Lazlo Horvath Thriller - 01 - Chernobyl Murders

by Michael Beres

  “What problems?” Again her voice sounded distant.

  “There’s been a mysterious warning light.”

  Juli imagined they were discussing how she could have gotten pregnant instead of discussing the reactor. “Mysterious?”

  Mihaly turned with a serious look, a technician anxious to solve technical problems. “It’s happened twice in the last week. Two separate operators catching a glimpse of a panel light in their peripheral vision. But they were on the other side of the room, and the light was momentary. Today we took turns watching the board constantly because emergency backups were off so they could be worked on. Tomorrow morning, after we shut down, electricians will install lock-on circuits, so once a light comes on, it won’t go off until we shut it off. The lock-ons should have been installed in the first place, but parts weren’t available when construction was finishing up.”

  “Awards handed out for completing projects on time.” Juli felt as though she had no control over what she said, speaking as if she were one of the machines.

  Mihaly went on. “There are things we can fix only when the unit is shut down. Like clogged pipes. And listen to this one. A few weeks ago, an idiot driving a front loader ran into one of the towers carrying power lines into the control building. Luckily he only buckled one of the legs. If he had knocked the tower down and we lost power, we would’ve been in real trouble. This morning we caught the same driver taking a shortcut through the yard outside the control room. After we shut down, they’ll fix the tower, and we’ve convinced the chief engineer to fence in the area. Mistakes are piling up, and we’ve got to fix them before they lead to something else.”

  The guard on the bus interrupted to check their passes. The sign for Pripyat went by on the right, and Juli knew they would be at her stop soon. If only she could see Mihaly on the weekend, tell him then about the baby. In the past, she could have suggested a rendezvous. Mihaly would have met her, because in the past, the meeting would have had another purpose. It was over. The last time they had been together was weeks ago, before she found out she was pregnant.

  Mihaly was looking out the window again. The bus passed a field of wildflowers blooming gold and yellow. Juli decided not to tell Mihaly about the baby tonight. Monday would be soon enough.

  Monday, her supervisor would confirm her medical leave, and then she would tell Mihaly about the baby.

  “Will you work all weekend, Mihaly?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll still be on the early bus Monday?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because,” said Juli, “I have to arrive early on Monday, too. I’ll see you on the early bus. We have to talk …”

  Mihaly turned to her, gripped her hand. “I don’t like being torn apart by my love for you and my obligation to my family. Why can’t we simply keep our secret?”

  “Big secret,” said Juli. “You tell your militiaman brother, and he tells your wife!”

  “Laz didn’t tell Nina.”

  “And you believe him?”

  Mihaly stared straight ahead, sat silent as if he were a man of great patience waiting for the vixen’s tirade to subside. Finally he spoke quietly, calmly.

  “The night I returned home from your apartment, I should have guessed Nina knew.” He continued staring straight ahead.

  “But sometimes, even when we know something, we pretend not to know. We should have both known it was over. We shouldn’t have seen one another again because it’s made this moment harder for both of us.”

  They sat silent during the remainder of the ride. Before her stop, Juli asked, “Will I still see you on the early bus Monday? It will give us a chance to think over the weekend.”

  “Yes, I’ll be there.”

  The bus stopped. Mihaly touched her hand lightly. She stared into his eyes, felt an overwhelming urge to kiss him. But she stood, said good night, which seemed inappropriate because the sun was still high in the sky, and left the bus.

  Juli looked back as the bus pulled away and saw several passengers watching her. But Mihaly looked straight ahead, his pointed nose and small chin accelerating his movement away from her. The bus resembled the wall of a gallery devoted to portraits of melancholy. Sad faces, brooding faces. And this on a Friday evening before a spring weekend.

  Juli turned and walked to her apartment, wondering about a world in which machines took over the lives of the workers. But most of all, she wondered if Pripyat, a town populated to service the Chernobyl reactor, a town neither rural nor urban, was a place in which a child could be raised properly by a single mother.

  9

  Friday night in Ukraine was a night of celebration. Even farmers, merchants, and teachers who worked Saturday used Friday night as an excuse to consume large quantities of vodka and wine. Another week of toil was officially over, and one deserved to overindulge.

  The result of overindulgence was often a deep, satisfying sleep. For many, Saturday began with snores and dreams and, sometimes, nightmares.

  Of course, not everyone drank on Friday evening. Major Grigor Komarov of the KGB, for example, had attended a concert featuring the works of Prokofiev at the Philharmonia with his wife. He had consumed not one drop of vodka, not even at dinner beforehand.

  Now, after midnight, he lay awake in bed, listening to the gentle breathing of his wife. Although he knew exactly where a full bottle of vodka was located, could visualize its sparkle in the rear corner of the cupboard, he was determined to get through the night without a drink. Even if he could not sleep, he would not drink.

  Instead of drinking, and instead of sleeping, Komarov lay awake thinking. He thought about recognition. He imagined elaborate schemes and stratagems to bring the name Major Grigor Komarov to the attention of the KGB’s chairman in Moscow. He thought about awards and promotions. But even with these thoughts, the bottle in the cupboard tormented him and kept him from dreaming these dreams in the fantasy world of sleep.

