Chernobyl Murders lh-1

by Michael Beres

  It happened at the “safe” house outside Berlin. Agent Pudkov, a devilishly handsome recruit, was using the “safe” house to rendezvous with Gretchen. Komarov had opened the door noisily.

  They were naked and quickly pulled a blanket about them. Komarov feigned surprise, then smiled, saying he would wait in the hall, saying he would be next to share a bed with Gretchen. And he did wait. He waited until Pudkov came into the hall. The knife entered the flesh of Pudkov’s neck smoothly, the passion of a few moments before draining his blood quickly. Komarov held his hand over Pudkov’s mouth as he died and left him on the floor.

  In the bedroom Komarov kept his hands behind him so Gretchen would not see his gloves and the bloodied knife. When he got into bed, Gretchen complained about his rough uniform and boots.

  But she smiled when he spread her legs, touching her intimately with his leather-gloved hand. While she searched his eyes, staring at him without blinking, without shame, he thought of Barbara the Hungarian, who’d humiliated him. Pushing the knife home with his right hand, Komarov felt Gretchen’s legs close about the fingers of his left hand like a vise for a moment until the twisting of the knife drew the strength from her. Then he closed her eyes and slit her throat.

  At his desk Komarov held the knife the way he’d held it when he ended Gretchen’s short but active life. Underhanded, his thumb along the length of its handle. He thought of the two ways smokers held their cigarettes. Between the two first fingers-western-or between finger and thumb-continental. The grip he used with his knife was elegant, just as the Sherbitsky affair was elegant. Even the bullet through Sherbitsky’s head was elegant. A shot from the front, a shot proving he had defended himself from the murderer. A shot fired in the woods several kilometers from the “safe” house at a man on the run.

  After killing Sherbitsky and returning the knife to its rightful owner, the investigation commenced. It was an investigation ac-companied by the incessant weeping of Sherbitsky’s widow. In the end, when Sherbitsky’s known hotheadedness and jealousy were revealed, the case became so clear-cut even Komarov, while testifying, was able to momentarily suspend his true knowledge and feelings.

  At the time he wondered if this ability to create, in his mind, an alternate reality was a sign of instability or schizophrenia. But this was not the case. Temporary alteration of reality was simply a method to survive the hearings unscathed. After all, he had killed a senior officer, and this killing had to be rigorously justified.

  Recently, whenever Komarov thought of the Sherbitsky affair, he felt in a festive mood, but he could share the mood with only one friend, a friend who was not here because he dare not bring a bottle to his office. He saved his friend for evenings alone. In summer and most of the spring and fall, he spent evenings on the back porch of his house. Even when cold weather drove him indoors, even with his wife in the same room, he was alone with his friend because, while she watched her television, he would wall himself in and dream of success and triumph.

  The cigarette in the ashtray had smoldered down to a couple of centimeters. He took one last suck on it and smashed it out. He folded the knife blade into its alabaster handle and put it into his inside jacket pocket, where it rested reassuringly against his chest.

  Finally, he reopened the Chernobyl personnel report Azef left on his desk and began studying it.

  5

  February 1986

  During the cold war, some KGB agents worked in post offices. They were part of the PK Service operational branch, short for Perlyus-tratsiya Korespondentsii, a term rarely used except within the walls of KGB branch offices. Even the abbreviation PK was not widely known because PK agents were supposed to be viewed, by the public, as ordinary postal workers. In back rooms of selected post offices across the Soviet Union, PK agents spent their days opening mail, reading it, making notes or copies as necessary, then resealing the mail, and passing it on to the real postal workers, whose job was to transport the mail to its rightful owners.

  The postal service was busy during the months of December and January. Religious holidays revolving around the birth, two thousand years earlier, of a boy child in the Middle East had created a season of familial joy and letter writing. Yet, a few weeks into the 1986 new year, with continued cold war quibbling and shortages at the markets, the Soviet people settled in, bracing themselves against the winter winds. No matter how much talk of love and peace took place during the holidays, no matter how much talk of a new openness in the Soviet Union, it seemed the world’s fate was in the hands of irrational forces. Even the deaths of seven astronauts in the United States in late January reinforced the depression as winter settled in.

