Medallion Press, Inc.
Printed in USA
“Rich with characters, beautifully written, and fascinating with insider details, Chernobyl Murders by Michael Beres is an unforget-table journey into one of the Cold War’s most explosive episodes.
From Kiev to Chicago, Pripyat to Vienna, you’ll feel the pulse-pounding threat of discovery and the white-hot heat of chase in this outstanding thriller. Beres serves up a feast of a story.”
—Gayle Lynds, New York Times
bestselling author of The Last Spymaster
“Whenever I spend time in Chernobyl, I see ghosts. I wonder about those who once inhabited this abandoned land. In his thriller, Michael Beres unearths some of these ghosts … Chernobyl Murders kept me up night after night, turning pages when I should have been turning out the light.”
—Michael Forster Rothbart,
Documentary Photographer, After The Nukes
“Michael Beres creates a drama of revenge from the old Soviet order, leading us on a chase across Ukraine while passionately capturing the terror, confusion, and anguish of refugees of an environmental disaster we will never forget.”
—Mary Mycio, author of
Wormwood Forest, A Natural History of Chernobyl Accolades and reviews for Grand Traverse:
“A near-future SF novel that addresses environmental concerns.”
—Publishers Weekly
“In his thrilling new novel, Michael Beres takes us into a future racked by environmental disaster. From the devastation he spins an exciting and very human tale of intrigue, revenge, and, ultimately, hope for our future.”
—Carl Pope, Executive Director Sierra Club
“Two women, damaged in different ways by environmental crimes—
one is embittered, one ennobled. Their lives and ultimate collision form a sweeping tale of our fragile world and its challenges.”
—Barbara D’Amato, Author of
DEATH OF A THOUSAND CUTS (Forge)
“There is no question on what side of the environment argument Mr. Beres is on as his twenty-first century looks as if mankind is one step away from extinction yet a thousand points of light still shine with hope to save the world.”
—The Midwest Book Review
Accolades and reviews for The President’s Nemesis:
“Beres (Grand Traverse) goes one step beyond The Manchurian Candidate in this engrossing thriller, which sometimes seems too obvious but then foils expectations by twisting the reader’s mind along with that of the protagonist. Recommended for all popular fiction collections.”
—Library Journal
“Conspiracy fanatics may enjoy Beres’s second novel (after Grand Traverse), a bizzare political thriller … The denouement would be at home in the tabloids.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A recent article in Publishers Weekly talked about how the current White House does not like that the publisher of this book has used the presidential seal on the cover because there are several bullet holes. I applaud Medallion Press for standing firm on its use of the artwork for this timely work of fiction. The novel is all about conspiracies, presidential assignations, and covert operations. Beres has written a very tense nail-biting thriller that is filled with several well fleshed out characters in tense situations. Beres sums up the discontent voters have for all politicians in this country very well in a few short sentences. THE PRESIDENT’S NEMESIS is a great political thriller.”
—Gary Roen, Midwest Book Review
“Michael Beres has written a suspenseful novel that delves into paranoia as Stanley Johnson becomes involved in a convoluted plot to assassinate the President. Readers will enjoy Johnson’s plunge into madness as people and events beyond his control begin to take over his life. Beres’ plotting is brisk and full of twist and turns. Fans of Stephen King and Dean Koontz may want to check out this great beach read.”
—Bob at jabberwocky.booksense.com
Accolades and reviews for Final Stroke:
“From Naples, Florida to Chicago, Illinois, conspiracies abound in FINAL STROKE. Author Michael Beres terrifyingly captures the paralysis and helplessness the infirm must deal with every day of their lives. Scary stuff.”
—Julie Hyzy, author of Deadly Blessings and Deadly Interest
“Michael Beres skillfully leads us into the fragmented, frustrating world of the injured brain, giving us an engrossing story that blends violence with compassion, and an outcome that suggests hope is something worth clinging to.”
—David J. Walker, Edgar-nominated author of many novels, including the Wild Onion, Ltd. series
“The Investigation by the Babes and the Feds domestic spying take a back seat to the deep look into recovering stroke victims. The communications between the Babes is incredible especially the patience of both as it must be frustrating to not be able to say what you mean to the transmitter and to the receiver. Although there is perhaps too much going on in the background (though not explored to any intruding depth), readers will appreciated this character driven whodunit starring a unique pairing of an amateur sleuth and a left brain stroke former cop.”
—Harriet Klausner, The Midwest Book Review Published 2008 by Medallion Press, Inc.
Th
e MEDALLION PRESS LOGO
is a registered tradmark of Medallion Press, Inc.
Copyright (c) 2008 by Michael Beres
Cover Illustration by Adam Mock
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fi ctionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
Typeset in Minion Pro
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Beres, Michael.