  Tonight he and his wife sat in the balcony at the concert. He recalled looking down upon the heads on the main floor and imagining himself dancing about on those heads to Prokofiev’s music.

  He imagined using his knife to create a crime he would eventually solve. While the music played, he reached into his pocket and held the knife. He must have smiled because at one point his wife touched his knee. After the concert on their way home, his wife commented on his change of mood the last few weeks, and they engaged in the playful banter they had practiced when they were younger.

  “You seem happier, Grigor. I couldn’t help but notice. And I’m certain your superiors will notice.”

  “You’re referring to my drinking, of course.”

  “I thought it might be bad luck to bring it up.”

  “It’s not bad luck, dearest. I’m a new man, free from the bottle.

  My energy has returned, and I’ve taken more interest in my job.”

  “Ferreting out the enemies of Communism?”

  “Perhaps, my dear, pointing out the dangers of capitalism.”

  “Are you referring to my spending habits, Grigor?”

  “Your fur wrap might not be needed on such a warm April evening.”

  “For one who espouses rigid principles, one would think you are an Islamist, Grigor.”

  “Not me. Religious fanatics keep to themselves and hate civilized communist society. Look at all the problems in Afghanistan from these so-called cultures.”

  “I thought you hated Gypsies, Grigor. Now your hatred extends to Islamists?”

  “Gypsies, Islamists, they’re one and the same. Insane, male-dominated societies. Did I tell you about my boyhood in the slums of Moscow among Gypsies? They allow their children to smoke.

  Eight-and nine-year-old Gypsy boys smoking while the men create swindles and the women read palms. As for Islamists, the men treat their women like animals, making them cover themselves from head to toe in horse blankets. Religion, fundamentalism, and superstition will cause the end of the world if we’re not
careful.”

  “You’re quite the philosopher tonight, Grigor.”

  “Abandoning the bottle has awakened my intellect.”

  “I’m happy for you, Grigor.”

  Tonight, for the first time in over a year, Komarov and his wife made love. But in the darkness of the room, Komarov thought only of Gretchen. While his wife moaned beneath him, he played back the scene again, this time to the music of Prokofiev. He closed his eyes and saw Gretchen staring at him in those moments before the knife went in.

  After his wife was asleep and the night continued its journey, Komarov lay awake, alternately thinking of the vodka bottle in the cupboard, the look on Gretchen’s face as she died, the Gypsy witch from the past named Barbara, and of schemes, yet unrealized, as perfect as the Sherbitsky affair.

  In central Kiev, Detective Lazlo Horvath of the Kiev militia was also not asleep. Sleep, he hoped, would come much later, perhaps near dawn. The reason he did not want to sleep was because Tamara was in his bed.

  It was dark in the room. Lazlo rested his head on Tamara’s breast. He could hear her heartbeat. When he spoke, his upper lip brushed against her nipple.

  “Can we stay like this forever, Tamara?”

  “In this position, or at this age?”

  “Both. Especially this age. The position …” He touched her thigh and gently spread her legs. “The position I would like to alter quite soon.”

  Tamara laughed. “I know you would. That’s why I’m staying awake.”

  “You’re a spring flower.”

  Tamara laughed and pulled at his ear. “Spring flower? You’ve had too much wine.”

  “I had to drink it before the campaign against alcoholism began.”

  “Last year it had the reverse effect,” said Tamara. “When does this campaign begin?”

  “May Day,” said Lazlo. “We have only a few days to consume all the Hungarian wine in Kiev. The local wine and the vodka we’ll leave to others.”

  “When Kiev runs out of alcohol and everyone becomes sober and ethical, what will the Kiev militia do?”

  “With no criminals, we’ll most likely be ordered to crack down on literary journalists.”

  “Even members of the Ukrainian Writers’ Union?”

  “Especially members of the Ukrainian Writers’ Union. You are the provocateurs who exposed lapses in construction quality at the Chernobyl reactors.”

  Tamara giggled. “We are spies.”

  “Better not to say it.”

  “Why?” asked Tamara.

  “Because there really are spies everywhere. My boss wanted me to do a little espionage the other day.”

  “No.”

  “When I asked for permission to drive to Pripyat to visit my brother, Chkalov tells me to visit the militia station and check on the captain there. And now, if you are finished questioning me, I’m hungry.”

  Lazlo lifted his head and moved atop Tamara, who opened beneath him like a vast warm valley. Her tongue filled his mouth and made him feel as though he would never have to eat or drink again.

  In the distance, as their breathing quickened, the bell of Saint Andrew’s Church tolled the one o’clock hour.

  Most others in metropolitan Kiev were asleep. Captain Azef of the KGB slept alone, his apartment filled with the sounds of his snoring.

  Chief Investigator Chkalov of the Kiev militia snored in harmony with his wife, the combined symphony shaking the bed frame.

  Farther north along the Dnieper River, farmers and some of their wives also snored. Except for an occasional rendezvous of young lovers in a barn, it seemed the entire world was asleep. In Pripyat, Nikolai dreamed an avalanche of unopened letters buried him, while Pavel dreamed a dream that would have angered his jealous wife. On the other side of town, Juli had just fallen asleep after another long talk with Marina.