  On the first Monday in February, in a small, windowless back room of the Pripyat post office, PK agents Pavel and Nikolai went through the morning mail presorted for them and passed through a slot in the wall by legitimate postal workers. Pavel and Nikolai were trained in languages, one fluent in Hungarian, and the other in Ukrainian. But they always used their Russian mother tongue as they sat across from one another at a long table opening-reading-resealing, opening-reading-resealing. The room was warm and humid because of the small electric steamer on the table.

  “No more letters to Saint Nick,” said Pavel.

  “The season to be jolly is over,” said Nikolai.

  Open-read-reseal. Open-read-reseal.

  “Several mentions of the American astronauts,” said Pavel.

  “From the looks of the explosion on television it must have been in-stantaneous. Do you think they felt anything?”

  “They must have felt something,” said Nikolai. “Perhaps like a blow to the head.”

  “Americans advertise everything,” said Pavel. “Even failures.”

  “An odd practice,” said Nikolai.

  Open-read-reseal.

  “Ah,” said Pavel. “Here’s another letter to Mihaly Horvath.”

  “He’s under observation,” said Nikolai. “You’ll have to copy it.”

  Pavel glared at Nikolai. “I know. I’m not an idiot.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply you were an idiot, Pavel.”

  “Then why must you always remind me of the obvious?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nikolai. “Perhaps I’m tired of reading the same things over and over. ‘How is everything there?’ ‘All is fine here.’ ‘How were your holidays?’ ‘Our holiday was joyful, and all are in good health.’ It’s enough to drive one mad! Don’t these people have any imagination?”

  They both laughed, the outburst designed to relieve boredom.

  “So,” said Nikolai, “what does Mihaly Horvath’s brother say today?”

  “Again,” said Pavel, “he refers to a matter they spoke of last summer at the farm. Detective Horvath pressing his brother about some kind of decision, just as he has in previous letters. He implies everything will not be well if his brother does not act.”

  Pavel turned to the second page of the letter. “Here’s something.” He raised the pitch of his voice slightly as he always did when translating a letter. “‘Mihaly, I’m sorry I was unable to visit during the holiday season. Things were busy in Kiev and I had to remain on duty. But I’ll make up for it and be able to see you and Nina and the girls the third Sunday in February. I’ll drive up in the morning and should be there by noon. Perhaps you can tell me of your decision in the matter we discussed. Tell Nina not to cook anything special…’ And it goes on.”

  “What do you suppose this ‘matter’ is?” asked Nikolai.

  “I don’t know,” said Pavel. “But since Mihaly Horvath is under operational observation, and his militia detective brother has been worried about something since summer, Captain Putna and Major Komarov will be interested.”

  “By now,” said Nikolai, “Detective Horvath must also be under operational observation.”

  “It could be related to the Gypsy Moth Captain Putna told us to watch for,” said Pavel.

  “Why would it have anything to do with the Gypsy Moth? It’
s nothing but a code word, and it wasn’t mentioned in the letter.”

  Pavel touched his finger to his temple. “I was thinking. Horvath is a Hungarian name. Gypsies have connections to Hungarians.

  And last summer, remember the letter in which they spoke of the visit of their cousin, Andrew Zukor, the American? Consider the gypsy moth insect, the one causing problems in America since its introduction last century. I read about it in Entomological Study of

  …”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Nikolai.

  “I’m talking about the American cousin of the Horvaths,” said Pavel. “I’m talking about letters to Detective Horvath last year in which Andrew Zukor told of plans to visit the Horvaths during their summer holiday. This could be a Gypsy Moth connection.”

  “A weak connection at best,” said Nikolai. “We could mention it in our report to Captain Putna. But I think it best if we wait and see if there is another letter from the American cousin. You know how the captain feels about unfounded speculation. In the meantime we’ll copy all letters to or from the Horvaths.”

