“Sasha is dead now. Not from the punch. He suffered an overdose. I came upon him foaming at the mouth in an alley where heroin is sold. The death wagon took him. He was the only person who knew of Svetlana, until now.”
Penko glanced at the window, and then back to the interrogator.
“After Sasha’s death I returned to the market. The young woman was not always there, but one evening she was there, closing up. I asked about the village from which the soil came. It was twilight when she named my village. A trick in the lighting makes a face familiar. At that moment I knew I must end this selling of magic soil. I told the young woman to stop. She was loading tins into a rusty child’s wagon. She said she would not stop. She repeated her claim the soil had medicinal properties. I told her she was a witch. She told me to fuck my mother. I followed her to a shanty made of scrap. Behind the shanty were several rusty buckets full of soil. Inside the shanty were many empty 400 gram condensed milk tins.”
“How did you get inside the shanty?”
“Busted through the door.”
“And after that?”
“I choked her.”
“And then?”
“She lay on the floor but wouldn’t stop gurgling. To stop it, I put on my work gloves and pushed my fist into her mouth. The tins of soil were nearby. I dumped one in and sealed her up so she’d know it was time to put an end to it. I used the soil as a kind of mortar.”
Penko smiled. “I’m joking. I knew there was no reason to seal her up. Yet, there were all those tins and the buckets full of village dirt out back.”
“What made you kill again?”
“As I said, there were all those tins and buckets of dirt. The child’s wagon was large. It was dark, the wagon didn’t squeak, and I live nearby, so it was a simple decision to take everything because she no longer needed it.”
“You also took her money?”
Penko smiled. “You’re trying to trick me.”
“Forget about money. What about the next time you used a tin full of magic soil?”
“The next time?”
“Yes. There were others.”
Penko clenched his fists on the table. “It was soil from my village. These women needed to know the feeling of Chernobyl. It needed to be done!”
The handcuffs attached to the eyebolt kept Penko from slamming his fist on the table.
The interrogator held up his hand. “Please, Vladislav Ivanych Penko. We are here to help. Would you like tea?”
“Later!”
“Very well, later. Now, about the last time you used one of your tins. You said earlier you made a discovery that disturbed you.”
“Yes, I go into my closet to retrieve a tin, because of this waitress who’s been annoying me, and I find some tins are missing.”
“Do you know how long they were missing?”
“It could have been days or weeks. One does not take a daily inventory.”
“But you’re certain some tins were missing?”
“As I said earlier, I’m certain it was six missing because I stacked them in rows.”
“So, when you knew tins were missing, you came into the militia office to report it?”
Penko looked annoyed again. “As I said, I saw news on television about the Odessa killing. Someone killed and used my soil. It was wrong, especially a woman doctor. And then I get this phone call. I never get phone calls. I don’t even have a phone. The landlady comes and says I have a call. A man tells me I’ve done good work. He says it’s good these whores and daughters of whores have been silenced and their mouths engorged with the flames of Chernobyl. He’s the one you should be after. Can’t you see that?”
Penko turned to the observation window. “Can’t you all see that? The flames of Chernobyl never go out, even though they buried it. I’ve read my Soviet history. Jews plot vengeance. A Jew designs a reactor to explode. He comes from 1939.”
“1939?”
“Yes. I was told on the streets by others. It’s well known, especially among those at the market. The 1939 Jew wants revenge!”
“Revenge for what?”
“The Holocaust!”
“But in 1939?”
Penko laughed. “No, not the Holocaust in 1939. The vengeful Jew was born in 1939. It’s well known. He’s born somewhere else in 1939. He returns to what was then the Soviet Union to have his vengeance. It’s well known on the streets that Jews and Nazis continue to wander our land. They wear disguises. Perhaps, without your knowledge, there are Jews and Nazis seeking vengeance here in your headquarters. Certainly you’re aware of the significance of the number 39 equaling to 13 plus 13 plus 13?”
A long pause. The interrogator glanced toward the observation window.
Suddenly Penko struggled violently, knocking over his chair. “You think I’m insane! I have news!” He hung from the eyebolt, his body bent over the edge of the table. He turned to stare at the interrogation window. “Everyone in Ukraine is insane!”
Chapter 12
Niki Gianakos had a bad night. The recurring dream of her father falling from the building roof and her not being able to do anything. Up before dawn, some rooms lit in the Greektown Casino Hotel, gamblers preparing to deplete savings. She stood at her window looking down into the alley, waiting for her computer to boot itself awake. This dream had taken a strange turn, instead of modern day cars and trucks in the alley, the vehicles were old, and of course because her father was in the CCCs in 1939, she knew they must have been vehicles from that year. Her Greektown building was old enough. Perhaps her dream was an image from 1939, something she could discuss with Marta in Ukraine.
But the latest email message from Marta was not from Marta. Yes, it was her address, but a man named Victor, who said he was a representative of the Kiev Militia, had sent it. Doctor Marta Adamivna Voronko murdered in Odessa and the militia had retained the computer for evidence. Viktor wrote he’d read saved messages between Niki and Doctor Marta. He attached a translated copy of a report given Ukraine media saying a suspect was in custody and asked if Niki could provide information that might help.
