Chernobyl Murders

23

Although films of people swimming in the Pripyat River were finally stopped on Soviet television, commentators insisted the extent of the accident was exaggerated, and undamaged Chernobyl reactor units would soon be back on line. But as any Soviet citizen knows, what remains unsaid is all-important. Already eleven days since the explosion and resulting radiation release, but still no official speech from Gorbachev.

In Moscow, continued lack of news spawned a string of rumors: the military conducting an experiment caused the accident; evacuees being shipped by train to old Stalin camps already under reconstruction vomited blood until they died; the accident was a conspiracy by regional Ukraine officials to send their families and friends to Black Sea resorts for extended holiday. A joke whispered among Kremlin workers went as follows: “To the Soviet government, Chernobyl is the czarina’s stallion.” “I don’t get it.” “It fell from its tethers and killed her when she had it suspended above her bed.”

In Kiev, the mayor said children should be kept indoors and ordered more potassium iodide be available. Supplies of canned food were running out in the markets. Some Kievians decided it best to avoid the Chernobylites, as they were being called. A joke making the rounds in Kiev came from the Chernobyl plant: “Around here you can eat all you want, but be sure you shit in a lead box.”

Another joke among locals: “The Chernobylites will march in the Day of Victory Parade. A head count taken at the start and at the end will help researchers calculate future life expectancy.”

But despite rumors and warnings, life went on in Kiev. People went to work, babushkas swept sidewalks, and criminals did their business. Early in the morning on May 7, a man was found murdered in an old Zil limousine near the Monastery of the Caves.

Later the same day, a KGB agent was killed on a farm road outside the town of Visenka, east of the river. Neither of these deaths, even if they had been publicized, was of consequence to most Kievians.

So, what was important to Kievians? Eleven days after the Chernobyl explosion, the incident was being revealed by rumor rather than the Wednesday evening news broadcast.

On Wednesday evening, Juli sat on a bench in a brightly-lit hallway near a double set of glass doors that reminded her of the low-level counting laboratory building entrance. She could see headlights on the street as dusk set in and was reminded of the many evenings she had waited for Mihaly’s bus. But those evenings were gone forever.

She was not at the low-level counting laboratory. She was in the central Kiev hospital where she’d been tested before going to stay with Aunt Magda. It seemed long ago, yet here she was, sitting in line on a long bench with dozens of others to be checked for radiation contamination. At the rate the line progressed, it was unlikely she’d be checked until morning.

Most in line were women, a few with children. Every hour or so, an orderly with a Geiger counter came out of an examination room and scanned newcomers. The last time he did this, a man set the counter clicking. Without touching him, the orderly commanded the man to move down the hallway. The contaminated man reminded Juli of Marina’s Vasily. Even as he was being led away, the man smiled and nodded to those lining both walls. Later the man returned wearing white coveralls. His hair was damp, and on his way back to the end of the line, he nodded and smiled, repeating, “A cold shower for my hot body.” Those around him smiled back but did not laugh, and they gave him plenty of room.

Juli overheard snatches of conversation as she waited. One woman said ration coupons and ten rubles’ compensation would be handed out. Another rattled on about a story she insisted was in the Bible-a kingdom whose leader had the mark of the devil on his head in the form of a birthmark. She said the kingdom was doomed because its leaders dabbled in science, messing in God’s business. Someone mumbled, “Gorbie,” and the woman put her finger to her lips.

After potassium iodide pills were passed out to those in line, many spoke of folk remedies for radiation-milk, vodka, and red wine among them. The man in coveralls at the end of the line spoke loudly of government bonuses, which would be handed out when it was time to go back into the area to harvest crops. He laughed loudly, saying vodka made from wheat in the Chernobyl region would provide an extra kick, making the drinker glow like an ember. The joke, and the man’s laughter, put a damper on conversations when the orderly with the Geiger counter returned and, keeping his distance, motioned for the man to follow.

