Chernobyl Murders

7

April 1986

Pavel and Nikolai sat at their long table in the back room of the Pripyat post office opening-reading-resealing the ten percent of the morning’s mail shoveled through the slot in the wall. Last winter the steamer had been welcome. On a warm April day, however, the steamer was an enemy. An exhaust fan clattering on the wall failed to remove the heat and moisture. Their foreheads glistened with perspiration.

“I’m reminded of a steam bath in Moscow,” said Pavel, resealing a letter and adding it to the growing pile on his left.

“The steam baths in Kiev are better,” said Nikolai.

“In what way?”

“The women.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Pavel. “Not even in these so-called times of change. You play with your nuts underwater, and you see tits on boys.”

“That reminds me,” said Nikolai. “Soon it will be May.”

“What does May have to do with women in the Kiev baths?”

Nikolai resealed a letter he had been reading and tossed it onto the pile. “In May chestnuts and lilacs are in bloom. While we sit in our Pripyat sweatbox, workers prepare for May Day parades. Last year, naked women were in the Kiev parade.”

“The recent crackdown on drinking should apply especially to you,” said Pavel. “Or perhaps, like the Chernobyl workers, you’ve taken up hashish.”

“Don’t be a farmer,” said Nikolai, retrieving another letter.

“I’m not a farmer,” said Pavel.

“You smell like one.”

Pavel tossed a letter onto the pile and gave Nikolai a dismissive wave. “No wonder it stinks in here. With all this idiotic talk and all this heat…”

“Captain Putna should issue deodorant,” said Nikolai.

They were quiet for a time, reading letters, frowning, and adding letters to the finished pile. Finally, Pavel spoke.

“The postmaster has an oscillating fan in his office. Tomorrow it will be in here.”

Nikolai fanned himself with a letter he had just opened. “If we had a window like the postmaster, we’d have a view and be able to smell the spring air instead of reading about it. I’m sick of reading about it.” Nikolai read from the letter. “‘Spring is pleasant here also.

Snows of February and March have nourished the winter wheat.

Father has planted our vegetable crop and all is well.’ I’m sick of hearing how all is well.” Nikolai opened a new letter, examined it.

“Here’s another to Juli Popovics, the Chernobyl technician babe.”

“She’s under observation,” said Pavel. “Who’s it from?”

“I know she’s under observation,” said Nikolai, somewhat annoyed. “It’s in Ukrainian from Aunt Magda in Kiev. She has prepared a room so Juli Popovics can visit for several months while the medical matter is addressed.”

“Sounds like she’s a Mommychka-to-be,” said Pavel.

“There must be much activity at Chernobyl,” said Nikolai.

“Aside from radioactivity.”

Nikolai put the letter to Juli Popovics in the tray for copying and began opening another.

“Still no mail for the engineer stud?” asked Nikolai, glancing at a list on the table headed by the words official observation.

“Nothing for Mihaly Horvath since February,” said Pavel.

“First his American cousin bugs him, then a batch of letters from his brother asking about some matter, then nothing.”

“The letters we copied may have had an effect,” said Nikolai.

“Like other Chernobyl workers before him, he’s gone mad and had to be taken away. Perhaps we’ll go mad. It’s spring and I feel like a caged animal. Can you imagine the heat in this room come summer?”

“I doubt if Mihaly Horvath has gone mad,” said Pavel. “As for us, the post office should supply chilled mineral water. Did you hear Gorbachev is now mineral secretary since he replaced vodka at official functions?”

“You already told me,” said Nikolai, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

“Don’t worry about the heat,” said Pavel. “Tomorrow we’ll have a fan to cool us, courtesy of our ersatz supervisor, the noble comrade postmaster.”

Because it had been stored in the underground garage, the inside of the Volga was cool and comfortable. Major Komarov tried to relax as Captain Azef drove slowly through Kiev’s noon-hour traffic. On the far side of Kirov Street, beyond Petrovsky Promenade, office workers lunched on benches beneath chestnut trees and on the green April lawn of Pervomaisky Park. Beyond the park, the river sparkled in the sun. Out in the river, the beach on Trukhanov Island glowed like a hot ember.

