Lazlo Horvath Thriller - 01 - Chernobyl Murders

by Michael Beres

  The car bounced violently, and Juli held on tight. She turned in the seat to look out the rear window, but saw only dust churning behind them. When the bouncing lessened, she realized they had left the field and were now on a gravel road.

  “I hope Aunt Magda is all right. Was calling the militia really part of your escape plan?”

  “No. If she calls the militia, she won’t be in trouble.”

  “What’s your plan for us?”

  “I don’t have one yet.”

  Juli looked out the rear window again and saw the black car pursuing them through the finer dust of the gravel road. “I see them!

  What will we do?”

  They slid sideways as Lazlo turned onto another gravel road heading west, the morning sun behind them. The sun kept its distance, but the black car was catching up.

  “They’ve got a faster car!” shouted Lazlo. “If they stop us, I’ll go on foot across the field. You tell them I kidnapped you.”

  “I can’t!”

  “You have to, Juli! They’re going to catch us!”

  “But you said there was danger!”

  “There is! But if we can’t get away …”

  “Maybe they’re simply following us.”

  “They’re too close! In a moment they’re going to pass! I’ll let them. Stay down. When they get alongside, I’ll try to force them over. The ditch is deep here. If I can hang them up …”

  Nikolai gripped the wheel with both hands, his fists pumping, a boxer holding off an opponent. Dust from the Zhiguli seeped into the Volga and danced on the dash. The Volga rocked back and forth, its powerful engine taking them closer and closer to their prey.

  “We’re almost up to them!” shouted Nikolai. “Quit looking at your damned watch! The time won’t matter after what’s happened!”

  “If we catch them soon, we can still make it back to Kiev on time!” shouted Pavel.

  “What should we do with Detective Horvath?”

  Pavel took out his pistol. “We’ll take him with us!”

  Nikolai glanced at Pavel. “Don’t wave your gun around! I’ll try to run them off the road!”

  Chunks of gravel from the Zhiguli banged against the metal and glass of the Volga as Nikolai drove closer.

  “Shit!” shouted Nikolai.

  “What?”

  “We should have radioed in!”

  “Look!” shouted Pavel. “You can pass now!”

  Nikolai pressed the accelerator to the floor, and the Volga moved alongside the Zhiguli.

  “I’ll force them off …”

  Pavel raised his pistol and pointed it at the Zhiguli.

  “No!” screamed Nikolai. “Wait!”

  An explosion of glass slammed Pavel sideways onto Nikolai’s lap. Nikolai braked, and as the Volga skidded to a stop, he looked down at his friend Pavel. Pavel’s eyes were open. Pavel was smiling despite blood gushing from his temple.

  When the car stopped, Nikolai let go of the wheel and held Pavel’s head in his arms. The gush of blood wet Nikolai’s trousers.

  “Pavel!”

  Pavel did not react. After a few moments, the blood stopped gushing, but Pavel still smiled up at his friend.

  “Pavel!”

  Finally, recognizing the grin of death, Nikolai hugged his friend to his chest and wept.

  After firing the shot, Lazlo drove on for a few seconds, but then slammed on the brakes and turned their car around. Juli saw the grief on Lazlo’s face. When they drove up, she saw the driver of the Volga holding the other man.

  Lazlo picked up his gun from the seat and opened the door.

  “Stay here.”

  Juli stayed low, watching as Lazlo approached the Volga carefully, his pistol aimed at the driver. After Lazlo opened the door and stared inside for a few moments, he lowered his pistol and bent over.

  Obviously the driver was not a fighter. Lazlo placed his hand on the driver’s shoulder and spoke to him. The driver handed two pistols out of the car butt first, and Lazlo put them into the pockets of his jacket. The driver, visibly upset, got out, and Lazlo helped the driver carry the man who’d been shot to Lazlo’s Zhiguli. The man’s arms swung limply, and there was a lot of blood. When they came closer, Juli saw the tears streaming down the driver’s cheeks.

  After Juli got out of the Zhiguli, Lazlo reached inside and yanked the microphone out of the militia two-way radio. He and the driver of the Volga lowered the dead man into the Zhiguli’s passenger seat.