Chernobyl murders Michael Beres.p>
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-933836-29-4 (alk. paper)
1. Chernobyl Nuclear Accident, Chornobyl, Ukraine, 1986 Fiction. 2.
Ukraine—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.E7516C47 2008
813’.6—dc22
2008009011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
DEDICATION:
To Chernobyl survivors and their families.
“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”
—Bhagavad-Gita, Hindu Scripture, quoted by J. Robert Oppenheimer, 1945
“I don’t know what I should talk about—about death or about love? Or are they the same? Which one should I talk about?”
—Wife of Chernobyl Fireman, in Voices from Chernobyl, Svetlana Alexievich (1987)
1
Present Day
Kiev, Ukraine
Kiev is unusually warm for May as a noon crowd thickens with workers on their lunch break. Some carry lunches wrapped in newspaper as they weave in and out of tourists studying brochures and shoppers carrying parcels. The workers move quickly downhill on Khreshchatik Boulevard like rivulets of water eager to reach the cool river bottom of the ancient valley. They flood onto European Square like conquering Mongol hordes, taking tourists and shoppers with them into the park, where food vendors wait in the shade of chestnut trees. Ignoring pedestrian underpasses, the crowd tightens a tourniquet on the flow of traffic. A person monitoring a spy satellite might conclude something in the city has res
ulted in panic, but it is simply hunger.
Queues at food vendors extend into the hot sun on the square.
Slavs with frowning broad faces lean sideways to study the length of queues. These workers from downtown hotels, museums, and shops wear faded cotton coveralls and dresses of nonprofessionals.
Although tulips bloom in European Square, locals scowl as they curse the current Eurasian heat wave.
On the other hand, thin-faced non-Slav tourists in casual dress wear grins. It is as if the Carpathians ruled out smiling for anyone born east of its slopes. Perhaps it has to do with the Great War, the reign of Stalin, and other more recent terrors. Sordid headlines of war and global climate change all around them, yet Americans, British, and Hungarians with money to spend put on contemporary
“happy faces,” while Ukrainians, Russians, Belarussians, Czechs, and Serbs insist on misery. The climate going to hell. Unchecked fundamentalism stretching its talons across the Black Sea to convert cathedrals into mosques. Who knows how many causes can be blamed for traditional Eastern European melancholy?
But here is a contrast. At the wide entrance to the park, an older man sits alone on a bench. Even though his face is thin and he wears a baseball cap typical of a tourist, he does not smile. Most park benches face south into the sun, or west to provide a view of the tree-lined boulevard. The bench on which the older man sits seems the only one facing away from cheerfulness and into a four-foot wall put up to block side-street construction. The construction continues, machinery buzzing and clanking despite the noon hour.
It is difficult to tell the age of the man facing the construction wall. He wears slacks and, despite the heat, a sports coat and a red, white, and green tie. The white emblem above the beak of his black baseball cap reads, “Sox.” The man’s sharp nose is prominent, his narrow face deeply lined. A pair of frowning native Kievians, white-uniformed young women carrying lunch sacks, comment on his age as they pass. One saying from behind he looked younger in his cap; the other commenting on his face. “A man who has lived a hard life,” she says. “You can always tell.”
The older man turns to watch the young women depart, nods, then looks back to the construction wall. A younger man, who has been leaning against the wall observing construction on the other side, turns and stares at the older man. The younger man is in his thirties, tall, shaved bald, and wearing dark sunglasses.
After a moment the younger man approaches the bench, smiling as the older man slides over to make room. The younger man wears khaki slacks, carries his jacket, and does not wear a tie. He raises his sunglasses for a moment and glances down at a tour guidebook he carries. He speaks, his voice loud enough to be heard over traffic and the construction.
“It says before the fall of the Soviet Union this was called Lenkomsomol Square. I beg your pardon, but do you happen to know the meaning of Lenkomsomol?”
The question is in Ukrainian, and the older man answers in Ukrainian. “It’s a shortened version of Lenin Komsomol, or Lenin Youth League. They changed the name some time ago.” The older man motions with his hand beyond the construction wall. “Over there the Ukrainian House used to be the Lenin Museum.”
“My first trip to Kiev,” says the younger man. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your lunch break.”
“Not at all,” says the older man. “As you can see, I’m not eating.
I can’t make out your accent. Is it Russian?”
“I’d call it goulash,” says the younger man, smiling. “A mixture of several languages. Hungarian, English, Russian … even some German.”
The older man studies the younger man several seconds before responding. “You speak Ukrainian well. Coincidentally, besides Ukrainian, I also know Hungarian, Russian, and, more recently, English.”
The two men consider one another several seconds before the younger man continues. “Are you from Kiev?”
“I currently live in Chicago, Illinois, in the United States.”
“I can see from your cap. Are the Sox white in Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t sure if they were white or red. But regarding Kiev, is this a return visit?”
After a pause the older man says, “I lived here many years ago.
The mood was completely different then.”
“How so?”
