Lazlo tipped a heavy garbage can against the door, put on the overcoat, and took out his pistol. There was a loud racket in the kitchen. He crouched down behind another garbage can and aimed his pistol at the garbage can leaning against the door. When the door pushed outward, he fired two shots. When the door was pushed closed by the garbage can, he ran past the doorway in the opposite direction and found a gangway out to the street, where he joined a crowd of people walking slowly back to the Hotel Dnieper.
The people chatted about the concert, one woman saying Prokofiev was “elevating,” a man saying the music was “overly West-ernized.” Lazlo put up the overcoat collar, which smelled of onions.
He put his hands in the pockets, his right hand still gripping his pistol. He walked as smoothly as he could despite the pain in his ankle.
He was rounding the corner back to the hotel when he heard footsteps run up the gangway. Once around the corner, he ran again.
Across the street from the hotel he slowed to a walk. There were at least five KGB men outside the main entrance, looking about in all directions. He had caught up to a group of four people leaving the concert, but they veered to the right and began crossing the street to the hotel. Lazlo walked straight ahead to the end of the block and onto the lighted pathway leading to Lenkomsomol Square. He wished he had gone the other direction to the metro, but there had been no crowds going that way. He could not turn around now because he could hear the men who had chased him through the restaurant back at the corner.
The men at the hotel entrance began spreading out, one coming toward him, but not running. The man paused before crossing the street to allow a speeding taxi by. There was something familiar about the man, something about the shape of his head, his receding hairline. Suddenly the man stopped short and shouted, “Horvath!” and Lazlo knew it was Komarov.
Running. The pain again. Running out onto Lenkomsomol Square. Nowhere else to go. All these men chasing him, and nowhere to hide. All these men led by Komarov a hundred meters behind. Would he be shot through the head like the deserter from the Romanian border? Perhaps he deserved it.
A shot fired, causing a young couple ahead on a bench to dive to the ground. If only he could stop running. If only he could become invisible. But what would happen to Juli? What would happen to Juli if he did not return?
As he ran farther out onto the square, he heard a violin playing in the distance, a violin playing a Hungarian prima, the violin crying its song into the night, a song he recognized, a song called,
“If Someone’s Sad.”
Another shot, a piece of stone on the square set free, skittering beneath his feet. The violin stopped playing. Only the pain remained, and Juli waiting for him.
The footsteps behind were like marbles bouncing on the paving stones. The men closer, perhaps seventy-five meters back. Ahead, the few strollers who had been in the distance were gone, crouched down behind planters and statues, waiting for these insane men to disappear.
A sound. He had run past a sound below. A truck shifting gears. The underpass! The road beneath Lenkomsomol Square!
The road branching from the traffic-signaled intersection near the square! One summer he had reprimanded boys for dropping stones from the planters through the drainage grates onto the traffic below.
The grates lined up over the road here.
He could smell diesel fumes. He turned down a path at the edge of the square and saw the grates lined up beneath the lampposts.
He ran past one grate after another and heard a truck starting up, shifting out of first gear, the sound of the truck coming from grates behind him.
Down on his knees, his pistol into the edge of the grate, prying it up. Fingers beneath the grate, the grate pressing into his flesh.
Pushing. Pushing the grate over. The truck’s yellow cab lights below. A trailer so close. A short drop. But how close? How close to the floor of the square? How close to the ceiling of the tunnel?
No choice. He dropped, spread-eagled like a skydiver. He landed on the truck on his chest and, for a moment, could not breathe.
He lay flat, his pistol clenched in his hand. He looked ahead and saw the opening of the tunnel, the road climbing as the truck driver shifted again and the truck lurched forward. And as the truck went faster, the ceiling came closer. Then the ceiling touched him, was at the back of his coat pulling him backward. He would die. He would die.
But suddenly, the echoing sound of the truck’s engine opened up about him, and when he looked up, he knew he was outside the tunnel. The truck, with him onboard like an insect clinging to an automobile windshield, headed west on Khreshchatik and would soon pass the metro station.
