Chernobyl Murders

27

The sun was still well below the horizon, the gray dawn barely illuminating his office. It was deathly silent, no voices in the hall, no computer printer clattering outside the door. Komarov lit a cigarette, watching the dance of flame from his lighter. After closing the lighter, he inspected the cigarette’s tip. He thought of the shortness of life and the necessity to make the best of it while the glow still existed. Although he could not see the smoke, he saw a slight darkening of the slit of light shining beneath his office door. A shadow was there, and when he waved the smoke away, the shadow remained.

Three quick knocks on the door were soft and tentative. He waited a moment, then said, “Come in!” rather loudly.

Light from the hall swept across the office, and a sizable creature stood in the doorway.

“Are you here, Major Komarov?”

“I am, Captain Azef.”

“Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“I’m helping the state in this time of energy shortage, Captain. I was not in need of light at the moment, and one of our major generating plants is incapacitated. You can turn it on now.”

Despite the initial glare of the overhead light, Komarov kept his eyes open wide and watched as Azef sat across from him. Azef looked tentative, the initial darkness in the room putting him on the defensive.

Azef glanced at Komarov’s pistol and shoulder holster resting atop his desk, then looked to the window. “Still dark outside.”

“Never mind how dark it is, Captain. After days of silence, a twig has snapped in the forest. Yesterday a man without papers was interviewed at the Kopelovo collective to the west. Being without papers is not unusual, but he was with a younger woman he claims is his wife. The man said his name was Zimyanin. After interviewing him, officials on the scene questioned others about Zimyanin because the name was not on the refugee list. The questioning revealed Zimyanin is not a peasant but an educated man who speaks Russian, Ukrainian, and Hungarian. The man and his supposed wife fit the description of Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics.”

Komarov felt the heat rushing to his face and knew he would no longer be able to contain his anger. He finished in a loud voice after smashing his cigarette out in the ashtray.

“All of this was known to the Interior Ministry yesterday! And when am I told?” He looked at his watch. “A full sixteen hours after the fact! Shcherbina in the Zhitomir branch office learned about it and called me at home. Unfortunately he was not informed by phone. The ministry fools sent a note via the republic militia! The note didn’t reach Shcherbina until this morning when he arose for his morning exercise!”

Azef waited an appropriate few seconds to make sure Komarov’s tirade was finished. “What are you going to do, Major?”

“I’m going there myself as soon as the idiot driver arrives! If Zimyanin is Horvath, the ministry asses and local militia will most likely let him escape if I’m not there!”

“He most likely moved on after the questioning.”

“I know. But if he was staying at the collective with Juli Popovics, there will be evidence remaining, people who saw them or spoke with them. There may even be evidence of contact with outside intelligence. I refuse to trust local idiots to do any more interviewing!”

“I understand, Major. Will you be gone long?”

“However long it takes. If the Zimyanins have left and if I find evidence proving they are Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics, I will have Horvath in my grasp.”

“How will you have him in your grasp if he escapes?”

“Put yourself in his place, Captain. Try to think like him, as I have. Why would a clever man with militia connections giving him access to fake papers, perhaps even confiscated passports and visas, not have crossed the frontier by now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you see, Captain? He can’t leave. He needs to wipe the slate clean by eliminating those who know of his involvement in sabotage. Our agent in Visenka was just the beginning. The poet, an associate of Tamara Petrov, was next. And, before leaving Kiev, Horvath obviously murdered Tamara Petrov. A vengeful man becomes desperate, and a desperate man becomes careless. He will be captured if someone doesn’t bungle it! I will not let him escape!”

“What about Chkalov, Major? He called twice yesterday wanting to speak with you.” Azef smiled slightly. “He told my secretary an underling would not do. When I asked if he considered me an underling, he said the secretary had put words in his mouth.”

“Not words,” said Komarov. “His foot, or something else if he could reach it over his belly. Don’t worry about Chkalov. He won’t have any choice but to speak with you because you’ll be in command while I’m gone. Chkalov’s only concern now is the fact he allowed a saboteur and murderer to remain under his command in the Kiev militia!”

Komarov stood. “Leave me for now, Captain. My driver and the men who will accompany me are waiting… I have things to gather before I go.”

Azef paused at the door. “Should I use your office while you’re gone, Major?”

“By all means, Captain.”