Niki read the report, went to the bathroom, turned on the light, drank a tall glass of water, looked at the ghost of her face in the mirror, wondered why hair along with Chernobyl soil would be stuffed into Marta’s mouth, went back to her room, put on her running top, shorts, and shoes, and left the apartment, tucking her key into the back pocket of her shorts with her cell phone and pepper spray as she took the back stairs two at a time down to the exit off the kitchen.
Because downtown Chicago parking was scarce, Lazlo traveled by bus. During weekdays buses ran so close it was often possible to see the next approaching as he climbed aboard his. It was a spring morning with a breeze off Lake Michigan. The lake having retained its winter chill cooled the air.
Two years earlier, on a morning like this, Lazlo had left Chicago, returning to his Ukraine homeland for a short “vacation” during which he almost died helping Janos Nagy and Mariya Nemeth destroy the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone human trafficking compound. Anthony Jacobson, of the Human Smuggling Trafficking Center of Homeland Security, provided critical information to Lazlo, and thus they remained in contact. Jacobson had access to information about all categories of crimes. Lazlo still didn’t know the location of Jacobson’s office. After Lazlo called, detailing the murders of Doctor Marta Voronko in Odessa, and the waitress named Keresztes in Kiev, they agreed to meet at Chicago FBI headquarters where Jacobson would be given use of a guest office.
As Lazlo stood alone in the bus shelter, staring at an ad for an upcoming Bourne movie, his cell phone vibrated and rang its pinball tone. Janos calling from Ukraine. They spoke Hungarian, trying to make the conversation light-hearted. After general greetings about the time difference and weather, they spoke of the murder.
“How is Sonia?” asked Lazlo.
&nb
sp; “She’s busy working on medical information.”
“Exactly,” said Lazlo, knowing Janos referred to Doctor Marta’s research. “So, Janos, on the other matter…”
Janos was silent several seconds. Lazlo waited, knowing silence after generalizations would discourage someone listening in. Finally, Janos continued.
“I witnessed the confession. The waitress and other women. It’s, as they say in your country, cut and dried. As for the doctor, the same holds true as before.”
“Timing’s off,” said Lazlo.
A pause from Janos, then, “Yes.”
The bus pulled up with a loud air brake fart. Lazlo took a seat at the back.
“Cabbage for breakfast?” asked Janos.
“I’ll put the phone to my ass,” said Lazlo.
“I’ll do the same,” said Janos.
“Tell me something from deep inside,” said Lazlo, trying to keep his voice light-hearted. “The father?”
“A so-called accident. He was on a path toward something, like a violin in the distance, but getting closer. The same with the grandfather, except the violin was practically atop him, close to a resolution of melody. And now for the reason I’m speaking out my ass.”
Lazlo laughed. “Go on.”
“The grandfather was American.”
Lazlo acted surprised to confuse anyone who might be listening. “No shit.”
“No shit,” repeated Janos, the Hungarian translation doing its job of sounding like a crazy idiom. “Born there, back here at four, then back there when the Hungarian Brigade came calling. First to Ohio to uncle and aunt, then into three Cs.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Pronounce three Cs and think of America’s 1930s.”
“I understand,” said Lazlo. “And I remember the exact year. You have a location?”
“Your state where there’s water like the Dead Sea.”
“Dead, like I’ll be in a few years.”
“Find yourself a woman like the one who returned to Ukraine.”
“Eva Polenkaya from La Strada?” Lazlo laughed.
“What’s so funny?” asked Janos. “The Lake Balaton fishing pole snaps back when properly baited. What about that woman at the café?”
“We’re friends. Enough about an old men’s love lives. I’m meeting another soon. We’ll share two-year-old fishing jokes. I have to get off and switch buses. I’ll ask him what he knows about fishing.”
“Is he from the homeland travel agency?”
“Yes. He’ll point me to the best fishing spots. When we reconnect I’ll let you know how aunts, uncles, and cousins are doing. Give my greetings to all.”
“You do the same,” said Janos. “Best wishes to all on your side, even mischievous family nephews.”
This is how Lazlo and Janos always ended their telephone conversations, as if they had dozens of family members, as if this were one of thousands of calls across the globe. But in this conversation, Lazlo knew when Janos referred to “mischievous family nephews,” what he really meant was Mafia, most likely the Russian variety.
Anthony Jacobson was a mystery man. For the Chernobyl trafficking case Lazlo met him at the Washington debriefing. Jacobson was African-American but his English had a British accent. Jacobson’s contacts provided an overview of world crime. Two years ago Jacobson had gray hair, a beard, and Lazlo guessed him to be in his 50s. Now he was shaved bald with no beard and looked ten years younger. He wore leather boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt as if he’d recently returned from a hiking trip. He sat on the edge of the empty desk in the room with only the desk, two chairs, and a window.
“You look younger,” said Lazlo.
Jacobson smiled. “You’ve got me stereotyped. Or the agency figured how to make time run backwards.”
“The agency also altered your accent. You sound like you’re from the south, whereas before you had me believing you were British. Perhaps you’ve had some minor surgery?”
