Traffyck: The Thrilling Sequel to Chernobyl Murders

by Michael Beres

  The calm in Zoltan’s voice was terrifying. Zoltan’s men were from former republics, they had power to do what they wanted. This is why Lyashko had selected them, and now…

  “All right,” said Lyashko, his voice lowered. “You have made your point. Do not let anyone off the peninsula. The pair from Kiev will most likely come by car. Cut off the phone connection so Pyotr and Rogoza cannot call out. When it is over, you can leave. I will contact you in two days.”

  “Very well, comrade,” said Zoltan in a friendlier voice. “My men will enjoy lying in wait in the campground.”

  When Lyashko hung up, he lit another cigarette and sat smoking in the dark in his locked office. Perhaps when Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov and Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza and Janos Nagy and Mariya Nemeth were all dead, the discovery of trafficked young people and Chernobyl cripples on the peninsula would be as much a shock to him as to other officials in Kiev.

  A fire roared in the fireplace. It would be the last fire here in the cabin. There was no choice. Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov had been a clergyman long enough and done his best helping the Chernobyl orphans no one wanted, but now they were fewer, older, and inconvenient. Tonight, it would all come to an end, and by morning he would be on the Balkan Trail with healthy young ones. Cash was not the objective. He had moved his funds to a Swiss bank months earlier. The young ones with him on the trail would be his smokescreen, and he would simply leap from the Balkan Trail whenever convenient. Although he was Russian, this destination no longer suited him. He could go to America and start a business. Eventually he could move to one of the affluent retirement communities he’d observed on the Internet. Inside these communities, religion was paramount. Therefore, if asked what business he was in…

  As expected, there was a knock at the door. But when Pyotr opened it, the man standing in shadows was not the one he expected. Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza in a dark business suit stood before him. His striped business tie was askew, his white shirt soiled. His beard was wet like rat fur.

  “He just came over,” said Ivan from behind, breathing heavily, a strange look in his eyes. “He drove the boat himself, and other boats chased him.”

  Pyotr pointed out the door to dismiss Ivan, who looked disoriented.

  Rogoza breathed heavily and did not speak until they were inside and Ivan was gone. They sat on the edge of the sofa like cats ready to spring. Pyotr wished he could throw Rogoza into the flames of the fireplace chunk by chunk and watch his greasy flesh sizzle. He tried to reason with Rogoza, but the conversation quickly deteriorated.

  “I renounce your scheme!” shouted Rogoza. “Help for Chernobyl victims administered by young people trafficked in and out was kept from me!”

  “You knew from the start!”

  “You, Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov, do not deserve your name!”

  “And you, Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza, have become a child molester!”

  Rogoza stood and went to the fireplace, pulling at his beard as if it were a penis. The hair on his head stood up from the ride in the boat. He looked like a wild boar. When Rogoza finally turned to speak, his face was soaked with perspiration. He spoke in a soft voice, as if giving condolences to a church member.

  “I come here because Janos Nagy and Mariya Nemeth are on Shved’s trail. I suppose you will have them killed.”

  “We have no choice,” said Pyotr in an equally calm voice.

  “What about Lyashko? Will he cooperate?”

  “His men are still on the left bank.”

  “Of course, but he acted strangely when I last spoke with him, and—”

  A booming knock on the door interrupted Rogoza, and the door flew open before Pyotr could answer.

  Maxim Vakhabov came in quickly, a rifle slung over his shoulder.

  “I told him to wait,” said one of Ivan’s youngest soldiers from behind.

  Vakhabov turned and aimed his rifle at the boy, who looked defeated.

  “We took away their guns,” growled Vakhabov. “We do not want to be shot by children.”

  After Pyotr motioned the boy away, Vakhabov came into the room, unstrapped his rifle, leaned it against the wall, and went directly to the fireplace.