While she waited, Juli thought about many things-her final bus ride with Mihaly, their dilemma of wanting to be together but being unable to do so, the trip to Mihaly’s abandoned apartment in Pripyat, the trip to Kiev with Marina, Vasily, his mother and sister, and especially the baby growing within her. She worried about Aunt Magda. But mostly she worried about Lazlo.

She remembered the look on Lazlo’s face after he shot the man in the Volga. She remembered the despair she could feel as Lazlo drove the Volga to the metro station and as they rode together on the metro into Kiev.

Although it seemed months ago, it was only this morning that Lazlo had come and the men had chased them. Only a few hours ago, they had entered Kiev as fugitives. Only two hours ago, she had hugged Lazlo, praying it would not be the last time. Lazlo did not tell her his plan. He simply said there was something he must do before they fled Kiev. He said he would be back that night, and they would leave tomorrow. “After the situation has cooled.”

When they arrived in Kiev, Lazlo purchased clothing for them at a secondhand shop. They changed in restrooms near the hospital entrance. Lazlo emerged in baggy trousers and a mismatched worn shirt; she in a tired print dress. They looked like farmers. That’s what she was supposed to say if they were questioned. Olga Petavari, farm wife from the Opachichi collective, being checked for radiation and separated from her husband during the journey. When Lazlo left, he took with him some of their clothes in a fishnet bag. On her lap, the overnight case she had brought from Pripyat contained more clothing from the secondhand shop. Olga Petavari. She repeated it to herself until the woman to her right began speaking.

The woman’s name was also Olga. She had a baby boy of five months who slept over her shoulder, his fists clutching his mother’s back like a little boxer. Without getting into specifics, Juli told Olga the made-up name and said she was from the Opachichi collective.

This, and her saying her husband was helping at another collective during the evacuation, satisfied Olga.

Olga was about Juli’s age. While they spoke, Juli tried to imagine how it would be to have a baby. In her recent past as a single woman with a job and an apartment, it seemed impossible to keep the baby. But now she had changed her mind. Despite being a fugitive, she looked forward to raising the child, feeding it, and loving it. Perhaps she would be able to spend time with Lazlo before the baby began to show, and before he had to strike out on his own. And afterward? Besides becoming a mother, afterward was too far away to consider.

“You should have seen the excitement in my village when they came to evacuate us,” said Olga, shifting the baby to her other shoulder. “It was the day before May Day. We thought army trucks were part of the celebration. Were you also evacuated in an army truck?”

“We rode in a neighbor’s car,” said Juli. “Was the trip uncomfortable for your baby in the army truck?”

“Not him,” said Olga. “He slept through it. But for me…”

Olga reached behind and rubbed her lower back. “The pains of pregnancy returned. I should have left in the morning with my husband instead of waiting. He’s a bus driver. He’s been taking people out of the area around the power station for days. I don’t know how he does it. He left a message for me at the terminal here in Kiev.

When I was there, his boss said he was a hero and might even get a medal from the Transportation Ministry.”

“You must be very proud.”

“I am, but I worry about the radiation. Do you know anything about radiation?”

“No,” said Juli, “I don’t.”

An hour later when it was dark outside, two uniformed militiamen came through the double doors and walked slowly along the hallway, looking at the people waiting to be examined. Lazlo had told her not to look away from officers. She was supposed to be a farm wife, and a uniformed person might offer some hope. Looking away or hiding her face might make an officer remember they were looking for a woman her age, a woman named Juli Popovics last seen with Detective Horvath, who was wanted for murder.

When the militiaman on her side of the hallway approached, Juli began to shake, bouncing lightly up and down on the bench and staring at the officer as he passed. Olga had grown tired of holding her baby and Juli had offered. Juli bounced the baby, feeling his fists tapping her shoulder, while the officer tipped his cap and smiled.

The baby was warm and soft, his hair sweet. As the night wore on, Juli held the baby boy closer, wishing Lazlo would return to hold her tight and close.