While he drove, Azef talked about automobiles. “Although the Zil is still used by high officials and has certain prestige, I still prefer the Volga. Even modified Chaikas with yellow fog lights are no match for the well-equipped Volga. Look at all those pieces of shit everyone else drives. Even the militia drives shitbox Zhigulis.”

Azef glanced to Komarov. “Sorry, Major. I’m speaking too much again.”

“Sometimes, Captain, it’s not how much you speak. It’s the nature of your conversation. Perhaps it would be better to concentrate on our visit to militia headquarters.”

Azef stopped the Volga behind a line of traffic waiting for pedestrians crossing to the park. “Will you tell Chief Investigator Chkalov about the investigation into shoddy parts from Yugoslavia?”

“Shoddy parts relates to new construction,” said Komarov. “Detective Horvath’s brother works in unit four, which is fully operational.”

“What about the woman?” asked Azef. “Will you tell Chkalov about her?”

“Detective Horvath’s brother managing to impregnate a co-worker is of no concern to the Kiev militia. Our purpose today is simply to determine whether the letters Detective Horvath sent his brother earlier in the year might have some relation to Chernobyl.”

“Chkalov is a brutish fellow,” said Azef.

Komarov glanced at Azef and had to restrain a smile. Azef of the KGB and Chkalov of the militia, what a pair of plump brutes they both were.

When they got out of the Volga at militia headquarters, Komarov had a quick cigarette before entering the building. Azef seemed about to mention the cigarette until Komarov glared at him. Then Azef simply waited for Komarov to finish his smoke.

Chief Investigator Chkalov’s office did not look like the office of a man who worked for a living. Except for a brass pen set, an intercom, and telephone, the desk was clear. Behind Chkalov on either side of an ornately curtained window stood flags of the Soviet Union, the Ukraine, the city of Kiev, and the Kiev militia. The walls contained photographs of appropriate officials surrounding a larger rendering of Lenin looking skyward. There were no maps of the city with stickpins, no scheduling boards, no piles of reports. A room meant for giving proclamations rather than the office of the chief of Kiev’s detectives, who sat behind the desk picking remnants of his lunch from his teeth with his fingernails.

Captain Azef sat to Komarov’s left, slouching in one of the plush guest chairs. Komarov had turned his chair at an angle so he could view both brutes at once. Because there was no ashtray, he did not smoke.

“So,” said Chkalov, “the KGB wishes to inquire about Detective Horvath.”

Komarov was about to speak when Azef broke in. “Yes, Comrade Chief Investigator. We would like to know something about him.”

Komarov glared at Azef. “If you don’t mind, Captain.”

Azef gripped the arms of his chair as if to pull himself from its depths. “Certainly, Major.”

“Thank you,” said Komarov, turning to Chkalov, who seemed amused at this pettiness. “Chief Investigator Chkalov, as you know, it is often in the state’s interest to gather information about certain citizens. This is not to imply these individuals have broken laws; it is simply part of the overall fact-gathering responsibility of the KGB.”

Komarov knew he was stating the obvious. He often used this technique when interrogating officials. A few minutes of this, and Chkalov would relax his defenses. Komarov went on, stating in general terms the need for militia and KGB cooperation. During the speech, Komarov noticed Chkalov sit back, fold his hands on his desk, and smile. When he felt Chkalov was sufficiently relaxed, Komarov began the questioning.

“Chief Investigator Chkalov, is Detective Horvath a convinced or an unconvinced Communist?”

Chkalov’s smile changed to a frown. “These are questions of conscience. My men do their duty.”

Komarov sat forward, stared at Chkalov. “Surely you know your men. Especially a man like Detective Horvath who has been with you for many years. Is he convinced or unconvinced?”

