After Janos Nagy was gone, Smirnov stood at his window realizing he had been doing this more frequently. Standing at his window looking down at people, each person with unique goals. Perhaps Anatoly Lyashko, head of the main SBU Directorate for Combating Corruption and Organized Crime, had his own agenda … Lyashko, who recently seemed to be living by his own rules and was perhaps a bit too interested in Nagy.
Smirnov wondered if Lyashko had men following Nagy. Lyashko could play his own games out of his upper office without Smirnov knowing. Lyashko could easily direct Smirnov back down the ladder if he wanted. Smirnov knew he must call Lyashko immediately and tell him what Nagy knew about the symbol. If Lyashko found out some other way—and he could, with Nagy flashing the drawing around—there would be another one-sided conversation.
While he punched in the phone number, Smirnov remembered Lyashko saying the Kiev militia agreed to keep the symbol drawn in the doctor’s blood out of the news because it would cause people to worry about religious involvement. As the call was going through, Smirnov thought of his men being watched by Lyashko’s special agents. Insane. The side streets around Mariya Nemeth’s apartment house probably running out of parking spaces. Even the Mafia could be watching if they were back in the trafficking business instead of running their strip clubs.
While the phone rang, Smirnov wondered how much he should tell Lyashko. He wished his old friend Sergei Izrael from National SBU Academy had not told him about the possibility of Janos Nagy’s office being bombed by someone with connections to Father Rogoza. Smirnov felt he knew too much and might let something slip. He needed to be careful while speaking to Lyashko, not to think of Sergei Izrael, with his bushy hair as thick as the hair on a black bear—because secrets shared between them could bring out the wrong words.
But when Lyashko answered the phone in a guttural slur, when he heard Lyashko’s incoherent voice, Smirnov stopped worrying about knowing too much and felt it was time to begin acting on his intuition. It was a turning point. Something was wrong with Lyashko. Smirnov had spoken with him often enough to know this.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
It took two days to find Viktor Patolichev’s old boss. Janos might never have found him if Shved’s militia friends had not helped, saying even though Shved had quit the militia, they respected him and wanted to help find who killed him.
Pavel Uszta, originally from Odessa, had abandoned his Kiev adult video business. Some said he was forced out because of activities that trod on local Mafia territory. Some said he’d been part of the Mafia and quit. There had been an attempt to kill Uszta, which resulted in a poorer life, but one with less chance of his body floating down the Dnepr River. No one knew why Uszta did not simply return to Odessa.
It was Friday morning with much activity at the produce wholesale market. Trucks and vans from Kiev’s restaurants and grocers were filling up with supplies for the weekend. Because of trucks parked in the middle of the street, Janos parked on a cross street, and it took several minutes to reach the address he’d been given. When he arrived, after breathing truck fumes and dodging handcarts, he was forced to dodge a large head of lettuce thrown at him.
Janos asked a boy hauling crates of lettuce on a two wheeler about Pavel Uszta. The next thing he knew, a man looking like the photographs of Uszta, which Shved’s friends had given him, let go with the lettuce from behind a waist-high stack of crates. Janos ran around the crates and chased the man through a narrow warehouse and up to a back room door, which slammed in his face. When he tried the door and found it locked, he was grabbed from behind.
The boy he had asked about Uszta was a tough teenager, bone and muscle, arm clenching Janos’ neck.
He spun around, but the boy hung on.
“Niki?” a voice shouted through the closed door.
“Go, Papa!” shouted the boy, obviously Uszta’s son.
Janos elbowed the boy hard, hot breath and spit showering his neck.
“Niki?”
Janos dropped to his knees, turned, grabbed an ankle, pushed hard on Niki’s knee, tipping the wiry boy off balance. Janos had his pistol out before the boy bounced back.
“Papa!” shouted Niki. “A gun!”
“Wait!” shouted Janos. “Do not bring a gun out here! I simply show it to calm the boy!”
Janos saw several workers looking in from the dock—two of them old yet hardened, Mafia hit men venturing out of retirement—but no one moved toward him when he raised his pistol so they could see it.
