Chernobyl Murders

16

On Monday, April 28, the rumor and speculation the government had tried to avoid spread across the Ukraine. Because of its nearness to the disaster site, an explosion of misinformation hit metropolitan Kiev. First came the evacuees who, without official news, brought stories out of proportion like snowballs rolling down hills. These accounts ranged from the entire Chernobyl complex exploding and the town of Pripyat on fire, to citizens collapsing in the streets like insects sprayed with insecticide.

Adding to the speculation was an announcement on Radio Free Europe about high levels of radiation coming from the Soviet Union.

Harsh news would require time for the Soviet News Agency to di-gest and adjust. Continued silence could mean the situation was so far out of control no one knew what to say. Technicians wielding Geiger counters at checkpoints terrified evacuees, as well as citizens of Kiev living on the outskirts near the roadblocks.

But Kievians were used to rumors, and in south and central Kiev life seemed normal. At lunchtime, office workers purchased lunches from vendors along Khreshchatik and, despite the threat of rain, picnicked in the parks along the river. Only a few Kievians hearing the news harbored thoughts of the world’s end, crawling into basements or spending the day on benches in metro air-raid shelters. The usual old women went to church to pray.

The few churches in Pripyat were empty. Residents not yet evacuated were told to seal themselves inside their apartments. Most left on buses Sunday afternoon, some of the evacuees chiding the soldiers forcing them to leave. Soldiers going floor to floor each time a contingent of buses lined up knew little and could only follow orders. The soldiers estimated Pripyat would be all but abandoned the next day.

The sounds in Pripyat came from helicopters passing overhead, army trucks traveling at high speeds, buses lining up, and soldiers shouting through gauze masks, telling residents they had two hours to gather what they could and assemble outside their buildings. Occasionally, when there were no helicopters overhead or trucks or buses on the roads, the soldiers could hear birds and dogs. Birds sang spring songs heralding the cycle of life, not knowing the nests they built here would most likely be doomed. Dogs barked in yards because of the soldiers and because masters had failed to feed them or take them for walks.

Some residents of Pripyat refused to leave. Many were inva-lids who lived alone. Among them was Mihaly and Nina Horvath’s neighbor, the old woman with a cane who had greeted Juli and Marina and Vasily at the Horvath apartment. The old woman stayed in her apartment, fearing looters would take her belongings. On Sunday the woman put her pet canary in its cage out on the balcony.

On Monday morning, finding the canary dead in the cage, the old woman made a flag saying, “Help!” out of a bedsheet and hung it out the window. The canary might have been affected by the radiation or, having been an indoor bird all of its life, might have simply suc-cumbed to the overnight chill. Whatever the reason, the old woman stood leaning on her cane at her window, waiting for soldiers to see her sign from the road and come get her.

In farming villages surrounding Pripyat, people waiting to be evacuated wondered what to do with their livestock. Some piled fodder in barnyards. Others released livestock into fields so they could fend for themselves. Inside farm cottages, kitchen tables were set with plates and cutlery for the number of people living in the cottage. This was for good luck to assure all the residents of the cottage would safely return.

If there had been a window in his small corner cubicle, Lazlo would have seen what appeared to be a typical noontime crowd in the street below. But the cubicle had no window. Lazlo never spent much time here. The only reason he came now was to try again to call the Moscow hospital treating Nina and the girls. But each time he called, the line was busy.

Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko, passing by and looking surprised to see him, leaned into the cubicle.

“I didn’t know you were here, Detective Horvath. I have a message for you. It came upstairs earlier this morning and…”

Lazlo grabbed the message. It said a woman was waiting at the downstairs desk. It said the woman chose to wait even when told Lazlo might not be in the office today. While Lazlo read the note, Lysenko stood before him, smiling like a fool. The note said the woman was young and attractive, and her name was Juli Popovics.

At first the Hungarian name made Lazlo think of the village of Kisbor, the farm where he and Mihaly grew up. But then he recalled the afternoon last winter when Mihaly confessed to him about his lover named Juli.

Citizens of Pripyat fleeing south to Kiev. It had to be. Mihaly’s lover here, to see him. Mihaly dead, Nina and the girls taken to Moscow, and Mihaly’s lover comes to him. Lazlo put the note down on his desk, and when he looked up, Lysenko was still there smiling.

“What do you want, Lysenko?”

“I thought I should fill you in. The trouble has begun. We’ve been told to watch for looters smuggling goods south in hay bales.

In villages farther from the power station, children were moved out ahead of adults, so we’ll have to watch for them at the roadblocks.”

“Anything else?”

