“What anti-Soviet statements?”
“Today at the Ministry of Energy, Detective Horvath made accusations concerning the operation of the Chernobyl plant. He used his authority as a militia detective to gain access to officials. He used a method the Germans refer to as schrecklichkeit. Show your badge and intimidate relentlessly until the victim gives in.”
“Detective Horvath is not that kind of man,” said Chkalov. “It sounds more like something the KGB would do. Or better yet, since you bring up methods used in the last war, the old Cheka!”
Komarov leaned forward, placed one fist gently on the desk. “I should have brought my assistant with me to witness your lack of cooperation, Chief Investigator Chkalov.”
“Who says I’m not cooperating? I simply don’t understand this vendetta you have against Detective Horvath. His brother is dead, yet he continues his duties.”
“He didn’t know about his brother until this morning.”
Chkalov shrugged. “But he went on duty, knowing his brother was in the area of danger.”
“He went on duty at the roadblock so he could watch for his brother. Perhaps he was to meet Juli Popovics and his brother at the roadblock. I must consider the possibility of sabotage at the plant. I must consider the possibility of Mihaly Horvath and Juli Popovics working together and Detective Horvath providing an escape route!”
“Impossible!” shouted Chkalov.
“Nothing is impossible,” said Komarov in a calmer voice.
“There has been a Hungarian connection under KGB observation for some time. A relative of the Horvaths has met with CIA agents in Budapest. The Horvaths and Juli Popovics share Hungarian lineage. Imagine the consequences, Comrade Chief Investigator, if a conspiracy exists and if you, despite your knowledge of the situation, allow Detective Horvath to remain in his position.”
“You want me to suspend him?”
“Not yet. I want you to observe him. He may lead us to others.”
“And if I don’t cooperate?”
“I’ll be forced to report that the Kiev militia refuses to cooperate in a KGB investigation ordered by Deputy Chairman Dumenko in Moscow.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“When the time comes, suspension will put Detective Horvath on notice. He will know the investigation is closing in.”
“And if he’s innocent?” asked Chkalov.
“I doubt it,” said Komarov, standing to leave. “We’ve already had a foreign relative under observation. If Horvath is innocent, the price of a few days’ lost pay is a sacrifice any citizen would gladly bear to wipe the slate clean. Please remember, Chief Investigator, it is most important to my investigation you do not suspend Detective Horvath until it is time.”
Before he turned to leave, Komarov noticed Chkalov’s fists clenched tightly on his desk.
Outside militia headquarters it was dusk, the streets emptied of homebound workers, and a light rain fell. Captain Azef started the Volga as Komarov got in.
“No cigarette?” asked Azef, turning on the windshield wipers.
“I have other things on my mind besides smoking. Drive to the office.”
“Yes,” said Azef. “There are inquiries from Moscow to answer.”
“You will answer them by repeating the situation at Chernobyl is under control and the evacuation is almost complete.”
“Surely we’ll want to provide more information…”
Komarov interrupted. “We must follow through on the Horvath investigation. I want those two PK agents from Pripyat back on duty.”
“What are they going to do?”
“Tomorrow they’ll resume their observation of Juli Popovics.”
“Shouldn’t trained men be used for such an observation?” asked Azef.
“Not necessarily, Captain. A noisy observation serves a purpose. It brings others out of their holes. On the other hand, I want our best men watching Detective Horvath.”
When Captain Azef turned onto Volodimirska Street, Komarov looked back to his left where he could see the lighted cable-car railway climbing the steep dark hill to the northeast. The lights of the ascending and descending funicular cable cars glistened in the droplets of rain on the window like medals pinned to the breast of a uniform. Atop the hill, holding his crucifix, was the statue of Saint Vladimir. The statue was outlined black against the darkening sky, a fearsome outline of someone entirely in control.
Komarov felt the weight of the knife in his coat pocket as he reached for a cigarette. He lit the cigarette and blew the smoke in Azef’s direction, causing him to cough as he drove.
