“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.”
While 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.
“Last summer,” said Lazlo, “at the farm near the Czech frontier, Mihaly told me his concerns about safety at Chernobyl. Later in the year, when I visited Pripyat, he told me about you. I should have followed up about the plant.”
“Mihaly was not the only one worried about safety,” said Juli.
“If you worked at Chernobyl, you got used to constant talk of safety, or lack of safety. The jokes higher officials called gossipmongering caused memos to be sent to supervisors. The chief engineer jokes the plant is nothing more than a steam bath, nothing but hot water.
But death is no joke. No one laughs now. As for Mihaly telling you about me, I have my own feelings.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lazlo.
“Mihaly and I didn’t mean to upset his family life. Our relationship was ending when his wife found out. All three of us were hurt deeply.”
“You think I told Nina about you? Mihaly asked if I did. I was angry with him. I felt I was being blamed for what you and he had done. I understand passion. Nothing is black and white. But to tell Nina, to hurt her …”
“Mihaly said you wouldn’t do it. I didn’t believe him. Now I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I can see you. It’s easy to mistrust someone until you meet him face to face. Mihaly was not like other men, and you are not like other men. Men in power are responsible for accidents like Chernobyl. In their quest for power, they ignore the future and the environment. It is the only thing we have to give our children. And now men … always men … have destroyed what little we have. But you and Mihaly …”
Lazlo looked straight ahead as he drove. His side window was open slightly, causing his hair to blow about. His profile, small chin and sloping forehead, was sim
ilar to Mihaly’s. A handsome man, but serious, as the situation deserved. A man determined to set things straight.
“Are you worried about your baby?” asked Lazlo.
“Of course. But I don’t want to think about an abortion. I’ll wait for the blood test results.”
“And if the results are not clear-cut?”
“I don’t know what to do. I was going to give the baby up for adoption. But now … I don’t know.”
The house was on the edge of the town of Visenka at the end of a road, which continued as a rutted trail into farm fields. The house was small, a cottage, and along the foundation in earth kept warm by the house, spring flowers bloomed. A small arbor covered with budding vines arched over the walk. When Lazlo followed Juli through the arbor, an old woman appeared at the door. She was short and plump and wiped her hands on an apron embroidered with flowers. When she opened the door, Lazlo could smell bread baking. The small size of the house, the farm fields in the distance, the appearance of this woman at the door … all of it reminded him of his boyhood in Kisbor. When the old woman hugged Juli and they spoke in Hungarian, the spell was complete.
“Detective Horvath is from Kiev,” said Juli. “He was kind enough to drive me here. This is Aunt Magda, my father’s sister.”
Aunt Magda’s hand was wrinkled and tough, a farm woman.
She looked at him suspiciously. “I’ve never met a Hungarian militiaman. Were you born in Ukraine?”
“Near the Czech border.”
“What do you know about this reactor business? What can I tell my neighbors?”
“I’ll let your niece explain. She knows more than me. I must leave now because I’ve been promised a meeting this afternoon at the Ministry of Energy office in Kiev.”
“Call me,” said Juli. “I hope you find out more about your brother’s family.”
“You have relatives near Chernobyl?” asked Aunt Magda.
“My brother’s wife and little girls. My brother worked at the plant … he was killed.”
“My God,” said Aunt Magda, holding Lazlo’s hand and looking up to him. “I’m very sorry for you. It’s not right these things happen. People killed, and the news says nothing. My God. Killed.”
She squeezed his hand. “Is there anything I can do?”
“No.” He looked to Juli, who stood behind her aunt, her cheeks wet with tears. “But I’ll let you know about his wife and two little girls.”
“Please do. I’ll pray for your brother and for them. I’ll keep candles burning.”
Juli turned away, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Please write down your telephone number for Detective Horvath, Aunt Magda.”
When Aunt Magda began searching through a cabinet, Juli stepped close to Lazlo, kissed him quickly on the cheek, and said, “I lived in Moscow when I was a girl. They have the finest hospitals.”
When Lazlo left the house and stepped beneath the arbor, he saw a momentary flash of red up the road. He held several thick vine branches apart with his fingers and saw the car parked on the opposite side of the road about fifty meters away, facing the opposite direction. It was a faded red Zhiguli, partially hidden by an old truck. The left taillight was out, but he knew it had been lit a moment earlier.
Lazlo got into his car, turned around, and drove up the road.
After passing the old truck, he saw two men in the red car. At the main street in Visenka, he turned north and drove slowly. Soon the faded red Zhiguli was on the main street behind him, and stayed with him as he made several turns to the highway. The Zhiguli followed him all the way back to Kiev. He knew it had to be KGB, KGB
driving a faded Zhiguli instead of their usual black Volga.
When the KGB followed someone, they did it one of two ways.
The more obvious way was men in dark overcoats driving a black Volga. This method was meant as a warning to the person being followed. The other way was undercover, changing vehicles, using even a cheap red car like so many others on the crowded streets of Kiev. The men in the red Zhiguli followed cautiously, and it was obvious he was not supposed to know.
A light rain began in Kiev, the droplets plummeting down through the upper atmosphere where the wind was changing direction.