Komarov felt like a young man again. Instead of going home to Darnitsa, he stayed the night at the office. Every Kiev district KGB agent carried a copy of the Horvath photograph supplied by the militia. According to Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko, militia officers on duty also had copies. Lysenko had become Komarov’s militia contact and would stay on duty through the night, unlike his boss, Chkalov, who went home to sleep like an overstuffed bear.

Although Horvath’s photograph was being shown to clerks, waiters, and bus drivers, they did not have a photograph of Juli Popovics.

Normally they would have gotten one from the Chernobyl plant, but because of the situation, it was impossible to retrieve records from the Chernobyl plant offices. As for Komarov’s oversight of Chernobyl security, he had assigned Azef, who sent regular reports to Moscow saying everything was under control. With other ministries up to their eyebrows in shit, Komarov was free to pursue his own interests.

Komarov needed to create a connection from Detective Horvath to Andrew Zukor to the CIA, and even to the Reagan administration in the United States if necessary. His visit to Deputy Chairman Dumenko in Moscow had set the stage. Because Zukor and his wife were required to report to Intourest in Uzhgorod during their summer visit to the Horvath family farm, evidence of Zukor’s contact with Detective Horvath was established. Detective Horvath would become the Gypsy Moth. Detective Horvath, who had used his brother in an attempt to destabilize the Soviet Union by causing an

“accident” at Chernobyl, was perfect in his new role. Who could be better than a Kiev militia detective on the run with an army record that included the cover-up of a questionable shooting along the Romanian frontier? A questionable shooting, which actually did earn him the nickname, Gypsy.

Everything in Komarov’s final report would support his asser-tion of Horvath’s guilt, even the encounter with the stranger outside the National Hotel in Moscow who inquired about “this Chernobyl business” would be used against Horvath. In the Soviet Union, so-called “intelligence” was easily manipulated, especially with the help of old comrades such as Major Dmitry Struyev in Kiev, an old-school Directorate T professional who could be trusted.

When Komarov called home to say he would spend the night at headquarters, he expected his wife to answer. Instead, Dmitry, his son, who was rarely home, said, “Good evening. May I ask who is calling?”

“I’m surprised to find you home,” said Komarov.

“Who is calling, please?” repeated Dmitry in a singsong voice.

“Never mind the jokes. Is your mother there?”

“She’s not here. Although you are able to refer to her as my mother, you seem to have forgotten who you are.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When I ask who it is, you cannot bring yourself to say you are my father.”

“This conversation is meaningless.”

“I agree. So, what’s up?”

“I won’t be home tonight. Tell your mother I’m involved in an important case.”

“A man from the Nuclear Institute delivered more iodine tablets. Is the radiation a danger to people in Kiev? Should Mom and I run south and become Chernobyl Gypsies?”

Komarov tried not to shout, but Dmitry had probed a nerve.

“Don’t taunt me with talk of Gypsies! No one should be running away! The danger to us is created by Western propaganda! They’re wallowing in our misfortune!”

Komarov’s outburst caused Dmitry to remain silent.

“Tell your mother I’ll call tomorrow.”

“I will, Father.”

After he hung up, Komarov recalled the night he had threatened Dmitry on the back porch. Perhaps the lack of a father to speak with after dinner night after night had been the root cause of Dmitry’s problems. No! A son should be stronger, especially his son.

Komarov did not want to think about Dmitry. Instead, he sat at his desk and thought about the Sherbitsky affair. He remembered his early years here in this office when he often stayed overnight because he was young and enthusiastic and strong. Komarov was about to have a cot sent up from the basement when the phone rang.

It was the overnight guard at the front entrance.

“What is it?”

“There’s a woman here,” said the guard. “She wants to speak with someone in charge.”

“What’s her name?”

There were muffled voices before the guard came back on. “Her name is Tamara Petrov.”

Komarov could not believe it. Tamara Petrov questioned by Captain Brovko only two days ago and now she comes here of her own free will? “Bring her to my office. And contact Captain Brovko.

Wherever he is, tell him to come and see me at once.”

