Twisted Traffick

by Geza Tatrallyay

  “What? Please, please--” I wanted to know, but I also did not.

  “Gospodin Pleshkov, brace yourself. My husband told me that your daughter and at least one other girl--maybe more--are kept in cells somewhere in the basement of the house. And that Comrade Beria uses the girls for his pleasure whenever he is here. My husband knows from the sounds that come from the boss’s bedroom where he sees him take them, and--and--”

  “What? Tell me, please.” I was distraught, about to come out of my skin.

  “No, Gospodin Pleshkov. I am sorry, but that is all I will say.”

  My worst fears had been realized. Until then, I had held out hope that this was not what our maker had intended for our daughter. But it had been hope against all hope, because deep down, I had known that the rumors about Lavrenti Beria I had heard during the last several months must have been true.

  And I could not help but imagine the most terrible things, with our beautiful daughter in the clutches of this devil.

  “Oh God, no! Not my Katerina.” I remember sinking my face into my hand. I could not hold back the tears.

  “Yes. Poor, poor girl,” was all the woman could say to try to console me.

  “But--she is alive, no?” I asked. Knowing, though, that death would at least have given her peace. And us, too.

  “Yes, she is alive.” Gospodja Lenkova’s voice was barely a whisper. “I wish I could do more--something to help, Gospodin Pleshkov. But I have my children too, and I cannot risk their lives.”

  “Thank you. You have already done a lot. But if there is anything, anything more you know or find out, please, please, tell me. Promise you will, please.”

  I kept that secret for several more months, and maintained my vigil hoping to spot our dear daughter, or find some way to help her. Then one evening in September--just the time when Katerina would have been going off to the VUZ that she had always dreamt of--Gospodja Lenkova collared me again on the sidewalk, and pulled me behind the trunk of a tree.

  “Gospodin Pleshkov, I have something to tell you,” she said, clearly agitated.

  “Yes, please, please tell me,” I pleaded with trepidation, fearing the worst. “I pray it is good news.”

  “Gospodin Pleshkov, the news is not good, but at least this terrible ordeal of your daughter has ended.”

  For sure, she was dead. “What do you mean?”

  “Gospodin Pleshkov, that monster asked my husband--to--terrible as it is--to finish your daughter off. To get rid of her. And to leave no traces.”

  “God, no!”

  “But my husband could not do it. We have a daughter that age ourselves. So, after confiding in me, and at great risk to both of us, he secretly arranged for your Katerina to be sent off to a gulag. He would not tell me where, because your searching for her would further endanger us. But at least your daughter, Gospodin Pleshkov, is alive, and that is all I can tell you. There is nothing more we can do for you,” was what the woman said, and she got up to leave. “Good bye, Gospodin Pleshkov.”

  I racked my brain every day and night after that to try to figure out where Katerina might be, made lists of the gulags I knew about, and, in spite of Gospodja Lenkova’s admonitions, made discreet enquiries.

  But nothing. I made no progress.

  Until one day in 1953--several months after Stalin had died, and Malenkov and Beria had surprised the entire country by starting to dismantle the gulag system and giving amnesty to one and a half million prisoners, and then the monster Beria was arrested and executed, and my hopes were running really high--Andrei handed me an envelope at work. My heart skipped a beat when I saw that it was from Gospodja Lenkova, and I could barely restrain myself from opening it then and there.

  I finally did, after work, when I was able to stop in the park and sit on a bench by myself. My hands trembled as they tore open the envelope, and pulled out the short note, which I incorporate to follow this page.

  My dear Sir:

  I am writing to you at the request of my husband, who--now that it seems that there is less depravity and more sanity and security in our country--wanted to pass on the little more he knows about your eldest daughter’s whereabouts. I trust, Gospodin Pleshkov, that you have not forgotten our conversations in Ozersk just over three years ago. My husband, as you may know, was the Head of Security at Lavrenti Beria’s villa, and he remains forever ashamed of having served this monster. He had no choice. Thank God, that the villain has finally been executed. It is partly to expiate his guilt that my husband asked me to write to you among others about the terrible wrongs that Beria inflicted on your daughter and other young ladies.