After Azef was gone, Komarov put on his shoulder holster, with extra cartridges loaded into the strap holders. He pulled on his jacket, put his overcoat on his arm, and picked up the valise containing two changes of underwear and a dozen packages of cigarettes. At the door he put the valise down and patted his pockets. He had not forgotten. The knife was there, resting against his chest.

A shame about Tamara Petrov. He admired her defiance. Like a true Gypsy, she had spit in his face. But once the knife went in and twisted, she opened her eyes wide and, like the others, glowed for a few moments in the ecstasy of dying.

Komarov picked up his valise and went to join his men.

As Juli walked along a dirt road on the farmland belonging to the Kopelovo collective, her overnight case tugged at her fingers. The sunrise, initially bright, was now cut off by clouds hanging low at the horizon. The land was flat, with plowed fields on both sides of the road. A dog barked in the distance, perhaps at the collective village a kilometer or two behind her. But it wasn’t the bark of a dog she listened for. What she wanted to hear was the sound of a car.

Lazlo had left long before dawn to get the car. A white car, he said. He had purchased it yesterday and left it hidden several kilometers away so as not to arouse suspicion. He planned to meet Juli on the dirt road heading straight west out of the village. She was to keep walking along the road until he picked her up.

Yesterday, Lazlo’s journey to the town of Korostyshev, the purchase of the car, and the long journey back had taken hours. She’d been alone most of the day and well into the night. It had been cold last night, more so because after sunset Lazlo was not beside her.

He returned near midnight and left again early this morning. During the few hours with him, she held him tightly. Now he was gone again, and she shivered with cold as she listened intently for a car on the road.

After a few minutes, she heard tires thumping into ruts in the road behind her along with the struggle of a misfiring engine. When she turned, she saw it was not a white car. As it came closer, she saw it was a battered old bus.

She wondered if she should hide. After spreading the news yesterday, saying she and Lazlo were leaving on the relocation bus early in the morning, could she afford to be seen out here? Obviously the bus coming down the road was not the relocation bus, but the dilapidated bus used to transport collective workers. She looked about and realized the ditch at the side of the road was too shallow to hide her. But why should she hide? If the people on the bus saw a woman walking along the road, what would it matter? She would simply look away when the bus passed.

When the bus approached, she turned the overnight case so the lettering she had applied faced out into the field. It would not do to have passing passengers see a radiation warning sign now. The farmers on the bus might remember her and Lazlo, especially if agents came to the village asking questions.

Instead of going past, the bus pulled to a stop, coughing and sputtering as the front door scissored open. The door was slightly ahead of her. She placed the overnight case on the ground with its message facing the field and watched as a thin man wearing a leather cap leaned out. The idling engine clattered like a thousand mechanical hearts.

“Where are you going?” asked the man in the local Ukrainian dialect.

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Funny place to wait.” He pointed up the road to the west.

“How come you’re walking this way?”

“Because it’s the way we’ll be going when my friend picks me up.”

“This also is funny because after several kilometers the road ends in the middle of fields. Perhaps you’re on the wrong road.”

“The wrong road? Yes, I must be. I’ll return to the village and call my friend from there.”

“You’re one of the refugees, aren’t you?”

A story, something to make this meeting insignificant to the militia or the KGB. “Yes, my mother and sister and I have been living in your village for almost a week. We are very grateful for your hospitality.”

The man smiled. “So, why are you leaving?”

“I’m not leaving. I’m simply meeting someone.”

The man glanced at the overnight case on the ground. “I see…”

“My laundry. I know someone who lives in Korostyshev. She has a washing machine…”

“Is she picking you up?”

“Yes, here, on the… the east road out of the village.”

“Aha!” said the man. “This is the west road.”

“Hey!” yelled the driver from inside. “Tell her to get in and I’ll drive her to the village on my return trip.”

The man jumped down, reached for the overnight case. “Come on.”

Juli held onto the case. “No! I… I’ll walk.”

“Come on. It’ll only take a few minutes.” He snatched the case from her.

A horn sounded, and when she turned, she saw a white car approaching behind the bus.

She grabbed at the case, and the man let go. She held the case in her arms, the lettered side against her.

“My friend is here. She knew I’d take the wrong road.”

