Chernobyl Murders

13

Because it was early Sunday morning, the absence of Kiev’s buses went unnoticed. Spouses or partners did not think it unusual for a driver to be called in for special duty. It happened sometimes.

A spring shower had cleansed Kiev’s streets during the night, the sun filtered through thin wisps of cloud, and smells of rainwater and greenery and breakfast were in the air. Russian Orthodox Palm Sunday had brought out several pedestrians who managed to find a service. They carried palms as they headed back to their apartments.

Lazlo and Tamara walked to a combination cafe and bakery a few blocks from his apartment. They sat at a small table sipping strong coffee and munching on an assortment of strudel while patrons purchased crackling white bags of sweets at the counter.

The proprietress behind the counter was a short, plump woman with skin as white as the powdered sugar abundantly sprinkled on the pastries in the windowed case. Every few minutes the baker, who was the woman’s husband, came through a swinging door to replenish the supply in the case. He was skinny, his baker’s cap making him look as if it might tip him over on his head.

Tamara had pinned her hair atop her head and wore a sweater and short skirt, which attracted glances from the men who came into the bakery. Her earrings, with gold stars dangling from chains, swung from side to side as she chewed.

“I like the cheese filling best. Which is your favorite, Laz?”

“Poppy seed.”

“I don’t usually eat breakfast. Nothing but coffee when I get to the office. Most of the poets who contribute to the journal are skinny as hell. I should bring them here, fatten them up.”

“They’d write poems about pastry instead of politics,” said Lazlo.

Tamara licked cheese from her fingertip. “Ode to a strudel.

Much healthier than politics. Poets are a lot like you, constantly brooding. Sometimes I think they’d all like to go to a labor camp to die the way Vasyl Stus died.”

“How did he die?”

“He was typical of many poets who search for connections between the specifics of politics and the universals of life instead of simply enjoying the here and now.”

“I’m enjoying myself now.”

“And last night?” asked Tamara.

“Metaphorically, last night was like eating a thousand strudels.”

The number of carryout patrons increased, and the baker made more trips to keep the case full. The cheeks of the proprietress reddened despite her doughy complexion. A middle-aged man at the counter placed his order in Ukrainian instead of the usual Russian.

“Will your family be able to eat all this?” asked the proprietress.

“My family has doubled,” said the man. “My brother-in-law and his family came unexpectedly in the middle of the night. Woke me up saying they had to abandon their home.”

“What happened?”

“Some kind of accident at the nuclear plant where he works. He said many have abandoned the area because the air and water may be poisoned.”

“The air and water?” said the proprietress. “Where is this?”

“At Chernobyl, to the north. My brother-in-law lives in Pripyat.

He said there’s no problem here because of the distance. But up there he says people are panicking.”

Lazlo felt cold, as if he had been thrust back into the wine cellar with Mihaly last summer on the farm, Mihaly warning of danger at Chernobyl.

Lazlo left the table, stood behind the man at the counter.

The man continued with the proprietress. “My tiny apartment is like a metro station. My brother-in-law has two teenaged daughters. They have already taken over the bathroom.”

“Has there been anything on the news about this?” asked the proprietress.

“Nothing. We watched the early news and listened to the radio.

I was beginning to think my brother-in-law’s moving in with us was part of some clever scheme. But this morning a neighbor heard of another family on the next block whose relatives also arrived last night.”

The man picked up his packages. “I’ll probably see you again tomorrow. These relatives will eat me out of house and home.”

The man tried to leave, but Lazlo stepped sideways, blocking his path. He spoke in Ukrainian. “Excuse me, comrade. I couldn’t help overhearing you.”

“What do you want?” said the man, eyeing Lazlo suspiciously.

“My brother lives in Pripyat. Please tell me, did your brother-in-law give any details about the accident?”

“Nothing more. You overheard everything I know.”

“What about your brother-in-law? I’d like to speak with him.”

“I… I don’t know. It will surely be on the news. Watch the news.”

The man tried to step past, but Lazlo blocked him. “Please.”

“I must go,” said the man.

Lazlo stood his ground, sighed, took his wallet from his pocket, and showed the man his militia identification.

“I’ve done nothing wrong!” screeched the man.

“Please, my brother and his family live in Pripyat. My brother works at the Chernobyl plant. Perhaps your brother-in-law can tell me something. Perhaps he even knows my brother.”

Lazlo and Tamara and the man left the bakery, walked less than a block to an apartment building. Inside the apartment, two women eyed Tamara.

The brother-in-law and his wife were about the same age as Mihaly and Nina, but the daughters were older than Anna and Ilonka.

A little boy and a baby, apparently the resident children, were also in the room. It was so crowded the children sat on the floor.

