“Italian, very romantic.”
“How’s he going to get up here to Green River? Someone dumping him off the back end of one of those trucks?”
“He’s got a car.”
“Come on, Rose. They don’t get paid enough for gas, let alone a car.”
“He’s from New York. Some employees of his father are in the area on business and they’re going to let him use one of the business cars.”
“This guy’s so sweet on you Daddy already sent employees to bring him a car?”
“Maybe. From what I’m told there’ve already been boxing glove rhubarbs over me.”
“Well, Rose, I’ll say it again. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“I know as much as anybody.”
The town boy named Cletus walked past, tipping his cap. The girl with Rose smiled. Rose put her pearl ring to her lips as if kissing it and looked down the street like there might be a parade coming her way.
No rain for days, the grudge match behind the recreation building a dusty one. Not an elevated boxing ring, simply a rope between rusty pipes welded into old truck wheels. The match ended at sunset with a knock down followed by cheering and slaps on backs. Barracks Three men were still celebrating at the work site next day, going over details, especially the final decisive punch.
But the day after, job site talk was subdued. Henry Gustafson not in his bunk that morning. Maybe winning triggered something in Henry. Yeah, wins the match so he can do anything. Must be why he was gone. The loser sure wasn’t talking.
Two nights later, many expected Henry to reappear. After walking away from the job site he could have hitched a ride into town to celebrate. But no, he still wasn’t there.
After lights out, Jimmy and George crawled off their bunks and sat on the floor on either side of Bela’s bunk.
“I heard something,” whispered Jimmy. “Paul the mapmaker said he saw Sal talking to someone in a car east of the work site.”
“Yeah,” whispered George. “Sal complaining he’d had too much coffee and going behind a boulder. We thought he might’ve been sick, but when he finally comes back he’s smarting off as usual.”
“Was the car the color of the hills?” asked Bela.
“Yeah,” said Jimmy. “Another guy with Paul saw it. Said maybe the superintendent sent someone to check work progress. How could someone like that have a new car? It was a Buick sport model. Where’d you see the car?”
“Up in the hills earlier in the week, parked behind dead trees at a hairpin.”
“The car Sal was leaning into must be the same one. When the car drove away, Paul and this other guy saw two men in front. Said the Buick’s dust was northeast last time he saw it, maybe up the other side of the gorge toward Rock Springs. Since Sal showed up there’s nothing but trouble. First he steals cigarettes at Sunday dinner and sells them back, now this. We never used to have so many meetings in the superintendent’s office. Powwows with older staff and LEMs afraid to speak up. Henry would be the last guy to go AWOL. He was at camp before you guys. He liked it here.”
“Were the meetings about Sal?” asked George.
“Someone mentioned the tan car, but LEMs I thought would have seen it denied seeing it. Scuttlebutt is the meetings have to do with Sal being Italian, or Sicilian. Like, the guys in the car might be looking out for him.”
“And if they’re looking out for him—”
“We must look out for one another,” said Bela.
“How?” asked Jimmy. “Henry was my assistant. I’m going to request you be made assistant barracks leader, Bela.”
“Why me?”
“What you’ve been through. Leaving home and coming over on a ship to escape being drafted by brown shirt’s nothing to sneeze at.”
“Or maybe it’s because of your snazzy accent,” added George.
“My accent?”
“Yeah, Count Dracula ready to suck blood.”
All three muffled their laughter as Jimmy and George crawled across the floor and climbed into their own bunks.
At the far end of the barracks the entry door opened from the inside and a young man was shadowed against the light coming from the latrine building. He stood in the doorway for a minute before stepping outside and letting the door close behind him. Outside the sound of a vehicle. It stopped, the engine idling with a rumble. Several minutes later the vehicle drove off and shortly thereafter the door opened again. The young man who’d left earlier returned. In near darkness, Bela watched for movement and saw in the shadows it was Sal. Only after Sal was down in bed, unmoving, did Bela lay back on his pillow.