Juli waved to the car, waved for it to stop if it was Lazlo. The car pulled off to the side and waited. She turned back to the man who had removed his cap and was scratching his head.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“Me?” said the man. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t let your wife hear you!” shouted the driver. “She might get the wrong idea. Especially with all the Chernobylites at your doorstep.”

Juli hurried back to the car, away from the joking voices of the man and the driver cut off by the closing door. When she glanced up, she saw the faces of the farmers staring at her. Men and women were out of their seats, their heads stacked at the bus windows like multiheaded monsters, or like an investigative committee considering the verdict. Some smiled, but many frowned.

“Try to look like a woman. I told them I was waiting for a girlfriend to pick me up.”

Lazlo pulled the visor down as Juli got in. Beneath the visor he watched through the dirty and cracked windshield. The bus pulled away, leaving a cloud of smoke.

“It’s a good thing you stopped when I waved. I don’t think they saw you. We have to turn around because this road doesn’t go anywhere.”

“I know, but I didn’t think about a bus carrying farmers. And the car got stuck in the mud where I’d hidden it.”

Lazlo cranked the wheel to turn around. When he reached for the shift lever, he felt Juli’s hand on it. He turned to her, and they kissed, holding one another tightly. He held Juli until she stopped shaking. Then he turned the car around and drove back to the main road.

He drove south, heading for the town of Zhitomir. There was little traffic, only an occasional farm truck and other buses carrying workers to fields along the way. After he had driven about fifty kilometers, he glanced at Juli. She leaned against his arm, her eyes closed.

While Juli slept, Lazlo recalled the transaction for the car, the man suspicious about his use of cash and wanting the car immediately rather than waiting for the cracked windshield to be fixed.

He’d found the car at a gasoline station and, seeing it had an expired plate, inquired about its sale. In Kiev it would have been easier to buy a car. But out here there were no dealers, no parking lots where locals struck bargains.

The purchase of the five-year-old Skoda from a stranger had de-pleted his savings, and he wondered if it would have been better to steal a car. Perhaps before this was over, he would have to steal a car.

Cars were scarce in the countryside, and stealing one would have attracted the republic militia. Even so, stealing a car would be nothing.

He only hoped he would not be forced to kill again. But he knew he would if he had to, especially if someone were foolish enough to aim a gun at him and Juli the way the agent had in Visenka.

Before falling asleep, Juli had related the story she told the man from the bus. If they were to get over the frontier, they would both have to be clever, perhaps tell many more stories. Although there seemed no room for mistakes, he felt he had already made one. Instead of filling the gas tank when he purchased the car, he’d left with a half tank. In an hour or so, he would have to stop for gas. He kept glancing at the Skoda’s gas gauge and wondered how accurate it was.

After sleeping less than an hour, Juli awakened. “Where are we?

This doesn’t look like the main road.”

“I’m taking a route around Zhitomir. It’s a sizable town with an active militia. We’ll stop for gas at Berdichev. After Berdichev we’ll take back roads to the Carpathian foothills.”

“They’ll be watching for a man and woman. I’ll lie on the back seat beneath the blankets. If you put on a lab coat and leave the case with its lettering clearly visible, I’m sure the station attendant will want to get rid of you as quickly as possible.”

The gas stop in Berdichev went exactly as Juli said. At first the attendant wanted to talk about the Chernobyl accident, saying how terrible it was and asking if Lazlo knew anything. But when the man began cleaning the windshield, it was obvious by the speed with which he finished the windows and completed filling the tank, he had read the Russian words on the case. When Lazlo handed the ruble notes over, the attendant handled them with thumb and fore-finger, as if picking up a baby’s diaper.

On their way out of Berdichev, Juli stayed hidden in the back seat while Lazlo stopped at a local market for some sausage and canned vegetables and fruit. Before going inside, he took off the white lab coat and put his own coat back on. He also turned Juli’s overnight case so the lettering faced down.

“We’ll have a picnic,” said Lazlo, driving again.

“I can smell the sausage from here,” said Juli from the back seat.

“I’ll find a place where the car will be hidden from the road.”

“What kind of car is this?”

“A Skoda. It’s a Czech piece of shit. We’ll see more of them as we head west.”

“From back here it sounds like a dog growling.”

“The muffler’s right below you. I think it has a hole in it. That’s why I’m keeping the windows open.”

“How much longer do I have to stay back here?”

“Not long. We’re almost out of town.”

“Do you see our picnic grove yet?”

