Chernobyl Murders

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.

Before Lazlo left the Ministry of Energy, Asimov gave him the address and phone number of Municipal Hospital Number Six and said he could inquire daily about any information relayed from Moscow. Asimov smiled and said good-bye, and Lazlo thought, All of the ministries in the union are populated with puppets attached to Moscow’s long strings.

Outside the ministry, the faded red Zhiguli was parked a half block away on the far side of the street. When Lazlo pulled out into the late-afternoon traffic, the Zhiguli followed. But what did it matter now? He was of no help to Nina and the girls. He was of no help to Juli Popovics. He could barely help himself as he drove wearily to his apartment.

When he parked in front of his building, he didn’t even bother to look for the red Zhiguli. Tonight at midnight when he went on duty, they would most likely have switched cars. With several hours of sleep behind him, he would spot them. But for now, as he climbed the stairs to his apartment, a deathlike sleep beckoned him to join his brother, and he tried to forget about the Ministry of Energy, the KGB, and the frightened faces at the roadblock.

Major Grigor Komarov of the KGB stood at the desk and switched off the intercom. He had overheard Asimov’s attempts to reassure Detective Horvath. Instead of sitting back down in the guest chair, Komarov walked around Asimov’s desk, sat in the larger chair, rested his elbows on the desktop, and waited. When Asimov returned to his office, he narrowed his eyes at Komarov, walked to the window, and looked out. Komarov knew he was expected to vacate the chair because its owner had returned. But he stayed where he was, and Asimov, circling the room like a vulture, finally settled in one of the guest chairs as if it were carrion.

“I assume you continued listening while I spoke to the detective?” said Asimov.

“I listened, Comrade Minister. And I’d like your opinion of what should be done.”

Asimov adjusted his position in the chair. “My ministry will keep Detective Horvath informed of the health of his brother’s family as we receive information from Moscow.”

“What about his provocative antigovernment statements?”

“His brother has died. What can I do? Paint rosy pictures and upset him even more? The Chernobyl situation is serious. The new openness of the general secretary dictates…”

Komarov interrupted. “You and your people assume the KGB’s goal is concealment, when in fact the opposite it true! For example, your representative never told Detective Horvath what kind of material is being released.”

Asimov sat forward in the chair. “What does it matter to you?

You are not there.”

Komarov glared at Asimov, then continued in a calmer voice.

“Comrade, I ask a question, and this is the kind of answer I get?”

Asimov waved his hand in the air. “Many things have been released by the explosion. Iodine, cesium, cadmium, hundreds of radionuclides… the same kind of material as in an atmospheric test or at Hiroshima. For this reason alone, the KGB should understand at a time like this, when one’s own family…”

Komarov interrupted again, but lowered his voice. “The KGB, Comrade Minister, understands many things. Do you think we make a habit of tormenting grieving relatives? Don’t you realize we have valid reasons for inquiry? The KGB head in Pripyat met with Party committee personnel immediately after the accident, and I’ve yet to hear from him. No matter what you think, the KGB will do its part. Disaster suggests violence and terror, and I’ve come here for information to help deal with those possibilities. Can you guarantee at this early stage what happened at Chernobyl was an accident?”

Asimov stood, walked behind the desk, forcing Komarov to swivel around in the large desk chair. Asimov stared down at Komarov, contempt obvious on his face.

“Major Komarov, what is it you want from me?”

“You must file an official request to the KGB for an investigation of Detective Horvath.”

“On what grounds?”

“Comrade Minister, you and I both listened to Detective Horvath’s attempts to intimidate your engineer. He asked detailed questions, and in my opinion, your engineer told him too much.

We both heard his tirades. He was upset about his brother. But there is something beneath the surface, something I have seen in others who try to hide their true concerns.”

“What if I choose not to file such a report?”

“Because I am here on official business, it is mandatory I fill out a report. In my report I will have to say the minister of electric power was reluctant to document a situation critical to the investigation of circumstances surrounding the incident at Chernobyl.”

Komarov stood, invited Asimov to sit in his own chair behind his own desk. Before he left the office, Komarov gave Asimov the address of Deputy Chairman Dumenko’s Moscow office to which the request for investigation should be sent. He told Asimov to have the request ready by nine the following morning so a KGB courier could pick it up.

When Komarov left the building, he lit a cigarette and walked slowly to the Volga, where Captain Azef waited. He continued smoking the cigarette after entering the car.

“What did I miss?” asked Azef. “Detective Horvath left some time ago. Our men radioed to say he went to his apartment.”

“The energy minister and an engineer fresh out of university with fur on his lip empathize with Detective Horvath and in doing so have forgotten their duties.”

“Where do we go now?” asked Azef.