“A state of panic. And I don’t mean the rush to queue up for lunch.”
The younger man raises a hand to shade his eyes and looks more closely at the older man. “Surely you’re not speaking of the war. You’re not old enough to have served in the war.”
“No, another time when people faced uncertainty and shorter lives for their children.”
“Of course,” says the younger man. “You’re speaking of Chernobyl. You say you lived here then? Have you visited Chernobyl?”
“I could have gone today if I’d wanted,” says the older man, turning to look north, staring up at the sky beyond the buildings.
“The last time I saw the plant was before the accident. Those who came with me to Kiev on this trip insisted I join them, but I turned them down. I need to keep alive my memories of happier times.
Visiting the sarcophagus would be like visiting the graves of loved ones. Did you know lunch is brought in with the tour rather than being cooked in the exclusion zone?”
“I’d heard,” says the younger man. “My tour book suggests a visit to the Chernobyl Museum a few blocks from here. It says many who wish to tour the plant and the exclusion zone decide not to go after a visit to the museum. It must have been chaos after the explosion. Everyone running about in a state of panic, the drunken peasants from the north causing most of the trouble, I suppose …”
“I blame officials for the panic,” says the older man. “In their search for scapegoats, they became murderers.”
The younger man rubs his chin with one hand. “Tell me, do you think Chernobyl really was an accident as they say?”
“You’re not the first, nor will you be the last to pose the question.
History loves conspiracy. Facts hide in the mists of time. If you’re going to ask if I think there was a conspiracy to cause the Chernobyl explosion, which I know is your purpose, you’d better hurry.”
The younger man glances about. “Why?”
“Because one of these days it will be time for me to put my violin back in its case. When I do, my strings will be silent.”
The younger man smiles. “You’re a smart one.”
“Not as smart as I could have been, especially back then.”
“When do your friends return from Chernobyl?”
“The bus arrives at the Chernobyl Museum at seven.”
“I assume you’ll dine somewhere in the city when they return. I also assume you are staying at one of the nearby hotels. Perhaps the Dnipro across the square …”
The older man interrupts. “It used to be called the Hotel Dnieper, same as the river. The locals use the Ukrainian spelling.
Many things have changed names since I was last in Kiev.”
“Everything changes,” says the younger man. “Especially the weather. I don’t recall it ever being this hot in Kiev in May.”
“You said this was your first trip to Kiev.”
The younger man smiles, takes out a handkerchief, and dabs his bare head. “Many believe the Earth Mother is in the process of kicking our asses off her planet. First we have ice-age winters, now we have a tropical spring. Some locals say Chernobyl, as well as climate change, are ongoing signs from God. He’s weary of our fiddling in his business.”
The older man turns and simply stares at the younger man without comment.
“This weather,” explains the younger man, putting his handkerchief away. “God sending the Earth Mother to retaliate for our having messed with the planet. It’s a record temperature for early May. This morning the war veterans sweated their balls off during their patriotic march.”
The older man turns back to the construction wall, above which a clou
d of dust has risen. “I believe you were going to suggest a restaurant.”
“I suppose, since you skipped lunch, you will be quite hungry by dinnertime. It’s the restaurant in Casino Budapest. I dined there last night. Excellent cuisine as well as entertainment. Not far from here at Leontovicha Number Three. Don’t worry about mixed company. The strip club isn’t connected to the restaurant. The entertainment in the restaurant is strictly musical.”
“How do you know I haven’t already eaten lunch?” asks the older man. “And how do you know I won’t want to enjoy a striptease show while I eat?” When the younger man does not answer, the older man continues. “Will I see you or another representative from your agency at dinner tonight?”
The younger man shakes his head sadly as he stands. “Casino Budapest has an excellent restaurant. I may dine there myself again tonight.” He points to the older man’s chest. “Perhaps your tie prompted my suggestion. The colors of the Hungarian flag.”
“The Italian and Bulgarian flags also use these colors, only in different order.”
The younger man smiles and begins walking away. “You know your flags. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m headed for the Ukrainian House exhibition center. It used to be called Lenin’s Museum, you know.”
After the younger man is gone, the older man takes off his Sox cap, raises one arm to wipe his forehead with his jacket sleeve, and puts his cap back on. He stares above the construction wall at its north end. Beyond the layered clouds of dust between buildings, he can see storm clouds gathered on the horizon. For a moment, the look on the older man’s face freezes in an expression of terror and panic, and he stands. But soon his expression calms, he straightens his tie, and begins walking, crossing the square with a cabal of pedestrians who have managed to stall the flow of traffic.
The older man heads west up Khreshchatik. As he walks, he glances at his watch. Because of the plethora of Western gear sold in shops along the boulevard, his Chicago White Sox baseball cap does not give him away. He could be a Kievian businessman heading back to work after a lunch break across the square in the park.
Lazlo Horvath Thriller - 01 - Chernobyl Murders Page 1