  In sleep, the joys and fears and desires of life were diminished, making the world calm and peaceful. At dawn the population would begin to scurry about, many of them queuing up at Saturday markets. But for now, speaking in relative terms, all was silent.

  At the Chernobyl Nuclear Facility, it was never completely dark or quiet. The security lighting along the fences shimmered in the cooling pond, and the hum of power continued unceasingly. In the yard outside the main control room, extra lighting had been erected, and a crew of workers in hard hats stood about a high-tension tower.

  Some drank coffee or tea from thermos cups; a few smoked. Two workers held a measuring tape along a slightly bent lower section of the tower.

  Inside the main control room, one could not tell whether it was day or night because the room was wrapped in light from the fluorescent fixtures and the glow of the control console. At the sides of the console, which was over fifteen meters long, more light illuminated the room. A crew of electricians had lit up the back of the console in preparation for their work.

  The chairs in front of the console had been pushed into the center of the room. No one sat at the chairs. A dozen or so technicians of various grades, from operator first class to engineer third class, stood at the console, concentrating on the lighted panels before them. All of the technicians were dressed identically in off-white uniforms and caps. Several observers, who stood back from the console area, also wore off-white uniforms. Two of the observers were women, but this was only apparent when they were viewed in profile.

  The technicians muttered among themselves, careful not to speak loud enough for the observers to hear. They spoke of the weariness of operating what they quietly called “the bitch” under manual control for so many hours. They spoke about the absence of the chief engineer on this special shutdown duty. Several wondered if “bitch number four” would be shut down soon so they could go home. Others joked about the chief engineer referring to each of the units not as bitches, but as toys.

  “The chief engineer home asleep while we play with his toy,”

  whispered one operator.

  “I’d like to be there,” whispered another.

  “Playing with his toy?”

  “No, in bed with his wife.”

  Several laughed quietly.

  “You wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “I’ve got experiments to perform.”

  “You’d have to do them on yourself. Like our experiment here, seeing how long we can keep the power in our system up after the orgasm is shut down.”

  Several laughed again.

  “Keep talking this way,” said one of the assistant engineers, “and the director will have you sent to a place where you’ll have plenty of time to play with yourselves.”

  There were a few chuckles, but not the comfortable laughter of earlier.

  The supervisor of the electricians walked out from behind the console and stood with his thumbs hooked into his tool belt. “I don’t understand. First it’s supposed to be down this afternoon, then this evening, now it’s already after one in the morning. Up-down.

  On-off. Nobody knows what they’re doing around here.”

  Mihaly Horvath, the senior engineer in charge, looked from the console to the supervisor of electricians. “Can’t you be a little patient? What’s all the noise back there?”

  “We’re removing access panels,” said the supervisor. “How much longer before you shut down? Now? Or do we have to wait until Sunday?”

  “Not long,” said Mihaly. “What’s the big hurry?”

  “You should know,” said the supervisor. “You’re the ones who made us come in for this shift. My boss wants us finished with the lock-ons by the end of the shift, but we can’t start until you shut this damn thing down.”

  Mihaly did not answer the supervisor. Instead he gave orders to the other technicians and told them to watch the panel indicators.

  The shutdown process had been in progress twenty-four hours.

  There were signs of boredom, technicians looking at the clock and yawning, something they would not have done if the chief engineer had been on duty.

  During th
e slow process of lowering the control rods while maintaining steam and water flow, various valves and pumps in the system went through many cycles. It was an excellent time to watch for malfunctions. And, theoretically, it should be a safer time because if anything should go wrong, the reactor was already in the process of being shut down.

  The effect of bringing down the power of unit four could be heard in the large room containing the turbine and generator. The sound was similar to a jetliner very slowly shutting down its engines, or to a long, drawn-out sigh of relief. But power was not supposed to drop this fast, and a signal was sent to a panel in the main control room.

  “I’ve got a light!” said one of the technicians in a loud whisper.

  Others tried to whisper back, but the whispering got louder and louder and eventually changed to shouting.

  “What is it?”

  “The power is dropping too fast!”

  “Why?”

  “How the hell do I know?”

  “Pavlov, you dog! Where the hell is Pavlov?”

  “Stop calling me a dog, idiot! Especially with visitors here!”

  “Did you program the computer?”

  “For what?”

  “To prevent the bitch from dropping below the minimum!”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Mother of God! We already hit the minimum, and look how it’s falling! Do something! What happened to the alarms? How come there are no alarms?”

  “I … We shut them off.”

  “Tasha! Begin the manual procedure for reinserting the control rods!”

  “Reinserting?”

  “Yes! Now, before it’s too late! Someone run and get the computer printouts! You! Is your foot still in your mother? Run and get them!”

  Several minutes went by, during which the technicians who were not at the console went to the console. Everyone was visibly shaken as they watched the semicircle of lights and gauges. Their expressions conveyed confusion, annoyance, fear, and everything in between.

  “I don’t know what’s happening!” said one technician. “First the pressure is down, then it’s up!”