“He’s ducked behind a potted plant!” shouted Brovko.
“I saw him turn up there at those benches!” shouted one of the men with a machine pistol.
“Spread out!” screamed Komarov.
A few seconds later, one of the men shouted, “Over here!”
Komarov ran, saw two men standing with their guns lowered.
Could Horvath be dead? Why hadn’t he heard the shot? When he ran closer, all he saw was a hole in the ground, a hole the size and shape of a grave. But this was not ground. There was a street below!
Komarov stopped at the hole, gasping for breath as he looked down with the others at the traffic passing below, the traffic going west.
Despite his gasping, Komarov ran with the others to the west end of Lenkomsomol Square. At the railing, all he could see was the traffic. There was no one running. No one on a car or truck. Did he expect Horvath to stand on whatever car or truck he must have taken for a ride and wave to him? Mock him? Wasn’t it enough he had escaped?
“Back to the hotel!” Komarov gasped for breath. “Find the woman!”
A few meters away, a violinist who had ducked behind a row of benches because of the commotion stood and started playing a Hungarian song. A Gypsy song!
This was too much. Komarov put his pistol away and walked up to the violinist, a somber, skinny wretch of a man in a tattered brimmed hat playing his idiotic tune. Komarov felt the weight of the knife in his pocket as he walked. He stopped before the old man, pulled out the knife, and opened it.
The old man stopped playing. Komarov held the knife underhanded, not certain if he could stop, not certain if he would.
Then he felt a hand grip his wrist. When he turned, he saw it was Captain Brovko. Behind Brovko, Komarov could see insects hovering below the lights lining the square. Beyond the lights was the sparkle of the Dnieper River to the east. How would he be able to blame the Chernobyl explosion on the Gypsy Moth if he could not catch him?
“Come, Major,” said Brovko, staring at the knife. “We might still find the woman.”
Brovko watched as Komarov folded the knife and put it away.
They joined the other men running back to the Hotel Dnieper.
25
On May 14, 1986, eighteen days after the Chernobyl explosion, Gorbachev finally addressed the nation. Seven had died, and 290 were hospitalized. After speaking of the seriousness of the disaster and praising rescue workers, Gorbachev criticized exaggerations by the West. But most importantly, he spoke of the lessons the Chernobyl disaster should teach the world, comparing the disaster to the even greater threats that could be unleashed by nuclear weapons.
A few days after Gorbachev’s speech, the death toll was said to be thirteen, with many thousands exposed to radiation. The fire was out, and construction workers were building a cement tomb around the reactor. Livestock within a twenty-kilometer radius had been destroyed, and other livestock and fields of winter wheat were being monitored. Outside the Soviet Union, Common Market countries banned the import of Ukraine meat and produce.
On Sunday, May 18, a day one would expect to see crowded streets and parks, almost all of Kiev’s children were gone. Perhaps labels appearing on milk containers saying either “For Children” or
“For Adults” had been the final Pied Piper leading childre
n away.
Many parents went south to be with their children, leaving Kiev with its old and middle-aged.
But the world did not stop. There were quotas to be filled and a few extra rubles to be made for those shrewd enough to take advantage. Kiev morning radio quoted a Pravda editorial criticizing Black Sea resort owners who had increased their rates, taking unfair advantage of parents who wanted to be with their children during this difficult time.
Standing at his office window, Komarov watched old men and women wearing dark coats amble out of a church on Boulevard Shevchenko. It reminded him of the night Detective Horvath made fools of his men at the Hotel Dnieper. The Philharmonia had let out, and the crowd gave Horvath the cover he needed. Idiots in the crowd making way instead of stopping him. The same idiots who more than likely applauded Gorbachev’s idiotic Chernobyl speech a few days later in which he warned of the global nuclear threat instead of keeping his mouth shut.
Over a week had gone by, and there was still no clue as to where the two Hungarians had gone. Outgoing airlines, trains, and buses were being watched. Members of the KGB and militia carried photographs of Horvath and Juli Popovics, but still there was nothing.