  As I think I mentioned to you when we last met, dear sir, my husband was finally asked by Beria to dispose of your daughter. He couldn’t carry out this vile act. Our daughters were of a similar age at the time, and we could not bear the thought. Moreover, what he did not tell me then, was that he suspected your daughter of being with child. Was this why Beria wanted to get rid of her, or had the monster just grown tired of your daughter and wanted to get on to the next pretty little thing? We will never know, but in the end, it doesn’t really matter.

  So, as I mentioned then, my husband, instead of having your daughter killed, as he had been ordered to, took it upon himself, in great secret, to put her in a gulag of which the commandant was a childhood friend of his. Back then, my husband was too afraid to tell even me which camp it was, because if anyone had known that he had not carried out Beria’s orders, it would have gotten back to him for sure, and we would have been finished. However, now that Beria is by all reports in hell, and conditions in our country have improved somewhat, it may be possible to make some enquiries about your daughter. And maybe your grandchild, although it is difficult to imagine that a newborn would have been able to survive the horrors of a gulag. It is with this in mind that he has asked me to tell you that he personally took your daughter to a corrective labor camp at Gulag Chelyablag which you may know as the iron and steel works, Chelyabmetallurgstroy. But that, Gospodin Pleshkov, was in 1950, and as you know, much has happened since then. We are not even sure if that gulag still exits and what may have happened to the prisoners there, let alone your pregnant daughter.

  We nevertheless both wish that you and your wife will be reunited with your loved one(s) soon and that you find her (them) in good health. You, like many others in this country, have suffered far too much already.

  May God (if there is one) be with you.

  Magda Lenkova

  Moscow, July 28, 1953

  My dearest Ludmilla, you can imagine that I was elated to have at least some clue to help me try and find our Katerina. And, hoping against all hope, her baby, our grandchild. You may not remember now, but one day in August of that year, I told you I needed to go to Chelyabinsk on business. Well, it was really to try to track down our dear daughter or any information I could about her.

  But as we know, Beria terminated many of the gulags right after Stalin’s death, when most of the prisoners were supposed to have been given amnesty and allowed to return home. In fact though, the few people I was able to talk to who worked at Chelyabmetallurgstroy, told me that the gulag there had been closed in October of 1951, with any prisoners still in the corrective labor camps transferred to other gulags in the system. So either our dear Katerina was already dead by then, or she was sent to another camp somewhere else in the Soviet Union, without any trace. And sadly, as you know, she did not come home in 1953 when amnesty was finally granted to many convicts in the camps, so the likelihood is that she is no longer with us. Any files on the occupants of Gulag Chelyablag, if they exist, must be in Moscow and remain top secret, so I was unable to trace any of them.

  I have lived with this terrible tale of what befell our daughter, and despite continuing to try over the next few years, I was never able to find her, nor what became of her and her baby, if indeed she lived to give birth. Oh God help us!

  Maybe she is still alive somewhere, our dear Katerina with her child
, but I would think she would have tried to get in touch with us somehow. At least, though, she was able to stay alive long enough to get away from the clutches of that depraved gangster, Beria, thanks to that Lenkov and his wife. That is all I have to console myself with as I write this letter. Perhaps, in the new world that is sure to follow this horrific one we have been living, you will be able to have someone tell the story of our daughter’s fate to the world. The depravation of the world Stalin and his henchman, Beria, created here in the Soviet Union must be made public, so that mankind will never let such monsters take charge again.

  I still pray too, that our dearest Katerina is alive somewhere with her child, and that you will be reunited with them in a better future. If not, we will all find our rest and peace in the next world.

  Your ever loving

  Efim.

  December 14, 1967

  Chapter 8

  “So that was Julia’s aunt?” Greg asked, more to confirm it for himself. “Katerina, Ludmilla’s sister. Who vanished without a trace way back then? And pregnant, at that.” He went over to the mini-bar and poured two full glasses from the screw-top bottle of Zweigelt, bringing them back to the bed.

