Smirnov thought for a moment, then said, “If female clinic bombings and trafficking are related, perhaps Ivan Babii’s death in Romania is also tied in. And, of course, there is Babii’s connection to Maxim Vakhabov, the trafficker from the past. Does he still exist? Is he back in Uzbekistan? Perhaps Viktor Patolichev was involved in pornography, or even in trafficking. But are you implying Janos Nagy has some involvement in these things?”
“I did not call to be questioned by you, Comrade Smirnov!”
“Forgive me,” said Smirnov, realizing he had crossed the line.
“Very well, Yuri. Your task is to reassure Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza. And please, Yuri, give me some credit for coordination of this investigation.”
After Lyashko hung up, Smirnov stood, went to his window, and stared down at the pedestrians scurrying along the sidewalks like so many insects. The troubles in Kiev had started months earlier after the killing of a female doctor at one of the clinics in the Podil District. Smirnov pinpointed this as the exact time his boss, Anatoly Lyashko, began questioning him about things lurking beneath the surface. Perhaps it was related to foreign intelligence. Whatever the reason, Smirnov’s mistrust of the upper floors of SBU headquarters began with Lyashko’s refusal to make public a calling card left at the scene of the Podil female clinic murder.
It was scrawled on the sidewalk, apparently with a gloved finger, in the doctor’s own blood. A cross within a circle, which Smirnov knew was the symbol for Opus Dei. But Smirnov also knew there were questions in other SBU circles that another organization, supposedly heavily involved in trafficking in previous years, had used the symbol. Smirnov recalled bringing this up in the past and being reprimanded by Lyashko, much as he had been today. For these reasons, Smirnov felt Lyashko might be involved in a cover-up.
Smirnov looked at his watch and decided it was not too late to fulfill his duty and call Father Rogoza. A sexy female voice with a Russian accent answered.
“Ukrainian Orthodox Church, Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza’s office.”
“Is Father Rogoza in?” asked Smirnov. “I am Agent Yuri Smirnov at the Kiev office of the Security Service of Ukraine.”
“One moment please, Agent Yuri Smirnov.”
Smirnov noticed the fluidity with which the secretary repeated his full name. He thought of her voice when Rogoza came on the line. He thought of her voice while introducing himself to Rogoza and asking about Janos Nagy. He thought of her voice until Rogoza exploded.
“Of course he has been disturbing me!” screamed Rogoza. “I told the militia hours ago. Do you not communicate with the militia?”
“When it is necessary,” said Smirnov.
“Obviously this is a necessary time to communicate!” shouted Rogoza. “Janos Nagy is insane and must be watched by both the SBU and the militia!”
“What exactly did he do?” asked Smirnov.
“He assaulted this holy office and threatened me physically! Please tell me what you plan to do, Agent Smirnov! Or should I go to higher authorities?”
“That is not necessary,” said Smirnov. “I will be certain the SBU keeps watch on him.”
“Ah,” said Rogoza, no longer shouting. “I had a feeling he was a suspect.”
“What do you mean?”
“Inspector Smirnov, I am not a fool. Let me simply say I am relieved to know you are watching him. I will pray for you.” Rogoza’s voice had gone syrupy.
“Of course,” said Smirnov. “I will keep in touch.”
After the call, Smirnov looked at his watch and decided he had time to go to a local club for a glass or two of beer before the next metro express home. As he walked to the club, he recalled the sexy Russian voice saying, “One moment please, Agent Yuri Smirnov.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Even though Mariya could see the militiamen sitting in their car in the parking lot, darkness outside was like the blindfold in the van. Would she ever be able to look out at the night again without feeling as though the angry young men were out there waiting? She looked at her bicycle against the wall, its front wheel turned inward, reluctant to be ridden again. If only she had someone to talk to. If only she had been able to get to her cell phone in the bicycle bag before they grabbed her. If only she hadn’t made the break with her mother so permanent.
Mother, this is Mariya. I am no longer at the Kiev striptease club. I married, but my husband of one month was killed in a suspicious fire in his pornography shop. Other than this, little is new except for yesterday. How are things in Uzhgorod?
Mariya edged past her bicycle and closed the bedroom door. In the living room, she sat by the phone and called Janos’ office. Once again, she received the recorded message. “Greetings from the Nagy Investigative Agency. Unfortunately, neither the investigator nor any of his assistants is able to answer the phone at this time. If you will leave a message at the tone …”
It was good hearing Janos’ voice. If she called his cell phone, he would answer, but what would she say? Simply listening to his voice calmed her. Insane: she knew Janos two days and missed him. But why not? No one else had been there when she emerged from the dark bicycle path.
A sound on the stairs outside her door was followed by a knock.
“Mariya, it’s Janos Nagy.”
He brought in a basket covered with a white cloth and put it on the table. His jacket and shirt were cool from the evening air. But his face and hands were warm as she hugged him.
“Are you all right?” whispered Janos into her ear.
She held him more tightly. “Now I am.”
“For a moment I thought something happened.”
“It did. You came.”