The militia also wanted Horvath for questioning regarding the poet’s murder because officers had seen the poet talking to Horvath at the roadblock.
Komarov had gone over the scene at the hotel again and again- the time that passed after the knock on the door; the time needed to lower Juli Popovics, still wet from the shower, onto the scaffold; the statue of Lenin holding a pistol; the sofa in front of the window; the gunshot from outside the window; the exit through the hotel kitchen disguised as a waiter; and finally, the escape through the floor of Lenkomsomol Square. But where had Juli Popovics gone?
The search of the hotel after Horvath’s escape had done nothing but upset patrons and prompt calls from both Chief Investigator Chkalov and Kiev’s public prosecutor to Deputy Chairman Dumenko in Moscow. Idiots!
In less than an hour, Dumenko’s flight would arrive in Kiev.
Komarov needed to blame the incident on someone else while convincing Dumenko the case was still worth pursuing. He sent Captain Brovko to Kisbor, telling him Horvath had to go there because his sister-in-law, Nina Horvath, was the one remaining woman with power over him. Brovko’s implication that Komarov had lost control by pulling his knife on the violinist in Lenkomsomol Square made it necessary to get Brovko out of Kiev, and the Horvath farmhouse would be a good place for the captain. Brovko would be in charge of several less skillful agents in Kisbor on the western frontier, including Nikolai Nikolskaia.
The thought of Brovko and Nikolskaia sitting atop a dung heap surrounded by peasants was humorous. But the thought of Dumenko’s arrival made laughter impossible.
“I find it difficult to believe your men would be so easily fooled by a statue!” shouted Dumenko. “Perhaps, if their memory is poor, you might place miniature statues of Lenin on the dashboards of their cars!”
“I agree it seems preposterous, Deputy Chairman, but the statue was disguised. He had a jacket about his shoulders and a woman’s stocking stretched over his head.”
Dumenko raised his eyebrows. “A woman’s stocking over Lenin’s face? And a pistol fastened to his hand?”
“Yes, Deputy Chairman.”
Dumenko shook his head, the sun from the window reflected off his hairless skull. “It is all quite clear now. Your men defended themselves against what they thought, at first glance, was a live gunman with a stocking over his head.” Dumenko raised his voice again. “But please tell me why, if the pistol never fired and the statue never moved, your men found it necessary to put so many holes in Lenin? The hotel manager will now have to replace him!”
“The men who fired at the statue carried Stechkin machine pistols, Deputy Chairman. I’m afraid they were set on full automatic.”
“Perhaps we should issue field artillery to the Kiev office! Instead of simply blowing Lenin’s crotch away, they could have blown off his head and put the poor man out of his misery!” Dumenko pounded his fist on the desk. “Next time, Major, I expect more control of these situations! Do you realize the extent of damage to the walls and ceiling? Do you realize how many guests were scared shitless? Not to mention the female hotel guest yanked from her bath because she, like Juli Popovics, had dark hair!”
Dumenko shook his head. “KGB agents shooting the balls off a statue, mortally wounding a sofa, and pulling a woman out of her bath. I feel sorry for you, Major. This brain disease of yours is taking its toll. Perhaps your men had a nip of vodka to give them strength. Is that what happened?”
“None of my men drink while on duty, Deputy Chairman.”
Komarov knew it was necessary to go through ridicule so that Dumenko would eventually listen to him. At last, after several more sarcastic statements, Dumenko asked about the escape of Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics. In the process of answering these questions, Komarov placed the blame for the incident on Captain Brovko.
“Captain Brovko’s training in interrogation and nuclear engineering did not adequately prepare him for an emergency field situation.”
“You feel a more experienced man might have performed better?” asked Dumenko.
“I do not wish to blame the captain entirely, Deputy Chairman.
I take responsibility for giving him the field assignment.”
“I see,” said Dumenko. “I suppose I should also take some responsibility for assigning Brovko to you, and even the chairman is responsible for giving me authority to assign men, and so on up the line all the way to the president and general secretary. Is this how you view your responsibilities, Major?”
