Captain Azef rolled his window partway down and said, because of the nuclear accident, air drawn through a cigarette filter might be better than the air outside.
Komarov knew about the death of Detective Horvath’s brother, Mihaly Horvath, the engineer in charge at the time of the so-called accident. These facts, plus the work his KGB branch office had done concerning the Horvath brothers, their American cousin, and Juli Popovics, prompted Deputy Chairman Dumenko to place Komarov in charge of an aggressive investigation in spite of the Chernobyl accident.
Already, an agent digging into Soviet army records had uncovered a questionable shooting incident involving Detective Horvath.
The detective was his to watch and, perhaps, catch, like a fish out of water in this scheme, whatever the scheme might turn out to be. And now two of Captain Putna’s men had followed Juli Popovics from Pripyat. She was in Kiev, and the PK agent named Nikolai was to meet Komarov at his office later in the day. On the phone this morning, Nikolai sounded gratified to be out of the back room of the rural post office. The same PK agents who first revealed the possible Gypsy Moth connection were here in Kiev. Was it coincidence that, prior to visiting his cousins last summer, Andrew Zukor had stopped at the CIA station in Budapest? Perhaps Zukor wanted to obtain information about the plant from Mihaly Horvath in order to discredit the Soviet nuclear program, or perhaps he was digging deeper, searching for plutonium production numbers the way the Americans had always done.
As they waited across from the Ministry of Energy for Detective Horvath to emerge, Komarov wondered why Juli Popovics had come to Kiev instead of going directly to her aunt’s house in Visenka. She might contact Detective Horvath, her lover’s brother; such a contact would definitely suggest conspiracy. Yes, everything was falling into place. Even Juli Popovics’ pregnancy with Mihaly Horvath’s child added to the growing evidence.
Komarov found the business of childbirth and pregnancy distasteful. When he saw duck-shaped women waddling down sidewalks, he was reminded of the birth of his son. At the time, he reacted as anyone would expect. Grigor Komarov, proud father of a son who would grow into a man, follow in his father’s footsteps, and carry on his name. But Dmitry had betrayed him. Instead of normal courtship, instead of sewing the customary wild oats, Dmitry was a lover of men, forcing into his father’s mind the image of another man’s penis in his son’s anus or even his mouth. A son who had been held up for him to see while moisture from the womb was wiped from him. These private thoughts of Dmitry made Komarov think of Gretchen, made him recall the feel of the knife entering her womb… It was as if he had tried to kill the womb.
Komarov’s wife, in her ignorance, welcomed Dmitry’s friends into their house. Several nights ago, he watched her kiss Dmitry’s current
“lover,” Fyodor, on the lips. Normally it would have been an innocent greeting, but he could not forget it. Last Saturday night, after intercourse, his wife asked why he no longer kissed her. What was he to say? He could not kiss her because her lips had kissed lips that sucked her own son’s penis? He might as well tell his wife her body had, in his imagination, become Gretchen. Gretchen beneath him in the bedroom of the “safe” house. Gretchen musklike following her union with Pudkov, who lay dead in the hall. Gretchen moaning as he touches her with one gloved hand, while in the other hand…
“Insane,” said Azef, interrupting Komarov’s thoughts.
“What are you talking about?”
“The entire situation,” said Azef. “An accident occurs, and Kiev’s public prosecutor opens an investigation. It does nothing except take our men away from us.”
“Only a few men,” said Komarov. “Not our best men.”
“I agree,” said Azef. “We save our best men for genuine investigation. While the Regional Party Committee tells Moscow what it wants to hear, we seek the truth.”
“This is why I’ve assigned men to Chernobyl,” said Komarov.
“Even though rescue and evacuation take precedence, those in charge must be questioned. Unfortunately, it leaves us shorthanded in Kiev.”
“Rather than going to the accident site, you and I must take care of matters here.” Azef paused. “But I wondered what you thought about the possibility of another explosion?”
“Nonsense,” said Komarov. “I spoke personally with Colonel Zamyatin this morning. He’s in touch with scientists from the Energy Ministry at the site. Soon all will be under control at the reactor.”
