The last summary in the report on Chernobyl personnel was Captain Azef’s favorite. Azef took delight in detailing sexual relationships among facility personnel. Because of his own son’s sexual orientation, Komarov was glad to hear there were no new reports of homosexual encounters in the locker rooms.
Azef handed over a list of couples allegedly having affairs. The list contained details of four relationships.
“You will notice,” said Azef, “one of the women appears on this list, as well as on the one concerning the new joke.”
“I can read,” said Komarov.
“And you will also notice the man she is servicing is married.”
“Perhaps he is servicing her.”
Azef laughed. “Very good, Major. In any case, because he is a senior engineer and she has appeared on two lists this week, I’ve taken the initiative to retrieve their files.”
Komarov opened the files and scanned the personal summary sheet for each. Juli Popovics, lab technician at the low-level laboratory. Mihaly Horvath, senior reactor control engineer. Both residents of Pripyat. But unless they wished to live in one of the backward villages and suck salt pork, workers at Chernobyl had only two choices of where to live, either in the town of Chernobyl or the larger, more modern town of Pripyat. And then the file reminded Komarov of two other interesting facts. Both had Hungarian lineage, and Mihaly Horvath’s brother was Detective Lazlo Horvath of the Kiev militia. Komarov closed the folders.
“What do you suggest?” asked Azef.
“Put both under operational observation.”
Azef took a notebook from his pocket. “Anything else?”
“Arrange for Engineer Horvath’s wife to discreetly find out about the affair. You knew it’s what I would order, didn’t you, Captain?”
“Yes, Major.”
But Captain Azef did not know everything, did not know a directive had come from Deputy Chairman Dumenko’s office at KGB
headquarters in Moscow to be read only by Komarov. The directive had instructed him to watch for rumors of inadequate safety at Chernobyl and to act accordingly to squelch the rumors. The directive also said to watch for the possibility of U.S. intelligence involvement. No reason was needed for an order from Moscow.
Perhaps sabotage or foreign intelligence played a part. Despite Gorbachev’s new policies of openness, Komarov felt the real powers in Moscow were intact. Unknown to Azef, Komarov had passed along the name of an American, one Andrew Zukor, who had visited Mihaly Horvath and his brother, Detective Lazlo Horvath, during the summer. He gave the name to Major Dmitry Struyev here in Kiev.
Struyev was a member of Directorate T and was interested in any Americans visiting the Soviet Union. Not only to keep track of them, but to use their presence for counterespionage if possible.
After Azef was gone, Komarov returned to the window. He stared out at the horizon to the west and thought again about the days in East Berlin. He recalled his knowledge of deep-cover operations. Projects to provoke American firearms organizations and turn them against their government. Projects to discredit U.S. presidents, including Ford and Carter. He had taken part in trying to compromise a U.S. diplomat in order to discredit Carter’s hawk ad-visor, Brzezinski. He knew about past projects involving U-2 spy planes and attempts to discredit Martin Luther King Jr., and even a more recent project with the Bulgarians to do something about the pope, who was causing trouble in Poland. But once he was transferred to Kiev, he felt cut off. Although he’d been aware of newer projects concerning Ronald Reagan and electrical sabotage on the U.S. East Coast and negative AIDS propaganda, he remained cut off from active measures once he moved to the Ukraine. Perhaps this is why he relished his time in East Berlin. Some time ago he had tried to share these feelings with Major Struyev, who maintained an office one floor down. But because he was an operative of Directorate T, Struyev would share nothing. Struyev was an old hard-liner, older than Komarov, with more secrets than Komarov. Struyev would go to his grave with his secrets.
Komarov reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. He imagined Azef wagging a finger at him. When he thought of how Azef seemed to have all the answers and all the right files, he wondered if he was becoming paranoid, if he was becoming fearful of his assistant vying for his position. But what was paranoia except the drive for power, the need to be on top? Long ago Komarov concluded all truly powerful men had advanced because of paranoia, not in spite of it. Even Lenin.