18
Men, women, and children who arrived day and night at the roadblock were like war refugees, wide-eyed as if opening their eyes wider would make room for them in Kiev. Hotels and inns were full. And even though many Kievians had fled south, this simply resulted in locked and empty apartments. There was not enough room in Kiev for Chernobyl refugees. Therefore, collectives were put to work. Day and night, Lazlo and his men sent refugees on their way to collective farms to the west and south. Day and night, militiamen shrugged their shoulders when asked obvious questions.
“When will we be able to return?” “Where will we live in the meantime?” “Will it be safe where we are going?”
When Lazlo and his men asked about the situation at and around Chernobyl and Pripyat, the answer was always the same.
Except for being told to evacuate, except for knowing a nuclear plant had exploded, these poor souls knew only rumors. Do not drink milk because it stores radiation. Stop eating leafy vegetables. Drink vodka and wine to purge radiation.
When a vehicle or its passengers caused a technician’s Geiger counter to chatter, a tanker-truck team gave them a shower. Day or night, the scene at the roadblock was surreal. The refugees in line reminded Lazlo of wide-eyed schoolchildren on inoculation day, imagining an enormous needle in the hands of an unpracticed nurse plunging into their bones.
Because of sixteen-hour shifts at the roadblock, Lazlo lost track of time. Tuesday or Wednesday night-he wasn’t sure which-he went to his car and rolled up the windows so he could think, so he could assure himself he had done everything in his power for Nina and the girls. What more could he do? Asimov said they had already been examined at Hospital Number Six and taken to temporary housing. They were, according to Asimov, in perfect health.
Lazlo would have felt better if he could have spoken to Nina, but the overtaxed phone lines made it impossible.
During his last break, Lazlo went to the Ministry of Energy again, and, having received no further news on exactly how Mihaly died, he drove to see Juli Popovics at her aunt’s house. Lazlo felt un-easy because of Juli’s connection to Mihaly. It was a strange unease, similar to deja vu, like returning to his boyhood home. Both Juli and Aunt Magda spoke Hungarian, Aunt Magda’s cooking reminded him of his mother’s cooking, and Juli reminded him of Nina.
After telling him the Kiev hospital had called to say Juli’s blood test showed radiation levels “within the range of acceptability,” Juli and Aunt Magda inquired about Nina and the girls. Not the way someone asks who is simply being kind. They wanted details-the color of hair and eyes, the height of the little girls in relation to him.
When he spoke of Nina and Anna and little Ilonka, he saw motherly love in Juli’s eyes. More than once she referred to future generations and how children needed to be protected from this disaster.
Back at the roadblock, whenever Lazlo saw a woman holding a child, he thought of Nina. But he also thought of Juli. He had to admit this to himself. He thought of Juli many times during the long night as he recalled her tender kiss on his cheek when he saw her last. Amid cars and buses and green and white militia vehicles and crowds at the roadblock, he felt his deep-seated urge to make things right, and linked with the urge, he kept seeing images of Juli Popovics in the faces of the refugees.
Early in the morning before dawn, as his holstered Makarov rubbed against his side, and as more re
fugees assailed him with questions, he heard a new term. The refugees had a name for themselves. They called one another Chernobylites.
Tuesday, April 29, 1986, three days after Chernobyl’s unit four exploded and two days before May Day, transportation out of Kiev was difficult. Buses were almost nonexistent because so many had been sent north. Trains and planes to other major Soviet cities were full, with long lines at stations and terminals. But there was always priority. There were always people of status or authority able to bypass lines.
The Aeroflot jet was supposed to take off from Kiev at dusk.
But it was late, and a few minutes into the flight, Komarov could see nothing but blackness out his window. Every seat had been occupied when he arrived, forcing Komarov to use his credentials to have a window-seat passenger removed.