Near sleep, the man in black returned. Bela forced the dream away with thoughts of Nina Zolotarev. But that afternoon he’d been going through a newspaper practicing English and came across an article saying Carpatho-Ukraine citizens having even one Jewish parent were not safe because of Hungarian anti-Jewish laws and Soviet Union annexation. Were they better off running away? Was he the man in black?
Chapter 17
Sonia’s service, rather than being in one of Kiev’s old cathedrals, was in a small chapel. Janos, Mariya, and a long-lost cousin, wife, and two little girls in the front row. The girls reminded Janos of Sonia when she was their age. His little sister dead. In the pew behind them were neighbors from Janos and Mariya’s apartment building along with two Kiev Militia investigators Janos once worked with. In back was an elderly Orthodox priest who also showed up at the cemetery.
An old Volga sedan squeezed between rows of iconic statues and dropped the priest nearby. After the younger non-orthodox priest spoke words familiar from family burials long ago, Janos left Mariya with his cousin’s family and approached the Orthodox priest.
“Did you know my sister?”
“No. you and I have met.”
“I thought you looked familiar.”
“I’ve lost weight. My name is Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza. I was once in the Moscow Patriarchate of the Ukrainian Orthodox Church. Perhaps you recall I had an office in Kiev.”
“I remember,” said Janos. “You were complicit in trafficking children.”
Rogoza let out a series of wet coughs into a handkerchief he pulled from his frock. “I served my time, first in prison, now in the abbey where the Patriarchate keeps men like me.”
“Why are you here?”
Rogoza looked around and leaned close. “Because of the position I once held, and my acquaintance with others in the abbey, I’m aware of pressures being applied from the north.”
Janos whispered. “Moscow?”
Rogoza nodded but said, “Based there, operational everywhere, including here.”
“Trafficking?”
“Yes.”
“What does this have to do with me and my sister?”
“The investigation,” whispered Rogoza.
“The investigation of Sonia’s death? Or the investigation she was doing regarding the death of her friend?”
“Both. In their eyes bizness takes precedence. Their tentacles cover the world.”
“You must know more,” said Janos.
No answer. Janos waited, staring into Rogoza’s bloodshot eyes.
Again, Rogoza whispered. “That the international arm attached to Moscow observes you and your associates is what I can give, Janos Nagy. What I did to children is more than sin. I go where I can to warn potential victims. They watch wherever I go. And now my warning—all I have to give—is that they are watching you.”
“They’ll get to you eventually.”
“I know,” said Rogoza. “It’s a sacrifice I make willingly.”
Janos moved closer, squeezed Rogoza’s bony arm, and whispered harshly. “Don’t speak sacrifice! My sister is dead! If this is a trap I’ll kill you!”
Rogoza winced but continued staring at Janos. “Janos Nagy, in your
position I’d feel the same. I know they’re here, Mafias as well as SBU. Do not trust those you trusted in the past. I’m alone in the world. Sacrifice is an improper word because of my past. Perhaps my final words will help.” Rogoza’s whisper was filled with phlegm. “I’ve heard mumblings concerning the year 1939. Something in the US in 1939. Also mumblings of a key. To what, I don’t know. This is all I can say. Go with God, Janos Nagy. I pray I’ve helped rather than harmed your cause.”
Even when Janos let go, Rogoza continued staring at him until he turned and walked slowly to the old Volga driven by what appeared to be another elderly priest. As he watched the Volga drive away, Janos thought of what Rogoza had said—1939, a key, and warning him to be careful of the Mafias and the SBU. Janos’ old friend Yuri Smirnov was SBU.
During their remaining days in Kiev, Janos kept Eva Polenkaya’s key close. Although they did not speak of it, he and Mariya packed as if they’d never return, two new suitcases added to accommodate the load. They arranged for storage in the apartment basement and removed all but furniture. A simple phone call would be required to vacate. The night before the flight they ate in their favorite restaurant. A Gypsy woman, managing to sneak in, tried her scam on Janos and Mariya. Although they’d both lived in Kiev for years, the obvious scam attempt made them feel alien. The day of the flight Janos sold his Skoda at the open air market and Mariya put the Audi in storage at a garage where the owner would care for it long term or sell it if need be. The nonstop flight from Kiev to New York took 11 hours. When well away from Ukraine, Mariya finally asked about Father Rogoza.