The brother-in-law’s name was Yuri Tupolev. Despite Lazlo’s assurances, Tupolev worried he would get in trouble.

“I had days off coming. Maybe they need help, but nobody told me to stay. I wanted to turn back, but my family…”

“I understand,” said Lazlo. “Believe me, I’m also here because of family concern. You say you know Mihaly Horvath?”

“Not personally. I only know he’s an engineer. I’m on a maintenance crew. We travel from building to building. I know his name because he once directed work we were doing.”

“Were you at the plant when this accident occurred?”

“No. I was at home.”

“Tell me what you saw and heard. Start from the time of the accident.”

“It was some time after midnight Saturday… yesterday. One loses track of time after being awake so long. I was up late and couldn’t sleep. When I went outside, I saw smoke and what looked like fire in the sky. A while later, trucks sped past, one pulled up, and my neighbor jumped off the back end. He said one of the reactors exploded. He was there, at the station, and said radiation was released. We tried calling around to see what was up but couldn’t get through to anyone. By dawn there were all kinds of rumors. My neighbor had his dosimeter on. He got a small dose while escaping. Later in the morning, he comes over and says the exposure is going up. Right there in his apartment he’s getting exposed. So we brought our families to Kiev. He has a little shitbox of a car. We all packed into it, it kept running, and here we are.”

“When did you arrive?” asked Lazlo.

“About midnight.”

“When did you leave?”

“It was two or three in the afternoon by the time we got everyone together.”

“It took nine hours to drive the hundred kilometers from Pripyat to Kiev?”

“By the time we got going, the dosimeter was really going up.

We didn’t want to take the main road because it went back east past the plant before turning south. We drove southwest, away from the plant and the direction of the wind. The back roads were terrible, and we had to stop for directions several times. We finally followed the Uzh River all the way to Korosten and then took the highway back to Kiev.”

“Were there many others trying to escape?”

“No. We thought it odd, but there were only a few cars. It’s probably because there was no news.”

“Nothing on the local radio and television stations?”

“Nothing but music,” said Tupolev. “They even skipped the regular news broadcasts.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” asked Lazlo.

Tupolev looked down at his hands. “One more thing. Your brother might have been on duty during the accident. My neighbor said they were doing an experiment and several engineers were there. They were supposed to shut the reactor down. I guess something went wrong.”

“Could my brother have been on one of the trucks you saw?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Tupolev.

“Your neighbor, the one who came to Kiev with you… would he know?”

“I’ll write down his name and the address of his parents.”

Lazlo quickly supplied pen and paper. While Tupolev wrote the information, Lazlo looked at the faces of the others in the apartment. They looked like visitors to a wake who must now face the next of kin. During the conversation, Tamara came to his side and put her arm about him, holding him gently.

Yuri Tupolev’s neighbor said the engineers and technicians at the plant ran from the control room after an initial explosion. He knew nothing more. As for Mihaly, he might have escaped because several cars and trucks were seen speeding from the plant.

After questioning Yuri Tupolev’s neighbor, Lazlo stopped at a phone and tried to call Pripyat. Again, the call could not go through and the operator was unable to give a reason. Lazlo called militia headquarters and spoke to the sergeant on duty. The sergeant knew nothing about an accident at Chernobyl, and neither did anyone else at headquarters. However, Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko, Chkalov’s right-hand man, was at the city’s boundary on the road leading north and had called for additional uniformed men for some kind of roadblock. Chkalov was not in, and the sergeant could give no further information.

Before driving to the so-called roadblock on the north end of the city, Lazlo dropped Tamara off at her apartment.

“Thank you for being so understanding, Tamara.”

“How could I not be understanding? He’s your brother.”

“I mean about going with me.”

“I only wanted to ride in your speedy Zhiguli and listen to the two-way radio.” Tamara placed her hand on his knee. “Promise me something, Laz. If you decide to drive to Pripyat, take the long way around.”

Tamara put her arm around him, pulled him close, kissed him.

As she walked up the steps to her building, Lazlo paused a moment.

Seeing Tamara walk away after the weekend they had spent together, and speculating about the trouble ahead, made him feel the elusive-ness of life and its pleasures. He put the Zhiguli in gear and sped up the street.

There was no mention of a nuclear incident on the Zhiguli’s radio, not even when he managed to tune to Voice of America. He tried the Radio Free Europe frequency, but there was no morning programming. For a moment he began to wonder if it was all a mistake.