“Since you ask,” said Lysenko, “I need to tell you Chief Investigator Chkalov questions why you did not visit the militia station when you were in Pripyat. Apparently he wonders if you might have something to add to the current Pripyat situation.”

Lazlo raised his voice. “Anything else?”

“Nothing else, Detective Horvath.”

“Then why do you stand there like a baggage handler waiting for a tip?”

Lysenko frowned, shook his head. “I thought we would be able to share a professional conversation, Detective Horvath. I thought this woman might relate to a case you’re involved in.” Lysenko straightened his tie. “Since I am Chief Investigator Chkalov’s assistant, it seemed reasonable to take an interest, just as you took an interest in the roadblocks, so much of an interest that you went to the chief investigator’s home last night.”

Lazlo wanted to grab Lysenko by his tie. But as he stepped closer, he controlled the urge. “Is my brother being killed a good enough reason?”

Before Lysenko could react, Lazlo moved past him and hurried down to the front desk.

Like a true refugee, Juli Popovics carried a small overnight bag and wore a scarf and a coat too heavy for the season. The scarf was not on her head, but tied loosely about her neck. Her hair was dark brown, brushed out straight. Her face had a look of innocence, perhaps because she wore no makeup or perhaps because her eyes, large and greenish-gray and unblinking, were full of questions.

“Detective Horvath, my name is Juli Popovics. I know your brother, Mihaly. I came from Pripyat, where there has been trouble.”

“I know.” Lazlo led her to the stairs. “I recognize the Hungarian accent in your Russian.” When she nodded, he switched to Hungarian. “Come, let me take your bag.”

As he climbed the stairs ahead of her, he replayed what she’d said in his head. “I know your brother, Mihaly.” He wondered if her use of present tense was similar to the talk of relatives at a funeral, speaking of the deceased in present tense. How could she be in Pripyat and not know Mihaly was killed?

Lazlo put her bag on his desk, pulled his chair out, and sat before her, feeling vulnerable to her penetrating eyes. In the moments of silence before speaking, he stared at her. She did not know about Mihaly.

“Forgive me, Miss Popovics, my name is Lazlo.”

“Mine is Juli. We traveled all day yesterday and most of the night. Friends dropped me north of the city and went to stay with relatives. I waited at the Hotel Dnieper until morning.”

“Is it bad in Pripyat?”

“People are leaving. No physical damage. The explosion and fire was several kilometers away. But the radiation… everyone who knows about radiation has gone by now, most coming south because the wind has been blowing north. On our way here, we saw buses and army trucks going north.” Juli stared at him, her eyes open wide. “You know something about Mihaly.” She forced a smile. “He’s come here. Mihaly and his family are here!”

Lazlo stared into her eyes as he spoke. “Until this morning, I knew only about an accident at the Chernobyl plant. I was at the roadblock on the road from Korosten all night waiting for Mihaly and Nina and the girls to come. Anna and Ilonka would run to their uncle, and he would lift them up in the air. I would have driven them to my apartment. I’d still be there if this were true. I’d be celebrating with my brother and his family. But they did not come.”

Juli’s eyes moistened, her lips held tightly together, trembling.

Suddenly he felt very close to her. A link to his brother, as though he were about to tell Nina her husband had died. Where was his anger at this woman who might have torn Mihaly away from Nina?

Tears began to flow down the cheeks of this woman named Juli, tears like his at the cathedral where he’d protested the injustice of Mihaly’s death, as if there were such a thing as justice in this world.

Despite her tears, Juli continued staring at him. “It’s Mihaly.”

“He’s dead.” Lazlo had to swallow to continue. “I found out this morning.”

He expected her to break down. But she simply blinked her eyes and said, “What about Mihaly’s wife and little girls? I went to the apartment. A neighbor said they’d gone to the plant to see about him.”

“They’ve been taken to Moscow. I don’t know any other details except they are at a hospital there.”

A noisy pair of officers passed, and Juli glanced their way. She continued staring at the doorway as if the news were not true, as if Mihaly would appear there. For some time she sat this way, her youthful profile stained as tears began to flow. Her cheeks were smooth, her nose rounded, her chin jutting ever so slightly. Although he had fought the feeling, she reminded him of Nina.

Lazlo stood, went to her, and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up, leaned her head, and raised her shoulder, pressing his hand against her cheek, squeezing his hand hard between her cheek and shoulder. Finally, she trembled and wept openly.

“Nikolai Nikolskaia?” shouted Komarov. “Who the hell is that?”

