Lazlo Horvath Thriller - 01 - Chernobyl Murders

by Michael Beres

  He could hear the men speaking to one another above the scream of Lakatos’ violin.

  The road was close. Lazlo went down on his hands and knees and crawled ahead, feeling stones digging into his knees, the same stones he and Mihaly had, years ago, hurled from the yard as they helped their father clear a place to plant the private plot.

  The men came closer, their legs dragging through dry weeds as they approached the ridge of the hill. Lazlo stayed low, crawled with his face to the ground. Suddenly, near the road, he came upon a clearing about a meter wide. His hand brushed something, a coat on the ground, its inside lining still warm. The man guarding the road had used the coat to stay warm or to sit on. The man was one of those with flashlights. Lazlo crouched low and lay down at the edge of the circular clearing on the side nearest the road. He listened and waited because he knew the KGB agent who had made the nest would soon return.

  The stage was set. Everything he had done for the last two decades had led to this. Even times of weakness when the bottle had him in its grasp played a role. He had devoted his life in preparation for this confrontation.

  East of the Carpathians, others could easily be arrested to confirm the conspiracy originating in the United States and funneled through here. Anger over Chernobyl would intensify, making prosecution less complicated. Chernobyl traitors would be part of the Soviet Union’s future. Whether Gorbachev remained in power or not, Komarov’s plan would succeed.

  Komarov felt stronger than he had in years. When it was over, he would go to Moscow without the media fanfare used in capitalist countries. It was not the Russian way. By going quietly, he would add to his power. He would accept his medals with dignity and stand with the best of them high above others at the May Day parade. In the crowd, he would see a young blond woman look up to him. Later, at a Kremlin reception, he would meet the young woman, a Pravda reporter doing a story on the revival of Russia’s superiority over the other Soviet republics. Gorbachev would be no more, and the new president would have befriended Deputy KGB

  Chairman Grigor Komarov.

  After the Kremlin reception, the Pravda reporter would return with him to his room at the Hotel Metropole. They would order cham-pagne and speak of their new Mother Russia long into the night.

  She is sweet. He can smell her. She puts her head on his shoulder and fingers the buttons of his uniform. She unbuttons his jacket and reaches beneath it. She finds the knife in the inside pocket and asks about it. He tells her the story of Sherbitsky, the murderer.

  They make love. She becomes his mistress. They meet monthly at his dacha. He does not kill her. Instead, she stays with him as he grows older, wiser.

  In the midst of Komarov’s reverie, Bela glared at him and spit off to the side. It seemed a provocation demanding action. He imagined rising from the chair and pistol-whipping the brute. But he did not move. Instead, he aimed the pistol at Bela, and this calmed him.

  After a few more minutes of thrashing about in the weeds, it sounded as if the men were retreating to the house. Above the din of the music, Lazlo heard footsteps coming closer to the clearing. But instead of one man returning to the nest, it sounded like two. He kept his hand on his pistol as the men approached. The men stopped near his feet. He looked up and could see them facing the house. If one of the men stepped back, Lazlo would be kicked or stepped on, but he dared not move. The two men began speaking, young men.

  “Komarov will have a poker up his ass now. When Brovko returns, you’ll really hear it.”

  “This is all quite strange. We’re told Horvath is armed and dangerous, we’re issued Stechkins and AKMs, and Komarov turns up the music so we can’t hear an attacking elephant herd.”

  “You know what they say about fish.”

  “Rotting from the head first?”

  Both men chuckled, their feet shuffling in the weeds. They continued their conversation.

  “Captain Azef is in his glory back in Kiev.”

  “A lot of the men have been saying Azef will take over. An old-timer in the office said Komarov’s been a paperweight the last few years. A serious drinking problem. That’s why he’s still a major.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a drink now.”

  “Brovko went for tea. I hope he doesn’t spill it when he hears what’s happened.”

  “What do you think of Brovko’s closeness with Nikolskaia?”

  “He wonders why Nikolskaia was assigned here. His partner was the one Horvath shot.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yes. A couple of PK amateurs from Pripyat.”

