“Now what?” said Nikolai.
Pavel shut off the engine. “I’ll go on foot. I’m tired of driving anyhow. We have to follow through on this, or we’ll have no reason for having left Pripyat without orders. Stay in line. You’ll get through eventually. I’ll meet you at the KGB branch office tomorrow. If I can’t get away, I’ll call and leave a message for you at Major Komarov’s office so you can pick me up.”
Pavel got out of the car, and Nikolai slid behind the wheel.
“You want me to go to Komarov’s office?” asked Nikolai.
“Of course. Without Captain Putna around, we’ll need further direction. Komarov’s orders put Juli Popovics under observation.
Think big, Nikolai. This could be our opportunity for promotion.
Perhaps the Gypsy Moth information for Major Komarov will bear fruit.”
“What information? All we have from Captain Putna is a hint about someone called Gypsy Moth trying to destabilize the country.”
“Komarov is pushing for information. We’re his contacts directly from the Chernobyl area. If we don’t find anything by following Juli Popovics, we’ll think of something.”
It was a kaleidoscope of conversation as Juli walked between cars and buses.
Some pondered apocalypse-the Soviet Union was falling apart.
Environmental advocates had been right all along. It was the end of the world. Christ would come down the following Easter Sunday and take the faithful with him. Because birds fly to heaven in winter, and few had been seen in the area, the birds knew not to return.
Others pondered rumor and myth-alcohol flushed radiation out of one’s system. Operators at the plant smoked hashish. The iodine at most pharmacies was gone. Some evacuees were seen burying their valuables because looters were already waiting in the woods like wolves. Party bosses knew about the accident before it happened. How else would they have been prepared to speed out of town in their Volgas?
Because most cars and buses had turned off their engines and lights, the walk between the two lines of traffic was dark. The only light came from flashlights or lanterns aboard buses, the glow of cigarettes, and the bright lights of the checkpoint shining through the dust and haze in the distance. As Juli neared the checkpoint, more and more people joined her, sometimes bumping into her or stepping on her heels. Beyond the lights of the checkpoint, she saw the change in landscape, the downslope of the river valley, and finally, the lights of Kiev.
There was chaos at the roadblock. The few people who wanted to leave Kiev were turned back by Lazlo’s men, and the hundreds arriving from the north were being allowed into the city only if they had a specific destination. Those without a destination were directed to the Selskaya collective farm thirty kilometers west of the city.
Lazlo’s men had already sent several hundred to the Selskaya farm, and now he awaited further orders.
Some local Kievians trying to exit the city to outlying areas complained the so-called accident at Chernobyl was nothing but an excuse for evacuees to head south for holiday. Others claimed officials in Kiev must have known about the accident earlier than everyone else because they kept their children out of school Saturday and started their weekend early, going to their dachas. One man said he’d seen scores of fire trucks head north Saturday. When Lazlo heard this, he recalled his meeting with Lysenko earlier in the day and wondered if there was a reason Lysenko had not given him more details of the enormity of the accident.
Lazlo showed photographs of Mihaly, Nina, and the girls to his men, but no one had seen them. But with the chaos, anyone could slip through unnoticed. When a group of Young Pioneers arrived to help, Lazlo showed them the photographs while instructing them to direct traffic and make sure no one got out of line and blocked the lanes out of the city. Whereas few vehicles were allowed out of the city earlier in the evening, now trucks and emergency vehicles whose drivers had been given passes headed north.
The crowd of people who had left cars and buses grew to an alarming size. Eventually, because there were no fences or other boundaries on the sides of the road, the crowds from both sides merged, making it impossible for the militia to stop those on foot from crossing in either direction. Lazlo tried in vain to help his men maintain order. During this confusion, he was unaware of his brother’s lover crossing into Kiev followed by a KGB agent a few meters behind her beyond the lights of the roadblock.
Other KGB agents at the scene were also unaware of the crossing.