“Why is he out of prison?”
“A fringe benefit of clergy,” said Janos.
“Is it safe to speak?”
“I hope so,” said Janos. “Our phones are off, buried in our carry-ons. The plane is loud. There’s nothing more we can do.”
“I’m tired of riddle speech,” said Mariya.
“No more riddles, Mariya. Tell me what you discovered about Eva Polenkaya’s key.”
“As she said, Doctor Marta questioned her. Her name was in Marta’s notes. The key came from Alexander Zolotarev. Doctor Marta’s family, the Voronkos, knew the Zolotarevs from before World War II. The Zolotarevs, with relatives in Brooklyn, New York, helped Marta’s grandfather, Bela Voronko, when he fled Carpatho-Ukraine to escape the Nazis. Bela, who retained US citizenship because he was born there, ended up in the CCCs in 1939.”
Mariya pulled out a small tattered notebook she kept with her passport. “I took notes. While adding her research to the extensive research done by her father, Marta came across information from the father that, rather than the box being in one of the Twin Towers destroyed on September 11, 2001, the key might fit a safe deposit box in an old Brooklyn bank. The name Zolotarev has a connection to a Sicilian family in New York. Apparently a Zolotarev was a go-between for Sicilian and Jewish mobsters during the ‘30s and during World War II. Women of the family listed as owners. Curiously, the box number is 1939.”
“Keep this to yourself for now. You can tell me more after we land.”
Mariya smiled. “Not too much at one sitting.”
Janos nodded.
“Telepathy,” said Mariya. She kissed him.
“I knew you were going to kiss me.”
“I know you knew.”
Chicago FBI building. Same floor, different office. As before Jacobson wore leather boots, jeans, and flannel shirt. Again he sat on the edge of the empty desk.
“I’m sorry about your friend’s sister, Lazlo.” Jacobson slid from the desk and walked to the window with a view of the brickwork of another building. “Because I’ve asked, I’m now briefed on anything having to do with Janos Nagy and Mariya Nemeth. Last time we spoke it concerned the death of Doctor Marta Voronko and the fact she was one of several investigating untimely deaths of men once in the CCC in Manila, Utah. A connection I don’t understand involves remnants of a Sicilian-based New York syndicate.”
Jacobson turned from the window. “That woman in Michigan—the one I’m going to put you in touch with—I called her this morning.”
“She’s in danger?” asked Lazlo.
“There’s reason for concern. FBI Michigan is watching, but they’re short-handed. I warned her to be careful and I’d like you to speak with her.”
“Before something happens?”
Jacobson nodded as he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “I briefed her on your research without names or other details that could cause problems in case her phone is tapped.”
“Was it a cell phone?”
“Yes. I turned on encryption on my end, but one can never be sure.”
Jacobson handed over the piece of paper torn from a pocketsize spiral notebook. “Her name, address, and cell number. She might be in the process of relocating.”
Niki Gianakos, a Detroit address and a phone number. Lazlo pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “May I call her from here.”
Jacobson handed his own phone to Lazlo and walked to the window. “Your phone won’t get out of the building.”
Niki Gianakos answered on the second ring. “Inspector?”
“I’m using his phone. My name is Lazlo Horvath. Jacobson wanted us to communicate. May I call you Niki?”
“Yes.” Her voice was soft, yet determined.
“I think we should meet,” said Lazlo. “We’re searching for answers to questions dating from 1939.”
A pause. “I agree we should meet.”
“Should I drive there? I could leave tomorrow.”
“Because of my conversation on this phone earlier—Is Jacobson with you?”