“Some who might know what caused the accident are in Moscow,” said Azef.
“I’m aware of that,” said Komarov, somewhat annoyed. “The Moscow office assured me they will handle interviews in Hospital Number Six. In case you forgot, Captain Azef, I was fully briefed before you arrived this morning. The evacuation of Pripyat is under way, directors of surrounding collectives will find space for evacuees, Black Sea hotels and campgrounds have been reserved, and komsomols will provide food. During my conversation with Moscow, we estimated as many as one hundred thousand people will need to be evacuated from around the power station. Therefore, Captain, since recovery operations are being handled, we are responsible for determining whether the explosion was an accident or sabotage!”
Komarov realized he had raised his voice. “We are all under pressure, Captain. Because we are not at the disaster scene, you and I must follow through in Kiev before suspects vanish.”
“I still wonder whether more resources should be committed to evacuation.”
Komarov lowered his window, threw his cigarette out, and stared at Azef in silence.
“I’m sorry, Major. I simply wondered about the justification for Moscow assigning security troops to Kiev instead of assigning them to the Chernobyl region.”
“Captain, we have been assigned by the directorate. If you wish to help with evacuation, perhaps I should reconsider your assignment!”
“I wish to continue my current assignment, Major. I was simply considering the magnitude of the situation. The pledge of secrecy issued this morning does not allow me to discuss these things with anyone else.”
They sat in silence for several minutes before Azef spoke again.
“There’s Detective Horvath. He’s coming out of the building.”
“Do you notice a difference in his composure?” asked Komarov.
“Possibly,” said Azef. “He’s looking down as he walks. It’s difficult to say if he received news of his brother. He looks like any other person walking down the street with nothing particular on his mind.”
Azef started the Volga and followed the Zhiguli, which sent out a puff of smoke at each shift of the gears. Detective Horvath turned onto Volodimirski Street and drove slowly, sometimes stopping and waving pedestrians across. Several times, because they drove so slowly, Azef pulled into a parking space and waited before proceeding.
“Do you think he sees us?” asked Azef.
“I don’t know,” said Komarov.
Detective Horvath parked the Zhiguli across from the Cathedral of Saint Sophia, crossed the street, and entered the portico of the cathedral with a group of people being led by a uniformed tour guide.
“Do you think he came to pray?” asked Azef.
“I don’t see why. The cathedral hasn’t had services since the state made it into a museum. Go see what he’s up to.”
While Azef was gone, Komarov watched the cathedral grounds to make certain Horvath would not escape, perhaps finding a back way out. For a moment, Komarov found himself lapsing into his earlier thoughts of Dmitry, his wife, Gretchen, and the knife. But he forced this out of his mind and concentrated on the cathedral.
The upper domes of the cathedral glittered in sunlight turned off and on by clouds blowing across the sky. Scaffolding was set up on one side, with workmen refurbishing a lower greenish dome. All this expense to appease peasants. Someday a work crew would refurbish the office of Deputy Chairman Grigor Komarov. Perhaps someday soon.
Komarov lit a cigarette and waited.
Azef retur
ned out of breath. “I… I had to run to stay ahead.
Here he comes.”
“What was he doing in there?”
“It was strange. He was praying.”
“In what way was it strange?”
“He joined a tour, and I followed. We were in the central nave when it happened.”
“What happened?” asked Komarov impatiently.
“He knelt on the floor. Right there in the middle of all those people, he knelt and started weeping aloud. He raised his hands like an icon. It was incredible. People backed away and made a circle around him. He looked to the ceiling, tears streaming down his cheeks.” Azef pointed out the window. “See those women? They’re still weeping. Everyone was weeping. It was contagious. Even I felt tears in my eyes.”
“He doesn’t look upset now,” said Komarov.
“But it’s true,” said Azef.
They followed Detective Horvath’s Zhiguli the few blocks to militia headquarters. Once Horvath parked and went inside, Komarov radioed for a nearby car to take over and told Azef to drive back to the branch office.