  The driver stood to the side and looked at Juli. “He wasn’t meant for this kind of work. I told him not to point the gun. We worked in a post office. We read peoples’ mail and joked all day. We didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

  The man took off his shoulder holster and handed it to Lazlo.

  Lazlo took the holster and retrieved Juli’s bag from the back seat.

  He motioned to the driver with his pistol.

  “Get in my car and drive back to Kiev. Don’t stop anywhere.

  Don’t go to a phone. Simply drive to Kiev. I’ll be watching, and if you stop anywhere … I don’t want to be forced to come after you.”

  The driver shook visibly as he got into Lazlo’s Zhiguli.

  After the Zhiguli drove slowly away, Lazlo threw Juli’s bag and the two shoulder holsters into the back seat of the Volga. He found an overcoat on the back seat and spread it over the bloodied front seat. Juli got in next to him.

  “Sit close to me,” he said. “There’s no window on your side.”

  He turned the Volga around.

  “Are you going to follow him?” asked Juli.

  “Only until we get to the main highway.”

  “Won’t he stop and report us?”

  “No. They didn’t even radio in.”

  “How do you know?”

  “An old Hungarian saying: When a man weeps, he’s telling the truth.”

  “Are they really KGB?”

  “A branch of it. Did you hear him mention the post office? They were recruited from the PK. This has been planned. They were supposed to panic, kill or be killed.”

  “Why?”

  Lazlo put his arm around her. “To make us as guilty as Komarov wants us to be.”

  When they reached the paved highway, the Zhiguli turned north. Lazlo stopped the Volga and turned on its two-way radio. A female voice directed a numbered car to return to headquarters. No frantic calls to cross the river east of Kiev and go to Visenka.

  Juli looked up to Lazlo, his profile so serious and sad. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m thinking.”

  The morning sun was high and bright in the sky.

  22

  Daylight coming into Komarov’s window made the smoke from his cigarette into a wriggling, iridescent snake. He looked at his watch, after ten. By now the PK agents should have had Juli Popovics here for questioning. Because they were not here, he should be angry to be kept waiting, but he was content. He knew Detective Horvath would interfere with the pickup.

  There were several possible outcomes. The PK agents might have injured or killed or captured Detective Horvath. Or Detective Horvath might have killed or injured them. Perhaps the van tracking Horvath was being used as a hearse. Perhaps Horvath tried to shoot it out with the PK agents and the other men following him.

  The confrontation might have gone many ways, but somehow Horvath would be his, the evidence pointing to sabotage and conspiracy closer to completion. Horvath would become the Gypsy Moth with ties to the CIA. No one would know he had arranged Horvath’s visit to Visenka this morning. Horvath would have destroyed the poet’s note so as not to involve Tamara Petrov. As for the poet, his silence was guaranteed.

  Earlier this morning on his way in to Kiev from Darnitsa, Komarov met the poet at their usual spot near the Monastery of the Caves. The poet wanted payment, but Komarov felt he could no longer fund the arts. The poet was careless, especially his unan-nounced visit to KGB headquarters yesterday, and Komarov found it nece
ssary to use the knife.

  The knock on Komarov’s door was heavy-handed. He expected news from Visenka. Instead, Captain Azef entered slowly and asked if he could speak about a personal matter. Azef, who normally resembled a henchman, sat across the desk, looking like a bald, stuffed bear.

  “What is it you want, Captain? I’m busy with my investigation.”

  “The investigation is the reason I’m here,” said Azef, looking down. “I’m concerned my position as your assistant is being taken over by Captain Brovko.”

  Komarov forced back a smile at this petty jealousy. “What makes you think Captain Brovko is here to replace you?”

  Azef looked up, folded his arms defiantly. “He was sent from Moscow, assigned to the Chernobyl case. Him instead of me, Major, even though I was involved from the beginning when we began observing the Horvath brothers. I have handled matters here in Kiev, having the Transportation Ministry prepare trains in the event of a second explosion, keeping Kiev’s print and broadcast information under control … I have performed as directed, yet Brovko investigates the Horvaths.”