Komarov sat at his desk and placed his lighted cigarette in the ashtray. He took out his keys, unlocked a side drawer, and opened it. Inside the drawer was his Walther 9mm West German automatic in its shoulder holster. The pistol was atop a notebook listing secret sources and informants throughout the years. He hadn’t used the pistol in years, and the notebook was long out of date, many of the persons having moved, or died.
He pulled the drawer out farther, reached into the cave of the drawer, and felt the fluted handle of the knife he knew would be there. He retrieved the knife, placed it on the desk, then closed and locked the drawer.
It was an antique German knife, not a war souvenir, a knife made before the war, before swastikas. It was nearly as long as his hand, and with the single blade unfolded from the handle, it was two hands long. The handle was inlaid with alabaster gone pale over the years. The knife was a souvenir given him by the deputy chairman of the East Berlin branch office as a memento of his success in the Sherbitsky affair. The knife had belonged to Captain Sherbitsky and was determined by the investigation to be the knife used by Sherbitsky to kill beautiful Gretchen and Agent Pudkov.
Every time Komarov touched the knife, he again felt the thrill of the case. How ironic the knife was presented as a reward to the creator of the Sherbitsky affair. Komarov rubbed his thumb back and forth on the alabaster handle, recalling the praise, the medal, and his elevation to captain, then major. But the knife, like him, had become a relic in the back of a drawer.
Komarov held the knife in both hands and slowly unfolded the blade. He wiped skin oil from his forehead—his receding hairline apparent—and applied the oil evenly to the blade with his fingers. He shined the blade on his trouser leg, carefully, because the blade was as sharp as it was when he pushed it deep into Gretchen’s abdomen while, at the same time, caressing her and staring into her eyes.
It happened at the “safe” house outside Berlin. Agent Pudkov, a devilishly handsome recruit, was using the “safe” house to rendezvous with Gretchen. Komarov had opened the door noisily.
They were naked and quickly pulled a blanket about them. Komarov feigned surprise, then smiled, saying he would wait in the hall, saying he would be next to share a bed with Gretchen. And he did wait. He waited until Pudkov came into the hall. The knife entered the flesh of Pudkov’s neck smoothly, the passion of a few moments before draining his blood quickly. Komarov held his hand over Pudkov’s mouth as he died and left him on the floor.
In the bedroom Komarov kept his hands behind him so Gretchen would not see his gloves and the bloodied knife. When he got into bed, Gretchen complained about his rough uniform and boots.
But she smiled when he spread her legs, touching her intimately with his leather-gloved hand. While she searched his eyes, staring at him without blinking, without shame, he thought of Barbara the Hungarian, who’d humiliated him. Pushing the knife home with his right hand, Komarov felt Gretchen’s legs close about the fingers of his left hand like a vise for a moment until the twisting of the knife drew the strength from her. Then he closed her eyes and slit her throat.
At his desk Komarov held the knife the way he’d held it when he ended Gretchen’s short but active life. Underhanded, his thumb along the length of its handle. He thought of the two ways smokers held their cigarettes. Between the two first fingers—western—or between finger and thumb—continental. The grip he used with his knife was elegant, just as the Sherbitsky affair was elegant. Even the bullet through Sherbitsky’s head was elegant. A shot from the front, a shot proving he had defen
ded himself from the murderer. A shot fired in the woods several kilometers from the “safe” house at a man on the run.
After killing Sherbitsky and returning the knife to its rightful owner, the investigation commenced. It was an investigation ac-companied by the incessant weeping of Sherbitsky’s widow. In the end, when Sherbitsky’s known hotheadedness and jealousy were revealed, the case became so clear-cut even Komarov, while testifying, was able to momentarily suspend his true knowledge and feelings.
At the time he wondered if this ability to create, in his mind, an alternate reality was a sign of instability or schizophrenia. But this was not the case. Temporary alteration of reality was simply a method to survive the hearings unscathed. After all, he had killed a senior officer, and this killing had to be rigorously justified.