Mariya needed to supply only plates, utensils, and glasses. Janos brought the dinner in his basket. Cucumber salad, chicken paprikas, poppy seed strudel, and Hungarian red wine.
“It’s from a small Hungarian restaurant in north Podil.”
“I’m reminded of childhood,” said Mariya. “After my father left us and we moved back to Uzhgorod, we took our Easter meal in a basket to church to have the food blessed.”
Janos poured wine. “My family did the same. Baskets were lined up three deep at the altar. The inside of the church smelled of freshly baked bread and homemade sausage.”
Mariya emptied the basket and set the table for two.
“Why did you leave Uzhgorod?” asked Janos.
“We didn’t live in Uzhgorod proper, but a small village. When several girls left after being urged on by a young woman from Kiev, rumors flew. The girls had wonderful jobs in Kiev, new clothing, and lived in large apartments. Only later, when I was lured to Kiev, did I discover they had been trafficked out of Ukraine. I saved myself by working the clubs. I know you may find it hard to believe, but dancing in strip clubs saved me from a worse fate.”
Janos began dishing up the steaming chicken paprikas. “I believe you. Earlier today, I spoke with Aleksandr Shved’s friend Elena. As a girl, she found herself in Istanbul. Luckily, she made her way back to Kiev with the help of La Strada.”
“Do you think the young men yesterday were traffickers?”
“It seems unlikely,” said Janos, offering Mariya a plate. “In the past, I’ve had contacts at La Strada and other NGOs. Traffickers are brutal in different ways than your captors. They move quickly, extracting victims from their environment and from their country.”
“After what happened yesterday, perhaps I should say a prayer before our meal.”
“We can if you like,” said Janos, looking at her seriously.
Mariya put down her plate, folded her hands, recalled how she had thanked God after being thrown out of the van, and said, “Thank you.”
“It is the best prayer,” said Janos.
They ate in silence, smiling at one another when they paused for sips of wine. When they finished, Mariya made tea and took it to the living room. Janos had removed his jacket and his shoulder holster and loosened his tie. His hair was disheve
led, and with a smile on his face, he looked like a boy with salt-and-pepper hair. She sat next to him on the sofa, not because his jacket and shoulder holster were in the chair, but because she wanted to be close to him.
“What did Arkady Listov have to say?”
“He said he recalls Viktor talking of God in his sleep when they shared an apartment.”
“He spoke of God’s punishment and God’s children back then?”
“Yes, perhaps it was a recurring nightmare. Do you remember Viktor ever saying anything, while he was awake or asleep, about boats? More specifically, anything about needing a boat to get to an orphanage?”
“Nothing like that,” said Mariya. “But he didn’t like boats. I wanted to rent a rowboat to go out on the river. He said he would never go in a boat.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“No.”
Janos took out his notebook and a pen. He drew a circle with an X inside while Mariya watched. “Did you ever see anything like this? Listov said it was something Viktor drew. He said it was a symbol for the orphanage Viktor was at.”
She stared at the symbol. “It could be a crucifix instead of an X. After what we spoke of last night, it makes me think of a cult symbol. It seems like something I’ve seen somewhere, but never anything associated with Viktor.”
“Did Viktor ever mention the name Ivan Babii or the surname Donner?”
“No … I’m not very helpful.”
“I learned little else from Listov, not even how your husband became successful. Listov mentioned favors, but, of course, could not give details. This question may be uncomfortable, but did Viktor ever say anything to you about child pornography?”
“Yes. He told me he was asked to sell it.”
“Did he?”
“He said no. He said he refused except for one time when they forced it on him. He said he burned it and told them he had sold it.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Yes.”
Janos thought for a moment before continuing. “What about the man who introduced Viktor to the video store business? Do you know his name?”
“Yes, I remember because it sounds Hungarian. Uszta. I don’t know a first name.”
“Janos wrote the name in his notebook. “It sounds familiar. Perhaps I can find him.”
Janos told Mariya about the tan Zhiguli station wagon at the rental agency and the woman riding off on a violet bicycle.
“Did they say whether it was a girl’s bicycle?”
Janos frowned. “I did not think to ask.”
“Mine is a boy’s bicycle. Serious bicycle riders in Ukraine do not use the traditional girl’s bicycle because its frame is not as strong.”
“Not strong enough for a racer,” said Janos, smiling.
“Of course. But really, do you think the woman who returned the car had my bicycle?”
“It had to be somewhere while you were in the van. You said you thought there was another young woman. It could have happened this way … The couple in the station wagon saw me following and went south. When I stopped following, they returned to Kiev to meet up with another couple. The men kidnapped you and had the young woman return the car to the rental agency because they knew I would report the car after they released you.”
“Perhaps the woman who returned the car and rode off on my bicycle was the same one in the car who followed me from the airport.”
“No,” said Janos. “Not unless she wore a wig. The young woman in the car had red hair and a round face. The one seen at Metro Vehicle Rental had black hair and a slender face. When did you say the woman spoke with you in the van last night?”
“Immediately before they released me, perhaps a half hour.”
“Yes,” said Janos, “It makes sense. With two couples, the young women would return the rental car I followed, pick up a new rental, and when they returned to the van—”
“When they returned to the van, I was being abused by so-called boyfriends.”