  “Challenging idea,” said Pavel, floating the letter like a giant flake of snow into the copy tray at the corner of the table.

  The sky was overcast, snow covering the rolling farmland in virgin white. Although the drive to Pripyat was slow, it gave Lazlo time to think. As he passed through a village, he saw two boys heaving snowballs at one another. Even though he and Mihaly were eleven years apart and were never really young boys together, he was reminded of quiet winters on the farm. Quiet winters before he went into the army to fulfill his draft obligation, before the hazing in camp, before the assignment to arrest the deserter near the Romanian border. Boys killing boys.

  The snow covering the hilly road forced Lazlo to continually shift up and down through the gears in order to maintain his speed. The Zhiguli’s transmission whined, its engine sputtered and coughed, and snow packed into the wheel wells rubbed against the tires. Because his tires were small and almost treadless, he could not maintain the speed of a Volga, which passed him, its fat tires lifting packed snow onto his windshield. If he had a Volga, or newer tires, he’d get to Pripyat sooner. But a mere detective in the Kiev militia was lucky to have any car to drive on his day off, even a three-year-old Zhiguli in need of tires and, from the new sound he was hearing, a muffler or exhaust pipe.

  The use of the car provided some freedom, but also meant he was on call, day and night, for every type of crime, from the most mundane theft to murder. Lazlo recalled the day, several years earlier, when Chief Investigator Chkalov told him he was free to use a militia car for personal business instead of turning it in to the garage after each shift. He also recalled the day three years ago when Chkalov handed him the keys to the then-new Zhiguli.

  As Lazlo shifted madly through the gears, most likely taking months of life from the transmission, he glanced at his keys swinging from the ignition and recalled the conversation with Chkalov on the day he received the keys to the new Zhiguli.

  “You have been with the militia for many years, Detective Horvath. Your service has been loyal, and you have proven your detection skills. Although it is not a promotion, the receipt of a new car is an honor.”

  “I realize this,” said Lazlo. “And I appreciate it.”

  “Many other detectives do not respond as consistently as you.

  Perhaps because you do not have family matters to attend to. The woman murdered near the post office in Kalinin Square, for example. If you had not arrived at the scene before dawn to have the area cordoned off, street cleaners would have flushed the shell casings down the sewer. Timing. It’s all a matter of efficient response.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And your translations of Hungarian material have also proved valuable,” said Chkalov. “When you joined the detectives, pessi-mists questioned whether an officer from the western frontier could be trusted. Despite your comrades still calling you by the pet name Gypsy, you have proven yourself worthy.”

  “I appreciate your comments, sir.”

  “By the way, Detective Horvath. Why do you think the name Gypsy has endured so many years?”

  “It’s an affectionate name. I’ve not tried to discourage its use.”

  “Well,” said Chkalov, his tone becoming heavier, “perhaps you should discourage it. Gypsy could imply you’d wander off. We wouldn’t want you making off with the militia’s shiny new Zhiguli.”

  Chkalov had laughed then, his chair squeaking as his chest heaved. “I’m joking, Detective Horvath. I know a man of your stat-ure would not run away. There’s too much for you here in Kiev.

  Your position, wine and women, and even Gypsy orchestras playing in the clubs. Not as many Gypsy orchestras as in Budapest, but enough. Of course, the Gypsy culture is nothing more than nostal-gia, even for you. And now Hungarian is a second language to you.

  You are a true Soviet citizen, Detective Horvath.”

  But Chkalov was unaware of many things. After the holiday at the farm last August, speaking Russian again had been difficult.

  If it weren’t for his brother, Mihaly, and his family, Lazlo would like nothing better than to leave the Soviet Union. If only Chkalov knew how much all the detectives at the Kiev station hated to sit through his long-winded sessions ranging from syrupy praise to chest-pounding nationalism. Very few knew how Lazlo came by the name Gypsy, not even Chkalov.

  The keys dangling from the ignition of the Zhiguli rang out as the wheels hit a series of holes hidden beneath the snow. Lazlo held the jittering steering wheel tightly and drove on. To the north, where Mihaly and Nina and the girls awaited him, the sky was dark.