“Uszta!” shouted Janos toward the closed door. “I’m neither Mafia nor militia. My name is Janos Nagy! I’m a private investigator! Please come out or let me in! We will talk, and I will leave! Implore your boy not to move! I hate guns, Uszta! They waste energy and life!”
No one moved.
“Uszta, if I were Mafia, would I have fucking walked in here?”
The door opened, and Uszta came out, hands clearly visible. He closed the door gently behind him. Uszta gave in like one who had done this many times, knowing the correct moves to exhibit to a man whose finger is on a trigger. Uszta was in his fifties, bald, a scar on his upper lip attempting to hide behind his bushy moustache. Uszta told his son to put the onlookers back to work and to go to the open front of the market stall and wait.
Janos put his pistol away, and he and Uszta sat on cool crates of lettuce.
To hasten the interview, Janos told Uszta everything he knew about the adult video business and the Mafia and that he knew Uszta had gotten Viktor Patolichev into the business. He told Uszta he was investigating Patolichev’s death and Patolichev’s recent wife, Mariya Nemeth, was his client. He promised Uszta he would not repeat his name during further investigations unless he received permission from Uszta himself.
“Enough, enough!” said Uszta, waving his hand. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything in Patolichev’s past that would make someone want to kill him.”
Uszta shook his head.
“Please, Pavel Uszta. You were his boss, then his partner. Perhaps Patolichev took a fall for you on unfinished Mafia business. Is that it?”
Uszta smiled a nervous smile and pointed to his lip. Then he lifted his shirt and showed the scar of a bullet wound. “I paid in full for my dealings. Viktor Patolichev was not involved. After we severed our ties, he was on his own.”
“What about before you knew him? Did he ever speak of threats to his life? Did he ever speak of nightmares?”
Uszta looked around, shook his head again. “Now you want to speak of nightmares?”
“What else should I speak of?”
“You must be aware of Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved dying in the fire.”
“Of course. He was a good friend. This is part of the reason I took the case.”
“I assumed so,” said Uszta. “Even if you did not know him, I assumed an ex-militiaman would know about Shved.”
“One thing I do know,” said Janos, staring at Uszta. “Shved would never have died in an accidental fire while eyeing sex videos. In fact, I know the opposite to be true. The reason for Shved being there was to investigate something.”
Uszta shook his head slowly. He itched his nose, checked his finger for an unwanted deposit, scratched his head, and looked around the warehouse. “Everyone knows a fire like this is no accident.” Uszta leaned closer. “Very well, I give you everything. This way you will get the fuck out of here, like you say, and I will never hear about this again. Your friend Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved was here several weeks ago. He asked the same questions about Viktor Patolichev. He wanted to know if I knew anything about Patolichev’s childhood.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him what I knew. I told him about the orphanage Patolichev spoke of, and stories of idiotic dreams. I do not understand this interest in dreams, but I told him. Patolichev complained of dreams in which he was in a rowboat with Jesus. Imagine it: Patolichev and Jesus. And in other dreams, he fell out of trains be
cause he said God needed to punish him. Patolichev’s complaints were especially irritating after he had several vodkas. I told Shved the same thing I will tell you. Patolichev obviously had foul experiences at his so-called orphanage. At times, he claimed it was nothing more than a waiting area for trafficking. He said girls would be taken away as soon as they reached so-called maturity, which according to Patolichev, was the age of sixteen. Boys, on the other hand, were worked to the bone until a pervert arrived with cash. Believe what you want, Janos Nagy. Today I have revealed the same fucking information for the third fucking time, and it disgusts me!”
“The third time?” asked Janos.
“Yes,” said Uszta, suddenly looking helpless. “This is why you received the produce market reception. After Shved was here—I think about three days after—two men who refused to identify themselves came and asked what Shved wanted. I told them it was none of their business. The next thing I know, they drag both me and my son into my office and put me on the phone and I am speaking with my daughter, Irina, who is hysterical.”
“They kidnapped your daughter?”
