Juli’s eyes moistened, her lips held tightly together, trembling.
Suddenly he felt very close to her. A link to his brother, as though he were about to tell Nina her husband had died. Where was his anger at this woman who might have torn Mihaly away from Nina?
Tears began to flow down the cheeks of this woman named Juli, tears like his at the cathedral where he’d protested the injustice of Mihaly’s death, as if there were such a thing as justice in this world.
Despite her tears, Juli continued staring at him. “It’s Mihaly.”
“He’s dead.” Lazlo had to swallow to continue. “I found out this morning.”
He expected her to break down. But she simply blinked her eyes and said, “What about Mihaly’s wife and little girls? I went to the apartment. A neighbor said they’d gone to the plant to see about him.”
“They’ve been taken to Moscow. I don’t know any other details except they are at a hospital there.”
A noisy pair of officers passed, and Juli glanced their way. She continued staring at the doorway as if the news were not true, as if Mihaly would appear there. For some time she sat this way, her youthful profile stained as tears began to flow. Her cheeks were smooth, her nose rounded, her chin jutting ever so slightly. Although he had fought the feeling, she reminded him of Nina.
Lazlo stood, went to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up, leaned her head, and raised her shoulder, pressing his hand against her cheek, squeezing his hand hard between her cheek and shoulder. Finally, she trembled and wept openly.
“Nikolai Nikolskaia?” shouted Komarov. “Who the hell is that?”
Captain Azef shrugged his shoulders. “He said he spoke with you by phone this morning. He was reluctant to give information to anyone but you. I had to show him my identification before he would reveal he is a PK agent from Pripyat. He said Captain Putna ordered him and his partner to locate Chernobyl workers. They followed a worker to Kiev last night. I would have questioned their motive for following a single worker until he told me the worker they followed is Juli Popovics.”
“Yes,” said Komarov. “I did speak with him this morning.”
“Before we followed Horvath to the cathedral?” said Azef, looking puzzled.
“I had my reasons for not telling you. Where is Nikolskaia’s partner?”
“The other PK agent followed Juli Popovics to militia headquarters where she inquired about Detective Horvath. Shall I bring Nikolskaia in?”
“Yes, Captain. I’ll speak with him alone.”
Azef looked disappointed. “Does this have to do with the Horvath’s American cousin?”
“Send Nikolskaia in on your way out, Captain. I’ve gained his trust, and I’ll fill you in later. Have my secretary bring tea.”
Komarov stood at his window while he waited for Nikolskaia.
He remained at the window as his secretary put the tea tray on his desk. Because his secretary was almost deaf, he did not turn to thank her and knew she did not expect to be thanked. Over the years, the old Slav had become good at coming and going unnoticed.
Even though he could not see it, Komarov stared out his window in the direction of Chernobyl. With Juli Popovics in Kiev contacting Detective Horvath, Mihaly Horvath dead, Azef confused, and Deputy Chairman Dumenko backing him, an impression of conspiracy was created. For Komarov, the more killed and injured, the better. Grigor Komarov, the diligent Soviet citizen who helped the union save face in the wake of nuclear catastrophe.
Nikolai Nikolskaia wore a soiled imitation leather jacket, wrinkled shirt, and no tie. He was a young man with soft features reminding Komarov of his son, Dmitry. Nikolskaia watched warily as Komarov adjusted his uniform lapels and tie after sitting at his desk.
“Please sit down,” said Komarov in a tone he usually reserved for higher officials.
Nikolskaia sat nervously, staring at the tea tray. “Thank you, Major Komarov.”
“I understand you followed Juli Popovics here to Kiev.”
“Captain Putna instructed us to observe her. We felt badly about having to leave the area. We would have liked to stay and help.”
“I’m sure you would have,” said Komarov. “Just as I wish I could be there to help. But critical counterespionage work needs to be done here in Kiev.”
“If there is anything I… we can do, Major…”
“Tell me, Nikolskaia, did it seem to you Juli Popovics was running away from something other than radiation danger?”
“We thought of this… it could be.”
