Chernobyl Murders lh-1

by Michael Beres

  If he had to share the glory of this night with anyone, let it be with a young man recently assigned who would relinquish credit to Major Grigor Komarov for the capture of Detective Horvath and his co-conspirator.

  If it was necessary to kill Horvath and the woman, so be it. Evidence gathered in silence was often much more convincing. In less than a block, two other cars joined the Volga, racing along the night-dampened streets to the Hotel Dnieper.

  24

  Although the Moskva Hotel on October Revolution Street was newer and the Ukraine Hotel on Shevchenko Boulevard was larger, many tourists preferred the charm and location of the Hotel Dnieper, bordering Lenkomsomol Square. The Hotel Dnieper was centrally located near tourist attractions, including museums and cathedrals.

  The Philharmonia, the library, and the cinema were directly across from the Dnieper. If your tastes were less cultural, you could stroll down Vladimirsky Spusk to the riverbank for a boat ride or take the path through the park for a walk across the footbridge to the beach on Trukhanov Island.

  This night, the beach was empty. And even though it had been warm enough to swim during the day, only a handful had ventured into the Dnieper River because of news coming out of Chernobyl.

  According to bus drivers from the north, the banks of the Pripyat, which drained into the Dnieper, were being shored up to avoid radioactive contamination to Kiev’s water supply. Outspoken bus drivers showed off face masks they’d been given to wear on their drives back and forth, and they spoke of soldiers on the roads, with Chernobylites hiding to avoid being bussed out. There were rumors of looting, buses abandoned, and entire villages bulldozed. However, despite the tragedy to the north, Kiev, the beautiful city, was peaceful, especially when viewed from the seventh floor of the popular Hotel Dnieper.

  The window of the room in which Lazlo had registered as Mr. and Mrs. Yuri Antonov faced north. In the distant hills, beyond the quaint lights lining Lenkomsomol Square, he could see the plan-etarium and the ascending and descending funicular cable cars.

  Farther west was the lighted bell tower of Saint Sophia’s Cathedral.

  Straight ahead, a hundred kilometers beyond the black northern horizon, was Chernobyl. Lazlo thought of Mihaly telling him several times about the KGB snooping around at Chernobyl, looking for something to happen so they could cover it up. He thought of Mihaly’s body covered with radioactive debris from the explosion, Mihaly shipped to Moscow not for treatment, but for burial. He recalled the day over a week ago when he had gone to the cathedral and wept. Almost fifteen years earlier, when Mihaly came to Kiev to attend university, the cathedral was one of the first tourist spots Lazlo took Mihaly. He remembered the look on Mihaly’s face, an eighteen-year-old boy looking aloft at the domes and icons, Mihaly viewing the vast possibilities of his future. Last week, Lazlo went to the cathedral to pray for Mihaly. Now, several blocks away, Saint Sophia’s bell tower was outlined in the black of night.

  Below the window of the room, when he opened it and leaned out far enough, Lazlo saw the window washers’ scaffold left hanging outside the sixth-floor windows for the night. That was why he had picked a room on the seventh floor with a northern view. It was part of his plan.

  Lazlo took off his jacket and sweater, unbuttoned his shirt. Juli had given him undergarments from her overnight case. These he’d brought with other clothes in a fishnet bag. He rinsed and hung Juli’s undergarments to dry in the bathroom. He turned on the shower and left it running. Soon the room was warm and moist despite the open window. He sprinkled perfume Juli gave him into the tub, giving the room the pleasant scent of a woman.

  He looked at his watch. Almost nine thirty. Tamara would have gone to KGB headquarters by now, and soon they would arrive. From his room, the sidewalk in front of the main entrance was visible. When he had asked Tamara to go to Komarov, it was obvious she knew that part of the plan was to put her in the clear, as he had done with Aunt Magda.

  He went into the bathroom and turned off the shower. He carried a dripping washcloth out of the bathroom and to the window, allowing water to drip on the floor as he went. At the window, he held the cloth outside and let water drip onto the windowsill and the window washers’ scaffold below. When he took the washcloth back to the bathroom, he moistened a towel, dried his hands on it, and threw it with the washcloth onto the floor. He glanced at Juli’s brassiere and underpants hung to dry on the shower bar, left the light on, and closed the bathroom door.

