Chernobyl Murders

22

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What new information?”

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

“When did this happen?”

“About an hour ago.”

“An hour ago?” shouted Komarov.

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

“And?” shouted Komarov.

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

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

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

He’s being questioned at militia headquarters.”

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

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

Before speaking with Nikolai Nikolskaia, Komarov visited the basement morgue at militia headquarters. While standing in a brightly-lit viewing room, waiting for them to bring the body, Komarov wondered if the body of the poet was also here. Perhaps a passerby, or a tourist gone to see the Monastery of the Caves, had walked closely to the old Zil and seen the poet in the front seat. The poet with his neck sliced ear to ear as if someone had grabbed him by the beard and tried to tear off his head. The poet eliminated the same way he had eliminated Pudkov so long ago in the “safe” house hallway before going in to see Gretchen. The sound of death remained with him, the knife slicing into flesh and muscle, the victim’s voice interrupted by an involuntary attempt to inhale and, at the same time, withdraw from the blade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is the truth?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did the colonel have to say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” said Brovko. “I’m not sure how you will react, but I’m afraid I must tell you the people at the Ministry of Energy don’t know what’s going on.”

“Who does know, Captain?”

“Not the technical personnel here in Kiev. The little they know comes from Moscow, and they’re getting information from so-called experts who stayed in Pripyat. In Kiev they’re doing nothing more than running around with Geiger counters.”

“What about the cause of the explosion?” asked Komarov.

“Frankly, Major, they simply don’t know how it happened.”

“Is there talk of sabotage?”

“Some. Especially the chairman of the engineering council.”

“Does he have evidence?”

“I think his professional pride refuses to allow him to even consider system failure. He seems to be considering either sabotage or human error on the part of Mihaly Horvath, the engineer in charge.”

“Very good, Captain. During our first meeting, I spoke of an investigation I’ve been pursuing involving Mihaly Horvath’s brother, his girlfriend, and the American cousin.”

“Andrew Zukor, the CIA Gypsy Moth.”

“Your memory is excellent,” said Komarov. “But now recent findings lead me to believe Detective Horvath may be the so-called Gypsy Moth. He arranged meetings between Zukor and his brother.”

“You think Horvath sent his brother on a suicide mission?”

“No, Captain. A stronger possibility exists. Fed by resources supplied through Zukor, the Horvath brothers and Juli Popovics could have been the conspirators. It’s possible the escape plan for Mihaly Horvath failed, and now his brother and former lover are on the run.”

Komarov saw mild interest in Brovko’s eyes, an interrogator observing an interrogator. He filled Brovko in on the basics of the case, including the events at Visenka that morning. Of course, he did not tell Brovko about the inexperience of Nikolai and Pavel, or about his harassment of Horvath leading to suspension, or about the note delivered by the poet.

When Komarov finished, Brovko rubbed his chin and, unlike Azef, looked sincerely interested. “What can I do to help?”

“You’ll be in charge of the field agents searching for Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics. You’ll also need to observe the aunt in Visenka and Tamara Petrov here in Kiev.”

“Will I be interviewing Tamara Petrov again?” asked Brovko.

“For now put two good men on her. And one more place I want watched.” Komarov paused. “The Horvath family farm in Kisbor.”

“It’s over five hundred kilometers from here.”

“Horvath’s sister-in-law is in transit there, and I want all possibilities covered in case he decides to leave Kiev.”

When Brovko left, Komarov thought about the past. Brovko was about the same age as he himself had been during the Sherbitsky affair. If Brovko barked when he was expected to bark, and licked when he was expected to lick, Komarov would certainly allow him a portion of the glory.

Komarov was in the middle of his reverie, imagining himself as deputy chairman, when Captain Azef burst into the office.

“Has knocking gone out of style, Captain?”

“I needed to tell you something right away, Major. Chief Investigator Chkalov is on the phone. It’s about Detective Horvath. I told him he should speak with you.”

Azef tried to linger in the office after telling the secretary to transfer the call, but Komarov ordered him out.

“What can I do for you, Chief Investigator?”

“You can tell me what’s going on,” said Chkalov.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been patient with the KGB,” said Chkalov. “And I’ve been more than cooperative. But now I have a murder to investigate.

Regardless of the fact the victim is one of your men, I must still do my job.”

“Am I stopping you?” asked Komarov.

“Major Komarov, I am a busy man. I have an entire militia to take care of, and this Chernobyl business does not help. If you knew something about Detective Horvath and chose not to tell me, I cannot be responsible for not having suspended him sooner. If, as the evidence seems to indicate, he is guilty of murder, I fear you have withheld information. When this case is over, I will have to report everything.”

Komarov paused, waiting in silence while he imagined Chkalov’s fat face growing redder and redder. Finally he said, “Are you finished, Chief Investigator Chkalov?”

“No,” said Chkalov. “Even though I am busy, I still cooperate in hopes one day I will receive the honor of your cooperation in return!”

“The KGB is involved in classified investigations,” said Komarov. “The deputy chairman in Moscow has given me full authority in this case. Cooperation is not a kindness you can hand out like a gift. It is essential to state security!”

Chkalov was silent for a few seconds before speaking in a mono-tone. “I have two items concerning the case. Number one, Juli Popovics’ aunt in Visenka called militia headquarters before your men got there and reported that Detective Horvath came and took Juli Popovics away against her will. Number two, the Volga reported missing was found a half hour ago at the metro station near the bridge in Darnitsa. There was much blood on the front seat. The car is being towed to militia headquarters. Your men can see it there, where it will remain as evidence.”

Neither commented or said good-bye. After he hung up, Komarov went to his window. He knew the metro, bisecting the city east to west, passed close to KGB headquarters. On the east, the metro crossed the river to Darnitsa. On the west, the metro stopped at the Central Railroad Station. Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics might be at Central Station or already on a train heading south or west. With the chaos and confusion involved in any travel because of Chernobyl, they might be able to escape.

Detective Horvath was smarter than he thought. Had he really kidnapped Juli Popovics? Or had he simply made it appear a kidnapping in order to clear the aunt of collaboration? Had they really taken the metro, or was this another trick?

The pedestrians and vehicles below Komarov’s window made him think of games and puzzles. The entire city of Kiev was a vast game board, the territory of the players. Detective Horvath would stay, hiding somewhere in Kiev because this was his city. To run away now, when the game had only begun, would be unfair.

Komarov removed his jacket. He unlocked his desk and took out his pistol and shoulder holster. After he checked to be certain the pistol was loaded, he slipped on his shoulder holster and his jacket over it. In the inside pocket of his jacket, the knife rested against his heart.