Jacobson glanced at the cell phone he held, thumbed several buttons, and continued. “Let’s get to business.”
“Of course,” said Lazlo, “There’ve been serial killings in Ukraine.”
“The ones involving Chernobyl soil?”
“Janos Nagy contacted me. He was at Kiev Militia headquarters when a man confessed. However, we have a problem. Janos’ sister Sonia had a female lover, Doctor Marta Voronko. She was murdered in Odessa at almost the same time as the last victim in Kiev. Someone killed Doctor Voronko and didn’t count on the Chernobyl killer coming out of the woodwork.”
Jacobson thumbed his phone. “I’m calling my office,” he said to Lazlo, turning for a quiet conversation.
Lazlo went to the window. He’d lost his sense of direction in the corridors. All he saw, while Jacobson mumbled on the phone, was an alley being cleared of trash by a blue Chicago garbage truck. He could barely hear the banging as the truck’s lift shook out a dumpster’s contents, a huge mass of finely shredded paper. Lazlo noticed a double reflection in the window and wondered if the floor he was on was a floor built within a floor, like the one called “the submarine” the KGB installed in the Manhattan embassy.
Shortly after Jacobson’s mumbling stopped, Lazlo turned and Jacobson was standing beside him, looking into the alley.
Jacobson placed his hand on Lazlo’s shoulder. “Anyone else would have retired after Chernobyl and your run-in with the Russian Mafia. You sure you want this?”
“I’m sure.”
They returned to the desk and leaned close as Jacobson spoke.
“The so-called Chernobyl serial killings have been investigated by Ukraine agencies. They agree Mafia groups tried to use the killings to cover their operations. But another connection’s emerged. Persons, mostly in the US, but also in Europe, have been investigating what they consider the untimely deaths of elderly relatives.”
Jacobson smiled. “I know it seems insane to speak of untimely deaths of the elderly. It’s like reading obituaries in which the person of 90 dies unexpectedly. But the information’s credible. Some relatives of men who were in the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s are convinced fathers, grandfathers, and uncles died before their time. Because decades have passed, the few remaining are age 90 or more. Relatives now believe the next generation’s being targeted because of their investigations. Does this sound familiar?”
“It does. Doctor Voronko was, according to her computer files, researching not only the death of her grandfather, but also the death of her father. The grandfather’s name was Bela Adamovych Voronko. His son, Doctor Marta’s father, had the same name. According to the files, the grandfather was a US citizen taken back to the Carpathian region when he was four years old. When World War II was about to break out, he escaped back to the US and, unable to find work, joined the Civilian Conservation Corps.”
“The good old Fourteenth Amendment. Does the year 1939 come into play?”
“It’s the year Doctor Marta’s grandfather was in the CCC.”
“Do you know where he served?” asked Jacobson.
Lazlo hesitated, wanting to hear Jacobson’s theory. “Janos, Sonia, and Mariya are still going through the files.”
“There were many camps in Utah and Wyoming at the time,” said Jacobson. “Statistically, the supposed untimely deaths are of men from a camp in Manila, Utah, and possibly another in Green River, Wyoming. Both did work in what is today the Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area in northeastern Utah and southwestern Wyoming. At the heart of the statistics, only men who served in the Flaming Gorge region in 1939 have been affected.”
“I’ve heard of the Flaming Gorge,” said Lazlo.
“Yes,” said Jacobson. “The rocks in the area are red. These days there are jokes that gays descend upon the reservoir in summer. But it’s bullshit. I bring it up to disassociate any relation between
the region and the fact that Doctor Marta was gay.”
“What about uranium deposits?” asked Lazlo.
“Nowhere near enough to have caused a problem; I’ve looked at classified studies.”
“Could the untimely deaths be due to some kind of infectious disease?” asked Lazlo.
“Absolutely not. They all died with their boots on.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“A few were from the south and west, but most of the young men came from eastern and midwestern cities. Specifically, the men from cities were trained for a couple weeks at Army camps in Ohio and Michigan. I’ve spoken with a woman from Michigan who’s investigating the death of her father. She’s made her way through several agencies. The FBI, for one, is keeping watch over her. But they can’t watch her constantly. I’ll find out if she’s willing to speak with you. It might take a while. You know how agencies are when it comes to sharing information.”
“Of course. But, since I’m here with you in a secure room, may we speculate?”
“Please do.”
“After speaking with Janos about Doctor Marta’s death, and the deaths of her father and grandfather, a question arose. Have the violent deaths begun in recent years?”
Jacobson stood and walked to the window. “I know what you’re aiming at. In one of our agencies, several agents, having gotten older, became more inclined to speak of classified information. Sometimes it’s a matter of an old man wanting attention. Other times it’s because of stroke or dementia. Anyway, for a while I became involved in taking care of the situations.”
“Meaning?”
Jacobson laughed and turned to face Lazlo. “No, we didn’t pull their tubes or put pillows over their faces.”
“What did you do?”
“The program is called L.L.Bean. Nothing to do with the merchandiser. More like witness protection.”
The Girl With 39 Graves Page 8