  In the main room, he pushed the tall-backed heavy sofa in front of the open window, leaving enough room for him to stoop behind it. He lowered the window enough so it would not appear open when viewed from the door, yet would still allow him to squeeze through.

  Everything was ready. He sat on the sofa facing the door and waited. Next to the door on the hinged side, so he would be behind the door when it opened, was Vladimir Ilich Lenin holding a Makarov 9mm pistol.

  Actually, it was only a statue of Lenin, and he wasn’t really holding the pistol. The pistol, one of the shiny new ones taken from the KGB agents in Visenka, was tied to Lenin’s outstretched hand with one of Juli’s nylon stockings. The other nylon stocking was stretched over Lenin’s head, his pointy beard forming an inverted tent over his face. Around Lenin’s shoulders, partially concealing the stocking holding the pistol in place, was Lazlo’s overcoat. The coat and stocking over the face gave Lenin color. The statue looked like a thief with stone-gray gloves and slacks, who had put a nylon stocking over his face as a disguise.

  The statue was from a secluded stairway landing off the lobby.

  Lazlo gave the elevator operator ten rubles to keep his mouth shut and take him with Lenin to the seventh floor. He told the elevator operator it was for a joke on a friend and the statue would be put back the same evening. The statue was heavy, but he’d been able to tilt it slightly and roll it like a barrel of wine.

  Lazlo stood and took out his wallet. He emptied the money out of it, stuffed the money into his pocket, and placed the wallet on the lamp table. He would leave his identification and other papers because he no longer needed them. Leaving his identification would prove he was there as Tamara had said, on the remote possibility the agents coming through the door did not recognize him. He took his old Makarov 9mm pistol from the side pocket of his trousers and inserted it into the back of his waistband where it would be hidden from view. The other shiny new Makarov from the agents was with his shoulder holster, clearly visible on the bed. He turned off the floor lamp next to the sofa, leaving only the lamp on the bed table lit. This lamp cast its brightest light on the pistol and shoulder holster on the white bedspread. When he looked back to the door, he could see Lenin in the shadows, looking almost alive.

  Everything seemed in order. He checked once more to make certain the door was locked, returned to the sofa, and waited. From the open window behind him, he could hear the sounds of traffic.

  Other than this it was quiet.

  After a minute or so, the elevator bell clanged in the hallway.

  He felt his muscles tense, aware of the cool outside air at the back of his neck. There were voices in the hallway, men and women speaking, but he could not tell what they were saying. A woman laughed loudly, like the shriek of a bird. A door slammed, and it was quiet again. But he did not relax on the chance the KGB had gotten off the elevator with the revelers. He wondered if they would take the stairs instead. No, both. Men on the stairs, he hoped above the sixth floor, and men on the elevator. His only problem would be if there were men on the stairs between the second and sixth floor.

  On the second floor, he had hidden a waiter’s jacket behind a fire extinguisher outside the door to the stairwell. Once on the second floor, he would put on the jacket, go through the restaurant’s kitchen and out the back, where there was a metal stairway down to the alley. He would avoid the lobby and front entrance. The plan depended on a clear stairwell between the sixth and second floors.

  If not, he might have to kill again.

  A
lthough it seemed an inappropriate time, Lazlo could not help thinking about the man he killed today. He remembered the man’s face when he raised his gun and pointed out the car window. The man’s face held a look of panic, of not knowing what to do next.

  The reason Lazlo had fired first was because in the past he’d seen criminals with the same look on their faces. He’d also seen this look years earlier, when the deserter who’d shot Viktor turned the gun on him slowly, so slowly.

  Today, with the partner weeping and even admitting he had not radioed for help, Lazlo theorized that two amateurs had been purposely assigned. This afternoon in the park, his theory of a setup was proven correct when Tamara said she had not sent the message saying Juli was in danger. The only message Tamara had sent through the poet was the one after her interrogation.