Recently, whenever Komarov thought of the Sherbitsky affair, he felt in a festive mood, but he could share the mood with only one friend, a friend who was not here because he dare not bring a bottle to his office. He saved his friend for evenings alone. In summer and most of the spring and fall, he spent evenings on the back porch of his house. Even when cold weather drove him indoors, even with his wife in the same room, he was alone with his friend because, while she watched her television, he would wall himself in and dream of success and triumph.
The cigarette in the ashtray had smoldered down to a couple of centimeters. He took one last suck on it and smashed it out. He folded the knife blade into its alabaster handle and put it into his inside jacket pocket, where it rested reassuringly against his chest.
Finally, he reopened the Chernobyl personnel report Azef left on his desk and began studying it.
5
February 1986
During the cold war, some KGB agents worked in post offices. They were part of the PK Service operational branch, short for Perlyus-tratsiya Korespondentsii, a term rarely used except within the walls of KGB branch offices. Even the abbreviation PK was not widely known because PK agents were supposed to be viewed, by the public, as ordinary postal workers. In back rooms of selected post offices across the Soviet Union, PK agents spent their days opening mail, reading it, making notes or copies as necessary, then resealing the mail, and passing it on to the real postal workers, whose job was to transport the mail to its rightful owners.
The postal service was busy during the months of December and January. Religious holidays revolving around the birth, two thousand years earlier, of a boy child in the Middle East had created a season of familial joy and letter writing. Yet, a few weeks into the 1986 new year, with continued cold war quibbling and shortages at the markets, the Soviet people settled in, bracing themselves against the winter winds. No matter how much talk of love and peace took place during the holidays, no matter how much talk of a new openness in the Soviet Union, it seemed the world’s fate was in the hands of irrational forces. Even the deaths of seven astronauts in the United States in late January reinforced the depression as winter settled in.
On the first Monday in February, in a small, windowless back room of the Pripyat post office, PK agents Pavel and Nikolai went through the morning mail presorted for them and passed through a slot in the wall by legitimate postal workers. Pavel and Nikolai were trained in languages, one fluent in Hungarian, and the other in Ukrainian. But they always used their Russian mother tongue as they sat across from one another at a long table opening-reading-resealing, opening-reading-resealing. The room was warm and humid because of the small electric steamer on the table.
“No more letters to Saint Nick,” said Pavel.
“The season to be jolly is over,” said Nikolai.
Open-read-reseal. Open-read-reseal.
“Several mentions of the American astronauts,” said Pavel.
“From the looks of the explosion on television it must have been in-stantaneous. Do you think they felt anything?”
“They must have felt something,” said Nikolai. “Perhaps like a blow to the head.”
“Americans advertise everything,” said Pavel. “Even failures.”
“An odd practice,” said Nikolai.
Open-read-reseal.
“Ah,” said Pavel. “Here’s another letter to Mihaly Horvath.”
“He’s under observation,” said Nikolai. “You’ll have to copy it.”
Pavel glared at Nikolai. “I know. I’m not an idiot.”
“I didn’t mean to imply you were an idiot, Pavel.”
“Then why must you always remind me of the obvious?”
“I don’t know,” said Nikolai. “Perhaps I’m tired of reading the same things over and over. ‘How is everything there?’ ‘All is fine here.’ ‘How were your holidays?’ ‘Our holiday was joyful, and all are in good health.’ It’s enough to drive one mad! Don’t these people have any imagination?”
They both laughed, the outburst designed to relieve boredom.
“So,” said Nikolai, “what does Mihaly Horvath’s brother say today?”
“Again,” said Pavel, “he refers to a matter they spoke of last summer at the farm. Detective Horvath pressing his brother about some kind of decision, just as he has in previous letters. He implies everything will not be well if his brother does not act.”
Pavel turned to the second page of the letter. “Here’s something.” He raised the pitch of his voice slightly as he always did when translating a letter. “‘Mihaly, I’m sorry I was unable to visit during the holiday season. Things were busy in Kiev and I had to remain on duty. But I’ll make up for it and be able to see you and Nina and the girls the third Sunday in February. I’ll drive up in the morning and should be there by noon. Perhaps you can tell me of your decision in the matter we discussed. Tell Nina not to cook anything special …’ And it goes on.”
