Chernobyl Murders

18

Men, women, and children who arrived day and night at the roadblock were like war refugees, wide-eyed as if opening their eyes wider would make room for them in Kiev. Hotels and inns were full. And even though many Kievians had fled south, this simply resulted in locked and empty apartments. There was not enough room in Kiev for Chernobyl refugees. Therefore, collectives were put to work. Day and night, Lazlo and his men sent refugees on their way to collective farms to the west and south. Day and night, militiamen shrugged their shoulders when asked obvious questions.

“When will we be able to return?” “Where will we live in the meantime?” “Will it be safe where we are going?”

When Lazlo and his men asked about the situation at and around Chernobyl and Pripyat, the answer was always the same.

Except for being told to evacuate, except for knowing a nuclear plant had exploded, these poor souls knew only rumors. Do not drink milk because it stores radiation. Stop eating leafy vegetables. Drink vodka and wine to purge radiation.

When a vehicle or its passengers caused a technician’s Geiger counter to chatter, a tanker-truck team gave them a shower. Day or night, the scene at the roadblock was surreal. The refugees in line reminded Lazlo of wide-eyed schoolchildren on inoculation day, imagining an enormous needle in the hands of an unpracticed nurse plunging into their bones.

Because of sixteen-hour shifts at the roadblock, Lazlo lost track of time. Tuesday or Wednesday night-he wasn’t sure which-he went to his car and rolled up the windows so he could think, so he could assure himself he had done everything in his power for Nina and the girls. What more could he do? Asimov said they had already been examined at Hospital Number Six and taken to temporary housing. They were, according to Asimov, in perfect health.

Lazlo would have felt better if he could have spoken to Nina, but the overtaxed phone lines made it impossible.

During his last break, Lazlo went to the Ministry of Energy again, and, having received no further news on exactly how Mihaly died, he drove to see Juli Popovics at her aunt’s house. Lazlo felt un-easy because of Juli’s connection to Mihaly. It was a strange unease, similar to deja vu, like returning to his boyhood home. Both Juli and Aunt Magda spoke Hungarian, Aunt Magda’s cooking reminded him of his mother’s cooking, and Juli reminded him of Nina.

After telling him the Kiev hospital had called to say Juli’s blood test showed radiation levels “within the range of acceptability,” Juli and Aunt Magda inquired about Nina and the girls. Not the way someone asks who is simply being kind. They wanted details-the color of hair and eyes, the height of the little girls in relation to him.

When he spoke of Nina and Anna and little Ilonka, he saw motherly love in Juli’s eyes. More than once she referred to future generations and how children needed to be protected from this disaster.

Back at the roadblock, whenever Lazlo saw a woman holding a child, he thought of Nina. But he also thought of Juli. He had to admit this to himself. He thought of Juli many times during the long night as he recalled her tender kiss on his cheek when he saw her last. Amid cars and buses and green and white militia vehicles and crowds at the roadblock, he felt his deep-seated urge to make things right, and linked with the urge, he kept seeing images of Juli Popovics in the faces of the refugees.

Early in the morning before dawn, as his holstered Makarov rubbed against his side, and as more refugees assailed him with questions, he heard a new term. The refugees had a name for themselves. They called one another Chernobylites.

Tuesday, April 29, 1986, three days after Chernobyl’s unit four exploded and two days before May Day, transportation out of Kiev was difficult. Buses were almost nonexistent because so many had been sent north. Trains and planes to other major Soviet cities were full, with long lines at stations and terminals. But there was always priority. There were always people of status or authority able to bypass lines.

The Aeroflot jet was supposed to take off from Kiev at dusk.

But it was late, and a few minutes into the flight, Komarov could see nothing but blackness out his window. Every seat had been occupied when he arrived, forcing Komarov to use his credentials to have a window-seat passenger removed.

The chain of events beginning with the Chernobyl explosion had led to this. Major Grigor Komarov of the Kiev KGB flying to Moscow on official business, but also invited to join Deputy Chairman Dumenko and other high officials as they celebrated the revolution.

He would mix business with pleasure and, if all went well, begin his climb to chairmanship. He would deliver the letter he carried with him, and he would attend May Day festivities.

Deputy Chairman Dumenko had asked if Komarov wished to bring his wife along. Although Komarov’s wife enjoyed the prestige and advantage of his position, she did not like traveling to Moscow.

Getting iodine delivered to their home shortly after the Chernobyl accident was one thing, she had said, but traveling to Moscow was quite another. “There will be turmoil in Moscow, Grigor. Dmitry and I will stay here where it is safe.”