  “And the eldest daughter of the same Efim Pleshkov who was your grandfather’s friend. To whom he trusted his letter, the one that Ludmilla gave you and Adam in Ozersk.”

  “Didn’t Ludmilla say there are other letters in the box she gave us?”

  “Yes, but she said we should give them all to Julia.”

  “They could be relevant though.”

  “Maybe to Katerina’s disappearance. But we are looking for Julia now, Greg. Let’s wait till we find her,” Anne said. “Let’s stay focused.”

  “You’re right. I’ll put them all in my backpack. We’ll give them to Julia when we find her.”

  “Good idea. But--”

  “It is a small world.” Greg took a sip of the wine, not allowing himself to engage in any discussion of the possibility of failing at their mission.

  “Yes. These disappearances seem to be a regular event in Russia. But two women, related, years apart--very weird, don’t you think? Then your grandfather, and your best friend at the time--Kallay--also really strange. And of course those journalists, and many more we don’t ever hear of, no doubt.”

  “Though we did discover what happened with the last two. My grandfather and my friend, I mean. And speaking of Adam, there is something very wrong with Ludmilla saying that he called just a few days ago, wanting to see Julia at the Revuebar Rasputin. He cannot be alive. He just cannot. I was there when he died on that fishing boat in Poti. As I told you, I shot him when he was trying to escape with the uranium. I still don’t quite understand how he became so...so evil. To the core.”

  “Yes, and I know how hard it was for you to get over that. And now we have this--this reappearance. Really puzzling, isn’t it? But you’re right. It cannot be Adam. Resurrected from the dead. Haa!”

  “Who then?”

  “It must be identity theft. Someone masquerading as Adam. It has to be somebody who knew he and Julia were close. Someone who wanted to get to Julia.”

  “Could it be Polyakov? He was the ringleader of the crooks in the ‘Adam affair.’ He could have done it. Or maybe one of his men.” Greg regretted saying the name. He saw on Anne’s face that it conjured up her horrific experience with the man. “Maybe the arms merchant wanted access to more of that highly enriched uranium from Mayak. And he saw kidnapping Julia as a means to achieve this.”

  “Or your friend, Billy. Could it be him? That Brother Peter, from the Sons of Jesus. He got away with half the uranium, didn’t he? Maybe he’s trying to use Julia--who has taken Adam’s job--now to get more, so he’ll have enough for a bomb. Bypassing Polyakov and all the intermediaries.”

  Greg had not thought of Billy Crawford--or Brother Peter, as he was known in police circles--for quite a while. He and Adam had known Billy as teenage campers at the Odd Fellows Youth Camp run by the Piarist Fathers in Prestonburg, Kentucky, where Billy had provoked Greg by writing Greg masturbates. He will go to hell, on the outhouse wall in red paint. This insult to his friend had so incensed Adam, that he stuffed Billy’s head as far down into the shithole as he could, and then the two cornered him and landed a few solid punches on his fat stomach, all this resulting in their ignominious dismissal from the camp. During the “Kallay affair,” to Greg’s great surprise, Billy had resurfaced as Brother Peter, second-in-command of a home-grown American terrorist group that called themselves the Sons of Jesus, who was trying to buy some HEU from Polyakov and his gang. He managed to get away with the Russian arms merchant and others when Anne and Greg had closed in on them, just as the transaction was being consummated. This group that Billy Crawford had become one of the leaders of, was a fanatical evangelist band that vowed to combat the hedonistic, atheist, consumer society that prevailed in the USA and the western world.

  “Well, as I told Gospodja Saparova, I will go to the Revuebar Rasputin tonight and see what I can find out. At least, that will be a start.”

  “I am coming with you.”

  “It’s not a place for a woman, Anne.”

  “On the contrary, my dear,” Anne said, giving her husband a kiss. “It’s full of ladies, as I am sure you are aware. Of the night, of course.”

