Make it sixteen hundred hours,” said Comrade Strudel, looking side to side. “There will be much activity at the terminal, and blending in will be improved.”

  A dark blue van with heavily tinted windows followed Janos away from his parking space. The van had been waiting several spaces back. He drove a zigzag route around central Kiev for almost an hour. The evening rush of buses and pedestrians kept traffic slow, and the van stayed with him, never more than an intersection back. On Khreshchatik Boulevard, near Dynamo Stadium, three militiamen stood at the corner, and the van was two cars behind. Pedestrians crossed, but traffic did not budge. Janos got out of his Skoda and walked back to the van, making sure the three uniformed militiamen were watching. The driver’s window on the van came down, and two men in gray suits stared out at him with grim looks.

  “Good evening, comrades,” said Janos. “This will get us nowhere. Obviously, you are not members of the Mafia. Perhaps we should get out and walk.”

  “Where should we go?” asked the driver.

  “See those militiamen. We should go have a word with them.”

  The driver looked to his partner, shrugged, then looked back to Janos. When he dug into his pocket, Janos stepped back, reached beneath his jacket, and touched the butt of his pistol.

  “Identification,” said the driver.

  They were SBU. Janos looked at both their identification cards.

  “Agent Yuri Smirnov said to bring you to SBU headquarters for a chat. Would you consider driving there yourself? We will follow you if this crowd ever clears the intersection.”

  Horns sounded, and one of the militiamen shouted at Janos to get into his car. He got in and moved slowly with the traffic. Kiev’s SBU headquarters was on Khreshchatik a few blocks ahead. He had been there several times throughout his years in the militia.

  Although he was not an old man, Agent Yuri Smirnov was a fixture in the SBU Kiev office. When Janos sat down in front of Smirnov’s desk, he placed his hands on the desk, palms up, wrists together, as if he were handcuffed.

  “Your agents could not find the key. I told them I would keep my hands like this.”

  “You are very funny,” said Smirnov. “Have we met?”

  “Yes, when I was still in the militia,” said Janos. “You were visiting Chief Investigator Boris Chudin at the time.”

  “I remember. And now you are Janos Nagy, private investigator. I will not keep you long, because I know you have much investigating to accomplish.”

  “What will I be questioned about?” asked Janos. “Espionage? Foreign intelligence?”

  “Please do not make it difficult,” said Smirnov, resting his head on his hand. “I simply wish to ask a few questions.”

  “I apologize. I’ve had a busy day. I’m tired but ready to cooperate.”

  Smirnov gave him a weak smile. “Good. Perhaps I will still be able to raise a glass with my associates.” Smirnov opened his desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper and read from it a moment, making Janos expect an intricate question. Instead, Smirnov looked up and said, “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Going on where?”

  “Here,” said Smirnov pointing to the paper but not looking at it. “I can understand your interest in the pornographic video store burning down. But why have you chosen to make yourself a nuisance at the office of Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza?”

  “Rogoza requires nuisance.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he is a fool.”

  Smirnov shook his head. “That cannot be the only reason.”

  “Rogoza’s foolishness has lead to action. There was a sign on my office from his hooligans, a broken window, and a car tried to run me over.”

  “Did you get the plate number?” asked Smirnov.

  “There was none. It was a black Zil, exactly the kind Rogoza rides in.”

  “So you became angry.” Smirnov sighed as if he understood. “Very well, so much for fools in Zils. Now, please tell me about the video store fire. What have you learned?”

  Janos told Smirnov about the investigation. Of course, he did not reveal everything, simply what the militia knew.

  “Tell me about child pornography and missing children,” said Smirnov.

  “I know the militia found pornography at Shved’s office.”

  “Yes,” said Smirnov. “I was told about it.”

  When Smirnov was silent for a moment, Janos began forming his own questions. He took out his notebook and opened it to the page with the drawing he had shown Mariya, the circle with an X inside. Janos studied Smirnov’s face while he slid the notebook across the desk.

