When Komarov finished, Brovko rubbed his chin and, unlike Azef, looked sincerely interested. “What can I do to help?”
“You’ll be in charge of the field agents searching for Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics. You’ll also need to observe the aunt in Visenka and Tamara Petrov here in Kiev.”
“Will I be interviewing Tamara Petrov again?” asked Brovko.
“For now put two good men on her. And one more place I want watched.” Komarov paused. “The Horvath family farm in Kisbor.”
“It’s over five hundred kilometers from here.”
“Horvath’s sister-in-law is in transit there, and I want all possibilities covered in case he decides to leave Kiev.”
When Brovko left, Komarov thought about the past. Brovko was about the same age as he himself had been during the Sherbitsky affair. If Brovko barked when he was expected to bark, and licked when he was expected to lick, Komarov would certainly allow him a portion of the glory.
Komarov was in the middle of his reverie, imagining himself as deputy chairman, when Captain Azef burst into the office.
“Has knocking gone out of style, Captain?”
“I needed to tell you something right away, Major. Chief Investigator Chkalov is on the phone. It’s about Detective Horvath. I told him he should speak with you.”
Azef tried to linger in the office after telling the secretary to transfer the call, but Komarov ordered him out.
“What can I do for you, Chief Investigator?”
“You can tell me what’s going on,” said Chkalov.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been patient with the KGB,” said Chkalov. “And I’ve been more than cooperative. But now I have a murder to investigate.
Regardless of the fact the victim is one of your men, I must still do my job.”
“Am I stopping you?” asked Komarov.
“Major Komarov, I am a busy man. I have an entire militia to take care of, and this Chernobyl business does not help. If you knew something about Detective Horvath and chose not to tell me, I cannot be responsible for not having suspended him sooner. If, as the evidence seems to indicate, he is guilty of murder, I fear you have withheld information. When this case is over, I will have to report everything.”
Komarov paused, waiting in silence while he imagined Chkalov’s fat face growing redder and redder. Finally he said, “Are you finished, Chief Investigator Chkalov?”
“No,” said Chkalov. “Even though I am busy, I still cooperate in hopes one day I will receive the honor of your cooperation in return!”
“The KGB is involved in classified investigations,” said Komarov. “The deputy chairman in Moscow has given me full authority in this case. Cooperation is not a kindness you can hand out like a gift. It is essential to state security!”
Chkalov was silent for a few seconds before speaking in a mono-tone. “I have two items concerning the case. Number one, Juli Popovics’ aunt in Visenka called militia headquarters before your men got there and reported that Detective Horvath came and took Juli Popovics away against her will. Number two, the Volga reported missing was found a half hour ago at the metro station near the bridge in Darnitsa. There was much blood on the front seat. The car is being towed to militia headquarters. Your men can see it there, where it will remain as evidence.”
Neither commented or said good-bye. After he hung up, Komarov went to his window. He knew the metro, bisecting the city east to west, passed close to KGB headquarters. On the east, the metro crossed the river to Darnitsa. On the west, the metro stopped at the Central Railroad Station. Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics might be at Central Station or already on a train heading south or west. With the chaos and confusion involved in any travel because of Chernobyl, they might be able to escape.
Detective Horvath was smarter than he thought. Had he really kidnapped Juli Popovics? Or had he simply made it appear a kidnapping in order to clear the aunt of collaboration? Had they really taken the metro, or was this another trick?
The pedestrians and vehicles below Komarov’s window made him think of games and puzzles. The entire city of Kiev was a vast game board, the territory of the players. Detective Horvath would stay, hiding somewhere in Kiev because this was his city. To run away now, when the game had only begun, would be unfair.
Komarov removed his jacket. He unlocked his desk and took out his pistol and shoulder holster. After he checked to be certain the pistol was loaded, he slipped on his shoulder holster and his jacket over it. In the inside pocket of his jacket, the knife rested against his heart.
23
Although films of people swimming in the Pripyat River were finally stopped on Soviet television, commentators insisted the extent of the accident was exaggerated, and undamaged Chernobyl reactor units would soon be back on line. But as any Soviet citizen knows, what remains unsaid is all-important. Already eleven days since the explosion and resulting radiation release, but still no official speech from Gorbachev.
In Moscow, continued lack of news spawned a string of rumors: the military conducting an experiment caused the accident; evacuees being shipped by train to old Stalin camps already under reconstruction vomited blood until they died; the accident was a conspiracy by regional Ukraine officials to send their families and friends to Black Sea resorts for extended holiday. A joke whispered among Kremlin workers went as follows: “To the Soviet government, Chernobyl is the czarina’s stallion.” “I don’t get it.” “It fell from its tethers and killed her when she had it suspended above her bed.”
In Kiev, the mayor said children should be kept indoors and ordered more potassium iodide be available. Supplies of canned food were running out in the markets. Some Kievians decided it best to avoid the Chernobylites, as they were being called. A joke making the rounds in Kiev came from the Chernobyl plant: “Around here you can eat all you want, but be sure you shit in a lead box.”
Another joke among locals: “The Chernobylites will march in the Day of Victory Parade. A head count taken at the start and at the end will help researchers calculate future life expectancy.”
But despite rumors and warnings, life went on in Kiev. People went to work, babushkas swept sidewalks, and criminals did their business. Early in the morning on May 7, a man was found murdered in an old Zil limousine near the Monastery of the Caves.
Later the same day, a KGB agent was killed on a farm road outside the town of Visenka, east of the river. Neither of these deaths, even if they had been publicized, was of consequence to most Kievians.
So, what was important to Kievians? Eleven days after the Chernobyl explosion, the incident was being revealed by rumor rather than the Wednesday evening news broadcast.
On Wednesday evening, Juli sat on a bench in a brightly-lit hallway near a double set of glass doors that reminded her of the low-level counting laboratory building entrance. She could see headlights on the street as dusk set in and was reminded of the many evenings she had waited for Mihaly’s bus. But those evenings were gone forever.
She was not at the low-level counting laboratory. She was in the central Kiev hospital where she’d been tested before going to stay with Aunt Magda. It seemed long ago, yet here she was, sitting in line on a long bench with dozens of others to be checked for radiation contamination. At the rate the line progressed, it was unlikely she’d be checked until morning.
Most in line were women, a few with children. Every hour or so, an orderly with a Geiger counter came out of an examination room and scanned newcomers. The last time he did this, a man set the counter clicking. Without touching him, the orderly commanded the man to move down the hallway. The contaminated man reminded Juli of Marina’s Vasily. Even as he was being led away, the man smiled and nodded to those lining both walls. Later the man returned wearing white coveralls. His hair was damp, and on his way back to the end of the line, he nodded and smiled, repeating, “A cold shower for my hot body.” Those around him smiled back but did not laugh, and they gave him plenty of room.