Captain Azef shrugged his shoulders. “He said he spoke with you by phone this morning. He was reluctant to give information to anyone but you. I had to show him my identification before he would reveal he is a PK agent from Pripyat. He said Captain Putna ordered him and his partner to locate Chernobyl workers. They followed a worker to Kiev last night. I would have questioned their motive for following a single worker until he told me the worker they followed is Juli Popovics.”

“Yes,” said Komarov. “I did speak with him this morning.”

“Before we followed Horvath to the cathedral?” said Azef, looking puzzled.

“I had my reasons for not telling you. Where is Nikolskaia’s partner?”

“The other PK agent followed Juli Popovics to militia headquarters where she inquired about Detective Horvath. Shall I bring Nikolskaia in?”

“Yes, Captain. I’ll speak with him alone.”

Azef looked disappointed. “Does this have to do with the Horvath’s American cousin?”

“Send Nikolskaia in on your way out, Captain. I’ve gained his trust, and I’ll fill you in later. Have my secretary bring tea.”

Komarov stood at his window while he waited for Nikolskaia.

He remained at the window as his secretary put the tea tray on his desk. Because his secretary was almost deaf, he did not turn to thank her and knew she did not expect to be thanked. Over the years, the old Slav had become good at coming and going unnoticed.

Even though he could not see it, Komarov stared out his window in the direction of Chernobyl. With Juli Popovics in Kiev contacting Detective Horvath, Mihaly Horvath dead, Azef confused, and Deputy Chairman Dumenko backing him, an impression of conspiracy was created. For Komarov, the more killed and injured, the better. Grigor Komarov, the diligent Soviet citizen who helped the union save face in the wake of nuclear catastrophe.

Nikolai Nikolskaia wore a soiled imitation leather jacket, wrinkled shirt, and no tie. He was a young man with soft features reminding Komarov of his son, Dmitry. Nikolskaia watched warily as Komarov adjusted his uniform lapels and tie after sitting at his desk.

“Please sit down,” said Komarov in a tone he usually reserved for higher officials.

Nikolskaia sat nervously, staring at the tea tray. “Thank you, Major Komarov.”

“I understand you followed Juli Popovics here to Kiev.”

“Captain Putna instructed us to observe her. We felt badly about having to leave the area. We would have liked to stay and help.”

“I’m sure you would have,” said Komarov. “Just as I wish I could be there to help. But critical counterespionage work needs to be done here in Kiev.”

“If there is anything I… we can do, Major…”

“Tell me, Nikolskaia, did it seem to you Juli Popovics was running away from something other than radiation danger?”

“We thought of this… it could be.”

Komarov poured tea for himself and pushed the tray to Nikolskaia. “From the beginning, give me details of your observation.”

After a few sips of tea, Nikolskaia began with letters intercepted at the post office, including those between the Horvath brothers, and from the cousin, Andrew Zukor. Regarding letters from Juli Popovics, Nikolskaia concluded she was pregnant, as indicated in recent correspondence to her aunt. Next he told about their observation of the apartment and the arrival of “others” who drove Juli Popovics and her roommate quickly out of town.

“And then,” said Nikolskaia, “as we waited in line at the roadblock, she left the car and went on foot, passing through the roadblock without being stopped. She took the metro and stayed in the Hotel Dnieper lobby until going to militia headquarters this morning.”

Komarov swiveled his chair, facing away from Nikolskaia. “Perhaps I should provide some background. During the past year, KGB analysts, at my direction, have researched the Horvath family. The cousin, Andrew Zukor, was given the name Gypsy Moth because, as a moth flies to and from a bright light, Zukor has flown in and out of the Ukraine many times. We’ve had men watching him. Although he is a U.S. citizen, he bases his operations in Hungary. We believe he is part of a deep-cover operation collecting technologi-cal intelligence. Therefore, communicating with Mihaly Horvath, a senior reactor control engineer at the Chernobyl Power Station, has been a concern. To put it bluntly, I am now certain CIA operatives, perhaps answering directly to the movie actor President Reagan, have been working to discredit the Soviet nuclear program. And what better way to do this than to cause an accident at the plant?”

Komarov felt pleased with the scenario he had concocted. A CIA operative attempting to influence a Chernobyl engineer should get Nikolskaia’s blood boiling. He swiveled his chair back to Nikolskaia, waited a moment, and when Nikolskaia did not answer, continued. “It’s unfortunate we do not have this Zukor fellow here in our country where the court system could deal with him. With existing evidence, it would be a matter of charges, verdict, and prison term. Swift justice and, if necessary, perhaps some telephone justice for good measure.”

Komarov could see his conversation was having the desired effect. Nikolskaia looked confused and uncomfortable at having been told too much.