  Komarov put out his cigarette and stared at Azef. “After years of working together, you suddenly question my judgment?”

  “Not your judgment,” said Azef. “I simply wish to be more involved in the Chernobyl investigation rather than emergency readiness.”

  Komarov raised his voice. “Captain Brovko is a nuclear expert assigned by Deputy Chairman Dumenko. Because the Chernobyl matter keeps me occupied, I need you here at headquarters. We have men working in Hungary, researching Horvath’s ties to the West. I’ve heard talk among officials in Moscow looking for ways to feather their nests at the expense of our disaster victims. I need you here at all times to interpret data as it arrives. You are my backup, Captain! Or have you forgotten?”

  Azef unfolded his arms. “I’m sorry, Major. Perhaps this was the wrong time to bring it up. With all this new information coming in …”

  “What new information?”

  “The men following Detective Horvath called in to say they lost him. They said the militia following Horvath also lost him.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “An hour ago?” shouted Komarov.

  “The men just called in. I reprimanded them for waiting and immediately called militia headquarters to see if I could get further information …”

  “And?” shouted Komarov.

  “A few minutes ago, two of our men arrived here in Kiev.”

  Komarov gripped the edge of his desk and stood. He felt like leaping over the desk and using his knife on Azef. “Captain!” he screamed. “Don’t spoon out the facts! Speak up!”

  “The two PK agents assigned to watch Juli Popovics were in Detective Horvath’s car. One of them is dead, and the other said Detective Horvath got away in their car. He was last seen driving the Volga in Visenka. The PK agent still alive is Nikolai Nikolskaia.

  He’s being questioned at militia headquarters.”

  Komarov lifted his phone and rang his secretary. “Have my car brought around to the front immediately! I’ll drive myself!”

  He slammed the phone down and went to the door, leaving Azef sitting at the desk. “Captain! If you ever delay important information again, you won’t have to worry about Brovko or anyone else because you’ll find yourself sitting at a record clerk’s desk in the basement!”

  Before speaking with Nikolai Nikolskaia, Komarov visited the basement morgue at militia headquarters. While standing in a brightly-lit viewing room, waiting for them to bring the body, Komarov wondered if the body of the poet was also here. Perhaps a passerby, or a tourist gone to see the Monastery of the Caves, had walked closely to the old Zil and seen the poet in the front seat. The poet with his neck sliced ear to ear as if someone had grabbed him by the beard and tried to tear off his head. The poet eliminated the same way he had eliminated Pudkov so long ago in the “safe”

  house hallway before going in to see Gretchen. The sound of death remained with him, the knife slicing into flesh and muscle, the victim’s voice interrupted by an involuntary attempt to inhale and, at the same time, withdraw from the blade.

  The Berlin morgue where he had viewed Pudkov and Gretchen smelled the same as this place. Perhaps all morgues throughout the world smelled the same. Men and women reduced to flesh and bone, the dead releasing moisture and gases overcoming the post-mortem chemicals.

  The former PK agent named Pavel looked the same in death as he did in life. Except now his skin was even lighter than before, making him into an albino. Komarov remembered how Pavel had reminded him of Dmitry, a man, yet in some ways not a man. As he viewed the body, he imagined Dmitry lying on the cart instead of Pavel. His son, Dmitry, sent on a dangerous mission. His son dying honorably instead of killing his father with shame.

  After identifying Pavel’s body, Komarov took the stairs up three floors in militia headquarters to where Nikolai Nikolskaia was being held for questioning. While slowly climbing the stairs, Komarov recalled the previous night when the poet arrived unexpectedly at his KGB office. Pavel had been there and seen the poet on his way out.

  But now, with both men in the morgue, the possible flaw in his plan was eliminated. Now it was the duty of both the KGB and the militia to find Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics. If they weren’t found immediately, bait was available for the trap—Tamara Petrov, Aunt Magda, and Nina Horvath.

  “You didn’t know Pavel,” said Nikolai, wiping at his reddened eyes with his sleeve. “He was a sensitive person.”

