“I’m surprised to find you home,” said Komarov.
“Who is calling, please?” repeated Dmitry in a singsong voice.
“Never mind the jokes. Is your mother there?”
“She’s not here. Although you are able to refer to her as my mother, you seem to have forgotten who you are.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When I ask who it is, you cannot bring yourself to say you are my father.”
“This conversation is meaningless.”
“I agree. So, what’s up?”
“I won’t be home tonight. Tell your mother I’m involved in an important case.”
“A man from the Nuclear Institute delivered more iodine tablets. Is the radiation a danger to people in Kiev? Should Mom and I run south and become Chernobyl Gypsies?”
Komarov tried not to shout, but Dmitry had probed a nerve.
“Don’t taunt me with talk of Gypsies! No one should be running away! The danger to us is created by Western propaganda! They’re wallowing in our misfortune!”
Komarov’s outburst caused Dmitry to remain silent.
“Tell your mother I’ll call tomorrow.”
“I will, Father.”
After he hung up, Komarov recalled the night he had threatened Dmitry on the back porch. Perhaps the lack of a father to speak with after dinner night after night had been the root cause of Dmitry’s problems. No! A son should be stronger, especially his son.
Komarov did not want to think about Dmitry. Instead, he sat at his desk and thought about the Sherbitsky affair. He remembered his early years here in this office when he often stayed overnight because he was young and enthusiastic and strong. Komarov was about to have a cot sent up from the basement when the phone rang.
It was the overnight guard at the front entrance.
“What is it?”
“There’s a woman here,” said the guard. “She wants to speak with someone in charge.”
“What’s her name?”
There were muffled voices before the guard came back on. “Her name is Tamara Petrov.”
Komarov could not believe it. Tamara Petrov questioned by Captain Brovko only two days ago and now she comes here of her own free will? “Bring her to my office. And contact Captain Brovko.
Wherever he is, tell him to come and see me at once.”
Although he had seen Tamara Petrov’s photograph, Komarov was surprised at her appearance. The photograph revealed long black hair and an olive complexion, reminding him of Barbara, the Romeo agent long ago in the GDR. The photograph had not revealed Tamara Petrov’s bracelets, long earrings, slender fingers, and loose silken blouse open at the neck. She wore a short skirt, and Komarov sat in a side chair rather than behind his desk so he could have a clear view of her shapely legs.
“I feel uncomfortable coming here,” said Tamara Petrov, crossing her legs. “I wouldn’t want my friends and associates to know.”
“Please be more specific, Miss Petrov.”
She leaned forward, her hands agitated, her bracelets jingling on the desk. “I need assurances, Major. I never want to have to repeat any of this at a hearing.”
Komarov felt excitement on two levels as he glanced at the shape of her breasts while at the same time wondering about the reason for her visit. “If you mean you want to remain an anonymous informant, Miss Petrov, then you have come to the right place.”
She stared into his eyes, trying to see something there. A Gypsy. All she needed was her crystal ball. But no one could see into another’s mind, especially his mind. He had proven it during the Sherbitsky hearings. Patience was always better than rushing into things.
“I’m here to help if I can, Miss Petrov. I know your journal published articles about Chernobyl, the shortages during construction, the quality of components, all of it. I realized long ago it was your duty to reveal these things, just as it is my duty to uncover wrongdoing at the power station. We have similar goals.”
Suddenly, something happened Komarov never expected. Tamara Petrov, who looked the part of a strong woman, broke down and wept. After a minute of sobbing and sniffling amid reassurances from Komarov, she was finally able to speak.
“He had no right coming to me.”
“You are speaking of Detective Horvath?” asked Komarov, careful not to sound anxious.
“Yes.”
“Please tell me about it, Miss Petrov.”
“I was coming home from the review office. I sometimes walk in the park along the river. He approached me near the footbridge to the island.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he needed help. He said … he needed a room for himself and a woman. He said I had influence at hotels and could find them a room.”
“What did you tell him?”
She wept again, and Komarov was forced to wait.
“I was going to tell him I couldn’t help and ask him to leave. But he insisted I was involved. He said I had sent him a message about this woman, Juli Popovics. He said I had saved them from the KGB.
I knew something was wrong. I knew he had done something illegal and was dragging me into it so I would feel forced to help. I don’t want to do anything illegal. I’ve never done anything illegal before in my life. I have my literary review and my friends. I have my own life. To get rid of him, I … told him I could help him. And now, because I’m not a criminal and I fear Lazlo has done something against the people he’s supposed to protect, I’m here to tell you where he is.”
“You know where he is?”
Tamara Petrov wiped at her eyes with a billowy sleeve. “He’s waiting for me to meet him. I’m to bring clothing and have a taxi waiting.” Tamara wept again. “This is very hard for me, Major.
This was a man I admired. But I can’t become a criminal. I can’t!”
“You are very brave, Miss Petrov. Your secret will be kept, even from Detective Horvath. Now please, tell me where he is.”
“He … they are at the Hotel Dnieper, registered under the name Yuri Antonov … Yuri Antonov and his wife.”
On his way out, Komarov took Tamara Petrov with him. Captain Brovko met them on the stairs, causing Tamara Petrov to shriek.
“It’s all right, Miss Petrov. He’s not here for you.”
Komarov told Brovko to gather men and come with him. He left Tamara Petrov with the guard and told him to arrange for a car to take her home.
The night air was cool and moist. When he got into the car, Komarov felt adrenaline surging through him. He felt young and was glad to have the company of Captain Brovko instead of Azef.
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.
Although 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 do
ors 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 Horvath Thriller - 01 - Chernobyl Murders Page 30