“I’m sorry,” continued Komarov. “I assumed you knew in cases of espionage, verdicts are often determined by a Party official’s phone call to a judge.”

Komarov stood and walked to his window. He turned around to face Nikolskaia, knowing he presented a dark figure against the bright western sky, as he continued a speech he felt would put Nikolskaia in the palm of his hand.

“We know Zukor visited the Horvath brothers at their ancestral farm last summer. We know funds were passed to Zukor from CIA operatives. Therefore, it is obvious the Gypsy Moth seeks to destabilize the union just as his namesake destabilized vegetation in his country. Zukor is a Gypsy, like his cousins. Have you noticed Gypsies have olive-colored skin? These races have a tendency to worship false gods, generate extremists, and do their best to disrupt civilized Soviet society. Haven’t we learned our lesson in Afghanistan?

“I’m concerned about our union, Comrade Nikolskaia. At first glance, openness and restructuring seem constructive. But if leaders in their embrace of restructuring fall into a trap, what will they find at the bottom of the pit? Not extremists. They will be at the edge of the pit, looking down. To climb the walls of the pit one must overcome religion, capitalism, homosexuality, and all extremism!”

Nikolskaia sat upright, expanding his chest and staring wide-eyed. Komarov’s rant had taken hold. He returned to his desk and sat down, picked up his teacup, and had a sip. Nikolskaia did the same, but his eyes were wide with anticipation. Komarov allowed a minute to pass, saying nothing before continuing in a calmer voice.

He commended Nikolskaia on his actions before he began preparing Nikolskaia for what would become a more elaborate version of Juli Popovics’ trip to Kiev.

First, because of the speed of the escape, it was obvious Juli Popovics was running from fear of capture. The men who tried to stop the car, Nikolskaia admitted, might have been other agents; indeed, they probably were, since his being a PK agent did not give him familiarity with all KGB operations in Pripyat. Next, instead of merely following others on back roads to avoid the reactor site, the car in which Juli Popovics rode purposely evaded pursuers.

Finally, Komarov got Nikolskaia to agree Juli Popovics surrepti-tiously entered Kiev, leaving the car in which she had escaped Pripyat and going on foot, using methods to avoid authorized KGB observation.

“Juli Popovics knew she was being followed by the KGB,” said Komarov. “She has something to hide and has gone out of her way to lose herself in Kiev. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Nikolskaia, obviously afraid to say no.

By the end of the session, Nikolskaia was more than willing to complete and sign a preliminary report in Komarov’s office, with Captain Azef called in as witness. Nikolskaia and his partner would make a full report later in the day. Komarov ordered two men to replace Nikolskaia’s partner watching Juli Popovics, and the two PK agents from Pripyat would return to Komarov’s office for further orders.

After Nikolskaia and Azef were gone, Komarov lit a cigarette and returned to his window. Down on the street, he saw Nikolskaia enter a battered Moskvich, which smoked as it started. He would keep the PK agents on the case, dress them up in new suits, and give them a Volga to drive. In their new positions as KGB investigators, they would, if there was ever an inquiry, collaborate the evidence of the conspiracy uncovered by Major Grigor Komarov.

Komarov left his window and returned to his desk. He placed a call to Major Dmitry Struyev, the only member of Directorate T in the Kiev office. Struyev was a trusted comrade, a so-called hard-liner. He was rarely in his office, but today he answered his phone.

“I am calling about a matter I brought up some time ago,” said Komarov.

“Proceed,” said Struyev, a man of few words.

“The American visiting Hungary has become a problem.”

“Gypsy Moth?”

“Yes,” said Komarov. “He has information critical to our nuclear program and is about to pass the information along. I need to be certain he does not.”

“I understand,” said Struyev. “Is there anything else?”

“No.”

They hung up without further comment. Komarov went back to his window and looked west. Somewhere beyond the Carpathians, Andrew Zukor would soon meet a man sent by Struyev. Whatever knowledge Zukor had would be gone, and the Chernobyl conspiracy would strengthen. As he stood at his window, Komarov felt the irony of his son, Dmitry, having the same name as the man he had just called.

Although Juli took precautions to limit her radiation exposure, she felt there was more she could have done. Instead of waiting to use the ladies’ room at the Hotel Dnieper to wash and change clothes, she should have used the ladies’ room earlier in the metro station.

Back in Pripyat, instead of going to see about Mihaly’s family, she should have stayed in the apartment.

As if he knew about the baby, Mihaly’s brother seemed anxious, taking time to call a hospital and arrange tests, driving her himself, and waiting for her. When the tests were completed, Lazlo came to her with a look of compassion.

“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 similar 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.