The chain of events beginning with the Chernobyl explosion had led to this. Major Grigor Komarov of the Kiev KGB flying to Moscow on official business, but also invited to join Deputy Chairman Dumenko and other high officials as they celebrated the revolution.
He would mix business with pleasure and, if all went well, begin his climb to chairmanship. He would deliver the letter he carried with him, and he would attend May Day festivities.
Deputy Chairman Dumenko had asked if Komarov wished to bring his wife along. Although Komarov’s wife enjoyed the prestige and advantage of his position, she did not like traveling to Moscow.
Getting iodine delivered to their home shortly after the Chernobyl accident was one thing, she had said, but traveling to Moscow was quite another. “There will be turmoil in Moscow, Grigor. Dmitry and I will stay here where it is safe.”
“What do you think of all this reactor business?”
The woman in the seat next to Komarov had spoken. He could see her reflection in the window as she leaned forward to get his attention. A fat, middle-aged woman who had, until now, been content with her Pravda.
“I beg your pardon?” said Komarov, turning to look at her.
The woman held the paper open to an inside page with a story about Chernobyl. “This reactor business at Chernobyl, what do you think of it?”
“It must be of little consequence,” said Komarov. “It’s not on the front page.”
The woman stared at him, her jowls expanding, her eyes becoming narrow slits. “You’re joking. The news has been coming from everywhere. The only reason it’s not on page one is because they don’t know what to say.”
“What do you think?” asked Komarov.
The woman hesitated, inspected his suit, perhaps looking for a lapel pin sometimes worn by officials. “I’ve seen people arriving in Kiev. I’ve seen crowds and heard foreign broadcasts. As a mother, I’m frightened for the children. There are rumors about avoiding milk and eating only canned food. Do you have children, comrade?”
“I have a son.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty.”
“How nice. Is he in the army?”
Komarov imagined Dmitry in a crisp army uniform instead of the tight-fitting slacks he always wore. “Yes, he is in the army.”
“One of my sons is in the army,” said the woman. “He’s a guard on the western frontier. Where is your son stationed?”
Komarov imagined how life might have gone. “He’s in a military hospital. He was wounded in Afghanistan.”
“How terribly sorry I am. Your wife must be distressed.”
“She is.”
“And here I am, worrying whether they’ll recruit my son’s unit for some kind of evacuation or cleanup at Chernobyl. While waiting at the airport, I spoke to a woman who said a freight train was sent back from Moscow because it was contaminated with radiation. She said there was meat on the train from the Ukraine and it would have to be buried.”
“Perhaps,” said Komarov, “it will need to be buried because it will have spoiled by the time it leaves the train.”
“With so much going on, it’s difficult to think of everything,” said the woman. “First we have war in Afghanistan, now this.”
“Foreign cultures and foreign workers make life difficult for all of us.”
The woman opened her eyes wider so they were no longer slits.
“Do you think foreign workers are to blame for the disaster?”
“Anything is possible when openness is allowed for its own sake.”
The woman stared at Komarov for a moment, then proceeded to tell him about all her children. Komarov turned and stared out the window as she continued speaking. He leaned against the window, looking forward ahead of the wing, watching the horizon for the lights of Moscow. He wanted a cigarette badly but had left his cigarettes in his luggage.
Nina Horvath wore a white cotton dress like one of the nurses he’d seen walking between the hospital complex and the surrounding apartments. Her face was thin, and she wore no makeup. Komarov assumed she would appear vulnerable, but there was something in her eyes as she stared at him. Despite the situation, she seemed confident, as if she were in control, as if she had an agenda. Her hair was brown and disheveled.
“What does the KGB want from me?” said Nina Horvath, standing to face him.
“Information to set the record straight. I need details of events surrounding the disaster. I realize your husband is dead, Mrs.
Horvath. However, duty does not permit a delay of my report. Information has a way of slipping through one’s fingers unless it is gathered promptly.”