  “Ha. I knew Nikolskaia came from Pripyat, but I didn’t know he was PK.”

  “Don’t say anything to him. He has enough trouble. He’ll get cancer in a year or two from the radiation. My brother and his family had to move, and their place was even farther away. I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing here. I thought we’d be sent up north or at least to the roadblocks watching for looters.”

  “I hope we’re out of here soon. I met this girl in Kiev.”

  “I’d rather go back to Moscow. The hell with these Ukes.”

  The two men were silent for a while, then one of them said he should get back to his post. Because of the music and the similar-ity of the youthful voices, Lazlo could not tell which man had gone.

  Lazlo pulled his legs up to a fetal position. The remaining man moved into the clearing, stood for a moment, and finally settled down on the coat spread on the ground. The man’s back was to Lazlo. He could smell the leather of the man’s jacket. If he reached out, he could touch the man’s back.

  Lazlo studied the man, determined the AKM was in the man’s right hand, its skinny folding stock against the ground, its barrel upward. He would have to kill the man or disable him without creating a disturbance. Choking him would kill him, and somewhere a brother or even a sister would wonder why. Lazlo recalled the look in the eyes of the Gypsy’s sister, the look on the face of the Gypsy when the bullet pierced his head, and finally the look on the face of the dead PK agent he now knew was the partner of a man named Nikolskaia. The music of Lakatos was being played by Komarov to make the confrontation a deadly one. He did not want to kill again.

  But he would kill Komarov.

  The agent stirred, and Lazlo knew he could wait no longer and still take advantage of the turmoil caused by the search for the women and children. When the violin prima again changed into a louder and faster czardas, he slowly pulled his pistol from his belt.

  He sat up and, measuring in his mind a blow appropriate to knock a man out without crushing his skull, hit the man over the head with the butt of his old battered Makarov.

  After determining the man was still breathing, Lazlo exchanged trousers, coat, and cap to transform himself into a KBG agent. He used his discarded belt to tie the man’s hands behind his back, gagged the man with his own scarf, knotted his bootlaces together, and covered him with discarded clothing. He inspected the AKM

  and found the safety off. He retrieved his pistol from the ground and tucked it into his waist at his back beneath the agent’s leather coat. The music continued. Komarov was waiting.

  32

  The search through the weeds terrified Nikolai, and he was relieved to be back at his post at the front of the house. But even here with his back to the wall and men sitting in the Volgas parked out front, he had to be watchful, especially with the music screaming inside.

  Although he had enjoyed Hungarian music on occasion, Nikolai now hoped he would never hear it again. The solo violin reminded him of his friend Pavel across from him in the Pripyat post office, Pavel innocently singling out the letters of Detective Horvath and his brother written in Hungarian.

  Nikolai sensed something in his peripheral vision. When he turned, he saw the man positioned out by the road, about fifty meters behind the parked Volgas, walking slowly his way. The man was outlined against the light from the village. Instead of going to the cars, the man turned and headed for the house, his AKM held casual
ly at his side. When the headlights of an approaching car cleared the top of the hill, the man walked faster. The car was Captain Brovko’s, bringing tea from the village. Perhaps the man had seen the Volga coming up the hill and wanted his share. But after Brovko parked, the man did not turn to go to the Volga. Instead, he continued to the side of the house, walking still faster, and Nikolai knew something was wrong.

  Nikolai gripped his machine pistol, turned off the safety, and aimed it at the man who had now begun running to the side of the house.

  “Hey! Stop!”

  The man did not stop, and suddenly Nikolai realized he was running after the man. He heard car doors opening and other men running and shouting. When he rounded the side of the house, he saw the man’s legs dangling from the window. He aimed the machine pistol at the man’s legs but could not pull the trigger. He watched as the man disappeared inside the house.

  Men shouted and gathered. One man said his partner was tied up and his clothes had been taken. Another said it was Horvath.

  Nikolai felt a hand on his arm, a hand pushing his arm and the Stechkin machine pistol down. He was turned around. Brovko stared at him in the shadows.