“No, Comrade Deputy Chairman. Not at all. I take full responsibility. I did not mean to imply you were responsible in any way.”
Dumenko waved his hand. “Enough of who is responsible and who is not. Times have changed. These days everything hangs in the open like laundry. So, what are you going to do about the investigation?”
“I will continue to pursue it, Deputy Chairman. One of my men is dead, and Detective Horvath is a suspect in another murder case, a poet who was apparently an informant for Horvath. He’s a dangerous man. We have a twenty-four-hour guard on the woman who told us where to find him.”
“Tamara Petrov. I read your report.” Dumenko raised his eyebrows. “And I’ve seen photographs of her in the interrogation room.
Quite a handsome woman, one worthy of our protection.” Dumenko polished the top of his head with his palm and smiled. “Perhaps someday you can introduce me to Tamara Petrov. I find the literary arts fascinating.”
Dumenko placed his hands back on the desk. His smile vanished.
“Major Komarov, I must tell you the initial reason for your investigation seems weak in light of new information. Yesterday I spoke with the chairman of the State Atomic Energy Committee.
He seems convinced the incident at Chernobyl was an accident.”
Komarov stood and paced back and forth behind his desk to emphasize his seriousness.
“Comrade Deputy Chairman, I’ve been involved in this case long enough to know I am not mistaken. Juli Popovics, hiding her treachery behind outspokenness for the environment, is a key figure. Transcripts from meetings with Mihaly Horvath and his fellow engineers often refer to ‘the bitch.’ I have evidence to convince me
‘the bitch’ is none other than Juli Popovics. She was most likely recruited long ago by Aleksandra Yasinsky, currently imprisoned for anti-Soviet activities. Mihaly Horvath is also a key figure, but weaker than Juli Popovics. In correspondence with his brother, Mihaly Horvath spoke often of his greed-purchasing an expensive car, getting a larger apartment, the usual capitalist goals. He indicated he might be able to obtain funds from his American cousin, Andrew Zukor.”
Komarov paused dramatically before continuing. “I know I’ve sent reports saying the situation at Chernobyl is under control. And the explosion and resulting fire remain under control to the be
st of our ability. However, if I am guilty of anything, it is my nayivete concerning the Horvath brothers, their American cousin, and Juli Popovics. There is conspiracy here.” He pointed to his chest. “I can feel it. I’ve heard the reports of human error at Chernobyl, and I still feel it. Of course, the ministries in charge are saying human error. What else can they say? But later, with all the facts on the table, when the radiation has diminished sufficiently to find clues indicating tampering, the KGB’s investigation will pay its dividends, Comrade Deputy Chairman. We’ll be ready to stand before any committee of inquiry. And if they are captured, Juli Popovics and Detective Horvath will confess. They have already lost one of their own. On Friday afternoon, when the shutdown was originally scheduled, Mihaly Horvath would have been able to escape. They were tricked by fate, Deputy Chairman. We should not be tricked so easily!”
When Komarov finished his speech, he was breathless. He sat back at his desk, stared at Dumenko, and waited. After a minute of silence, Dumenko spoke.
“You present a strong case, Major. Very well, you may continue the investigation.” Dumenko stood and walked to the door, where he turned back and pointed his finger at Komarov. “But remember, Major. I will not tolerate another Hotel Dnieper incident. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Comrade Deputy Chairman.”
The last time Komarov spent an evening alone on his back porch was the night after Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics escaped the Hotel Dnieper. The investigation had stalled, and he had relapsed, fallen victim to the bottle’s talons. When he awakened the next day, his wife told him she and Dmitry had carried him into the house and, unable to awaken him, almost called the doctor. It had taken his system two days to recover. Having vowed never to drink again, having come to his senses enough to convince Dumenko this afternoon to allow the case to continue, he was out on his porch again, alone and sober.
To the west, three kilometers away, was the metro station where the Volga had been found. Across the river was the Hotel Dnieper and a million other places in which to hide. Detective Horvath would know them all. But were they still in Kiev, or had they moved on?
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