“No. But don’t talk now. There’s a militia car behind us.”

In his mirror Lazlo saw only one man in the green and white Moskvich. He was certain it was a local militiaman because republic militiamen normally traveled in pairs. The Moskvich followed closely, the driver obviously trying to read the license plate. Although the registration was expired, Lazlo had smeared mud on that portion of the plate. But if the car was stolen, or if the man who sold it to him had reported it stolen instead of sold…

Railroad tracks ahead and a station to the left. Lazlo turned in, but the Moskvich followed. He parked near the station’s passenger ramp, pretended to yawn so the militiaman would not see his mouth moving.

“Juli. Stay where you are and don’t move. We’re at a train station. I’ll go in and pretend I’m waiting for someone.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Until I get rid of this fellow.”

Lazlo rolled up the windows, got out of the car, and locked it.

Then he walked up the passenger ramp, trying to look as casual as possible. He found out the next train wasn’t due for a half hour.

Outside the station, he saw the militiaman had gotten out of his Moskvich. The militiaman walked up to the Skoda and bent to look inside.

Don’t move, Juli. Please don’t move.

After looking inside the Skoda, the militiaman went to the back of the car, bent down to wipe at the license plate with his finger, stood and glanced to the station, then walked slowly back to his Moskvich. He did not drive away, but waited.

The stationmaster had a side business selling wine and bottled water. Lazlo bought two bottles of water and a bottle of wine and carried these back to the Skoda.

“I’m back,” he whispered, pretending to examine the wine bottle label.

“Is the militia car still there?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We’ll wait a while. His car is too fast to outrun in this piece of shit, and I don’t want to pick a fight with anybody unless it’s necessary.”

“Why don’t we keep driving?”

“He’ll stop us before we get out of town.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s watching us. I don’t think he’s used his radio. It’s a dull morning, and he has nothing better to do. An expired license plate is one thing, but being covered with mud… He’ll stop us unless he gets another call.”

“And if he simply sits there?”

“A train is due in half an hour. It’s coming from Kiev so the engine and the lead cars will have to stop across the road. We’ll get over the crossing before he does.”

“Sounds dangerous,” said Juli.

But what else could they do? If they tried to outrun the Moskvich, more militiamen would follow. The station was on the south end of town. If they could get out of town, perhaps embarrassing the militiaman in the Moskvich…

Lazlo handed the bottles of water and the wine bottle between the seats and had Juli secure them in back so they wouldn’t roll around. After waiting in silence for twenty-five minutes, Lazlo heard the distant whistle. He reached out and started the car.

Juli whispered from the back seat. “I’m frightened, Laz.”

“So am I. But listen. I’ll turn right when we leave the station, away from the tracks. If he follows, I’ll make a U-turn and go back before the train crosses the road. It won’t be going fast, but we will.

You might get bounced around.”

When he saw the train appear from behind a warehouse building along the track, Lazlo estimated its speed and its rate of decelera-tion. He counted to twenty. He put the Skoda in gear and began moving forward, counting again.

One… two… three…

The Moskvich closed in behind him.

Four… five… six…

He turned right, back toward downtown Berdichev, and the Moskvich followed.

Seven… eight… nine…

In the rearview mirror, the locomotive appeared above the station-house roof.

Ten… eleven… twelve…

Five or six seconds to get back to the tracks once he turned.

Thirteen… fourteen…

Now!

He cranked the wheel left and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The Skoda spun about, its tires squealing, its engine sputtering and missing, but finally roaring like a snarling dog. He didn’t bother shifting out of second gear and kept the accelerator pressed to the floor. In the mirror, the Moskvich was still turning around.

Ahead, the train engine was beginning to cross the road, faster than he had estimated. Too fast! He wouldn’t make it past the gate! Instead he aimed for the gate on the right, a hole to freedom ahead of the massive train engine, which now blasted its whistle.

“We’ll make it, Juli!” he shouted.

The gate smashed into pieces and flew over the Skoda. The front of the locomotive to the left was a moving wall. When the Skoda flew over the tracks, Lazlo felt a slight sideways jump of the Skoda’s tail like the skittering of a cat.

Behind him the Moskvich flashed its lights. But the flashing disappeared as the locomotive and the first few cars of the train filled the rearview mirror.

He couldn’t believe it. They had escaped!