“My husband… what’s left of my husband…” She paused for a moment. “He’s being buried this afternoon in a lead-lined coffin.”
“I know,” said Komarov.
He could see hatred and mistrust in her eyes. She was the victim, and he was in control. He returned her stare, waiting a moment to see if she might make a counterrevolutionary statement he could use later. Finally, he began his questioning.
“You have two children. What are their names?”
“Ilonka and Anna.”
“Are they here with you?”
“They’re with the woman in the next apartment.”
“How did you get here from Pripyat?”
“By plane.”
“Why didn’t you leave with the others?”
“What others?”
“Those evacuated by bus.”
“I went with my neighbor to the plant after we heard about the explosion. We were put on a bus, taken to the local hospital, then to the airport. It all happened very quickly.”
The questioning was also going too quickly. In order to find out more about Mrs. Horvath and her husband, and especially to find out if there was anything he could develop concerning the dead husband’s activities, Komarov decided to proceed more slowly.
“Did your daughters receive their pills?”
“What?”
“Iodine pills. It is especially important for children.”
“Yes, they gave us iodine in Pripyat and again here.”
“You also had iodine?”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to be sure before we continued. I’ll try to keep my questions to a minimum.”
Komarov asked Nina Horvath about her marriage to Mihaly Horvath, about their move to Pripyat, and the exact ages of her two girls. When Nina Horvath rushed ahead to cut off the interview, Komarov traced backward with detailed questions about family and everyday life. The purpose was to look for keys to the way he would ask his ultimate question. The purpose was to uncover a negative in her relationship with her husband and connect it with suspicions about her husband’s possible role in sabotage.
Unfortunately, Komarov could not get Nina Horvath to say anything negative about her husband. He even dwelled upon the recent past, the time during which he knew Mihaly Horvath had been seeing Juli Popovics. But still there was nothing, not even a visual reaction as Nina Horvath stared at him with obvious hatred.
Komarov backtracked in time, getting Nina Horvath to talk of pleasant topics. The girls and how well they were doing in school.
The home and the neighborhood. Friends. A future filled with possibilities. When Nina Horvath’s eyes began to water, Komarov dropped his bomb.
“Mrs. Horvath, are you aware of your husband’s role in sabotage at the Chernobyl plant?”
Nina Horvath’s expression remained unchanged, as it had during the entire interview. “I know of no such thing.”
Komarov asked the question from several angles with the same result. When he left Nina Horvath, he’d made only one entry of importance in his notebook. “Mrs. Horvath did not seem surprised I had asked such a question about her husband.”
But even as he walked out of the apartment house and crossed the street, joining the nurses and doctors and ambulance drivers scurrying outside Hospital Number Six, Komarov knew Nina Horvath had expected the question as soon as she saw his KGB identification. Therefore, not acting surprised meant nothing, unless he made something of it in his report. And, of course, he would.
The only other time Komarov visited KGB headquarters on Lubyanka Square in central Moscow was years earlier, after his promotion to captaincy following the Sherbitsky affair. At the time, the Fifth Directorate considered him for an assignment tracking down dissidents. Unfortunately, Vladimir Kryuchkov gave him a short interview, dismissing him quickly. Later he discovered Sherbitsky and Kryuchkov had trained together as KGB recruits.
The building was yellow brick, several stories tall, and shaped like a coffin. As Komarov walked across the square to the entrance, he recalled stories about the building being the tallest in Moscow even though it definitely was not. The joke went: Even from its basement-the location of the prison cells-one can easily see Siberia.
Inside the main entrance, Komarov’s heels clicked on familiar parquet floors. From his visit years earlier, he vividly recalled the sound and smell of the place. The main hall echoed, cavern-like, and smelled like boot polish and cigarette smoke even though, as he looked about, he saw no uniforms or boots or lit cigarettes. KGB officers visiting the Lubyanka for business dressed as businessmen.
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