“What do you think of all this reactor business?”

The woman in the seat next to Komarov had spoken. He could see her reflection in the window as she leaned forward to get his attention. A fat, middle-aged woman who had, until now, been content with her Pravda.

“I beg your pardon?” said Komarov, turning to look at her.

The woman held the paper open to an inside page with a story about Chernobyl. “This reactor business at Chernobyl, what do you think of it?”

“It must be of little consequence,” said Komarov. “It’s not on the front page.”

The woman stared at him, her jowls expanding, her eyes becoming narrow slits. “You’re joking. The news has been coming from everywhere. The only reason it’s not on page one is because they don’t know what to say.”

“What do you think?” asked Komarov.

The woman hesitated, inspected his suit, perhaps looking for a lapel pin sometimes worn by officials. “I’ve seen people arriving in Kiev. I’ve seen crowds and heard foreign broadcasts. As a mother, I’m frightened for the children. There are rumors about avoiding milk and eating only canned food. Do you have children, comrade?”

“I have a son.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty.”

“How nice. Is he in the army?”

Komarov imagined Dmitry in a crisp army uniform instead of the tight-fitting slacks he always wore. “Yes, he is in the army.”

“One of my sons is in the army,” said the woman. “He’s a guard on the western frontier. Where is your son stationed?”

Komarov imagined how life might have gone. “He’s in a military hospital. He was wounded in Afghanistan.”

“How terribly sorry I am. Your wife must be distressed.”

“She is.”

“And here I am, worrying whether they’ll recruit my son’s unit for some kind of evacuation or cleanup at Chernobyl. While waiting at the airport, I spoke to a woman who said a freight train was sent back from Moscow because it was contaminated with radiation. She said there was meat on the train from the Ukraine and it would have to be buried.”

“Perhaps,” said Komarov, “it will need to be buried because it will have spoiled by the time it leaves the train.”

“With so much going on, it’s difficult to think of everything,” said the woman. “First we have war in Afghanistan, now this.”

“Foreign cultures and foreign workers make life difficult for all of us.”

The woman opened her eyes wider so they were no longer slits.

“Do you think foreign workers are to blame for the disaster?”

“Anything is possible when openness is allowed for its own sake.”

The woman stared at Komarov for a moment, then proceeded to tell him about all her children. Komarov turned and stared out the window as she continued speaking. He leaned against the window, looking forward ahead of the wing, watching the horizon for the lights of Moscow. He wanted a cigarette badly but had left his cigarettes in his luggage.

Nina Horvath wore a white cotton dress like one of the nurses he’d seen walking between the hospital complex and the surrounding apartments. Her face was thin, and she wore no makeup. Komarov assumed she would appear vulnerable, but there was something in her eyes as she stared at him. Despite the situation, she seemed confident, as if she were in control, as if she had an agenda. Her hair was brown and disheveled.

“What does the KGB want from me?” said Nina Horvath, standing to face him.

“Information to set the record straight. I need details of events surrounding the disaster. I realize your husband is dead, Mrs.

Horvath. However, duty does not permit a delay of my report. Information has a way of slipping through one’s fingers unless it is gathered promptly.”

“My husband… what’s left of my husband…” She paused for a moment. “He’s being buried this afternoon in a lead-lined coffin.”

“I know,” said Komarov.

He could see hatred and mistrust in her eyes. She was the victim, and he was in control. He returned her stare, waiting a moment to see if she might make a counterrevolutionary statement he could use later. Finally, he began his questioning.

“You have two children. What are their names?”

“Ilonka and Anna.”

“Are they here with you?”

“They’re with the woman in the next apartment.”

“How did you get here from Pripyat?”

“By plane.”

“Why didn’t you leave with the others?”

“What others?”

“Those evacuated by bus.”

“I went with my neighbor to the plant after we heard about the explosion. We were put on a bus, taken to the local hospital, then to the airport. It all happened very quickly.”

The questioning was also going too quickly. In order to find out more about Mrs. Horvath and her husband, and especially to find out if there was anything he could develop concerning the dead husband’s activities, Komarov decided to proceed more slowly.

“Did your daughters receive their pills?”

“What?”

“Iodine pills. It is especially important for children.”

“Yes, they gave us iodine in Pripyat and again here.”

“You also had iodine?”

“Yes.”

“I wanted to be sure before we continued. I’ll try to keep my questions to a minimum.”