17
Monday afternoon, thirty-six hours without sleep, and Lazlo was back at the Ministry of Energy. The news of Mihaly’s death and the hours spent with Juli Popovics seemed transcendental, having happened to another Lazlo Horvath. Had he reached his physical limit, or was something else taking place inside him?
Vatchenko, deputy chairman of the Engineering Council, met Lazlo in a conference room. Minister of Electric Power Asimov left the room after introducing Vatchenko, and Lazlo sat at the conference table, watching Vatchenko draw diagrams of reactor operating principles on a chalkboard. Vatchenko was a thin, intense young man with short, light-colored hair. What had at first glance seemed an overlarge upper lip was actually a mustache of flesh-colored hair.
Although he was dead tired, Lazlo listened intently.
The explosion took place shortly after one in the morning on Saturday, April 26. A steam explosion was first, followed by another explosion caused by hydrogen gas. The second explosion disrupted the reactor core and ignited the graphite. Helicopters dropped sand onto the exposed core, followed by boron and lead. Because of the radiation released, a ring of approximately twenty to thirty kilometers was being evacuated.
Vatchenko sat across from Lazlo at the conference table, glancing back to admire his diagrams on the chalkboard. “I can understand your concern, Detective Horvath. It’s unfortunate it sometimes takes incidents like this to make higher officials take an interest in technology. Has any of this made sense?”
“The first few diagrams were clear,” said Lazlo. “I understand the backup systems, and your lecture on hardware would be fine if I wanted to become a nuclear engineer. What I’m really curious about is quality control, the inspections of all these pumps and valves and sensors. Who does it? When is it done? And mostly, have there recently been changes in procedures?”
Vatchenko smiled. “To understand procedure, one must understand the total system.”
“I’m talking about simple inspections,” said Lazlo. “I’m talking about changes in the past six months. If plant hardware has not changed since it was put into service, wouldn’t reductions in safety procedures during critical testing make things less safe at the plant?”
“This talk of so-called reductions in safety procedures is puzzling, Detective Horvath. I assure you a technical investigation will be conducted by those most qualified.”
“Those qualified to place the blame wherever they want?” asked Lazlo.
Vatchenko leaned back in his chair, folded his hands on his chest, and twirled his thumbs. “Detective Horvath, since concern for your brother’s role in the incident is obvious, I must tell you that as senior engineer on duty, his actions, or lack thereof, will be scrutinized. I’m truly sorry he has become a victim, but I must be honest with you.”
“What about the chief engineer?”
“The chief engineer was not on duty.”
“Did he order tests he knew would be dangerous?”
Vatchenko stopped twirling his thumbs. “For someone who knows little about nuclear plants, you imply a great deal, Detective Horvath. You use militia credentials to demand answers. Yet it is too soon for answers. I’m sorry about your brother and for the other victim.”
“Only two victims? I’ve seen the faces of evacuees. They are homeless, frightened, and confused. Perhaps it is better to keep everyone confused. Perhaps for your holy Ministry of Energy it is more important to save face than to care for the people who put their safety in your hands. I can read between the lines of official news from Pravda, Comrade Deputy Chairman. I know two deaths announced reluctantly means many more were killed or will soon die!”
Vatchenko smoothed down his flesh-colored mustache with his fingertips and stared at Lazlo
for several seconds before speaking. “I am neither a journalist nor a politician, Detective Horvath.
But I do understand the need to avoid throwing gasoline into the flames. I assure you everything possible is being done for the people in the area.”
“How do you know? You’re not there. Is groundwork already being laid for the possibility of a scapegoat being needed? Don’t be afraid to talk to me, Comrade Deputy Chairman. I understand how these self-perpetuating ministries work!”
Vatchenko’s face reddened, making the fine hairs of his mustache clearly visible. “You act as if the world is in environmental crisis.”
Lazlo stood, aware of the bump of his holstered Makarov against his ribs. “Perhaps the world is in crisis! A crisis of shoddy engineering and safety precautions! A crisis created by men in power who want more power and don’t care how they get it!”
“I believe our conversation is at an end,” said Vatchenko as he stood and left the room.
A minute later, Asimov, the minister of electric power who had arranged for Lazlo to meet with Vatchenko, entered the room, asked Lazlo to return to his seat, and sat across from him.
“Deputy Chairman Vatchenko tells me he was unable to satisfy your thirst for knowledge. During your meeting, I made inquiries of our Moscow representative. Your sister-in-law and nieces are being well cared for at Municipal Hospital Number Six, and their situation is not critical. I’m sorry I have no more details. Let us not lose hope, Detective Horvath. Your brother would certainly have wanted you to remain hopeful.”
Hopeful was a word Lazlo had heard misused throughout his life. When his mother was dying, his aunts had said to remain hopeful. When victims of crime were hospitalized, relatives were told to remain hopeful. When he was taken back to the farm village to investigate the shooting of the deserter, his captain said he was hopeful the parents and sister would understand the circumstances.
Boys killing boys. The strings of his violin silenced in youth.
A person might pray, but remain hopeful? It was an impossible request. A person faced with tragedy must not trust hope. A person faced with tragedy must visualize the future realistically in order to prepare for the inevitable.
Lazlo Horvath Thriller - 01 - Chernobyl Murders Page 20