  “Nikolai! Did you see him? Was it Horvath?”

  The profile, a moment before he passed the corner of the house.

  “Yes. I saw him, but …”

  “Never mind! Come with me!”

  The bedroom was warm. He tried to control his heavy breathing. Of all things, he was aware of the smells in the bedroom. The comforting smells of clean linen, the sweet smells of children’s bedclothes. If he was going to die, he might as well die here. If only he could be certain the women and children were safe. If only he could be certain Juli was safe.

  When the music stopped, it was dead silent, until Komarov shouted from the other room.

  “I wouldn’t shoot through the door, Horvath, unless you wish to kill your cousin!”

  The sound of a chair being pushed across the floor. Bela shouted, “I’m here in a chair! Shoot high, Laz! He’s …” Then Bela screamed.

  Komarov shouted, “Horvath! Come out now! The knife is at his neck!”

  Lazlo aimed the AKM at the door, aimed high, but did not fire.

  If he fired, men outside would open fire. He could hear their voices, closer, outside the window.

  “To prove my point!” shouted Komarov.

  Bela screamed in agony.

  “Stop! I’ll come out!”

  Other men joined Komarov. Lazlo could hear them running about the room. No choice. He put down the AKM and reached for the door. His life no longer mattered. In a few hours Juli would be across the frontier into Czechoslovakia, where Komarov could not get her.

  When he opened the door, three agents were on him, one grabbing his pistol from his rear waistband.

  The goal Komarov had pursued was finally within his grasp. He sent one of the men to the van for handcuffs, rope, and a bandage for the cut on Bela’s neck. “After all,” he said to his men, “we’re not brutes.”

  Horvath and his cousin were put in kitchen chairs, their ankles tied to the front chair legs; their hands cuffed behind, pulled down tight with rope looped over the cuff-link chains, and tied to the back chair rungs. Horvath stared at Komarov. Bela stared at his lap.

  It was clear to Komarov. A conspiracy had been bred long ago, perhaps after 1956, by Hungarians angered by having been made to live like everyone else. Hungarians in the Ukraine Republic instead of in their own spineless province. When Komarov returned to Kiev, he would bring evidence of this conspiracy. If the evidence he brought back consisted only of dead bodies, then the substantial evidence he had already assembled in Kiev and in Moscow would stand. The Hungarians would be found guilty of having used technical expertise and help from the CIA to cause the Chernobyl explosion. It was time to carve his conspiracy into stone.

  Komarov began asking questions of Detective Horvath and his cousin. His goal was not to get at the truth, but to create a new set of truths his men, and especially the captain, would substantiate.

  As Komarov questioned the two, he received the negative replies he expected. Often he received no reply, especially when he mentioned the American cousin, Andrew Zukor. Between questions, Komarov began using the back of his hand. When the back of his hand became sore, he used his palm. When he began using his fist, Captain Brovko, the supposed experienced interrogator, did the unexpected.

  Captain Brovko questioned Komarov’s authority.

  “Shouldn’t we simply arrest them and return to Kiev, Major?”

  Komarov turned to glare at Brovko for a moment, then calmly lit a cigarette in preparation for presenting his case.

  “Of course, we’ll arrest them, Captain. But as you and I both know, it is KGB policy to gather information, especially while the information is fresh. Zukor visited this farm and spoke with these men last summer. Directorate T confirmed Zukor’s CIA ties and his attempt to contact them in Budapest. Unfortunately, before our agents could speak with Zukor about his conversations with his cousins, he had a fatal accident in Budapest’s heavy traffic. There exists a trail from the CIA to Zukor to Mihaly Horvath, the engineer in charge at the time of the so-called Chernobyl accident! Simply assassinating their man does not let the CIA off the hook. I will not accept the failure of an investigation into a situation that is ruining the lives of thousands of Soviet citizens! I am in command, Captain, and in my judgment there is more information to gather! Therefore, we will have one more try at it … using one of your methods!”

  Komarov approached Bela. He took a few puffs on his cigarette, put the cigarette down on the table edge, then spoke softly.

