After Juli got out of the Zhiguli, Lazlo reached inside and yanked the microphone out of the militia two-way radio. He and the driver of the Volga lowered the dead man into the Zhiguli’s passenger seat.
The driver stood to the side and looked at Juli. “He wasn’t meant for this kind of work. I told him not to point the gun. We worked in a post office. We read peoples’ mail and joked all day. We didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
The man took off his shoulder holster and handed it to Lazlo.
Lazlo took the holster and retrieved Juli’s bag from the back seat.
He motioned to the driver with his pistol.
“Get in my car and drive back to Kiev. Don’t stop anywhere.
Don’t go to a phone. Simply drive to Kiev. I’ll be watching, and if you stop anywhere… I don’t want to be forced to come after you.”
The driver shook visibly as he got into Lazlo’s Zhiguli.
After the Zhiguli drove slowly away, Lazlo threw Juli’s bag and the two shoulder holsters into the back seat of the Volga. He found an overcoat on the back seat and spread it over the bloodied front seat. Juli got in next to him.
“Sit close to me,” he said. “There’s no window on your side.”
He turned the Volga around.
“Are you going to follow him?” asked Juli.
“Only until we get to the main highway.”
“Won’t he stop and report us?”
“No. They didn’t even radio in.”
“How do you know?”
“An old Hungarian saying: When a man weeps, he’s telling the truth.”
“Are they really KGB?”
“A branch of it. Did you hear him mention the post office? They were recruited from the PK. This has been planned. They were supposed to panic, kill or be killed.”
“Why?”
Lazlo put his arm around her. “To make us as guilty as Komarov wants us to be.”
When they reached the paved highway, the Zhiguli turned north. Lazlo stopped the Volga and turned on its two-way radio. A female voice directed a numbered car to return to headquarters. No frantic calls to cross the river east of Kiev and go to Visenka.
Juli looked up to Lazlo, his profile so serious and sad. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m thinking.”
The morning sun was high and bright in the sky.
22
Daylight coming into Komarov’s window made the smoke from his cigarette into a wriggling, iridescent snake. He looked at his watch, after ten. By now the PK agents should have had Juli Popovics here for questioning. Because they were not here, he should be angry to be kept waiting, but he was content. He knew Detective Horvath would interfere with the pickup.
There were several possible outcomes. The PK agents might have injured or killed or captured Detective Horvath. Or Detective Horvath might have killed or injured them. Perhaps the van tracking Horvath was being used as a hearse. Perhaps Horvath tried to shoot it out with the PK agents and the other men following him.
The confrontation might have gone many ways, but somehow Horvath would be his, the evidence pointing to sabotage and conspiracy closer to completion. Horvath would become the Gypsy Moth with ties to the CIA. No one would know he had arranged Horvath’s visit to Visenka this morning. Horvath would have destroyed the poet’s note so as not to involve Tamara Petrov. As for the poet, his silence was guaranteed.
Earlier this morning on his way in to Kiev from Darnitsa, Komarov met the poet at their usual spot near the Monastery of the Caves. The poet wanted payment, but Komarov felt he could no longer fund the arts. The poet was careless, especially his unan-nounced visit to KGB headquarters yesterday, and Komarov found it necessary to use the knife.
The knock on Komarov’s door was heavy-handed. He expected news from Visenka. Instead, Captain Azef entered slowly and asked if he could speak about a personal matter. Azef, who normally resembled a henchman, sat across the desk, looking like a bald, stuffed bear.
“What is it you want, Captain? I’m busy with my investigation.”
“The investigation is the reason I’m here,” said Azef, looking down. “I’m concerned my position as your assistant is being taken over by Captain Brovko.”
Komarov forced back a smile at this petty jealousy. “What makes you think Captain Brovko is here to replace you?”
Azef looked up, folded his arms defiantly. “He was sent from Moscow, assigned to the Chernobyl case. Him instead of me, Major, even though I was involved from the beginning when we began observing the Horvath brothers. I have handled matters here in Kiev, having the Transportation Ministry prepare trains in the event of a second explosion, keeping Kiev’s print and broadcast information under control… I have performed as directed, yet Brovko investigates the Horvaths.”
Komarov put out his cigarette and stared at Azef. “After years of working together, you suddenly question my judgment?”
“Not your judgment,” said Azef. “I simply wish to be more involved in the Chernobyl investigation rather than emergency readiness.”
Komarov raised his voice. “Captain Brovko is a nuclear expert assigned by Deputy Chairman Dumenko. Because the Chernobyl matter keeps me occupied, I need you here at headquarters. We have men working in Hungary, researching Horvath’s ties to the West. I’ve heard talk among officials in Moscow looking for ways to feather their nests at the expense of our disaster victims. I need you here at all times to interpret data as it arrives. You are my backup, Captain! Or have you forgotten?”
Azef unfolded his arms. “I’m sorry, Major. Perhaps this was the wrong time to bring it up. With all this new information coming in…”
“What new information?”
“The men following Detective Horvath called in to say they lost him. They said the militia following Horvath also lost him.”
“When did this happen?”
“About an hour ago.”
“An hour ago?” shouted Komarov.
“The men just called in. I reprimanded them for waiting and immediately called militia headquarters to see if I could get further information…”
“And?” shouted Komarov.
“A few minutes ago, two of our men arrived here in Kiev.”
Komarov gripped the edge of his desk and stood. He felt like leaping over the desk and using his knife on Azef. “Captain!” he screamed. “Don’t spoon out the facts! Speak up!”
“The two PK agents assigned to watch Juli Popovics were in Detective Horvath’s car. One of them is dead, and the other said Detective Horvath got away in their car. He was last seen driving the Volga in Visenka. The PK agent still alive is Nikolai Nikolskaia.
He’s being questioned at militia headquarters.”
Komarov lifted his phone and rang his secretary. “Have my car brought around to the front immediately! I’ll drive myself!”
He slammed the phone down and went to the door, leaving Azef sitting at the desk. “Captain! If you ever delay important information again, you won’t have to worry about Brovko or anyone else because you’ll find yourself sitting at a record clerk’s desk in the basement!”
Before speaking with Nikolai Nikolskaia, Komarov visited the basement morgue at militia headquarters. While standing in a brightly-lit viewing room, waiting for them to bring the body, Komarov wondered if the body of the poet was also here. Perhaps a passerby, or a tourist gone to see the Monastery of the Caves, had walked closely to the old Zil and seen the poet in the front seat. The poet with his neck sliced ear to ear as if someone had grabbed him by the beard and tried to tear off his head. The poet eliminated the same way he had eliminated Pudkov so long ago in the “safe” house hallway before going in to see Gretchen. The sound of death remained with him, the knife slicing into flesh and muscle, the victim’s voice interrupted by an involuntary attempt to inhale and, at the same time, withdraw from the blade.