“Yes. Do not ask for their descriptions; I will change them.”
“Wait,” said Janos. “Someone kidnapped your daughter before these two men came?”
“Yes. Like you, they claimed not wanting to perform a return visit.”
“Did they harm your daughter?”
“She was very upset, but they released her without a scratch.”
“Did you call the militia?”
Uszta shook his head. “Irina was blindfolded, not a mark on her, and they told her there would be serious trouble if we contacted the militia.”
“Can you say anything more about the two men who came to see you?”
“Please,” said Uszta. “This must end. My family is at risk. Viktor Patolichev and Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved are gone. I do not know who wanted this or why. I am simply a family man and a produce man, and none of this shit means anything to me anymore!”
“Back when you knew him, did Patolichev ever mention using a different name?”
“Never.”
“Have you ever had dealings with Ivan Babii?”
Uszta waved his hand frantically. “Fuck! Get out of here!”
“One more detail that will not affect your family … Was your daughter held in the back of a van?”
“Yes! How the hell did you know?”
“Do you really want me to tell you?”
“No! I don’t want to know!”
After Janos left Pavel Uszta at his produce stall, he was stopped in traffic waiting for a long freight train of boxcars entering the train yards near the market. The wait gave him time to think.
Trains. Yes, Uszta had definitely said Patolichev had dreamed about riding in a rowboat with Jesus and falling out of trains.
Janos drove to Darnytsya to see Investigator Arkady Listov. Because Listov had been a friend of Viktor Patolichev’s before he’d met Mariya Nemeth, perhaps he would ask Listov if there were trains in Viktor’s drunken dreams.
“What did Listov say?” asked Mariya that evening.
“After I sobered him up for an hour with tea, he said Viktor never mentioned trains.”
It was Friday evening. Janos and Mariya sat at the kitchen table sipping wine.
Mariya stared at him. And the way she stared, he knew she was thinking and he knew he should keep his mouth shut and not interrupt her.
“I also thought about trains today, Janos. I remember an incident after I met Viktor. It was a few days before Christmas. We had driven in his new BMW to the Cathedral of St. Sophia to see its decorations. I remember during our return drive, we were stopped by a train. Viktor had not spoken after the cathedral visit and seemed in a trance. But while we waited for the train, he said something. He whispered it, and I asked him to repeat it. I was not sure if I heard right.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘I was a train when I was a boy.’ I thought he meant he’d had a model train. But when I asked if that’s what he meant, he said, ‘No, I was a train.’ After this, he changed the subject, showing off the electronics in his new BMW. When I asked him about his being a train later, he said I must have heard him wrong. This is the only out-of-the-ordinary thing having to do with trains I can think of.” Mariya was staring at him, and a big smile spread across her face.
“But something made you think of it today. Something you have not yet told me.”
“Yes.”
For the last two days, Mariya had been on the phone, eventually discovering a St. Francis orphanage that had survived two wars but burned down in the year 1978. After calling various Catholic organizations, trying to locate anyone associated with the orphanage, she finally succeeded. Mariya went to the phone on the wall and brought back a pad of paper she had on a shelf. She flipped through several sheets, which Janos could see were filled with notes.
“You have been busy.”
Mariya smiled. “I simply did what you asked. Here is the result. In 1978, shortly before it burned down, St. Francis orphanage received a call from a railroad yard employee in Kiev reporting two boys wandering among railroad cars. The old priest I spoke to said he was certain Viktor and another boy boarded a train, because the militia could not find them. The problem is, trains leaving the yards at that time could have been going to Moscow or Minsk or Kharkiv or Rostov or Odessa, or even Lviv. Therefore, I found out the Catholic orphanage lost track of Viktor, and the old priest considered the possibility he was taken to a forced labor camp in Siberia.
“Then, as soon as the old priest said this, he recalled receiving a letter from Viktor. In the letter, Viktor said he missed the other boys but was happy where he was. He said he was living in a commune and admired the leader of the commune. He said to get to the commune, he had to go by boat, and he was frightened of boats … The priest was very old, you understand, and all of this came out in pieces. The priest said he specifically recalled that when other boys went on canoe outings on the river, Viktor refused to go. So he was frightened of boats even back then.”