“He’s not a Party member.”

“Party membership has nothing to do with it. I want to know if Detective Horvath, who originates from a frontier area and is of Hungarian descent, does his job simply to maintain his position, or if he does it for the good of the system.”

“He’s a hard worker,” said Chkalov, sounding defensive. “Detective Horvath is a bachelor and often makes use of his own time to solve a case.”

“Are you aware he has relatives in America?”

Chkalov smiled. “Many Ukrainians and Russians have relatives in America, so it would not surprise me if Detective Horvath has an American relative or two. Perhaps you should have visited the American consulate instead of coming here.”

Komarov ignored the smile. “A second cousin visited Detective Horvath here in the Ukraine while he was on holiday.”

“I know,” said Chkalov. “He told me about it.”

“Did you also know Detective Horvath associates with members of the artistic intelligentsia in Kiev?”

“He’s a lover of the arts,” said Chkalov. “Especially music.”

“Hungarians do love their music,” said Komarov. “Gypsy music.

Contrived emotion so they can alternately dance and weep.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” asked Chkalov.

Komarov glanced to Azef.

“Background data,” said Azef, obviously glad to join in. “Major Komarov is simply establishing Horvath’s character.”

“I suppose next we’ll go into his preferences in women,” said Chkalov.

“Perhaps,” said Azef.

Komarov nodded to Azef, a signal to continue.

“For instance,” said Azef, taking his notebook from his pocket.

“Were you aware Detective Horvath has been seeing a Miss Tamara Petrov, who is editor of a literary review known to publish the works of anti-Soviets?”

“A detective’s personal life is none of my business,” said Chkalov.

“A moment ago it was,” said Azef. “A moment ago you said Detective Horvath has much free time because he is a bachelor, and he uses this time to put in extra duty.”

“He doesn’t give up all his free time,” said Chkalov, obviously annoyed. “I simply meant he is often available on call.”

“He should be,” said Komarov. “He has a car at his disposal, which he is also permitted to use for personal trips.”

“It is valuable to have our detectives in their own cars, Major.

This is a large city, and a detective can be called to duty at a moment’s notice.”

“Do you also permit out-of-town trips?”

“Occasionally.”

“A hundred kilometers away?”

Chkalov sat forward, fists clenched on his desk. “I see no point to this questioning. If militia policy is in question, perhaps you would be candid enough to say it.”

“On the contrary,” said Komarov. “I don’t question militia policy. I simply want to inquire about several trips Detective Horvath made to Pripyat.”

Chkalov smiled. “Detective Horvath was visiting his brother.

Even so, there is a militia office in Pripyat, and it is not uncommon for our detectives to communicate with one another.”

“I’ve visited the Pripyat militia office myself,” said Komarov. “I must say, the captain there is also a person of interest. But we’re getting off track. I’m here to reveal information regarding Detective Horvath.”

“Please do!” said Chkalov abrasively.

“Detective Horvath’s brother holds a key position at the Chernobyl Nuclear Facility operated by the Ministry of Energy. The KGB is assigned to protect the facility. Recently, Detective Horvath’s brother has had personal problems and has been involved in gossip with co-workers, some of which involves the questioning of authority. In letters from Detective Horvath to his brother, Mihaly Horvath, Chernobyl matters were alluded to. Detective Horvath has subse-quently inquired whether these matters were resolved. Now, instead of writing, Detective Horvath has made several trips to Pripyat. Our concern, Chief Investigator Chkalov, is not with an individual’s personal life unless his personal life is dedicated to wrongdoing.”

Chkalov stood, walked to his window with his hands clasped behind him, then turned. “Detective Horvath is one of my best men. He would not be involved in wrongdoing.”

“I didn’t say he was,” said Komarov.

“Then what the hell are you getting at?”

“His brother,” said Komarov. “We’re concerned about his brother, and we’d like you to let us know if you hear anything. A compromised Chernobyl engineer is my concern.”

