Juli overheard snatches of conversation as she waited. One woman said ration coupons and ten rubles’ compensation would be handed out. Another rattled on about a story she insisted was in the Bible-a kingdom whose leader had the mark of the devil on his head in the form of a birthmark. She said the kingdom was doomed because its leaders dabbled in science, messing in God’s business. Someone mumbled, “Gorbie,” and the woman put her finger to her lips.
After potassium iodide pills were passed out to those in line, many spoke of folk remedies for radiation-milk, vodka, and red wine among them. The man in coveralls at the end of the line spoke loudly of government bonuses, which would be handed out when it was time to go back into the area to harvest crops. He laughed loudly, saying vodka made from wheat in the Chernobyl region would provide an extra kick, making the drinker glow like an ember. The joke, and the man’s laughter, put a damper on conversations when the orderly with the Geiger counter returned and, keeping his distance, motioned for the man to follow.
While she waited, Juli thought about many things-her final bus ride with Mihaly, their dilemma of wanting to be together but being unable to do so, the trip to Mihaly’s abandoned apartment in Pripyat, the trip to Kiev with Marina, Vasily, his mother and sister, and especially the baby growing within her. She worried about Aunt Magda. But mostly she worried about Lazlo.
She remembered the look on Lazlo’s face after he shot the man in the Volga. She remembered the despair she could feel as Lazlo drove the Volga to the metro station and as they rode together on the metro into Kiev.
Although it seemed months ago, it was only this morning that Lazlo had come and the men had chased them. Only a few hours ago, they had entered Kiev as fugitives. Only two hours ago, she had hugged Lazlo, praying it would not be the last time. Lazlo did not tell her his plan. He simply said there was something he must do before they fled Kiev. He said he would be back that night, and they would leave tomorrow. “After the situation has cooled.”
When they arrived in Kiev, Lazlo purchased clothing for them at a secondhand shop. They changed in restrooms near the hospital entrance. Lazlo emerged in baggy trousers and a mismatched worn shirt; she in a tired print dress. They looked like farmers. That’s what she was supposed to say if they were questioned. Olga Petavari, farm wife from the Opachichi collective, being checked for radiation and separated from her husband during the journey. When Lazlo left, he took with him some of their clothes in a fishnet bag. On her lap, the overnight case she had brought from Pripyat contained more clothing from the secondhand shop. Olga Petavari. She repeated it to herself until the woman to her right began speaking.
The woman’s name was also Olga. She had a baby boy of five months who slept over her shoulder, his fists clutching his mother’s back like a little boxer. Without getting into specifics, Juli told Olga the made-up name and said she was from the Opachichi collective.
This, and her saying her husband was helping at another collective during the evacuation, satisfied Olga.
Olga was about Juli’s age. While they spoke, Juli tried to imagine how it would be to have a baby. In her recent past as a single woman with a job and an apartment, it seemed impossible to keep the baby. But now she had changed her mind. Despite being a fugitive, she looked forward to raising the child, feeding it, and loving it. Perhaps she would be able to spend time with Lazlo before the baby began to show, and before he had to strike out on his own. And afterward? Besides becoming a mother, afterward was too far away to consider.
“You should have seen the excitement in my village when they came to evacuate us,” said Olga, shifting the baby to her other shoulder. “It was the day before May Day. We thought army trucks were part of the celebration. Were you also evacuated in an army truck?”
“We rode in a neighbor’s car,” said Juli. “Was the trip uncomfortable for your baby in the army truck?”
“Not him,” said Olga. “He slept through it. But for me…”
Olga reached behind and rubbed her lower back. “The pains of pregnancy returned. I should have left in the morning with my husband instead of waiting. He’s a bus driver. He’s been taking people out of the area around the power station for days. I don’t know how he does it. He left a message for me at the terminal here in Kiev.
When I was there, his boss said he was a hero and might even get a medal from the Transportation Ministry.”
“You must be very proud.”
“I am, but I worry about the radiation. Do you know anything about radiation?”
“No,” said Juli, “I don’t.”
An hour later when it was dark outside, two uniformed militiamen came through the double doors and walked slowly along the hallway, looking at the people waiting to be examined. Lazlo had told her not to look away from officers. She was supposed to be a farm wife, and a uniformed person might offer some hope. Looking away or hiding her face might make an officer remember they were looking for a woman her age, a woman named Juli Popovics last seen with Detective Horvath, who was wanted for murder.
When the militiaman on her side of the hallway approached, Juli began to shake, bouncing lightly up and down on the bench and staring at the officer as he passed. Olga had grown tired of holding her baby and Juli had offered. Juli bounced the baby, feeling his fists tapping her shoulder, while the officer tipped his cap and smiled.
The baby was warm and soft, his hair sweet. As the night wore on, Juli held the baby boy closer, wishing Lazlo would return to hold her tight and close.
Komarov felt like a young man again. Instead of going home to Darnitsa, he stayed the night at the office. Every Kiev district KGB agent carried a copy of the Horvath photograph supplied by the militia. According to Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko, militia officers on duty also had copies. Lysenko had become Komarov’s militia contact and would stay on duty through the night, unlike his boss, Chkalov, who went home to sleep like an overstuffed bear.
Although Horvath’s photograph was being shown to clerks, waiters, and bus drivers, they did not have a photograph of Juli Popovics.
Normally they would have gotten one from the Chernobyl plant, but because of the situation, it was impossible to retrieve records from the Chernobyl plant offices. As for Komarov’s oversight of Chernobyl security, he had assigned Azef, who sent regular reports to Moscow saying everything was under control. With other ministries up to their eyebrows in shit, Komarov was free to pursue his own interests.
Komarov needed to create a connection from Detective Horvath to Andrew Zukor to the CIA, and even to the Reagan administration in the United States if necessary. His visit to Deputy Chairman Dumenko in Moscow had set the stage. Because Zukor and his wife were required to report to Intourest in Uzhgorod during their summer visit to the Horvath family farm, evidence of Zukor’s contact with Detective Horvath was established. Detective Horvath would become the Gypsy Moth. Detective Horvath, who had used his brother in an attempt to destabilize the Soviet Union by causing an
“accident” at Chernobyl, was perfect in his new role. Who could be better than a Kiev militia detective on the run with an army record that included the cover-up of a questionable shooting along the Romanian frontier? A questionable shooting, which actually did earn him the nickname, Gypsy.
Everything in Komarov’s final report would support his asser-tion of Horvath’s guilt, even the encounter with the stranger outside the National Hotel in Moscow who inquired about “this Chernobyl business” would be used against Horvath. In the Soviet Union, so-called “intelligence” was easily manipulated, especially with the help of old comrades such as Major Dmitry Struyev in Kiev, an old-school Directorate T professional who could be trusted.