Lazlo signaled, Jacobson left the window and took the phone. “Niki, after our conversation earlier I understand your need to hear me. I’m sorry—Good, I’m glad you’re packing. The Michigan office will have one agent there until then. Yes, I’ll give you back to Lazlo.”
Jacobson handed back the phone and left the office.
“It’s Lazlo again.”
“I’m sorry. Without us meeting face to face—”
“I understand. Jacobson said you’re packing?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“To Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have somewhere to stay? I can arrange a local short term rental in my neighborhood.”
“Someday we’ll look back on this and laugh. But these days it’s difficult to laugh.”
“Recent loss in my homeland makes laughter difficult.”
“Tomorrow afternoon, after I drive across the Indiana-Illinois line, I’ll take the tollway and stop at the first oasis. I’ve driven there before, the Lincoln Oasis. Give me your number. I’ll call from there. You can tell me an address then.”
The New York plan—Two years earlier, after working on the Chernobyl trafficking case, Janos, Mariya, and Lazlo met with US Customs officials and the Ukraine embassy consulate general. Because of their impact closing a trafficking network, they’d received an open invitation at the embassy. After landing at JFK and passing through customs, Janos and Mariya were picked up by a driver and assigned an embassy apartment. They had an informal dinner with the consulate general that evening and were told the phone line in their room was secure and they’d be able to make international calls in confidence.
Janos called Yuri Smirnov. Although it was morning in Kiev, Smirnov sounded drunk, claiming he had no new information about Sonia’s or Doctor Marta’s deaths. As Smirnov spoke, Janos noticed the slur lessening. Smirnov was being deceitful, especially when he began questioning Janos, asking about location and plans. The conversation with Smirnov was not that of old friends, but a one-sided interrogation.
After hanging up, Janos decided he needed to speak with someone in Kiev he could trust. Chief Investigator Boris Chudin answered on the first ring.
“Janos,
I hoped you would keep in contact. I’m sorry I was not able to attend your sister’s funeral. Developments here. I hope you understand.”
“Have you heard from Yuri Smirnov of the SBU lately?”
“I know of him. There’s talk.”
“What kind of talk?”
“Smirnov’s head is filled with rusty nails.”
“Meaning?”
“Muddled thinking. The rust is caused by vodka, the nails are something else. He questions my investigators about your sister’s murder as well as Doctor Marta’s murder.”
“Perhaps he’s trying to help.”
“No, Janos. Remember when we watched the confession of the Chernobyl Killer? Yuri Smirnov is looking out, as if through a one-way mirror. My investigators say he eventually gets around to asking about you and Mariya at every turn.”
“Boris, could you do me a favor and keep an eye on Smirnov?”
“Of course. Should I call you if anything emerges?”
“No, I’ll call you.”
“Be well, Janos.”
Before bed, Janos told Mariya about his conversation with Chudin. Both agreed Smirnov was acting strangely and it was good he didn’t know where they were.
Next morning Janos and Mariya left their baggage at the embassy and ventured out into New York City separately to prepare for their journey to be with Lazlo. Mariya took a cab to HSBC Bank, formerly Republic Bank and before that Bank Leumi. Janos took another cab across Manhattan to New Jersey to search for an appropriate vehicle for their journey.
Mariya’s accent was helpful. Although she didn’t get into the safe deposit box, she provided the number, saying one-nine-three-nine rather than 1939, as one would give a year. After being asked to sign the form and show the key, she was able to see the signatures of owners who’d accessed the box in the past. The last entry was Endora Zolotarev, signed for entry ten years earlier in August 2001. Before that was another request for entry in 1997 by Endora Zolotarev, and before 1997 a long series of entries by a Mrs. Shulamit Weizman.
Pretending to have misplaced her ID, Mariya left the bank. She’d accomplished her goal, verifying Eva Polenkaya’s claim that the Zolotarev family, friends of Doctor Marta Voronko’s forebears, held claim to a safe deposit box. She called Janos, keeping it simple. He said he was almost finished, and without naming it, they agreed to meet back at the Ukraine Embassy.
The Girl With 39 Graves Page 13