  Lovely Tamara in the park on a spring afternoon, joining him behind thick bushes along the bank of the river, speaking softly as the water trickled and lapped the shore. Lovely Tamara promis-ing to help, then telling him about a woman who ran a market in the mountain village of Yasinya near the Romanian and Hungarian frontiers. Tamara saying it was a way out. Tamara kissing him before running along the bank so she could resume her walk beyond the concealment of the bushes as if no one had been there. He wondered if he would ever see Tamara again.

  The elevator bell clanged in the hallway. He could hear the doors slide open, stay open a few seconds, slide closed again. Enough time to let off very quiet passengers who did not speak or clomp about or push a key loudly into a lock and slam a door. He knew it was them.

  Room 702, registered for one night by Mr. and Mrs. Yuri Antonov, was not far from the elevator. Komarov passed the door quietly and took a position with Brovko at the turn in the hall. Two of Brovko’s men stood on either side of the door with Stechkin machine pistols ready. When the men released the safeties, Brovko held his hand up for the men to wait. Komarov withdrew his own pistol from his shoulder holster.

  Perhaps it would end here for Detective Horvath, thought Komarov as he imagined Stechkins unloading their clips at full automatic, causing the Gypsy Moth to dance his last dance. And what about the woman? Would she have one of the pistols taken from Pavel and Nikolai?

  It did not matter to Komarov. In this game, he had all possibilities covered. One of his men had been killed. If Horvath or Popovics survived, he had the authority to become witness to confessions of conspiracy and have the conspirators put away forever. The path to his chairmanship, and to his recognition by the Presidium and the Council of Ministers, were behind the door to room 702.

  While waiting with Brovko for the men coming up the stairs, Komarov imagined living in Moscow. He’d have an office in the Lubyanka. He’d salute Lenin’s Tomb each day. He’d attend operas at the Bolshoi. His wife would enjoy Moscow. Dmitry would remain in Kiev with his friends. On the other hand, perhaps his wife would not want to go to Moscow, and he would meet other women.

  He imagined it. An opera at the Bolshoi, dinner at a quiet restaurant, then back to his Moscow apartment. He tried to visualize a woman with him, a woman beneath him in bed while the music from Prince Igor or The Duma rings in his ears. The woman he pictured beneath him was Tamara Petrov. Komarov reached inside his jacket and touched his knife, felt reassured by the good fortune it had brought him in the past.

  The stairwell door at the far end of the hall opened, and two men holding pistols stepped out, one of them shaking his head from side to side. Brovko nodded and turned to one of the men near the door, who raised his Stechkin with one hand and reached out to knock with the other.

  Lazlo stood to the side of the door opposite Lenin.

  “Who is it?”

  Silence. He waited, but not so long they would decide to break in the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “I’m from housekeeping. Please open the door. Something needs checking in the room.”

  “Come back later!”

  More silence, followed by a very loud knock.

  “Detective Horvath! Unlock the door and step five paces straight back into the room with your hands over your head! If you don’t do this immediately, we’ll begin shooting!”

  He heard a door slam, probably someone looking out and seeing the men with guns.

  “Detective Horvath!”

  “Very well! I’ll unlock the door now and step back as you said!”

  After unlocking the door, Lazlo stepped back more than five paces. He stood at the side of the sofa with his hands above his head.

  The doorknob twisted slowly, then the door was propelled open, banging into Lenin. For a second all he saw was the opposite wall of the hallway. Eventually two machine pistols appeared, followed by two men peeking around the edge of the door frame. Both men stared at him for a moment, and finally one stepped into the room, aiming his machine pistol two-handed at Lazlo. The second man quickly stepped in, glanced at the gun on the bed, stepped around the door, and was confronted by Lenin. When the machine pistol began unloading, the man watching Lazlo dropped to the floor and also turned his pistol on Lenin.