Komarov poured tea for himself and pushed the tray to Nikolskaia. “From the beginning, give me details of your observation.”
After a few sips of tea, Nikolskaia began with letters intercepted at the post office, including those between the Horvath brothers, and from the cousin, Andrew Zukor. Regarding letters from Juli Popovics, Nikolskaia concluded she was pregnant, as indicated in recent correspondence to her aunt. Next he told about their observation of the apartment and the arrival of “others” who drove Juli Popovics and her roommate quickly out of town.
“And then,” said Nikolskaia, “as we waited in line at the roadblock, she left the car and went on foot, passing through the roadblock without being stopped. She took the metro and stayed in the Hotel Dnieper lobby until going to militia headquarters this morning.”
Komarov swiveled his chair, facing away from Nikolskaia. “Perhaps I should provide some background. During the past year, KGB analysts, at my direction, have researched the Horvath family. The cousin, Andrew Zukor, was given the name Gypsy Moth because, as a moth flies to and from a bright light, Zukor has flown in and out of the Ukraine many times. We’ve had men watching him. Although he is a U.S. citizen, he bases his operations in Hungary. We believe he is part of a deep-cover operation collecting technologi-cal intelligence. Therefore, communicating with Mihaly Horvath, a senior reactor control engineer at the Chernobyl Power Station, has been a concern. To put it bluntly, I am now certain CIA operatives, perhaps answering directly to the movie actor President Reagan, have been working to discredit the Soviet nuclear program. And what better way to do this than to cause an accident at the plant?”
Komarov felt pleased with the scenario he had concocted. A CIA operative attempting to influence a Chernobyl engineer should get Nikolskaia’s blood boiling. He swiveled his chair back to Nikolskaia, waited a moment, and when Nikolskaia did not answer, continued. “It’s unfortunate we do not have this Zukor fellow here in our country where the court system could deal with him. With existing evidence, it would be a matter of charges, verdict, and prison term. Swift justice and, if necessary, perhaps some telephone justice for good measure.”
Komarov could see his conversation was having the desired effect. Nikolskaia looked confused and uncomfortable at having been told too much.
“I’m sorry,” continued Komarov. “I assumed you knew in cases of espionage, verdicts are often determined by a Party official’s phone call to a judge.”
Komarov stood and walked to his window. He turned around to face Nikolskaia, knowing he presented a dark figure against the bright western sky, as he continued a speech he felt would put Nikolskaia in the palm of his hand.
“We know Zukor visited the Horvath brothers at their ancestral farm last summer. We know funds were passed to Zukor from CIA operatives. Therefore, it is obvious the Gypsy Moth seeks to destabilize the union just as his namesake destabilized vegetation in his country. Zukor is a Gypsy, like his cousins. Have you noticed Gypsies have olive-colored skin? These races have a tendency to worship false gods, generate extremists, and do their best to disrupt civilized Soviet society. Haven’t we learned our lesson in Afghanistan?
“I’m concerned about our union, Comrade Nikolskaia. At first glance, openness and restructuring seem constructive. But if leaders in their embrace of restructuring fall into a trap, what will they find at the bottom of the pit? Not extremists. They will be at the edge of the pit, looking down. To climb the walls of the pit one must overcome
religion, capitalism, homosexuality, and all extremism!”
Nikolskaia sat upright, expanding his chest and staring wide-eyed. Komarov’s rant had taken hold. He returned to his desk and sat down, picked up his teacup, and had a sip. Nikolskaia did the same, but his eyes were wide with anticipation. Komarov allowed a minute to pass, saying nothing before continuing in a calmer voice.
He commended Nikolskaia on his actions before he began preparing Nikolskaia for what would become a more elaborate version of Juli Popovics’ trip to Kiev.
First, because of the speed of the escape, it was obvious Juli Popovics was running from fear of capture. The men who tried to stop the car, Nikolskaia admitted, might have been other agents; indeed, they probably were, since his being a PK agent did not give him familiarity with all KGB operations in Pripyat. Next, instead of merely following others on back roads to avoid the reactor site, the car in which Juli Popovics rode purposely evaded pursuers.