Komarov studied Azef, his eyes red because he had wept with the women in the cathedral. Komarov wondered if his cunning and intelligence instilled as much fear in his enemies as did this fear of the unknown, this irrational fear of a so-called God common among brutes and peasants. Christians, Muslims, Jews, and Gypsies. All the same.
16
On Monday, April 28, the rumor and speculation the government had tried to avoid spread across the Ukraine. Because of its nearness to the disaster site, an explosion of misinformation hit metropolitan Kiev. First came the evacuees who, without official news, brought stories out of proportion like snowballs rolling down hills. These accounts ranged from the entire Chernobyl complex exploding and the town of Pripyat on fire, to citizens collapsing in the streets like insects sprayed with insecticide.
Adding to the speculation was an announcement on Radio Free Europe about high levels of radiation coming from the Soviet Union.
Harsh news would require time for the Soviet News Agency to di-gest and adjust. Continued silence could mean the situation was so far out of control no one knew what to say. Technicians wielding Geiger counters at checkpoints terrified evacuees, as well as citizens of Kiev living on the outskirts near the roadblocks.
But Kievians were used to rumors, and in south and central Kiev life seemed normal. At lunchtime, office workers purchased lunches from vendors along Khreshchatik and, despite the threat of rain, picnicked in the parks along the river. Only a few Kievians hearing the news harbored thoughts of the world’s end, crawling into basements or spending the day on benches in metro air-raid shelters. The usual old women went to church to pray.
The few churches in Pripyat were empty. Residents not yet evacuated were told to seal themselves inside their apartments. Most left on buses Sunday afternoon, some of the evacuees chiding the soldiers forcing them to leave. Soldiers going floor to floor each time a contingent of buses lined up knew little and could only follow orders. The soldiers estimated Pripyat would be all but abandoned the next day.
The sounds in Pripyat came from helicopters passing overhead, army trucks traveling at high speeds, buses lining up, and soldiers shouting through gauze masks, telling residents they had two hours to gather what they could and assemble outside their buildings. Occasionally, when there were no helicopters overhead or trucks or buses on the roads, the soldiers could hear birds and dogs. Birds sang spring songs heralding the cycle of life, not knowing the nests they built here would most likely be doomed. Dogs barked in yards because of the soldiers and because masters had failed to feed them or take them for walks.
Some residents of Pripyat refused to leave. Many were inva-lids who lived alone. Among them was Mihaly and Nina Horvath’s neighbor, the old woman with a cane who had greeted Juli and Marina and Vasily at the Horvath apartment. The old woman stayed in her apartment, fearing looters would take her belongings. On Sunday the woman put her pet canary in its cage out on the balcony.
On Monday morning, finding the canary dead in the cage, the old woman made a flag saying, “Help!” out of a bedsheet and hung it out the window. The canary might have been affected by the radiation or, having been an indoor bird all of its life, might have simply suc-cumbed to the overnight chill. Whatever the reason, the old woman stood leaning on her cane at her window, waiting for soldiers to see her sign from the road and come get her.
In farming villages surrounding Pripyat, people waiting to be evacuated wondered what to do with their livestock. Some piled fodder in barnyards. Others released livestock into fields so they could fend for themselves. Inside farm cottages, kitchen tables were set with plates and cutlery for the number of people living in the cottage. This was for good luck to assure all the residents of the cottage would safely return.
If there had been a window in his small corner cubicle, Lazlo would have seen what appeared to be a typical noontime crowd in the street below. But the cubicle had no window. Lazlo never spent much time here. The only reason he came now was to try again to call the Moscow hospital treating Nina and the girls. But each time he called, the line was busy.
Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko, passing by and looking surprised to see him, leaned into the cubicle.
“I didn’t know you were here, Detective Horvath. I have a message for you. It came upstairs earlier this morning and…”
Lazlo grabbed the message. It said a woman was waiting at the downstairs desk. It said the woman chose to wait even when told Lazlo might not be in the office today. While Lazlo read the note, Lysenko stood before him, smiling like a fool. The note said the woman was young and attractive, and her name was Juli Popovics.