Two of them, recruited to Kiev from their Romanian border-guard posts, sat in the dark in a black Chaika with yellow fog lights a half kilometer from the roadblock watching Chernobyl refugees pass by on their way into Kiev. Both agents wore their green border-guard uniforms.
One of the agents lit a cigarette. “I don’t understand about Komarov.”
“What about him?” asked the other.
“There’s an accident at Chernobyl, and instead of going to the scene, he stays in Kiev and searches for suspects.”
“Bigger fish have already volunteered for the medals they’ll get at Chernobyl. Komarov is from the old KGB. He’s already got interrogators working on the poor souls they flew to Moscow, and he’s got us watching his suspects here.”
“So you think Detective Horvath is a suspect?”
“He must be. Otherwise why would we be assigned to watch him?”
Pavel followed Juli Popovics through the mass of angry people.
Voices were raised in protest and dismay at what had happened at Chernobyl. As in any crowd where one achieves momentary anonymity, many spoke out against the authorities and against their insistence the population be left in the dark. At one point, a shoving match broke out, and Pavel was actually pushed into Juli Popovics, knocking her down. He helped her up, excused himself, dropped back into the crowd, and continued following her.
Farther away from the roadblock, Pavel kept his distance. Because she was carrying an overnight bag, it was easy to follow her.
The only time he had difficulty was when she descended the stairs to the Kiev metro. He had to run in order to catch the train.
She exited the metro in central Kiev at Khreshchatik Station.
From there he followed her to the Hotel Dnieper. It was one in the morning. Pavel watched from a corner in the lobby. Juli Popovics apparently tried to register for a room, but was refused. The lobby was crowded with people unable to get a room. So, along with dozens of others, Juli Popovics and Pavel of the PK waited for someone to vacate a comfortable chair or sofa so they could settle in for the night.
Juli Popovics was first to find a chair. Pavel lingered near an open stairway to the second floor. He went halfway up to the landing and sat on a stair at a spot where he could keep an eye on Juli Popovics through an opening in the ornate railing. Glancing behind him, he saw a statue of Vladimir Ilich Lenin in the corner of the landing. Lenin held his hand up as if pointing the way up the next flight of stairs. Pavel wondered if following Juli Popovics here had been the right thing to do. Was there any chance he and Nikolai would even meet Major Komarov? Pavel whispered to himself,
“What now, Uncle? Climb the stairs to promotion?” Pavel chuckled, then turned back to watch Juli Popovics, who had closed her eyes.
From conversations overheard during the night, it was obvious even here, in Kiev, with all its newspapers and radio and television stations, no one knew exactly what had happened at Chernobyl.
With a news blackout of such magnitude, it was not difficult to sur-mise a disaster had occurred. For, as any Soviet citizen knows, the less the news, the greater the story.
15
On Monday, April 28, over forty-eight hours after the explosion of Chernobyl’s unit four, news of the disaster finally made it to the outside world. Workers at a Swedish nuclear plant began setting off radiation alarms as they entered the facility. This resulted in quan-titative measurements of the atmosphere. Radiation levels fifteen times the normal level were present in the air being blown from the Soviet
Union.
Lacking seismic data to indicate a nuclear test, Western scientists concluded an accidental release of radiation, perhaps from a nuclear reactor, had occurred somewhere in the western Soviet Union. When news services got hold of the radioactive-cloud story, ripples of news flowed back across the frontier by way of Radio Free Europe and Voice of America.
After obtaining the Zhiguli as his personal militia vehicle three years earlier, Lazlo installed inside the glove box a used Blaupunkt radio, which received shortwave frequencies along with local frequencies.
The radio provided welcome distraction during many nights on stakeout. Without his secret radio, he would have been forced to listen only to militia two-way broadcasts instead of the strings of Lakatos and other Hungarian Gypsy music broadcast each evening from Radio Budapest.
On his way to the Ministry of Energy Monday morning, Lazlo heard about the radiation cloud over Sweden on Radio Free Europe.