But the roadblock at the outskirts of the city where the extension of Boulevard Shevchenko curved north was no mistake. Two marked militia cars blocked the road, and uniformed officers turned traffic back to Kiev. Amid the officers, dressed in his Sunday suit, was Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko, who always wore what looked like a Sunday suit, the uniform of one who seeks promotion. Lazlo pulled to the right of the waiting vehicles and walked to where Lysenko stood in the morning sun, staring at the barren road to the north.

Lysenko turned. “Good morning, Detective Horvath. Are you here to help?”

Rather than take time to explain, Lazlo used a direct approach.

“The chief sent me. He said you should fill me in.”

“It’s the nuclear plant at Chernobyl.”

“I’ve already heard rumors,” said Lazlo, wanting to get on with it. “Do you know if anyone was killed or injured?”

“All I was told is no one should try to drive there,” said Lysenko.

“The republic militia has blocked the road farther north. Apparently there’s some radiation, but the chief said civilians are to be told nothing except the road is closed. It’s already caused arguments.

These people with their Sunday plans.”

Lysenko looked up the road. “Something is puzzling about this.

I thought there would be heavy traffic from the north. So far we’ve only had a few cars come through. I’m beginning to wonder if there really was an accident at the plant.”

“Did you question the people coming south?”

“My orders were simply to let no one go north.”

Lysenko’s profile, with his pointy chin and upturned nose, suddenly looked foolish. Lazlo wanted to call him what he looked like, but instead he said, “You didn’t question anyone or take names?”

“No. My orders were simply to let no one go north.”

“If you’re still wondering, my fine deputy chief, why there are so few cars, perhaps a bit of logic is in order.”

Lysenko turned and frowned at Lazlo. “What do you mean?”

“One look at a map would tell you the two largest towns up there, Chernobyl and Pripyat, are very near the nuclear facility bordering this road. If there is radioactivity in the area, citizens might be directed away from this road. If you wish to see accident refugees, I suggest you put men on the road from Korosten!”

Lysenko stared at Lazlo in obvious anger, saying nothing.

After Lazlo sped off, Lysenko turned and trotted to the front of the roadblock.

“What did he want?” asked one of the uniformed men.

“He probably wanted to drive the two hours to the nuclear plant so he could make himself into a hero,” said Lysenko.

“But his brother works there. Didn’t you tell him about all the fire trucks and buses sent from Kiev?”

“Why should I tell him anything?”

The uniformed man shook his head, muttering as he walked to one of the green and white militia Zhigulis.

Tamara was correct when she said ministries were gloomy places.

The contrast between fresh outside air and the smell of floor cleaner and polish was apparent. As Lazlo walked quickly down a long hallway, a washerwoman standing on a ladder cleaning portraits turned to stare at him as if humans mattered less than the portraits of the bastards lining the walls. Bastards like Ryzhkov and Chebrikov and even Gorbachev. All bastards who followed the Party line so workers got lost in the woodwork of buildings like this.

The only person available at the Kiev office of the Ministry of Energy was a deputy minister named Mishin who wore thick glasses and spoke with a northern accent.

“You say everything is fine at the plant?” said Lazlo.

“Yes,” said Mishin. “Everything is under control.”

“If everything is under control, why are you here on Sunday?”

“The minister ordered it.”

“What exactly happened at Chernobyl?”

“I must repeat, everything is under control.”

“What about radiation and injuries?”

“We know of none.”

Lazlo felt like asking Mishin to remove his thick glasses so he could flatten his face.

“Pardon me if I seem outspoken, Comrade Deputy Minister, but I have relatives in the region, and I’m trying to determine if they are safe.”

“I know of no injuries or danger to the population. Because of the possibility of gossip developing, I’ve been ordered to quell false rumors. There was a minor incident at one of the reactors at the Chernobyl facility. Everything is under control, and no one is in danger.”

“Who is your minister?”

“His name is on the plaque at the entrance.”

“When will he be here?”

“Tomorrow morning with the rest of the staff. Perhaps by then there will be more news.”

In the lobby Lazlo took out his notebook and copied down the name of the minister of electric power, Viktor Asimov. At first all Lazlo could think of was his friend Viktor from the army. But then he considered the last name and wondered if the Chernobyl stories he was being told were science fiction. The washerwoman on the ladder turned to watch him leave.

Because he had visited Chief Investigator Chkalov’s house for May Day picnics in the past, Lazlo found it without knowing the address.

Chkalov wore a purple satin robe over dress trousers and invited Lazlo into a book-lined study. Chkalov had the housekeeper bring tea, and they sat across from one another in deep leather chairs.

“I understand your concern for your brother and his family, Detective Horvath. I wish I knew more about the situation up there.”

“I spoke with Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko at a roadblock to the north. He said your orders were to stop northbound traffic.”

Chkalov stirred his tea with a plump finger. “Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko phoned and said you were at the roadblock. He said you were upset names had not been taken down.”