  Vakhabov stood facing the flames, blocking the warmth with his bulk. He rubbed his fat hands together. “Our inflatable boats were swift and quiet and soft like young, well-fed women. We departed from the right bank so as not to disrupt the pleasures of your guardians on the left bank. I notice many of your boy soldiers have sunken eyes. I am reminded of prison camps.”

  Rogoza retreated to a chair behind the sofa, his eyes wide.

  Pyotr sat on the sofa. “Where are your henchmen?”

  Vakhabov turned, his face greasy and shiny in the firelight. “I left them on the beach to sodomize one another.”

  “Must you always poison your speech?” asked Pyotr.

  “It is what I do,” said Vakhabov, glancing toward Rogoza. “Everyone preaches in their own way.”

  “How many men do you have?” asked Pyotr.

  “Enough,” said Vakhabov, walking from the fireplace, around the sofa, looking toward the lamps in the room. “You have electricity here. We heard the generator as we drifted into shore where your boy soldiers played games in the sand.”

  Vakhabov seemed to think for a time before marching up to Rogoza, who had backed into a corner. “You look familiar. Perhaps confession is in order.”

  Lena and Nadia stayed hidden at the edge of the woods as Ivan’s boy soldiers cowered under the watchful eyes of men dressed in black, carrying rifles. The boys had dropped their rifles and AK-47s to the ground as soon as one of the men shouted at them with his deep, guttural voice. The man had shouted the words, “Mafia! Drop your weapons, or die!”

  The men led the boys up the path toward the main clearing and Pyotr’s cabin. But not all the men were gone. Three of them stayed with the inflatable boats they’d come ashore on. Their boats were beached alongside the other boats used by the compound.

  “What will we do?” whispered Nadia.

  “We will go into the woods and wait,” said Lena.

  “Ivan was not with the boys,” said Nadia. “Do you think he escaped?”

  “I think one of the boats is gone,” said Lena.

  To Nadia, it was like the events at the mountain lodge playing over again. Boys with guns then, now men with guns—brutal men who were definitely not rescuers.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Gypsy couple driving north on Highway E-95 through Kiev traffic had aged significantly. During the night, the woman aged first, her change taking place at midnight when her hair turned gray and her jeans and blouse turned into an oversized, flowery housedress. After midnight the woman and man switched seats without stopping their camper van. While the woman drove, the man underwent his change to senior citizenship.

  It was Mariya’s idea. The afternoon of what was now the previous day, Mariya made her purchases at a resale market during their stop at the village of Salycha—an old housedress for herself, and baggy trousers, suspenders, and flowery shirt for Janos. The most important elements of their disguises were two gray wigs. Mariya wore her long wig tied in a bun. Janos wore the other wig, which Mariya had trimmed. Before becoming a senior, Mariya held the musty clothes and wigs out the open side window to remove the dust.

  During the drive from Salycha to Kiev, they spoke of trafficking, kidnapped young people, and raids on female clinics and video stores. It seemed unconnected until the missing ingredient was added—a trafficker with a change of heart, or a network covering its trail. Were Shved’s instructions in the Orthodox Bible correct, or was it a trap? In either case, unless they left Ukraine and went into hiding, someone, somewhere, would kill them. They had no choice but to follow Shved’s trail to its source and eventually join with Lazlo, who was headed to the Chernobyl Zone on the right bank. If this was a trap, the trap would have to capture three.

  After the slower highways of Kie
v, Mariya reminded Janos they were now speeding toward the city of her birth. According to the GPS, Chernigov was only 100 kilometers north, and Mariya continued driving while Janos lay in back. But he was unable to sleep and took his violin from its case, stood swaying in the center aisle, and played an old Hungarian folk song called “I Burn the Midnight Oil.”

  “I recognize the song,” said Mariya. “It sounds like a squeaky wheel needing oil.”

  They both needed laughter and relished the moment.