Finally, Komarov got Nikolskaia to agree Juli Popovics surrepti-tiously entered Kiev, leaving the car in which she had escaped Pripyat and going on foot, using methods to avoid authorized KGB observation.
“Juli Popovics knew she was being followed by the KGB,” said Komarov. “She has something to hide and has gone out of her way to lose herself in Kiev. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Nikolskaia, obviously afraid to say no.
By the end of the session, Nikolskaia was more than willing to complete and sign a preliminary report in Komarov’s office, with Captain Azef called in as witness. Nikolskaia and his partner would make a full report later in the day. Komarov ordered two men to replace Nikolskaia’s partner watching Juli Popovics, and the two PK agents from Pripyat would return to Komarov’s office for further orders.
After Nikolskaia and Azef were gone, Komarov lit a cigarette and returned to his window. Down on the street, he saw Nikolskaia enter a battered Moskvich, which smoked as it started. He would keep the PK agents on the case, dress them up in new suits, and give them a Volga to drive. In their new positions as KGB investigators, they would, if there was ever an inquiry, collaborate the evidence of the conspiracy uncovered by Major Grigor Komarov.
Komarov left his window and returned to his desk. He placed a call to Major Dmitry Struyev, the only member of Directorate T in the Kiev office. Struyev was a trusted comrade, a so-called hard-liner. He was rarely in his office, but today he answered his phone.
“I am calling about a matter I brought up some time ago,” said Komarov.
“Proceed,” said Struyev, a man of few words.
“The American visiting Hungary has become a problem.”
“Gypsy Moth?”
“Yes,” said Komarov. “He has information critical to our nuclear program and is about to pass the information along. I need to be certain he does not.”
“I understand,” said Struyev. “Is there anything else?”
“No.”
They hung up without further comment. Komarov went back to his window and looked west. Somewhere beyond the Carpathians, Andrew Zukor would soon meet a man sent by Struyev. Whatever knowledge Zukor had would be gone, and the Chernobyl conspiracy would strengthen. As he stood at his window, Komarov felt the irony of his son, Dmitry, having the same name as the man he had just called.
Although Juli took precautions to limit her radiation exposure, she felt there was more she could have done. Instead of waiting to use the ladies’ room at the Hotel Dnieper to wash and change clothes, she should have used the ladies’ room earlier in the metro station.
Back in Pripyat, instead of going to see about Mihaly’s family, she should have stayed in the apartment.
As if he knew about the baby, Mihaly’s brother seemed anxious, taking time to call a hospital and arrange tests, driving her himself, and waiting for her. When the tests were completed, Lazlo came to her with a look of compassion.
“What did they say?” asked Lazlo.
“The counters showed nothing above normal. They took a blood sample. I’m supposed to call about the results tomorrow.”
“Did they give you anything?”
“Potassium iodide. It limits the amount of radioactive iodine in my system, especially my thyroid.”
She didn’t tell Lazlo the doctor who treated her gave her an extra dose of potassium iodide for the baby and recommended she consider an abortion.
Lazlo asked when she had eaten last. When she said twenty-four hours earlier, he took her to a nearby restaurant, where they ate thick borscht and pork sandwiches.
Lazlo wanted to know about her trip, about her plans. She gave details about the explosion Saturday morning, the precautions she and Marina had taken, the visit to Mihaly’s apartment, and the long wait before Vasily came for them on Sunday. She told him about Aunt Magda in Visenka. Lazlo said it was only a half-hour drive to the south, and he would take her.
“We fled south like war refugees,” said Juli. “Chernobyl workers and farmers alike. I heard people speaking Russian, Ukrainian, Slavic, and Hungarian. The voices seemed to come from another world.”
While Juli spoke, Lazlo stared at her. His eyes were dark and sincere, conveying a feeling of experience, knowledge, and gentleness.
A mature Mihaly, a man devoted to duty. His hair was graying but thick, and seemed windblown despite being inside the restaurant.