Komarov asked Nina Horvath about her marriage to Mihaly Horvath, about their move to Pripyat, and the exact ages of her two girls. When Nina Horvath rushed ahead to cut off the interview, Komarov traced backward with detailed questions about family and everyday life. The purpose was to look for keys to the way he would ask his ultimate question. The purpose was to uncover a negative in her relationship with her husband and connect it with suspicions about her husband’s possible role in sabotage.

Unfortunately, Komarov could not get Nina Horvath to say anything negative about her husband. He even dwelled upon the recent past, the time during which he knew Mihaly Horvath had been seeing Juli Popovics. But still there was nothing, not even a visual reaction as Nina Horvath stared at him with obvious hatred.

Komarov backtracked in time, getting Nina Horvath to talk of pleasant topics. The girls and how well they were doing in school.

The home and the neighborhood. Friends. A future filled with possibilities. When Nina Horvath’s eyes began to water, Komarov dropped his bomb.

“Mrs. Horvath, are you aware of your husband’s role in sabotage at the Chernobyl plant?”

Nina Horvath’s expression remained unchanged, as it had during the entire interview. “I know of no such thing.”

Komarov asked the question from several angles with the same result. When he left Nina Horvath, he’d made only one entry of importance in his notebook. “Mrs. Horvath did not seem surprised I had asked such a question about her husband.”

But even as he walked out of the apartment house and crossed the street, joining the nurses and doctors and ambulance drivers scurrying outside Hospital Number Six, Komarov knew Nina Horvath had expected the question as soon as she saw his KGB identification. Therefore, not acting surprised meant nothing, unless he made something of it in his report. And, of course, he would.

The only other time Komarov visited KGB headquarters on Lubyanka Square in central Moscow was years earlier, after his promotion to captaincy following the Sherbitsky affair. At the time, the Fifth Directorate considered him for an assignment tracking down dissidents. Unfortunately, Vladimir Kryuchkov gave him a short interview, dismissing him quickly. Later he discovered Sherbitsky and Kryuchkov had trained together as KGB recruits.

The building was yellow brick, several stories tall, and shaped like a coffin. As Komarov walked across the square to the entrance, he recalled stories about the building being the tallest in Moscow even though it definitely was not. The joke went: Even from its basement-the location of the prison cells-one can easily see Siberia.

Inside the main entrance, Komarov’s heels clicked on familiar parquet floors. From his visit years earlier, he vividly recalled the sound and smell of the place. The main hall echoed, cavern-like, and smelled like boot polish and cigarette smoke even though, as he looked about, he saw no uniforms or boots or lit cigarettes. KGB officers visiting the Lubyanka for business dressed as businessmen.

Komarov was aware of his knife tucked inside his jacket with the letter he would deliver. While he waited for the elevator he saw a single half-smoked cigarette smoldering in an ornate Neo-Renais-sance ashtray mounted to the wall. The smoke from the ashtray smelled like burning hair. During the elevator ride, Komarov transferred the letter from his inside pocket to an outside pocket.

Deputy Chairman Dumenko’s office on the third floor was the largest Komarov had ever seen. Although the ceiling was low, recessed lighting and an expanse of pale green walls and maroon carpeting gave the office and its adjoining conference room a spacious feeling. Wood and leather furniture was dwarfed by the space.

Ironically, a small portrait of Vladimir Kryuchkov shared the wall behind the desk with one of KGB Chairman Chebrikov and, of course, a larger portrait of Lenin. Komarov felt he should speak softly lest his voice escape into the hall. But echoes from the hall subsided when the assistant who brought him to the office closed the door. As a courtesy to his superior, Komarov did not smoke.

Dumenko wore half glasses as he opened and read the letter from Kiev’s minister of electric power. Dumenko’s bald head reflected the overhead light while he finished the letter, took off his half glasses, placed them on his desk, and stared at Komarov.

“Have you read this letter, Major?”

“It was addressed to you,” said Komarov.

“But you know the nature of it.”

“I know it has to do with inquiries made by Detective Lazlo Horvath to Minister Asimov.”

“It’s a request for an investigation of Detective Horvath regarding a possible connection to the Chernobyl incident. Have you been pursuing the KGB’s investigation as we discussed?”

“I am, sir. This morning I spoke with Mihaly Horvath’s widow.

Although she denies corrupt activities on the part of her husband, she may simply want to bury all of this when she buries her husband today. I tried to have her husband questioned after the Chernobyl event, but it was too late.”