  The drive from Kiev to Ivankiv was uneventful until Lazlo crossed the Teteriv River and turned north toward the Exclusion Zone. It was the middle of the night, and there was no traffic. A car passed, coming in the other direction, and in his mirror he saw it make a quick U-turn. As the car sped after him, Lazlo wondered if it would have been better to keep the gunmetal Makarov Svetlana Kovaleva had given him tucked in his belt rather than pushing it and the cartridges beneath the passenger seat. But when he saw militia grill-mounted signal lights come on, he was glad the pistol was hidden away with the rear floor mat shoved beneath the seat as an extra precaution.

  The two uniformed militiamen were young, both with flashlights, and both intent on examining all of his papers, especially the permit to enter the Exclusion Zone. One was tall, one short. As expected, obviously because of all his years of abuse in school, the shorter militiaman began his aggressive questioning, the smell of vodka on his breath.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Opachychi.”

  “Why?”

  “My aunt lives there.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Olga Grigorievna Khantsevich,” he said, hoping this wasn’t a name familiar to them.

  “What is the purpose of your visit?”

  “She is my aunt.”

  “And you want to visit her in the Exclusion Zone?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “My flight to Kiev was late. The cost of a hotel room would have been a waste. I ate dinner late and had nowhere else to go.”

  “And if no one is at the checkpoint?”

  “I will nap in the car and wait until someone is there.”

  “Perhaps you should go back to Ivankiv and wait.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  The taller of the two finally spoke. “We could stop for a drink.”

  “There is nothing better I would like to do,” said Lazlo. “Being a former militia investigator myself, I have often lifted a glass or two with Chief Investigator Boris Chudin from the Kiev office. However, my aunt expects me in the morning. I have bread for her in the back.”

  The taller militiaman nodded to his shorter partner, who quickly returned Lazlo’s documents. Both gave salute-like waves as he drove away. In his mirror, he could see their militia Skoda, much like his rented Skoda, make a U-turn and head south.

  As Lazlo drove on toward the Dityatki checkpoint, he recalled what he had told Janos. Bored men sleep early in the morning prior to dawn. The clock on the Skoda’s dash said it was 1:30, and that was too early. But he had some distance to go. He still had to get through the checkpoint and, after that, find his way out to the peninsula.

  At 1:30 in the morning, Mariya was still driving when they saw signs for Chernigov. Janos was in the front passenger seat. He had seen Mariya watching him in the rearview mirror as he put on his shoulder holster after putting away his violin. With his coat back on, he emptied boxes of cartridges into the pockets of the old coat she had bought for him.

  “Good choice,” he said. “Large pockets with no holes in them.”

  “They were sewn with thick material,” said Mariya. “It is one of very few things I remember my mother doing when my father was still my father.”

  Janos glanced toward Mariya but remained focused on the road. Her father was not something she wished to think about. It was as if Janos could read her mind.

  Janos directed Mariya to take the Chernigov bypass to the left. While they circled the exit ramp, Janos saw an unmarked Lada with auxiliary grill lights parked on the overpass. He told Mariya to take the exit slowly and adjusted his wig. He turned on the overhead map light and held the map up before him. He wrinkled up his face, pressed his lips together and out to simulate the absence of dentures in a toothless jaw, and looked down as they passed the car. Two men were inside, and Janos knew they might be militiamen or SBU looking for them.

  “You did not look very old,” said Mariya after he turned out the light.

  “I wasn’t sure what to do to make myself look older.”

  “Nothing. We’ll both look like pensioners if we keep up this way of life.”

  “I should drop you somewhere,” said Janos.

  Mariya shook her head. “We have already discussed the topic into its grave. We are both obsessed with finding Shved’s and Viktor’s killers. We are both obsessed with the children.”

  “We are not certain about the children—”

  Mariya interrupted. “I am. Don’t ask how I know there are children on the peninsula. I simply know.” She reached over and touched Janos’ knee. “So, should I hurry, or are we too early? Perhaps you should drive. Did you know there is tea back there, and a pot for the stove?”