“What do you suppose this ‘matter’ is?” asked Nikolai.
“I don’t know,” said Pavel. “But since Mihaly Horvath is under operational observation, and his militia detective brother has been worried about something since summer, Captain Putna and Major Komarov will be interested.”
“By now,” said Nikolai, “Detective Horvath must also be under operational observation.”
“It could be related to the Gypsy Moth Captain Putna told us to watch for,” said Pavel.
“Why would it have anything to do with the Gypsy Moth? It’s nothing but a code word, and it wasn’t mentioned in the letter.”
Pavel touched his finger to his temple. “I was thinking. Horvath is a Hungarian name. Gypsies have connections to Hungarians.
And last summer, remember the letter in which they spoke of the visit of their cousin, Andrew Zukor, the American? Consider the gypsy moth insect, the one causing problems in America since its introduction last century. I read about it in Entomological Study of …”
“What are you talking about?” asked Nikolai.
“I’m talking about the American cousin of the Horvaths,” said Pavel. “I’m talking about letters to Detective Horvath last year in which Andrew Zukor told of plans to visit the Horvaths during their summer holiday. This could be a Gypsy Moth connection.”
“A weak connection at best,” said Nikolai. “We could mention it in our report to Captain Putna. But I think it best if we wait and see if there is another letter from the American cousin. You know how the captain feels about unfounded speculation. In the meantime we’ll copy all letters to or from the Horvaths.”
“Challenging idea,” said Pavel, floating the letter like a giant flake of snow into the copy tray at the corner of the table.
The sky was overcast, snow covering the rolling farmland in virgin white. Although the drive to Pripyat was slow, it gave Lazlo time to think. As he passed through a village, he saw two boys heaving snowballs at one another. Even though he and Mihaly were eleven years apart and were never really young boys together, he was reminded of quiet winters on the farm. Quiet winters before he went into the army to fulfill his draft obligation, before the hazing in camp, before the assignment to arrest the deserter near the Romani
an border. Boys killing boys.
The snow covering the hilly road forced Lazlo to continually shift up and down through the gears in order to maintain his speed. The Zhiguli’s transmission whined, its engine sputtered and coughed, and snow packed into the wheel wells rubbed against the tires. Because his tires were small and almost treadless, he could not maintain the speed of a Volga, which passed him, its fat tires lifting packed snow onto his windshield. If he had a Volga, or newer tires, he’d get to Pripyat sooner. But a mere detective in the Kiev militia was lucky to have any car to drive on his day off, even a three-year-old Zhiguli in need of tires and, from the new sound he was hearing, a muffler or exhaust pipe.
The use of the car provided some freedom, but also meant he was on call, day and night, for every type of crime, from the most mundane theft to murder. Lazlo recalled the day, several years earlier, when Chief Investigator Chkalov told him he was free to use a militia car for personal business instead of turning it in to the garage after each shift. He also recalled the day three years ago when Chkalov handed him the keys to the then-new Zhiguli.
As Lazlo shifted madly through the gears, most likely taking months of life from the transmission, he glanced at his keys swinging from the ignition and recalled the conversation with Chkalov on the day he received the keys to the new Zhiguli.
“You have been with the militia for many years, Detective Horvath. Your service has been loyal, and you have proven your detection skills. Although it is not a promotion, the receipt of a new car is an honor.”
“I realize this,” said Lazlo. “And I appreciate it.”
“Many other detectives do not respond as consistently as you.
Perhaps because you do not have family matters to attend to. The woman murdered near the post office in Kalinin Square, for example. If you had not arrived at the scene before dawn to have the area cordoned off, street cleaners would have flushed the shell casings down the sewer. Timing. It’s all a matter of efficient response.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Lazlo Horvath Thriller - 01 - Chernobyl Murders Page 6