“Such methods you use,” said Chkalov, shaking his head. “In the militia, when we want to know an answer, we simply ask the question. But I suppose KGB procedures are different.”

“They have to be,” said Komarov. “In counterintelligence, there are times when we do not know the questions. We simply know a situation exists in which questions should be asked. In the KGB we do not wait for a crime to occur before we do something.”

When he and Azef walked through the anteroom after leaving Chkalov’s office, Komarov heard what sounded like the violent slamming of a desk drawer behind him. He turned to see Azef smiling gleefully like a fat-faced child.

Although the North Atlantic was over a thousand kilometers away beyond all of Europe, the distant ocean affected Kiev’s weather. In winter, northwesterly winds blew across Scandinavia, causing snow squalls, which sometimes paralyzed the city. But now, in late April, the winds had reversed their course, bringing warmth from the Black Sea.

It was evening, and Major Komarov was on the back porch of his small home on the outskirts of Darnitsa, a suburb of Kiev. This afternoon, Komarov had succeeded in intimidating Chief Investigator Chkalov of the Kiev militia. As he sat in the dark on his porch sipping vodka on ice with a lemon peel, he could still see Chkalov’s angry round face and Captain Azef’s smiling round face. Con-temptible brutes, both of them.

The porch faced a grove of trees bordering a creek at the southern edge of the yard. The south wind was fragrant with greenery, momentarily overpowering the smell of vodka and the acrid aroma of the cigarette he had just put out.

Dinner was finished, and Komarov could hear the muted bab-ble of the television inside the house. His wife remained captivated by television, while Komarov, weather permitting, spent evenings on his beloved porch. On the small wooden table beside his chair were cigarettes, a lighter, an ashtray, a bowl of ice, a peeled lemon, his glass, and his bottle.

When he sipped vodka, Komarov’s elbow brushed against his side where he felt the weight of the knife in the inside pocket of his jacket. Keeping the knife with him rather than locked away in his desk coincided with his introduction last summer to the suspicious actions of three Hungarians. Although he had not met them, the three had been under operational observation for many months, and Komarov felt he knew them well.

Two of the Hungarians, Mihaly Horvath and Juli Popovics, worked at the Chernobyl facility. If the need arose, the actions of these two would be of interest to the Ministry of Energy, to the power-plant Party secretary, or even to KGB headquarters in Moscow. Somehow Komarov felt this need would arise. He had been requested confidentially to watch for incidents in which Chernobyl personnel questioned safety at the plant. Although he did not know the reason, he felt a Moscow crackdown might come. If it did, he would be ready. He would have his three suspects: a Chernobyl engineer, a technician, and a detective in Kiev.

Three suspects with the blood of Gypsies running through their veins. Three Gypsies whose photographs, especially the Horvath brothers, reminded him of photographs of Bela Bartok, the so-called composer who collected simpleminded folk tunes and pawned them off as art, the so-called composer who went to America to die with his old-fashioned music.

Komarov took a sip of vodka and again felt the weight of the knife against his chest. He reached into his inside pocket and held the knife. If only he had owned the knife earlier in his career and used it. Perhaps on Barbara, the dark-haired Gypsy who humiliated him. If only he had started his climb on the ladder sooner, perhaps in the army before joining the KGB. If only he had been old enough to use the knife to avenge the death of his father, a lover of music, especially Prokofiev.

Komarov gripped the knife tightly and thought again about the night he met the man who would kill his parents. It was some years after the end of the Great Patriotic War. Komarov paused to drink to the victory of the Great War, then regripped his knife and thought back.

It was in Moscow during the time of rebuilding. Although he was only a few years old, the scene was vivid. He and his father had left his mother in the one-room apartment and gone to the opera house to see Love for Three Oranges. His father loved Prokofiev’s music. “The music of the future,” his father said. “Did you know Prokofiev traveled to America, dear Grigor? Of course, Americans did not understand his music. Prokofiev’s music of the future belongs here in the motherland.” Unfortunately the motherland’s future was something his father would never see, because after the opera, the Gypsy landlord killed his parents. In the street outside the apartment building, the landlord, his sinister foul face hidden in the shadow of a brimmed hat, argued with his father about the rent, equated the rent with the cost of opera tickets.