  The move behind the sofa and out the window went as quickly as it had when he’d practiced it. What he hadn’t practiced was the drop to the scaffold. He fell in a crouched position, experiencing the horrible sensation of the fall in his abdomen. When he hit the scaffold, he lurched sideways but held on with his arms. His legs hung over the edge and his ankle burned with pain, but he managed to clamber up onto the scaffold. He stood up quickly, took out his pistol, held it as high as he could beneath the open window, held his breath, and listened.

  When the firing in the room finally ceased, gun smoke billowed out the doorway, a few shells rolled into the hallway, and Komarov ran into the room with Brovko.

  Their two men were prone on the floor, their machine pistols aimed at a sofa against a window. Bits of what looked like plaster were scattered about the men’s feet. One man on the floor pointed to the sofa, the other pointed back behind the door. The men from the stairwell joined them, crowding into the room. Brovko aimed his pistol behind the door before shaking his head sadly and turning to the sofa.

  Behind the door Komarov saw a statue with a pistol fastened to its hand. On the bed was another pistol in a shoulder holster. He aimed his own pistol at the sofa with the others.

  “Come out, Horvath!”

  When a shot exploded from behind the sofa, Komarov, along with the others, opened fire.

  The firing continued at least five seconds. When it stopped, the sofa was smoking, tufts of stuffing floating above it.

  Brovko approached the sofa carefully, aiming his pistol. Once behind and to the side of the sofa, he looked back to Komarov.

  “There’s nobody here.”

  “What?”

  “But he jumped back there,” said one of the men on the floor.

  Brovko shoved the sofa out into the room.

  “The window!” screamed Komarov.

  “We’re on the seventh floor,” said one of the men.

  Another man was at the bathroom door, pushing it open, aiming.

  Komarov already knew there would be no one in the bathroom.

  He saw water flecks on the tile floor and trailing across the carpet to the window. Both he and Brovko ran to the window and looked out. Below the window a platform swung gently. On the platform, in the light from a window below, Komarov could see more droplets of water. Along with the sulfurous scent of burnt gunpowder, there was a scent of perfume in the air.

  “Hurry!” shouted Komarov, running from the room. “They’ve gone down a floor!”

  Brovko screamed into his handheld transceiver, telling the men on the street to circle the building. Komarov did not bother with the elevator. He ran to the stairwell and, when he entered it, heard the echo of a door slamming below.

  Lazlo’s ankle was on fire as he ran. When he put on the white waiter’s jacket, blood smeared the sleeve, and he realized he had cut his wrist on the scaffold. His left side ached where he shoved
the pistol into his belt beneath the jacket before running through the hotel kitchen.

  Several kitchen workers stared at him. One, a fat man in a chef’s hat, stepped to the center of the aisle to block his path. Lazlo pulled up his sleeve, held out his bleeding wrist, and said, “I’ve cut myself,” and the man stepped aside.

  He ran down the outside metal stairway and through the alley as fast as he could. He tried to ignore the pain, but it was more intense with each step, as if an animal were inside chewing his an-klebone. The alley exited at the side of the building on the street bordering Lenkomsomol Square. He ran across the street. There was a shout behind him.

  “Stop!”

  He ran onto the sidewalk as fast as he could, but the man behind was faster, and was joined by a second man, the two shouting encouragement to one another in Russian, young men running fast, so fast. The pain, how long could he run with the pain?

  When he rounded a corner, a crowd making their way down the street from the Philharmonia confronted him. He dodged one person after another, shouting, “Watch out! Move over!” Behind him he heard the two men doing the same as they rounded the corner. The white jacket was like a flag as he ran among people coming from the concert in dark formal wear.

  A restaurant ahead, patrons going in, a crowd. He went through the doorway, pushing a man and a woman aside. The man cursed him in Ukrainian and Russian.

  Through the dining room, pushing a dessert cart out of the way.

  He found the kitchen door at the back just as he heard the commotion at the front entrance. In the kitchen he removed the white jacket, knocked over a man standing on a stool, then ran into a cart full of pots and pans, which spilled over, some of the pans bouncing ahead and underfoot. Near the back door, there was a black overcoat on a hook. He took it and ran out the back door.

  The alley was dark and quiet, but through the door he could hear a man shouting, “Hey! Stop! My coat!”