“I understand he died quickly,” said Dumenko. “Two deaths. I spoke with the television and radio chairman today. He hopes there will be no more bodies. I spoke with the health minister. He says there will definitely be more bodies. The agriculture minister is concerned about hundreds of thousands of square kilometers of our richest farmland. Did you know, Major, they have started herding livestock away from the area?”

“I didn’t know, sir.”

“Some livestock will have to be destroyed. Entire towns and villages evacuated, and it is feared many more will die. Did you know the resources of hospitals are already strained?”

“Yes, sir. I visited Hospital Number Six this morning.”

“What prompted your visit?”

“After my interview with Mrs. Horvath near Hospital Number Six, I felt I should see some of the injured firsthand in order to acquaint myself with the extent of the emergency. I saw firemen who had been brought in. They had no hair and…”

Komarov saw Dumenko raise his eyebrows and touch the top of his shiny head.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to imply any connection with your

…”

“Never mind, Major. Mine was not burned off by radiation.

What else about these firemen?”

“Some had peeling skin and were inside plastic tents. The doctors said radiation destroys bone marrow. As a result, white blood cells cannot be produced and the firemen’s lives can be threatened by any infection.”

Dumenko stood from his desk and paced back and forth beneath the portrait of Lenin hung above the other portraits. “Tell me, Major, what should be done about all this?”

“We must find the cause of the disaster. If we find the cause, everyone will rest easier and life can go on.”

“I was looking for something more specific, Major. Most experts assume it was an accident. The general secretary wants the KGB to forward all information about Chernobyl to his office. Having told you this, what shall we do about your investigation of these Hungarians?”

“My men are gathering and forwarding all Chernobyl information as ordered, sir. However, on the chance it was not an accident, I believe I should pursue the possibility of sabotage. Mihaly Horvath’s lover has already contacted Detective Horvath, and I have my best men watching them. She worked at Chernobyl’s Department of Industrial Safety and had access to significant information. Some time ago, if you recall, a colleague named Aleksandra Yasinsky was detained. I have a feeling Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics continue to be in contact with Western intelligence.”

“Who is their contact?”

“The Horvath family cousin from America named Andrew Zukor. He visited the Horvath brothers last summer, if you recall my report.”

“I recall,” said Dumenko, turning to look up at Lenin’s portrait.

“I believe our agency has given him the code name Gypsy Moth.”

Dumenko turned back to Komarov. “Am I correct?”

“Your memory is impressive, sir. I’ve been concerned for some time about the Horvaths and this Gypsy Moth. At first, I thought the name Gypsy applied to Horvath because our research has shown his father was of Gypsy origin. A fact the family kept quiet during the war years for obvious reasons. But the name actually came later.

Detective Horvath has a history in the army of having served near the Soviet frontier and was involved in the death of a fellow soldier.

The fellow soldier killed by Horvath was nicknamed Gypsy, and Horvath’s comrades, in typical gallows humor, gave him the name.

But back to the cousin, Andrew Zukor, the American Gypsy Moth.

He provides the connection to Western intelligence. And with this established connection to the United States, there exists the possibility of sabotage, leading to destabilization, leading to…”

“Go on, Major.”

“A coup d’etat.”

“You’re saying a detective in the Kiev militia and a Chernobyl worker planned this so-called accident as a first step in a coup d’etat?”

“Not alone, Comrade Deputy Chairman. I’m simply indicating a portion of the puzzle available to me. There are many pieces of evidence. Not only Juli Popovics and her lover at Chernobyl, but also the fact Detective Horvath has leaned to the West and is friends with anti-Soviets, literary review editors, and the like.”

Dumenko rubbed his bald head. “Since you speak of puzzles, Major, what do you think Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics will do next? If they try to escape capture, we can’t be expected to guard the entire frontier at a time like this.”

“I’ve arranged to have Mihaly Horvath’s wife and children sent to Kisbor, near the Czech border, where the rest of the Horvath family lives. I will assign men to the area on the chance Detective Horvath goes there.”

“Is Juli Popovics from the area?”

“No. Her mother lives in Moscow, but I don’t think she’ll come here. Her mother doesn’t know she’s pregnant.”

“I suppose you would like to assign more men to the case.”

“Yes, Comrade Deputy Chairman.”

Dumenko smiled. “Because you’ve had a fine record in the KGB, especially during your time in East Berlin, I must take these matters seriously. Perhaps we in Moscow have been too busy with Afghanistan to watch under our own noses. Perhaps we’ve been overburdened with the possibility of change at high levels… talk of the union’s future and individuals looking out for themselves.