A week later, they were forced to move in with Uncle Ivan in the village north of Moscow. A month later, his father put Uncle Ivan’s pistol to his head in the barn. A year later, his mother died of pneumonia in the cold corner of Uncle Ivan’s farmhouse, and little Grigor was sent to the orphanage, making the army barracks, years later, seem luxurious.

In the army Komarov learned the old Russian saying and reversed it. Where he should have licked, he did lick; where he should have barked, he did bark. He kept his opinions to himself, praising officials even when he thought they were fools, as when Khrushchev knuckled under to Kennedy during the Cuban missile fiasco. The army gave Komarov comfort and discipline. The army gave him the chance his father never had. While gripping the knife tightly, he wished he’d had its power the night of the opera.

As a boy he would have wanted to be a Brezhnev rather than a Gorbachev, not allowing himself to be duped the way the current administration allowed themselves to be duped. But perhaps, like all things in this modern world, the current situation was a charade, the talk of perestroika a ruse by Gorbachev to lure the movie actor Reagan into his clutches.

Komarov had seen much during his years in the KGB. Orthodox Church leaders working for the KGB after being compromised by Romeo agents. Spy planes collecting air samples routinely doctored by those being spied on. A Brezhnev rather than a Gorbachev.

How could he possibly accomplish it today? Perhaps Gypsies were the answer. Gypsies, after all, were much like the Muslims in Afghanistan-male-centered, out of touch with modern culture, using superstitious religion to undo the world. Gypsies allowed their children to smoke. He’d seen them in the slums of Moscow, eight-and nine-year-old boys smoking. Not girls. Boys. The boys in the culture growing up to overthrow governments. The boys of deviant societies bent on destruction while he went into the army and then into the KGB to serve Mother Russia.

Muslims and Gypsies. He’d known of a Hungarian CIA station chief code named Gypsy Moth. Perhaps the code name could be used again. Perhaps the cousin visiting the Horvath brothers had objectives beyond a familial visit. Western secret services actively recruited spies and provocateurs. Perhaps uncovering a network of spies and provocateurs was the key, someone hired by American intelligence to compromise a Chernobyl engineer.

“A Brezhnev rather than a Gorbachev,” he mumbled.

Komarov was not certain how long he had been on the porch, perhaps an hour, perhaps two. But he did know he had refilled his glass several times. He was now in the most comfortable state of his day, a euphoric state in which the cares of the past and present fade and the vodka has not yet completely taken over. It was difficult to maintain this feeling for long. But while it lasted, each evening, he felt it would last forever. Unfortunately, the bottle required one to become drunk and uncomfortable in order to pass through this state. He thought about this for a moment, tried to analyze the logic of it, then took another drink.

A noise in the bushes to his left. Komarov sat forward, put down his glass. A figure moved swiftly along the side, then the front of the porch. Komarov took the knife from his pocket. For an instant he thought of Chkalov, of militia vengeance. He recalled one of his agents, Allika, who had been mysteriously killed last year. He was out of his chair and had begun to open the knife when he recognized his son coming up the stairs.

“Dmitry!”

“What’s new, Pop?”

He slipped the knife back into his pocket, allowing it to close within its handle. “You frightened me.”

“What else is new?”

“Why don’t you use the front door?”

“Why do you sit out here every night?”

“Why do you always ask questions in response to mine?”

“Why do you always ask questions?”

It was no use. Komarov sat back in his chair, took a drink of vodka, lit a cigarette.

Instead of going into the house, Dmitry sat on the steps facing the yard. Komarov stared at the dark outline of his son. So thin he seemed unhealthy. His hair, cropped on the sides and long on top, sticking straight up. His damnable earring catching the light from the house.