  “You’ve spoken of his sensitivity several times,” said Komarov.

  “Do you blame me for his death because I spoke to him of duty and honor and the importance of the case?”

  Nikolai folded his hands on the table and blinked to clear his eyes. “No, Major. I simply meant that Pavel and I weren’t used to dangerous work. Pavel overreacted and aimed his gun before I had a chance to run their car off the road.”

  And, thought Komarov, you should have used your gun instead of weeping like an old woman. While Nikolai told his account of what happened, Komarov wondered if all men in the world were being feminized. Under normal circumstances, he would have berated Nikolai. Under normal circumstances, he would have assigned him back to Pripyat and let the radiation fry his skin. But these were not normal circumstances.

  “I understand your concern,” said Komarov. “I was unaware training for PK agents was so limited in the area of combat. If I had known, I would not have assigned you. But we’re short on men, and when you followed Juli Popovics here from Pripyat, I felt you wanted a chance to stay on the case. You gave me reason to believe this when we last met.”

  “I know,” said Nikolai. “It’s my fault for being enthusiastic about the case. If I had known this would happen to Pavel, I would have told the truth.”

  “What is the truth?”

  “You had to have been in Pripyat to understand the situation, Major. Staying there would have been suicide. Everyone was leaving. People had masks on their faces. Peace-loving men tried to stop cars with their bodies. The metallic smell in the air was the smell of death!” Tears ran down Nikolai’s cheeks. “We were trained as PK agents. We went to language school, not combat school. If we hadn’t followed Juli Popovics to Kiev, we might have been dead, or in Moscow where they’re taking the injured. I’ll probably get cancer because of this.”

  Komarov stood and walked around the table. He placed his hand on Nikolai’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your comrade. I will see to it his widow receives a commendation. But for now, Nikolai Nikolskaia, life must go on. Our duty is to serve the state, to bring conspirators to justice. Detective Horvath is obviously more dangerous than I thought. Besides being involved in sabotage with his brother, he is a murderer who will, if not stopped, murder again.”

  Komarov let go of Nikolai’s shoulder and paced about the small room. “I’ll need your help, Nikolai. The tip of the iceberg is melting away,
revealing a serious plot launched from the United States. At this point, I can say to you with all seriousness, we are witnessing a critical time for the future of Communism. If I am to apprehend Detective Horvath and his co-conspirator Juli Popovics, I will need your help. Do I have it?”

  Nikolai again wiped his eyes with his sleeve before looking up and nodding.

  Back in his office at KGB headquarters, Komarov met with Captain Brovko.

  “I was able to speak with Colonel Zamyatin again, this time by radio,” said Brovko.

  “What did the colonel have to say?”

  “Not only are his men shooting dogs and cats on the loose, but local farmers who refuse to leave the area are shooting livestock.”

  “Imagine,” said Komarov, “if such an accident happened in America.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Brovko, looking puzzled.

  “In America, where guns and vigilantism run rampant, they would be shooting more than dogs and livestock. Here it is different. Here everything is under control. Our veterans give up their arms and take up shovels to bury the radiation.”

  After a pause, Brovko nodded. “Colonel Zamyatin said a local veterans group has called for volunteers to go to the Chernobyl region.

  Zamyatin says they may have to cancel the Day of Victory Parade because no veterans will be in Kiev to march. The volunteers already have a name for themselves. They call themselves liquidators.”

  Komarov stood and walked to his window. “I joined the KGB

  right after we shot down the American U-2 spy plane. I was told at the time the plane carried more than cameras. American agents have always had an interest in our nuclear programs. Not only to monitor our every move, but also to slow things down. During our first meeting, I told you of my concerns regarding sabotage, Captain.

  Those concerns have not gone away. You were sent here to help find out exactly what happened at Chernobyl.” Komarov walked back to his desk and leaned on it. “I expect answers, Captain!”

  Brovko sat forward, his fists on the desk almost touching Komarov’s hands. “Very well, Major. May I speak openly about my findings so far?”

  Komarov sat down, taking a moment to compose himself. “Of course, Captain. We all work together in this office.”