“And therefore the slaps,” said Janos.
Janos told Mariya about Aleksandr Shved’s friend Elena Dobrin, saying Shved might have been working on cases involving missing teenagers and children. He told her about the black Zil, which may or may not have tried to run him down, and about his visit to Rogoza’s office.
“I should not have gone there,” said Janos.
“Perhaps Rogoza had you thrown out because he did try to have you run over and he needed to cover it up.”
“No,” said Janos. “It would be too obvious. It could have been a Mafia warning. If so, they must have a reason.”
Janos went to the kitchen table and brought back the unfinished bottle of wine and glasses. When he sat back on the sofa, Mariya saw a slight grimace of pain on his face.
“Is it the glass?”
“The slivers are more painful when they near the surface. I hope they are out soon.”
“Do you have to remove them yourself?”
Janos laughed. “They’re too small. I was told they come off in the shower.”
Janos poured wine and held Mariya’s glass out to her. When she took the glass, he proposed a toast. “To a successful solution of our case.”
“To our case,” she said, staring at his dark eyes as she drank.
Perhaps the toast should have been to Viktor. It would be more fitting. How could she drink to anything else? Yet almost all toasts involved the future, or happiness. Viktor was pragmatic; if he were alive, he would say she should toast to her own future, because he no longer had a future. He had said this to her once. “Mariya, think of your own future. If something ever happens to me, think of yourself.”
Suddenly, as she stared into Janos’ eyes, Mariya wanted to embrace him and kiss him and hide from the world in his arms, in his eyes.
She looked away. “I wish there was something I could do to help find Viktor’s killers.”
“There is,” said Janos. “Tomorrow you could call orphanages and see if you can get through to someone who has a record of Viktor. If you do, ask if they remember him having nightmares or talking in his sleep. Find out whatever you can about his past.”
Mariya thought of Viktor for a moment. “I should have known him better. He wanted to marry immediately, but I made him wait until his birthday. Imagine knowing so little about a man’s past, and I made him wait until his birthday.”
“How long did you wait?”
“Only a matter of weeks,” said Mariya. “I made a joke at the time, saying I wanted to be able to claim I was only two years older. There, I’ve told you my age. Now you must tell me your age. It is Hungarian tradition.”
“But I already know your age from our first interview.”
“I had forgotten. But now, what about the age of Janos?”
“I am five years older than you. I was your age when I quit the militia.”
“Tell me, Janos. If you could live life over, would you become a priest instead of this?”
“I don’t think so.” Janos looked around the room. “Do you have a CD player?”
“In the cabinet. What does a CD player have to do with reliving one’s life?”
“I’ll show you,” said Janos, putting on his jacket. “I have a CD in the car.”
When Janos walked out, Mariya stood and looked at his pistol in its holster where he’d left it in the chair. If she owned a pistol and had a way to carry it on her bicycle, would she have used it when the man stepped out of the van and asked her to stop?
Mariya went to the window and looked down into the parking lot. Janos left his car, waved to the militiamen, and then ran back to the apartment like a boy, his prize in his hand.
It was violin music she recalled from long ago. Music played for her on a small record player at a nursing home in Uzhgorod before she was lured to Kiev.
“My grandfather had records like this.”
“It is Sandor Lakatos, the world famous Gypsy violinist. He learned the violin from his father, and his father from his
father … Five generations of Gypsy violinists.” Janos held his hands up and cocked his chin as if holding a violin. “This is what I would be if I had life to live again.”
The solo violin began slowly, almost weeping, exactly the way it was on her grandfather’s record player in the nursing home. The tune slowly increased in momentum but still maintained the haunting feeling as each note faded in and out.
“He has a wonderful touch,” said Janos, standing on the other side of the coffee table, playing his imaginary violin, swaying from side to side as he stared at her with dark eyes that seemed larger at a distance.
The tempo increased as other instruments joined in. Janos kept playing, smiling at her, laughing when the music became so fast he could not keep up. When the song ended, they both laughed and, following Janos’ lead, Mariya drank down her wine.
The next song was slow, at first seeming very sad, but there was an unexplainable pleasure to the anguish, the music soothing like a sad film. Janos also played this song, swaying as he bowed the phantom violin, alternately staring at her and closing his eyes. As the music played, Mariya recalled Janos telling her he was a melancholy person.
Perhaps she would become like him, melancholy for the remainder of her life. Perhaps they would make a good pair. Even her pragmatic Viktor would have to agree. While he was still alive, Viktor had insisted she had shown him the need for a partner. He insisted she should find someone if he was gone, and he would do the same.
She was going insane. Imagining her love for Viktor pushing her forward. But Viktor was part of the air, part of the light of the room, part of her, and now, part of Janos Nagy. “Mariya, think of your own future. If something ever happens to me, think of yourself.”
Mariya emptied the wine bottle into their glasses. She stood and took the wine to Janos, who paused as if still holding the violin. He held out his glass and said, “To life.”
Traffyck: The Thrilling Sequel to Chernobyl Murders Page 16