“Communication to the area is cut off, and no one seems to know what’s happened. The Ministry of Energy insists everything is fine, but I heard a different story while sitting in a restaurant earlier this morning.”

“One rumor leads to another, Detective Horvath. People become upset, perhaps for no reason.”

“I don’t pretend to know the facts,” said Lazlo. “All I’m asking is that names be taken at the roadblocks.”

Chkalov rose and walked about the room with his tea. “Very well, Detective Horvath. I’ll order names be taken down. In the meantime, I need you at one of the roadblocks. Report immediately to the road from Korosten, and check with me tomorrow for further instructions. If the number of people coming south from the Chernobyl area increases, arrangements have been made at the Selskaya collective farm. Two hundred people can be housed there should the need arise.”

While Lazlo sat in the center of the room with his boss circling him like a fat, purple planet, he wondered what else Chkalov knew but refused to reveal.

“Your prime duty at the roadblock will be to make sure your officers do not add to the spread of rumors. For example, one of the men reports the hydrofoil to Pripyat is not running, yet we have no confirmation of this.”

“I must tell you, Chief Investigator, I’ve been to the Ministry of Energy.”

“And?” said Chkalov with a frown.

“I was told everything is under control.”

“Detective Horvath, the overall responsibility for Chernobyl is with the Ministry of Medium Machine Building. Since their office is in Moscow, perhaps things are being controlled from there. Is your brother a senior engineer?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure he knows enough to take care of himself. For now, we must maintain calm in our city by avoiding rumors. Go to headquarters and gather officers for your roadblock at Korosten. Above all, avoid rumors.”

Lazlo would follow his orders. But Chkalov knew more than he was saying, and had acted the way he’d seen Chkalov act when officers were in trouble. When he stopped at his apartment to pick up his pistol on the way to headquarters, Lazlo found a wineglass from the night before set upright on the table. He was certain the glass had been on its side when he and Tamara had left for breakfast. He remembered Tamara wiping at a droplet of wine from the overturned glass with her finger. Someone had been in the apartment since he and Tamara left this morning. At the roadblock, after picking up his officers, there were other things adding to Lazlo’s concern.

First, the number of cars coming from the Chernobyl area was on the rise, and occupants spoke of radiation and asked about the location of Kiev’s hospitals. Second, a black Volga was parked off to the side near the roadblock, the two occupants obviously KGB.

Normally this would not bother Lazlo, but with his apartment being broken into and with Chkalov saying less than he knew, Lazlo knew the KGB might be there to watch who came from the north to escape the radiation, or they might be there to watch him.

It was after noon on a Sunday, and Kievians out for their drives in the country were angry. While Lazlo watched his men arguing with drivers, he remembered the question he had saved for the wine cellar last summer. The question he had not wanted Nina or the children or the other relatives to hear.

What’s wrong at Chernobyl?

Several buses came through the checkpoint as the afternoon wore on. Rather than being from the towns of Pripyat or Chernobyl, the buses had picked up people in outlying areas south of the plant. Some said they were out for a Sunday walk when the bus came by. Others said they were on their way to spend a Sunday in Kiev anyway and welcomed the free ride.

But on one bus there were people from nearer the plant who knew about the accident. This bus overflowed with speculation.

They said Soviet army troops controlled traffic farther to the north.

A woman doctor on the bus, when asked what might be happening, said, “The children will get iodine prophylaxis, and then everything will be fine as long as the children are protected against any radiation. If there is radiation.”

One man on the bus from nearer the plant said the radiation would go north into the Belarussian Republic because of the southerly winds. Another man claimed parents trying to send children away would eventually besiege the railway stations. This same man insisted he saw a long line of buses heading north before he was picked up. A homeless woman wearing rags became hysterical, saying Gorbachev was a devil with a birthmark. A teenaged boy said he was a Young Pioneer and was certain the Pioneers would become involved in any rescue effort.

Lazlo recalled his last visit to Pripyat, when Mihaly wondered if Cousin Zukor could be a spy. If any one of the rumors he heard in a single hour was true, anything could be true.

The day continued with more cars at the checkpoint, more people wanting to go north, but also other cars. Green and white militia Zhigulis, two men in a black Volga watching, a Chaika with yellow fog lights parked up the hill, and a newer Zil, the kind used by high officials.

Do not spread rumors, Chkalov had said. Do not panic. The one thing he wanted to do was jump in his Zhiguli and drive north.

But he knew, from years of experience in the militia, it was too late.

As rumors spread, so do people. He was certain Mihaly and Nina and the girls were by now away from Pripyat. He only hoped they would be here in Kiev before the day was out.