“We are in another world,” said Lazlo. “Mihaly once told me others at the plant considered Hungarians aloof. I remember when I was a boy having to learn Russian. I remember helping teach Russian to Mihaly. When it was time to move to Kiev, we had to learn Ukrainian. But we never lost touch with our first language. We spoke it whenever we were together.”
“I also remember learning languages,” said Juli. “My father taught me Hungarian while my mother taught me Russian. They fought over which language I should use. When I was a little girl, I used the two languages to pit my parents against one another, to get my way. It was only later, in Pripyat, when I began learning Ukrainian.”
“When was the last time you saw Mihaly?” asked Lazlo.
“Friday after work on the bus. He said he would be working on the shutdown.”
“What did he talk about?”
“The shutdown, the reasons for it.”
“Did he seem nervous?”
“Yes. He said it was dangerous doing the shutdown because of things recently going wrong. He spoke often of inadequate safety at the plant. It was a low-power experiment he didn’t think necessary… I didn’t expect this to happen… his wife and girls going to the plant… I feel responsible. I could have done something to prevent this. I failed. I…”
Lazlo touched her hand. “You can’t blame yourself for what fate brings.”
“I blame myself because Friday, when I spoke with Mihaly, I felt very selfish. I was the only person in the world who couldn’t have what she wanted. Mihaly was going back to his wife, and I was going back to loneliness. So now where is Mihaly? And where is his family?” Juli wiped her eyes with her table napkin. “Forgive me. I’m good at only weeping and messing with lives where I don’t belong.”
“Would you like to leave for your aunt’s now?”
“Yes.”
On the way out of the restaurant, several patrons looked at her sadly like those on the buses waiting to get into Kiev, but also like the faces on the bus taking Mihaly away Friday afternoon so long ago.
Before driving Juli to her aunt’s, Lazlo called headquarters. Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko told him that personnel from the Ministry of Energy had joined the militia at the roadblocks and people were being measured with Geiger counters. Technicians sprayed those contaminated with a solution from tanker trucks.
“Who ordered this?” asked Lazlo.
“The Health Ministry,” said Lysenko. “In any case, you’re due back at the roadblock from Korosten tonight at midnight. The army is evacuating everyone from the area around Chernobyl, and Chief Investigator Chkalov has ordered double shifts.”
Whil
e driving out of Kiev, Lazlo turned on the radio for local news. Radio Moscow’s report was short, the commentator saying an accident had occurred at the Chernobyl nuclear facility north of Kiev, but everything possible was being done.
“Everything possible is being done,” commented Juli. “Which is absolutely nothing for all the people who sat in their homes not knowing about the radiation. I should have warned people. I should have gone from apartment to apartment.”
When he stopped at a traffic signal, Lazlo looked at Juli. She stared at him, and for an instant he felt a floating sensation, an insane moment when reality slips away to a parallel world created by a slight turn of events. In this parallel world, he marries Nina, and she sits beside him in coat and scarf. It was easy to imagine because Juli’s soft features and the green of her eyes reminded him of Nina, or of what Nina had secretly meant to him.
Juli continued staring at him. “I was selfish,” she said. “But perhaps I have reason. Last Friday night I was going to tell Mihaly… not to make him responsible… I was going to tell him… I was going away for several months… to have our baby.”
A car horn sounded from behind, and Lazlo drove on, feeling as though the entire universe had slipped a notch.
The Dnieper River bridge south of Trukhanov Island was sometimes referred to by citizens of Kiev as a bridge between two worlds.
On one side was Kiev, with its Monument of the Motherland and its hills and trees and architecture from earlier centuries when a structure was more than mere shelter. On the other side of the bridge was Darnitsa, set back beyond the river foliage on flatlands, its rectangular buildings like so many dominoes.
South out of Darnitsa along the eastern shore of the Dnieper, the hills across the river rose steeply. The river was wide, capturing the shadows of the hills. A passenger steamer heading south to the Black Sea added perspective to the picture postcard. As she watched the view out the car window, Juli imagined she was with the father of her future child on a holiday trip to Odessa and there was no such thing as radiation, or even atoms. Everything was solid and stable and would last forever.
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