“I got a job today,” said Dmitry.

“A job?” No. He must not sound overly excited. “What kind of job?”

“At the art museum in Kiev.”

“Which one? There are several art museums.”

“Not the Museum of Russian Art. This one’s a few doors away.”

“What matters is you’re employed, Dmitry.”

“So now you don’t have to say your son was kicked out of the university and he’s a parasite. Am I right? Is this why you’re so impressed?”

“No,” said Komarov. “I’m interested. Which museum is it?”

“Oriental and Western Art. I’ll work in the gift shop. Fyodor got me the job.”

Fyodor, the one Dmitry brought to dinner last month, the one who put his arm around Dmitry as they walked down the street.

Komarov took another drink, then another. His own son, the son of a major in the KGB, a homosexual. And now his… his what?

Mate? Bed partner? Lover? And now his son’s lover had gotten Dmitry a job.

“So, what do you think, Pop?”

“I think it’s good to have a job.” Komarov wanted to be alone with his vodka but knew he must go on, he must try despite the fact he had left the state of euphoria and was descending into the depths of drunkenness. “I also think relationships should be with the right people.”

“Like who?”

The wind blew across Komarov’s face, but he could not smell the air. All he could smell was the vodka.

“A long time ago,” said Komarov, “when I was stationed in East Berlin, there was a woman named Gretchen. Golden blond hair, eyes like fine crystal, skin soft and fair…”

Dmitry stood and walked to the back door.

“Where are you going? I was speaking!”

“I’ve heard this story before, Pop.”

“No. You… you couldn’t have.”

“I have. And so has Mom. You always talk about Gretchen when you’re drunk. You always tell us how she was murdered and what a hero you were to have avenged her death. You’re drunk like this every night. Go ahead. Try to stand up. See? You can’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about. There are no Gretchens here.

I have my own friends. Telling me about the old days in Berlin when you used your whore, Gretchen, to lure poor bastards to be tortured doesn’t mean anything here. Maybe you killed the bastards she brought to you. Why don’t you get your gun and kill me? You can’t even get out of your chair!”

Komarov reached into his pocket and pulled out the knife. Before he could open it, Dmitry snatched it away.

“Ha! A knife! You pull a knife on your own son?”

Dmitry opened the knife, held the blade up to the light coming from the window. “Such a big knife for such a little man.” Then Dmitry stabbed the knife into the door frame and went into the house, leaving the back door to slam shut like the shot from a pistol.

Komarov held the arms of his chair and twisted to stare at the knife sticking out of the door frame, the knife he’d used so he could be where he was today. But where was he? Was this hell? Was there really a vengeful God? If so, why didn’t God kill the Gypsy landlord so he could live a different life? A life along the other path instead of this one with its marriage producing a homosexual son who, despite his appearance, had become stronger than him. What was a man?

Were the brutes Chkalov and Azef men? Was he a man?

Komarov picked up the vodka bottle, felt the weight of it, the heft of poison, of slow death. He would fight it. He would regain his manhood. Perhaps he would uncover a conspiracy at Chernobyl, a conspiracy involving the Horvath brothers. Gypsies, whose relatives dress and dance like women while others pick pockets. Gypsies, who converse in languages others cannot understand. Gypsies, who wear earrings. A world of symbols. A world in which a spy from American intelligence can, if he wants, squirm in the bushes like a snake and mount a surprise attack on a KGB official simply trying to get through another evening at his own home.

Komarov stood up from his chair, holding onto the side of the house for balance. He studied the vodka bottle. Although the label was unreadable in the dark, lights from the house reflected in the glass. He tried to feel the reflected light with his thumb, and when he could not, he held the bottle high over his head and threw it against the porch railing. It shattered across the floor of the porch, and eventually he heard vodka dripping through the floorboards to the earth below. He stood swaying in the dark, listening, waiting, and planning his next move.