  Mariya slowed to 50 kilometers per hour, and they switched positions without stopping.

  Before making the tea, Mariya stood in the center aisle in back, tried to play Janos’ violin, but was barely able to get out a couple of screeches, which sounded like cats dying.

  “Ah,” said Janos, “The old folk song entitled ‘My Foot Rests Beneath the Wheel.’“

  Mariya put the violin and bow back in the case. “American gangsters carried machine guns in violin cases.” She turned on the small light over the stove. In a few minutes, she was back in the passenger seat with two steaming cups of tea. She placed the cups in the holders on the console. Then she bent and kissed Janos on his ear. Her hands were hot on his neck.

  “I wish for an autopilot,” he said.

  Mariya moved to the floor between the seats and leaned her head against his hip.

  Beneath the console, the diesel engine clattered contentedly, and on the console, the ripples in the cups of tea resembled militia practice targets in the greenish glow of the dash lights.

  Sofya Adamivna Kulinich heard a car enter the far end of the village. As she climbed from her bed and put on her housecoat and slippers, the car lights shined in her windows. She made her way to the kitchen window, held onto the table for balance, found her glasses in the basket on the table, put them on, and peered outside.

  The car looked like one of the militia cars that sometimes drove through the village. But militiamen never came at this time of morning. It was too early and too dark to share a pot of tea and a few words. Perhaps it was that young woman writing a book about the women of Opachychi. But why would a writer come at this time?

  The car stopped just past her walkway trellis at the side of the road. The interior light went on, and she saw a man looking at a map. The man had thinning, gray hair and a wrinkled brow, not at all like the young militiamen who visited from time to time. Even the Zone supervisor, who made sure food and medicine were delivered, was younger. No, it was not the Zone supervisor, or the female doctor who checked on the women of Opachychi, or the priest who occasionally came to the stone church in the nearby village, or one of the guards who sometimes crossed her farm plot to go to the peninsula forbidden zone. Because the man was obviously lost and needed help, and she had so few visitors and he was closer to her age than most men who visited for such short periods, Sofya turned on the light above her kitchen table.

  The car headlights went out, the inside light went out, a few moments passed, and finally the man got out of his car and came through her trellis and up the walkway. She opened the door to let him in. His smile was sincere. He introduced himself, and she introduced herself. They shook hands. She offered tea. He accepted. They sat at the kitchen table while the water
heated.

  “At first, I thought you were militia.”

  “I was in the militia years ago.” He glanced at his watch. “I am sorry for the early hour.”

  “I always awaken early. Perhaps not this early, but before dawn. At dawn, I check on the four other women living here. Do you have family in the Zone, Lazlo?”

  He shook his head sadly. “No more. All except one, who lived in Pripyat at the time of the explosion, are dead.”

  “I am so sorry. Are you here to visit their memory?”

  “No, a friend needs help.” He took out a cell phone. “There is no service here.”

  “I have a regular phone if you like.”

  “Thank you, but if I have no service, my friend will also be without service. Are you familiar with the peninsula to the east?”

  “Oh, yes. Before Chernobyl, we hunted for mushrooms and berries in the woods on the peninsula. When I was a girl, we swam in the river and lay on the beach. But no more. Several years ago, government officials visited the village and told us the peninsula is contaminated. They said radiation was deposited from one of the tributaries before they constructed the dam. There is a fence, and guards are posted. But in winter, when all the leaves are down, I have seen young people on the other side of the fence in the woods. I asked the guards about this, and they told me the young people are technicians performing experiments and they stay on the peninsula for only short periods. This past summer, traffic back and forth to the peninsula has been minimal. Instead of buses, as in past years, now I see only a truck with one or two guards.”

  She went to the stove, brought tea to the table, and poured two cups. “All of my glasses have broken, and now I use cups.”

  “Thank you,” said Lazlo. “A cup is fine. I’m curious. I saw a horse on the way into the village.”