In the side mirror he saw a dent in the rear fender of the Skoda where the locomotive had touched them. A gentle touch for a locomotive, a good-luck kiss.

Lazlo could see the mountains ahead as he shifted the Skoda into high gear and pushed the accelerator to the floor. “You can come out now!” he shouted to Juli in the back seat.

By midday two Volgas sped up to the Kopelovo collective office. Five men got out, three of them spreading out and questioning farmers who had gathered. Another man stayed by the cars and watched the road through the village. The fifth man was Major Grigor Komarov, who went directly to the office of the collective chairman and was told the location of the Zimyanins’ tent. When he left the office, Komarov summoned two of his men.

“What do others say about the Zimyanins?” asked Komarov.

“A man and woman claiming to be from the Opachichi collective near Pripyat,” said one of the men. “The description matches Horvath and Popovics.”

“A woman over there says they took the morning bus going to a collective farther south,” said the other man. “She saw Mrs. Zimyanin leave with a small suitcase.” The man pointed to the smoky yards behind the houses. “Their tent is the third one in over there.”

Komarov sent the men ahead, ducking below a clothesline as he followed. The men drew pistols, and the sight of them entering the tent made Komarov laugh. The flare of the tent reminded him of the massive skirts worn by a Wagnerian Valkyries he’d seen at the opera. His wet-behind-the-ears men entering the tent bent over with pistols drawn were like adolescent boys sneaking a look beneath a woman’s skirt. A toothless old man peeked out from another tent nearby. The old man grinned, his gums glistening pink in the morning sun. The entire scene, with campfires, tents, run-down houses, and peasants wandering about, was an opera.

Komarov laughed with the toothless old man until his own men came from the tent. Their pistols were put away, and one man shrugged his shoulders as the other spoke.

“They’re gone.”

“Of course, they’re gone,” said Komarov. “I expected them to be gone. But at least now we have a trail.”

Komarov sent his men to the collective chairman’s office, where there were two telephones his men were to use immediately. He ordered the bus heading south be searched by regional KGB personnel when it reached its destination and the passengers be thoroughly questioned. He ordered all militia offices within one hundred kilometers be contacted and given descriptions of Horvath and Popovics. He ordered the refugees and residents of the collective be informed they must tell all they know about the Zimyanins and their whereabouts or face penalties of noncooperation. Finally he ordered more men be sent from Kiev.

While his men used the phones at the collective office, Komarov went to the Zimyanin tent and went inside. An army blanket was spread on the floor of the tent. He kicked the blanket into a corner and found a slit cut into the floor. He reached through the slit and found the hard soil loosened. He poked around in the loosened soil. Nothing was there now, but it had recently been used as a hiding place.

After he searched the floor of the tent and found nothing, Komarov flipped the blanket over to see if anything had clung to it. The smell of damp wool was annoying, like sniffing beneath someone’s clothing. He carefully spread the blanket across the floor, lit a cigarette, and sat down. When he examined the blanket more closely, he noticed bits of white thread clinging to the wool. There were long pieces and short pieces, thousands of them, as if a white garment had been reduced to its elements. One piece of thread was attached to a small square of white cloth. He also found several strands of long hair, and holding them up to the light coming through the tent ceiling, guessed they were brown.

If he expected to catch Horvath, he should begin thinking like him. Horvath the fugitive, escaping at Visenka and going back to Kiev, staying at the Hotel Dnieper within blocks of KGB and militia headquarters. Horvath the refugee, remaining for days in one place, living in a tent instead of running. Horvath doing the opposite of what one would expect.

Outside the tent, Komarov could hear children running about, pots banging together. He had been in the tent long enough for life in the camp to return to normal. Family life. He blew cigarette smoke at the ceiling of the tent, imagined he was Detective Horvath with Juli Popovics by his side. If he were Detective Horvath, he would find somewhere to leave Juli Popovics and go to the only place he could go under the circumstances. Komarov threw his lit cigarette out through the narrow opening at the tent flap. Outside, a man began complaining loudly about his precious roll of toilet paper being stolen.

Komarov stood and left the tent. He walked quickly to the collective chairman’s office, waited for one of his men to finish a phone call, then called Captain Azef and ordered that extra men-no matter how green they were-be sent immediately to the Horvath family farm on the Ulyanov collective in the village of Kisbor near the Czechoslovakian frontier.