The station was easy enough to find, but it was difficult to offset the frequency enough to eliminate the whirring buzz saw of the Soviet jammer. After hearing the report of radioactivity originating in the western Soviet Union, Lazlo switched to Radio Moscow’s local frequency. No mention of the radioactive cloud or of the disaster at the Chernobyl plant, no mention of the hordes of people who had come from the north throughout the night.
While the man and woman commentators on Radio Moscow droned on about the agricultural and economic outlook, Lazlo wondered if he’d been assigned overnight at the roadblock to keep him out of the way. Hundreds had entered Kiev, giving names of relatives who would be expecting them. Thousands had been sent to the Selskaya collective farm, which was equipped to handle two hundred.
Lazlo arrived at the Ministry of Energy at seven thirty. He’d spent most of Sunday afternoon and the entire night at the roadblock. He was hoarse from shouting at his men and at Chernobyl refugees. A cleaning woman in the building lobby waited until Lazlo cleared his throat before telling him no one arrived until nine.
Lazlo drove to his apartment. He tried calling Pripyat again without luck. He washed his face, changed clothes, and made himself two boiled eggs and coffee. Tamara’s black nightgown still lay across his bed from the night before. He sat on the edge of the bed and lifted the gown. The gown retained Tamara’s fragrance, and Lazlo closed his eyes, caressing the gown to his face as if it were the silk edge of a child’s blanket.
Twenty-four hours earlier he had been in bed with Tamara, but now their night together and breakfast at the bakery seemed weeks ago. As he sat on the bed fondling Tamara’s nightgown, thoughts of Tamara were swept aside by intervening events: the interviews with two Chernobyl workers unable to give specifics about Mihaly, the inept deputy minister at the Ministry of Energy who said everything was under control, and, finally, the long night trying to communicate with terrified refugees. Twenty-four hours since he learned an accident had occurred at Chernobyl and still he knew nothing of Mihaly and Nina and the girls. Was it planned? Chkalov and Lysenko teaming up to keep him in the dark? Sending him to one particular roadblock so he would be unaware of the numerous firemen and militia sent north? Perhaps they’d been worried the Gypsy might have pulled out his old Makarov 9mm and…
Suddenly something tore at his face. He opened his eyes with a start, realizing he had begun to doze off. His bristly beard was snagged in Tamara’s gown. He placed the gown gently on the bed, got a cup of strong coffee from the stove, and went into the bathroom to shave.
The office of the minister of electric power looked like any other Party official office with the union flag and the requisite portrait of Lenin commanding the center of attention. There was also a portrait of Nikolai Ryzhkov, the Soviet prime minister, but none of Gorbachev, and Lazlo wondered about this.
Viktor Asimov’s head was thinner on top than on the bottom because of massive cheeks and jowls. He had an aloof look, reminding Lazlo of Brezhnev. If the smile was as false as it looked, perhaps he would soon wish Asimov was also dead and buried in the Kremlin.
Lazlo politely refused Asimov’s offer of coffee or tea and sat in one of the chairs facing the desk. The guest chair was lower than the one behind the desk.
“So,” said Asimov, “Deputy Minister Mishin informs me you were here yesterday. Is this an official visit from the Kiev militia?”
“No,” said Lazlo. “I want information about my relatives who live in Pripyat, and especially about my brother, an engineer at Chernobyl. After being at a roadblock all night and seeing the panic of thousands, I’m not prepared for the sort of dialogue I had with your deputy.”
“What sort of dialogue?” asked Asimov.
“Saying everything is under control,” said Lazlo. “Please fill me in as quickly as possible about what you know, Comrade Minister, because I am tired and impatient.”