  Smirnov stared at the drawing a moment, turned it around, and slid it back across the desk. “Very clever, Janos.” Smirnov glanced beneath his desk. “Are you testing for my reaction to your drawing? Perhaps you have some kind of covert polygraph invention you slipped on my penis while I wasn’t looking.”

  “No,” said Janos. “The covert equipment shop didn’t have your size in stock.”

  Smirnov gave a weak smile. “Where did you get the drawing?”

  “I have connections. What do Ivan Babii and an American named Donner have to do with all this?”

  Janos caught it: a slight reaction, a blink, and no quick comeback or smile.

  Janos continued. “I lean toward leveling with an investigative associate as long as he levels with me. I know of Ivan Babii’s murder, but I know nothing of Donner. I question what organization uses this symbol. I have asked my contact, but I will not have an answer for a while. Perhaps if we shared information—”

  Smirnov raised his hand. “Very well. You have me in your snare.”

  “I did not mean to trap you. I’m simply doing my job, and you are doing yours.”

  “I am supposed to say that,” said Smirnov, looking tired and annoyed.

  “You have my deepest apology, Agent Smirnov.”

  Smirnov stood and paced back and forth in front of his window as he spoke.

  “The symbol, or something roughly like your drawing, has shown up elsewhere. One instance was the murder of a doctor at a Podil female clinic. Another was the bombing of a clinic in Berezovka north of Odessa. In the former case, the symbol was drawn on a stairway using the victim’s blood. These attacks on female clinics and so-called adult bookstores are of great concern. Perhaps a group involved in trafficking has merged with some sort of vigilante organization. We have no evidence of a Mafia connection. And so far, involvement with a religious group is not established. Yet everything is being considered. Any information you provide will be greatly appreciated.”

  “Exactly what does an X inside a circle mean?” asked Janos.

  “I do not know,” said Smirnov. “In the US, abortion clinics have been bombed, and I am concerned Ukraine has spawned an underground group that takes orthodoxy into the realm of the underworld.”

  “An Orthodox Mafia?”

  Smirnov turned to Janos. “It is a good description. And now we must find out the who, where, and especially the when of the next attack.”

  “You want my help?” asked Janos.

  “I ask for your cooperation,” said Smirnov.

  “What kind of investigations are your men involved in?”

/>   Smirnov shook his head, smiled a wry smile. “You are truly a private investigator, Janos Nagy. I tell you everything. You tell me nothing. And for your information, my men, as you call them, are not all men. We also have female investigators. Times have changed. The SBU is not the KGB. In those days, you would be in a basement cell instead of in here.”

  Janos took his notebook from the desk and pocketed it. “I appreciate your candor, Agent Smirnov. One fact I can add to the stew is that Mariya Nemeth’s husband, Viktor Patolichev, apparently used the same symbol when referring to the unnamed orphanage in which he was raised. Other than this, Patolichev’s past is obscure.”

  “I know you have stayed the night at Mariya Nemeth’s apartment,” said Smirnov. “Therefore, I ask that you reveal any information you may gain.”

  “You have my word, Inspector Smirnov.”

  “One more request,” said Smirnov. “Please avoid disturbing Father Rogoza.” Smirnov pointed toward the ceiling. “He has contacts above my proletarian position in the SBU.”

  “I understand,” said Janos.

  When Janos left the building, he looked up and saw there were many floors above the one he had visited. As he drove down Khreshchatik Boulevard, he wondered about the SBU’s relationship with the Moscow Patriarchate of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church. Janos made several turns down side streets. Although he looked in his rearview mirror, he was not worried about being followed by the SBU. He did not even bother looking for the dark blue van that had followed him to SBU headquarters. Soon, without even thinking about it, Janos found himself driving toward Mariya Nemeth’s apartment. On his way, he passed the entrance to the zoo and thought of Mariya as a creature more wild than anything a zoo could hold.

  Perhaps Mariya Nemeth was the woman all men were in search of. Perhaps, in her own way, she was the ideal woman. Enticing, yet dangerous. Simply put, perfect.