Mariya put the notepad down and smiled.
“Boats,” said Janos. “A commune requiring a boat to reach it. Whenever a seemingly minor piece of information emerges in more than one place, I’ve learned to pay close attention. We have our Dnepr River so close by and so wide …”
Janos stood and went to the phone. “I’m going to try the Odessa number I found in Shved’s office again.”
“You don’t have to,” said Mariya. “I was getting to that. Between my other calls today, I tried the number several times. A few hours ago, a man answered. When I mentioned Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved, the man was silent, but did not hang up. At first I worried you had already reached someone at the number. But then the man finally asked what I wanted, and when he did, I simply told the truth. I said Shved was killed with my husband under mysterious circumstances and a close friend of Shved’s was investigating their deaths. He demanded your name. I hope I did the correct thing. I did not want him to hang up, so I gave him your name. I also gave him your cell phone number. He said he would call back later tonight to speak with you. When I demanded his name, he laughed and said, ‘the Pied Piper,’ before hanging up.”
Janos’ cell phone rang at midnight. He reached for it on the bedside table, where it rested beside Mariya’s quartz crystal. Janos had forgotten he had plugged in the phone’s charger, and almost pulled the crystal to the floor. He sat up in the dark and felt Mariya’s hand touch his back.
The Pied Piper’s voice was high-pitched, and he spoke in rapid Russian.
“Janos Nagy?”
“Yes.”
“What is your other name?”
“Gypsy.”
“Very well, Gypsy. I have investigated briefly. Shved has eaten his last McDonald’s hamburger. Do you take his place?”
“Yes.”
“It will cost two thousand euro.”
“What the hell do I g
et for that?”
“We end it here, or you provide two thousand euros.”
“Is the information worth it?”
“Shved thought it was.”
“Perhaps the information resulted in his death.”
“Perhaps,” said the Piper. “Valuable information is often dangerous.”
Janos turned on the table lamp, jotted a note in his notebook, and handed it to Mariya. The note read, “He wants two thousand euros.” Mariya nodded.
“Very well, Comrade Piper. When and where do we meet?”
“Kharkiv. Sunday morning at zero eight hundred in Shevchenko Gardens at his statue. You will need to take the early train from Kiev. Wear a Gypsy scarf so I will recognize you. The euros must be in large, crisp bills, but not too large or too crisp.”
“Of course. Would you like my scarf to be a certain color?”
Comrade Piper laughed. “Use the Gypsy imagination.” Then he hung up.
The shadows outside Lazlo’s Humboldt Park apartment had stretched thin as the sun prepared to set, when his cell phone rang. Lazlo saw the call was from Janos and immediately calculated the time difference in his head.
“Janos, I have finished dinner here; therefore, I know it is well after midnight there.”
“Greetings, Lazlo.”
There was a series of clicks, but not the tone associated with a lost signal.
“Janos, are you there?”
“Yes. I have moved closer to the window facing the cell tower. Old Russian steel embedded in the concrete of this apartment blocks signals.”
“You are not at your apartment?”
“Correct,” whispered Janos.
“I understand,” said Lazlo, switching to Hungarian. “The signal is now strong, and you may speak as softly as you like in the mother tongue.”
“Are you familiar with the Pied Piper fable?” asked Janos.
Lazlo recalled his recent meeting with Russell McCullum, who had retired from the State Department to a Frank Lloyd Wright home in Oak Park. Inside the prairie-style home with its high windows inviting the sky into the room, McCullum had shared a list of trafficking informants from around the globe. McCullum made a photocopy of the list for Lazlo, carefully blocking out the State Department headers and footers on each page. Lazlo had studied this list in preparation for his next contact with Janos. He had been tempted to call Janos with information about informants in Ukraine, but was now glad he had waited.
Traffyck: The Thrilling Sequel to Chernobyl Murders Page 19