  When Lazlo neared Pripyat, he could see evidence of the Chernobyl Nuclear Facility to his right. A tall fence paralleling the road, warning signs threatening trespassers, high-tension towers leading away from the facility. It had stopped snowing, and where the road crested a hill, he saw the red-and-white-banded reactor stacks and the rectangular-shaped buildings in the river valley. The buildings resembled a string of coffins. The high-tension towers leading away from the buildings became a line of mourners waiting to pay their respects.

  If something was wrong at Chernobyl, as Mihaly had implied last summer, perhaps the denials in letters and phone calls were because he feared the mail was being read and phone calls overheard.

  Today they would finally be face to face.

  The road came to a T. When Lazlo stopped, he could see the entry gate to the Chernobyl Facility to his right. A black Volga was parked outside the gate and a man in a dark hat and coat stood talking to a uniformed guard. It was the same Volga that had passed him earlier.

  Lazlo turned left on the road to Pripyat and looked into the rearview mirror. The man from the Volga glanced his way. Although there was no way to be certain, Lazlo knew the man could be KGB. But even if it was KGB, the suspicious nature of their agents made them glance at any car driving past on a snowy Sunday. Driving the last few kilometers to Pripyat, he watched the mirror but did not see the Volga.

  “If the KGB is watching you,” said Mihaly, “I can understand why.

  It’s your letters. I kept telling you everything was fine. Why didn’t you believe me?”

  Lazlo was alone with Mihaly, an after-dinner walk in the small park outside the apartment complex. They walked among abandoned playground equipment, looking down and listening as their boots creaked in the snow. They spoke in Hungarian.

  “I carefully phrased the letters,” said Lazlo. “Anyone reading them would assume it was a personal matter. And I didn’t say the KGB was watching me. I simply told you about a car I saw on my way here. You’re the one who started it back in August, talking about Chernobyl.”

  Mihaly nodded. “I suppose you needed reassurances after what I said.”

  “You had me picturing Gorbachev trying to win propaganda points by blowing up a reactor, then showing how compassionate he is.”

  “I’m sorry, Laz. Last summer it was
the wine. My letters were the truth. Everything’s fine. Simply occasional problems to be solved and tests to be run. On holiday I made a mistake with my big mouth. You asked me about something else, and I used Chernobyl to cover it up.”

  Mihaly turned to him. “I’m an ordinary man, Laz. I have ordinary faults and weaknesses and feelings. I’ve let my emotions get in the way of reason.”

  “Is it about Nina?”

  Mihaly looked away. “Nothing’s wrong with Nina. It’s me, Laz.

  You’re the only one I can talk to. I should have told you last summer, but I was a coward. I’ve… been seeing another woman.”

  They stopped at a series of interconnected wooden platforms designed for children to climb in better weather. Mihaly sat on a low platform even though it was covered with snow. Lazlo stood above Mihaly. He wanted to scream. He was aware of having left his Makarov and shoulder holster locked in the Zhiguli. He wanted to tell Mihaly he had experience killing another man. Blood spurt-ing from a boy’s face momentarily blurred his vision…

  Mihaly looked up. “I’m still seeing her, Laz. I’m still seeing her, and I feel guilty as hell.”

  “You should feel guilty!”

  “She works at Chernobyl,” said Mihaly. “She’s from another division. I didn’t seek her out. We simply met on occasion.”

  “An occasional fuck?”

  “It’s not her fault or my fault. It simply happened.”

  “I hear this all the time from criminals! Nothing simply happens!”

  “I understand your anger, Laz. In a way I welcome it.”

  “You welcome it? A boy being scolded? You’re a man with responsibilities to a family!”

  “I don’t expect you to understand. But I want you to know I still love Nina and the girls.”

  Lazlo felt dizzy and braced himself against a vertical section of the playground equipment.

  Mihaly looked down. “Please believe me, Laz. Juli is also sensitive to my family. We’ve discussed ending our relationship. But we keep putting it off. I felt if I told you, I’d gather courage to end it.