  “Yes, but--”

  “Now, Greg, I do want to make sure you don’t misbehave. I want to see what you guys do at a place like that.” And she gave a coy little laugh.

  “Come on, Anne, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Besides, this is my case. I am coming. That’s that.”

  “Okay, then, dear,” Greg finally acquiesced. “Have it your way. But maybe we should go downstairs and have a bite to eat before we go over. I am quite hungry.”

  “So am I.”

  “The Rote Bar?” Greg asked, glancing at the hotel’s binder on services and amenities.

  “That sounds good to me.”

  ***

  They made their way down to the comfortable bar, all decorated in red, where the maître d’ seated them in the conservatory, with a view across to the opera.

  Greg ordered a bottle of Zweigelt, the Wienerschnitzel for himself and the Tafelspitzsuppe for Anne, after which he settled back in the plush red brocade armchair and said, “Isn’t it great to be back here, in Vienna, my dear? Our old stomping grounds.”

  “Yes, it feels like home for me in many ways,” Anne agreed. “Strange, but I guess I did live here for a few years.”

  “Until I enticed you away to beautiful Vermont.”

  “Well, it certainly is a different life there, Herr Professor.”

  The waiter brought the bottle and two glasses, pouring some for Greg to taste, then a glass for Anne.

  “I love the way you have adapted, Anne,” Greg said. “You have taken up some great activities at Middlebury. Teaching that course in forensics is brilliant. And of course, it is so much fun to go on those long hikes in the summer with you. Or skiing in the winter.”

  “I do miss city life though. And Vienna was particularly amazing with all the cultural activities--you name it: music, art, theater. It has so much to offer.”

  “You’re right. And that’s not even talking of the food and wine scene--” Greg stopped mid-sentence as he was pouring the wine, almost spilling it and continuing with a tremor in his voice, “What the--What the hell?”

  “What, Greg? What do you mean?”

  “Don’t turn around, don’t. Not now. But speaking of the devil, Billy Crawford just came in. He’s over by the bar.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! Brother Peter? Are you sure? Isn’t he a fugitive?” Anne couldn’t believe what Greg was saying. Was he hallucinating?

  “No longer, it seems. I am absolutely positive it is he.”

  “We did just mention him as the possible Kallay impostor, but--it can’t be. We’ve got to alert Demeter.”

  “Not now, because he saw me. Shit, he’s on his way over.” />
  “Well, well, if it ain’t my favorite author of smutty crime books!” The big man, easily recognizable by his red hair and freckles, towered over them. “Although in the end you did write a pretty good one about your grandparents, I must admit. András and Lily, no?” And when Greg did not answer immediately, Billy continued, “But, Greg Martens, what the fuck are you doing back here in Vienna?”

  “More importantly, Billy--or should I say Brother Peter--what are you up to here? Buying some more highly enriched uranium?”

  “Now, now. No need to get nasty. I am jus’ mindin’ my own business,” came the answer. “But tell me, who is this lovely lady?” The creep looked Anne up and down lasciviously, before faking sudden recognition. “By Jove, is this the former Interpol agent, Anne Rossiter? She is now your wife, isn’t she, Gregie? Why, you lucky feller, you.”

  “Anne, meet Billy Crawford.” Greg racked his brain and remembered they had not met during the entire Kallay affair. But how did this guy know that they were married?

  “Ah, yes, I have a friend who only has the best things to say about you, Anne,” the big Southerner continued with a big smirk, touching her on the shoulder. “He’s darn right, baby, you sure are a looker!”

  Anne blushed. Greg stood up, as it dawned on him that Crawford must have been referring to Polyakov. The bastard who had raped Anne. He could barely hold back from punching the prick.

  He was brought back to the present by Brother Peter. “You wouldn’t care to offer me a glass of your wine, Greg, like the last time, would you my friend?” The former Piarist camper punctuated this with a cackle.

  “Not on your life, Billy.” Greg had had enough. “And you had better get the fuck away from us before I call the cops.”