  “You’re going to be a nice fellow, aren’t you, Bela? You’re a fine patriot, I know, and you don’t want your record blemished. I realize things have changed in our country, but still one can be a patriot.”

  When Bela seemed to have calmed appropriately, Komarov took the cigarette from the table, puffed it a couple of times to get it hot, blew smoke in Bela’s face, made like he was going to put the cigarette back on the table edge, and instead turned back to Bela and pressed the glowing tip of the cigarette against his neck.

  The scream from the house was almost as loud as the music had been. Several men who had gathered near the Volgas to console their friend hit over the head looked to the house. But what could they do? They shrugged their shoulders and got into the Volgas to keep warm.

  As the hours wore on, the moans coming from inside the house changed to whimpers, which Nikolai could barely hear through the front door. During the last hour, one of the men from the Volgas approached Nikolai, asking him to go inside and ask Captain Brovko if there were further orders. The man said he’d seen Nikolai speaking with Brovko, and since they were friends, he should be the one to ask about the situation. Nikolai told the man he would think about this, and the man returned to his comrades in one of the Volgas.

  Nikolai leaned against the wall of the house and held his watch up to the light filtering through the window curtains. It was after three in the morning, and he began to wonder if perhaps he should go in the house and ask about the situation.

  The last time Juli had driven a car was during the past summer when Marina had borrowed Vasily’s car so they could both learn to drive. The Skoda protested fiercely when Juli tried to engage first gear without pushing the clutch all the way in. But she adjusted the seat, turned on the lights, and soon had the Skoda climbing out of the ravine.

  All day and into the night she had been frightened the two men from the truck would return to dismantle the car. But she could not leave the place she was to meet Lazlo until three in the morning.

  Earlier she had taken the wine Lazlo purchased at the train station from the back seat, and placed the unopened bottle up at the side of the road, hoping if the men returned, this would delay them. Luckily, the men had not returned. It was after three as she drove the Skoda down the road in the dark. She stopped at the crossroad.

  To her left
was the road to the frontier, where the guard on duty near Laborets Castle awaited his bribe. To her right was the village of Kisbor, where, according to Lazlo’s description, the farmhouse rested on a hill west of the village. Juli studied the night sky, asked the stars for help. But there was no help there. She would have to betray Lazlo. She would have to deny his last request. Life was short anyhow—words from a Ukrainian folk song. She gunned the engine, slowly let out the clutch, and turned right. A short distance down the dark road stood a sign for the village of Kisbor. She knew her father would have approved of her decision.

  “Was it Zukor who bribed Mihaly?” screamed Komarov. “Or did you convince him yourself? Was part of the bribe given to Juli Popovics?”

  Komarov smashed his cigarette on the floor and lit another.

  “A senior engineer would know about dropping power levels, then pulling control rods to increase power enough to cause a disastrous surge! Technicians at the Ministry of Energy are not fools!

  Was the plan simply to cause the steam explosion? Did the plan initiated by Zukor spin out of control?”

  Lazlo took a deep breath, his nostrils on fire from the smell of his own flesh, his eyes swollen from having been beaten before Komarov started with the cigarette. He stared at Komarov through slits. He thought of the women and children in the wine cellar.

  Tried to imagine himself and Bela there. Safe. A glass of wine, the smell of wine-soaked wood, bears gone into hibernation. Mihaly there, and perhaps even Cousin Zukor. Everyone dead or in danger hidden alive in the wine cellar. Yes, Zukor there, too. Komarov had said Zukor had an “accident” in Budapest.

  When Komarov burned him again, Lazlo was suddenly transported to Kiev. The streets were a mass of traffic. People on sidewalks ran about bumping into one another.

  When Komarov burned him once more, Lazlo imagined himself floating a hundred meters above Kiev, its residents asleep below.

  Close by, as he floated, was the statue of Saint Vladimir. Lazlo prayed to Saint Vladimir for assistance. Saint Vladimir, who performed baptisms in the Dnieper River, could help him.