“To militia headquarters to see our old friend Chkalov.”

“Ah,” said Azef. “The next victim.”

Komarov puffed on his cigarette and glared at Azef, who faced forward and began driving. Azef was wrong. These were not victims.

More like stepping-stones on his journey to his chairmanship. As Azef drove past late-afternoon homebound workers exiting a metro station, Komarov visualized a circus performer walking upon the bobbing heads of the crowd.

Chief Investigator Chkalov was arrogant until Komarov informed him of the death of Detective Horvath’s brother, and of the meeting with his brother’s lover in Kiev.

“On orders from Moscow,” continued Komarov, “the Chernobyl incident will be subject to an in-depth investigation leaving no stone unturned. I’m here to inform you of anti-Soviet statements made by your detective.”

“What anti-Soviet statements?”

“Today at the Ministry of Energy, Detective Horvath made accusations concerning the operation of the Chernobyl plant. He used his authority as a militia detective to gain access to officials. He used a method the Germans refer to as schrecklichkeit. Show your badge and intimidate relentlessly until the victim gives in.”

“Detective Horvath is not that kind of man,” said Chkalov. “It sounds more like something the KGB would do. Or better yet, since you bring up methods used in the last war, the old Cheka!”

Komarov leaned forward, placed one fist gently on the desk. “I should have brought my assistant with me to witness your lack of cooperation, Chief Investigator Chkalov.”

“Who says I’m not cooperating? I simply don’t understand this vendetta you have against Detective Horvath. His brother is dead, yet he continues his duties.”

“He didn’t know about his brother until this morning.”

Chkalov shrugged. “But he went on duty, knowing his brother was in the area of danger.”

“He went on duty at the roadblock so he could watch for his brother. Perhaps he was to meet Juli Popovics and his brother at the roadblock. I must consider the possibility of sabotage at the plant. I must consider the possibility of Mihaly Horvath and Juli Popovics working together and Detective Horvath providing an escape route!”

“Impossible!” shouted Chkalov.

“Nothing is impossible,” said Komarov in a calmer voice.

“There has been a Hungarian connection under KGB observation for some time. A relative of the Horvaths has met with CIA agents in Budapest. The Horvaths and Juli Popovics share Hungarian lineage. Imagine the consequences, Comrade Chief Investigator, if a conspiracy exists and if you, despite your knowledge of the situation, allow Detective Horvath to remain in his position.”

“You want me to suspend him?”

“Not yet. I want you to observe him. He may lead us to others.”

“And if I don’t cooperate?”

“I’ll be forced to report that the Kiev militia refuses to cooperate in a KGB investigation ordered by Deputy Chairman Dumenko in Moscow.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“When the time comes, suspension will put Detective Horvath on notice. He will know the investigation is closing in.”

“And if he’s innocent?” asked Chkalov.

“I doubt it,” said Komarov, standing to leave. “We’ve already had a foreign relative under observation. If Horvath is innocent, the price of a few days’ lost pay is a sacrifice any citizen would gladly bear to wipe the slate clean. Please remember, Chief Investigator, it is most important to my investigation you do not suspend Detective Horvath until it is time.”

Before he turned to leave, Komarov noticed Chkalov’s fists clenched tightly on his desk.

Outside militia headquarters it was dusk, the streets emptied of homebound workers, and a light rain fell. Captain Azef started the Volga as Komarov got in.

“No cigarette?” asked Azef, turning on the windshield wipers.

“I have other things on my mind besides smoking. Drive to the office.”

“Yes,” said Azef. “There are inquiries from Moscow to answer.”

“You will answer them by repeating the situation at Chernobyl is under control and the evacuation is almost complete.”

“Surely we’ll want to provide more information…”

Komarov interrupted. “We must follow through on the Horvath investigation. I want those two PK agents from Pripyat back on duty.”

“What are they going to do?”

“Tomorrow they’ll resume their observation of Juli Popovics.”

“Shouldn’t trained men be used for such an observation?” asked Azef.

“Not necessarily, Captain. A noisy observation serves a purpose. It brings others out of their holes. On the other hand, I want our best men watching Detective Horvath.”

When Captain Azef turned onto Volodimirska Street, Komarov looked back to his left where he could see the lighted cable-car railway climbing the steep dark hill to the northeast. The lights of the ascending and descending funicular cable cars glistened in the droplets of rain on the window like medals pinned to the breast of a uniform. Atop the hill, holding his crucifix, was the statue of Saint Vladimir. The statue was outlined black against the darkening sky, a fearsome outline of someone entirely in control.

Komarov felt the weight of the knife in his coat pocket as he reached for a cigarette. He lit the cigarette and blew the smoke in Azef’s direction, causing him to cough as he drove.