Although he had seen Tamara Petrov’s photograph, Komarov was surprised at her appearance. The photograph revealed long black hair and an olive complexion, reminding him of Barbara, the Romeo agent long ago in the GDR. The photograph had not revealed Tamara Petrov’s bracelets, long earrings, slender fingers, and loose silken blouse open at the neck. She wore a short skirt, and Komarov sat in a side chair rather than behind his desk so he could have a clear view of her shapely legs.

“I feel uncomfortable coming here,” said Tamara Petrov, crossing her legs. “I wouldn’t want my friends and associates to know.”

“Please be more specific, Miss Petrov.”

She leaned forward, her hands agitated, her bracelets jingling on the desk. “I need assurances, Major. I never want to have to repeat any of this at a hearing.”

Komarov felt excitement on two levels as he glanced at the shape of her breasts while at the same time wondering about the reason for her visit. “If you mean you want to remain an anonymous informant, Miss Petrov, then you have come to the right place.”

She stared into his eyes, trying to see something there. A Gypsy. All she needed was her crystal ball. But no one could see into another’s mind, especially his mind. He had proven it during the Sherbitsky hearings. Patience was always better than rushing into things.

“I’m here to help if I can, Miss Petrov. I know your journal published articles about Chernobyl, the shortages during construction, the quality of components, all of it. I realized long ago it was your duty to reveal these things, just as it is my duty to uncover wrongdoing at the power station. We have similar goals.”

Suddenly, something happened Komarov never expected. Tamara Petrov, who looked the part of a strong woman, broke down and wept. After a minute of sobbing and sniffling amid reassurances from Komarov, she was finally able to speak.

“He had no right coming to me.”

“You are speaking of Detective Horvath?” asked Komarov, careful not to sound anxious.

“Yes.”

“Please tell me about it, Miss Petrov.”

“I was coming home from the review office. I sometimes walk in the park along the river. He approached me near the footbridge to the island.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he needed help. He said… he needed a room for himself and a woman. He said I had influence at hotels and could find them a room.”

“What did you tell him?”

She wept again, and Komarov was forced to wait.

“I was going to tell him I couldn’t help and ask him to leave. But he insisted I was involved. He said I had sent him a message about this woman, Juli Popovics. He said I had saved them from the KGB.

I knew something was wrong. I knew he had done something illegal and was dragging me into it so I would feel forced to help. I don’t want to do anything illegal. I’ve never done anything illegal before in my life. I have my literary review and my friends. I have my own life. To get rid of him, I… told him I could help him. And now, because I’m not a criminal and I fear Lazlo has done something against the people he’s supposed to protect, I’m here to tell you where he is.”

“You know where he is?”

Tamara Petrov wiped at her eyes with a billowy sleeve. “He’s waiting for me to meet him. I’m to bring clothing and have a taxi waiting.” Tamara wept again. “This is very hard for me, Major.

This was a man I admired. But I can’t become a criminal. I can’t!”

“You are very brave, Miss Petrov. Your secret will be kept, even from Detective Horvath. Now please, tell me where he is.”

“He… they are at the Hotel Dnieper, registered under the name Yuri Antonov… Yuri Antonov and his wife.”

On his way out, Komarov took Tamara Petrov with him. Captain Brovko met them on the stairs, causing Tamara Petrov to shriek.

“It’s all right, Miss Petrov. He’s not here for you.”

Komarov told Brovko to gather men and come with him. He left Tamara Petrov with the guard and told him to arrange for a car to take her home.

The night air was cool and moist. When he got into the car, Komarov felt adrenaline surging through him. He felt young and was glad to have the company of Captain Brovko instead of Azef.

If he had to share the glory of this night with anyone, let it be with a young man recently assigned who would relinquish credit to Major Grigor Komarov for the capture of Detective Horvath and his co-conspirator.

If it was necessary to kill Horvath and the woman, so be it. Evidence gathered in silence was often much more convincing. In less than a block, two other cars joined the Volga, racing along the night-dampened streets to the Hotel Dnieper.