Lazlo Horvath Thriller - 01 - Chernobyl Murders

by Michael Beres

  Before Lazlo left the Ministry of Energy, Asimov gave him the address and phone number of Municipal Hospital Number Six and said he could inquire daily about any information relayed from Moscow. Asimov smiled and said good-bye, and Lazlo thought, All of the ministries in the union are populated with puppets attached to Moscow’s long strings.

  Outside the ministry, the faded red Zhiguli was parked a half block away on the far side of the street. When Lazlo pulled out into the late-afternoon traffic, the Zhiguli followed. But what did it matter now? He was of no help to Nina and the girls. He was of no help to Juli Popovics. He could barely help himself as he drove wearily to his apartment.

  When he parked in front of his building, he didn’t even bother to look for the red Zhiguli. Tonight at midnight when he went on duty, they would most likely have switched cars. With several hours of sleep behind him, he would spot them. But for now, as he climbed the stairs to his apartment, a deathlike sleep beckoned him to join his brother, and he tried to forget about the Ministry of Energy, the KGB, and the frightened faces at the roadblock.

  Major Grigor Komarov of the KGB stood at the desk and switched off the intercom. He had overheard Asimov’s attempts to reassure Detective Horvath. Instead of sitting back down in the guest chair, Komarov walked around Asimov’s desk, sat in the larger chair, rested his elbows on the desktop, and waited. When Asimov returned to his office, he narrowed his eyes at Komarov, walked to the window, and looked out. Komarov knew he was expected to vacate the chair because its owner had returned. But he stayed where he was, and Asimov, circling the room like a vulture, finally settled in one of the guest chairs as if it were carrion.

  “I assume you continued listening while I spoke to the detective?” said Asimov.

  “I listened, Comrade Minister. And I’d like your opinion of what should be done.”

  Asimov adjusted his position in the chair. “My ministry will keep Detective Horvath informed of the health of his brother’s family as we receive information from Moscow.”

  “What about his provocative antigovernment statements?”

  “His brother has died. What can I do? Paint rosy pictures and upset him even more? The Chernobyl situation is serious. The new openness of the general secretary dictates …”

  Komarov interrupted. “You and your people assume the KGB’s goal is concealment, when in fact the opposite it true! For example, your representative never told Detective Horvath what kind of material is being released.”

  Asimov sat forward in the chair. “What does it matter to you?

  You are not there.”

  Komarov glared at Asimov, then continued in a calmer voice.

  “Comrade, I ask a question, and this is the kind of answer I get?”

  Asimov waved his hand in the air. “Many things have been released by the explosion. Iodine, cesium, cadmium, hundreds of radionuclides … the same kind of material as in an atmospheric test or at Hiroshima. For this reason alone, the KGB should understand at a time like this, when one’s own family …”

  Komarov interrupted again, but lowered his voice. “The KGB, Comrade Minister, understands many things. Do you think we make a habit of tormenting grieving relatives? Don’t you realize we have valid reasons for inquiry? The KGB head in Pripyat met with Party committee personnel immediately after the accident, and I’ve yet to hear from him. No matter what you think, the KGB will do its part. Disaster suggests violence and terror, and I’ve come here for information to help deal with those possibilities. Can you guarantee at this early stage what happened at Chernobyl was an accident?”

  Asimov stood, walked behind the desk, forcing Komarov to swivel around in the large desk chair. Asimov stared down at Komarov, contempt obvious on his face.

  “Major Komarov, what is it you want from me?”

  “You must file an official request to the KGB for an investigation of Detective Horvath.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Comrade Minister, you and I both listened to Detective Horvath’s attempts to intimidate your engineer. He asked detailed questions, and in my opinion, your engineer told him too much.

  We both heard his tirades. He was upset about his brother. But there is something beneath the surface, something I have seen in others who try to hide their true concerns.”

  “What if I choose not to file such a report?”

  “Because I am here on official business, it is mandatory I fill out a report. In my report I will have to say the minister of electric power was reluctant to document a situation critical to the investigation of circumstances surrounding the incident at Chernobyl.”

  Komarov stood, invited Asimov to sit in his own chair behind his own desk. Before he left the office, Komarov gave Asimov the address of Deputy Chairman Dumenko’s Moscow office to which the request for investigation should be sent. He told Asimov to have the request ready by nine the following morning so a KGB courier could pick it up.

  When Komarov left the building, he lit a cigarette and walked slowly to the Volga, where Captain Azef waited. He continued smoking the cigarette after entering the car.

  “What did I miss?” asked Azef. “Detective Horvath left some time ago. Our men radioed to say he went to his apartment.”

  “The energy minister and an engineer fresh out of university with fur on his lip empathize with Detective Horvath and in doing so have forgotten their duties.”

  “Where do we go now?” asked Azef.

  “To militia headquarters to see our old friend Chkalov.”

  “Ah,” said Azef. “The next victim.”

  Komarov puffed on his cigarette and glared at Azef, who faced forward and began driving. Azef was wrong. These were not victims.

  More like stepping-stones on his journey to his chairmanship. As Azef drove past late-afternoon homebound workers exiting a metro station, Komarov visualized a circus performer walking upon the bobbing heads of the crowd.

  Chief Investigator Chkalov was arrogant until Komarov informed him of the death of Detective Horvath’s brother, and of the meeting with his brother’s lover in Kiev.

  “On orders from Moscow,” continued Komarov, “the Chernobyl incident will be subject to an in-depth investigation leaving no stone unturned. I’m here to inform you of anti-Soviet statements made by your detective.”

  “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 consequen
ces, 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 refugees 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 th
is 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.”