Asimov stood and turned to the window. “Very well, Detective Horvath. I was simply trying to be civil. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Asimov paused, continued standing with his back to Lazlo. “Your brother, Mihaly Horvath, senior reactor control engineer, was one of two engineers injured in an explosion at the Chernobyl Nuclear Facility early in the morning on Saturday, April 26. Both injured men worked in the control area of the disabled RBMK-1000 reactor and were airlifted to Moscow for treatment. I am saddened to inform you your brother died from his injuries Sunday, April 27.”
The morning sunlight through the window beyond Asimov lay across the floor on bloodred carpet. On the wall, Lenin gazed skyward while Ryzhkov scowled. Lazlo sensed he was in the office, then felt for a moment he was not in the office. An overwhelming sense of guilt assailed him. The image of the dying Gypsy became Mihaly, and he became his brother’s murderer. History and time meant nothing. Was he a detective in the Kiev militia? Was he a nineteen-year-old soldier? Or was he a farmer? Mihaly with him, neither of them ever having attended the university in Kiev, neither of them ever having left the farm to be here in hell where machines steal a man’s mind and body. Mihaly!
If only closing his eyes could take him to the wine cellar. If only he could see Mihaly dance the czardas in his red canvas sneakers made in Czechoslovakia. If only this were a drunken dream caused by too much wine. Mihaly!
“I’m sorry,” said Asimov, returning to his chair and staring down at his desk. “It must be terrible, one’s own brother, and a younger brother. I asked associates at Medium Machine Building and The Kurchatov Institute if they had further information, but they do not.”
“What about Mihaly’s wife and children?”
“When I found out about your brother, I personally contacted officials in the area. It was difficult getting information because of the unnecessary panic.”
“What’s happened to them?”
“They were flown out of the area and are being treated in a Moscow hospital. I’ve been unable, so far, to determine their condition.
If you check back later today, I might have more news.”
“How was he killed?”
“I repeat, Detective Horvath, there was an explosion. Two engineers were severely injured, one of them your brother.”
“But you must know more.”
Asimov forced a look of sincerity. “It will all come out in the investigation, Detective Horvath. Your brother was the engineer in charge at the time, so if there was trouble, I presume he would have been close to it.”
“In charge? He wasn’t a chief engineer.”
“Nevertheless, he was the senior technical person present at the time.”
“I see,” said Lazlo. “And in this so-called investigation, will you be investigating your inadequate safety precautions and shoddy construction practices? Or will you be examining the character of my brother?”
Asimov pulled a stack of papers from the corner of his desk and began shuffling them. “I’m sorry about your brother, Detective Horvath. The sympathy of the ministry goes out to you and your family. As for investigations, I cannot speak of what has not yet taken place.
”
The wine cellar. Mihaly describing systematic deprivation of safety procedures and dangerous experiments. Mihaly saying the situation was “fucked.” Down in the wine cellar, laughing at the fucked world, and now Mihaly was fucked. Without thinking about it, Lazlo stood and walked around the desk. He stood over Asimov and put his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll come back this afternoon.
When I do, I want to speak to someone who knows about safety at Chernobyl. Someone technical.”
Asimov stared silently up at Lazlo, his jowls visibly shaking.
“Who will I be speaking with this afternoon, Comrade Minister?”
“Who?”
“Yes. Who is your resident technical expert?”
“Vatchenko, the deputy chairman of the engineering council.
He knows about safety.”
“And he’ll be here?”
Asimov nodded his head. “Yes, Detective Horvath. But please listen. There’s something Moscow has instructed me to say.”
“What’s that?”
“They said no news is to leak out except through official channels. They said we are to report to them and to no one else.”
The room blurred, and Lazlo took out his handkerchief to dry his eyes.
Asimov pushed his chair back and stood up. “Please believe I’m sorry, Detective Horvath. At times like this, there is nothing one can say or do to set things right.”
“Yes, there is.”
“What?”
“Find out about my brother’s family and have Vatchenko here this afternoon.”
The shade of a chestnut tree across the street from the Ministry of Energy made the inside of the Volga comfortable. A few minutes earlier, unable to stand it any longer, Komarov had lit a cigarette.
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