Officials at the highest level will suffer because of Chernobyl. A chairman I cannot name suggested the event might be a test to determine how nuclear war would affect government. Events like this bring out the rats below the Kremlin.”

Dumenko sat back at his desk, opened a drawer, took out an envelope, and handed it to Komarov. “Very well, Major. I authorize you to use the resources necessary to investigate this situation to its swift conclusion. In order to help, I’m assigning another man to your office. Captain Brovko’s orders are in the envelope. He was previously assigned to East Berlin. My reason for his assignment is because he’s had training in nuclear engineering. If this case continues, his technical expertise will be useful. I’m told he’s also good at interrogation.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Major, you realize, of course, if there has been a conspiracy to commit sabotage, the national and international implications will be extensive.”

“I know,” said Komarov.

“By the way, Major. Did you and your wife and son receive iodine, should the radiation reach Kiev?”

“We have.”

Dumenko shook his head sadly. “It’s a terrible situation. I’m told Black Sea campgrounds, hotels, and sanitoriums are filling up. An old comrade of mine, Colonel Zamyatin from the Ukrainian border force, has come out of retirement to take charge of the evacuation.”

“Zamyatin is a hero, sir.”

Dumenko smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Enough tragedy, Major. Will you stay for tomorrow’s May Day celebration?”

“It would be an honor, Comrade Deputy Chairman.”

“You can join me in the reviewing stand. Gorbachev will be above and to our left. Tomorrow night you’ll join my wife and myself for dinner. Was there anything else you wanted to attend to in Moscow besides the obligatory visit to Lenin’s Tomb?”

“I’d like to go to an opera. When I was a boy living outside Moscow, my father used to take me to the opera.”

Dumenko came around the desk and clapped Komarov on the shoulder. “Stay for a visit to the Bolshoi. And when you go back to Kiev, Captain Brovko will be waiting for you.”

Komarov thanked Dumenko and left the building.

Rather than taking a taxi, he decided to walk from Lubyanka Square to Lenin’s Tomb. It wasn’t far, and if it rained, he’d seek shelter at the Bolshoi or the Central Lenin Museum.

While he walked, Komarov thought back to his visit to the Lubyanka years earlier. The streets in Moscow formed a bull’s-eye, and he had been in the center of it once before. If only things had gone differently back then. If only he had been assigned to operations in the United States in his younger days. How different was it now? Was the fellow who took the job he could have gotten from Kryuchkov involved in escalating the Iran-Contra problems of Reagan these days?

In front of the National Hotel, a man hurrying out the main doors bumped into him, almost knocking him down. The man grasped Komarov’s shoulders to steady him.

“I am sorry, comrade. I should not have been so clumsy.”

The man wore a hat and coat too warm for spring. He had a thin face and wore thick glasses. “I was in a hurry coming out the door,” continued the man. “It is my fault. I called a taxi. Can I offer you a ride?”

The man looked familiar. Was it someone from his past? Someone from a previous Moscow visit? The man’s breath smelled of onions.

Komarov pulled back. “I prefer walking.”

The man stepped forward and touched Komarov’s sleeve. “Are you sure? The taxi will be here soon. We can ride together and have a pleasant conversation. I’d like to talk to someone about this Chernobyl business?” The man let go of Komarov’s sleeve, took off his thick glasses, and stared at Komarov, smiling as if Komarov should recognize him.

Komarov began walking away. “I’m not interested in your conversation.”

He expected the man to follow, to continue harassing him. And when the man did not, Komarov glanced back to see a taxi pull to the curb and the man get in. When the taxi sped past, the man stared straight ahead.

Perhaps he was being followed. The man could have been from the Seventh Directorate, simple surveillance, or even from Directorate T. Perhaps the man had some connection to Major Struyev in the Kiev office. He had asked Struyev to attend to the Gypsy Moth in Hungary, and in the process Directorate T followed him. No matter. One could always expect to be followed in Moscow. But why should he recognize the fellow? A thin-faced man wearing glasses, about his age. What if the man was foreign intelligence? What if there really was a planned coup d’etat linked to Chernobyl? No matter. He had his own work to do, his own ladder to climb. What happened in Moscow might make a difference or, as was often true these days, might make no difference at all.

It was beginning to darken and a light mist fell. In Red Square, final preparations were being made for the May Day parade. Komarov walked along the Kremlin Wall to the Senate Tower. Beneath the tower, the queue of people in front of the Lenin mausoleum was short, probably because of the rain.