At first the Hungarian name made Lazlo think of the village of Kisbor, the farm where he and Mihaly grew up. But then he recalled the afternoon last winter when Mihaly confessed to him about his lover named Juli.
Citizens of Pripyat fleeing south to Kiev. It had to be. Mihaly’s lover here, to see him. Mihaly dead, Nina and the girls taken to Moscow, and Mihaly’s lover comes to him. Lazlo put the note down on his desk, and when he looked up, Lysenko was still there smiling.
“What do you want, Lysenko?”
“I thought I should fill you in. The trouble has begun. We’ve been told to watch for looters smuggling goods south in hay bales.
In villages farther from the power station, children were moved out ahead of adults, so we’ll have to watch for them at the roadblocks.”
“Anything else?”
“Since you ask,” said Lysenko, “I need to tell you Chief Investigator Chkalov questions why you did not visit the militia station when you were in Pripyat. Apparently he wonders if you might have something to add to the current Pripyat situation.”
Lazlo raised his voice. “Anything else?”
“Nothing else, Detective Horvath.”
“Then why do you stand there like a baggage handler waiting for a tip?”
Lysenko frowned, shook his head. “I thought we would be able to share a professional conversation, Detective Horvath. I thought this woman might relate to a case you’re involved in.” Lysenko straightened his tie. “Since I am Chief Investigator Chkalov’s assistant, it seemed reasonable to take an interest, just as you took an interest in the roadblocks, so much of an interest that you went to the chief investigator’s home last night.”
Lazlo wanted to grab Lysenko by his tie. But as he stepped closer, he controlled the urge. “Is my brother being killed a good enough reason?”
Before Lysenko could react, Lazlo moved past him and hurried down to the front desk.
Like a true refugee, Juli Popovics carried a small overnight bag and wore a scarf and a coat too heavy for the season. The scarf was not on her head, but tied loosely about her neck. Her hair was dark brown, brushed out straight. Her face had a look of innocence, perhaps because she wore no makeup or perhaps because her eyes, large and greenish-gray and unblinking, were full of questions.
“Detective Horvath, my name is Juli Popovics. I know your brother, Mihaly. I came from Pripyat, where there has been trouble.”
“I know.” Lazlo led her to the stairs. “I recognize the Hungarian accent in your Russian.” When she nodded, he switched to Hungarian. “Come, let me take your bag.”
As he climbed the stairs ahead of her, he replayed what she’d said in his head. “I know your brother, Mihaly.” He wondered if her use of present tense was similar to the talk of relatives at a funeral, speaking of the deceased in present tense. How could she be in Pripyat and not know Mihaly was killed?
Lazlo put her bag on his desk, pulled his chair out, and sat before her, feeling vulnerable to her penetrating eyes. In the moments of silence before speaking, he stared at her. She did not know about Mihaly.
“Forgive me, Miss Popovics, my name is Lazlo.”
“Mine is Juli. We traveled all day yesterday and most of the night. Friends dropped me north of the city and went to stay with relatives. I waited at the Hotel Dnieper until morning.”
“Is it bad in Pripyat?”
“People are leaving. No physical damage. The explosion and fire was several kilometers away. But the radiation… everyone who knows about radiation has gone by now, most coming south because the wind has been blowing north. On our way here, we saw buses and army trucks going north.” Juli stared at him, her eyes open wide. “You know something about Mihaly.” She forced a smile. “He’s come here. Mihaly and his family are here!”
Lazlo stared into her eyes as he spoke. “Until this morning, I knew only about an accident at the Chernobyl plant. I was at the roadblock on the road from Korosten all night waiting for Mihaly and Nina and the girls to come. Anna and Ilonka would run to their uncle, and he would lift them up in the air. I would have driven them to my apartment. I’d still be there if this were true. I’d be celebrating with my brother and his family. But they did not come.”
Chernobyl Murders lh-1 Page 18