Michael Beres - Chernobyl Murders

Those concerns have not gone away. You were sent here to help find out exactly what happened at Chernobyl.” Komarov walked back to his desk and leaned on it. “I expect answers, Captain!”

Brovko sat forward, his fists on the desk almost touching Komarov’s hands. “Very well, Major. May I speak openly about my findings so far?”

Komarov sat down, taking a moment to compose himself. “Of course, Captain. We all work together in this office.”

“Thank you,” said Brovko. “I’m not sure how you will react, but I’m afraid I must tell you the people at the Ministry of Energy don’t know what’s going on.”

“Who does know, Captain?”

“Not the technical personnel here in Kiev. The little they know comes from Moscow, and they’re getting information from so-called experts who stayed in Pripyat. In Kiev they’re doing nothing more than running around with Geiger counters.”

“What about the cause of the explosion?” asked Komarov.

“Frankly, Major, they simply don’t know how it happened.”

“Is there talk of sabotage?”

“Some. Especially the chairman of the engineering council.”

“Does he have evidence?”

“I think his professional pride refuses to allow him to even consider system failure. He seems to be considering either sabotage or human error on the part of Mihaly Horvath, the engineer in charge.”

“Very good, Captain. During our first meeting, I spoke of an investigation I’ve been pursuing involving Mihaly Horvath’s brother, his girlfriend, and the American cousin.”

“Andrew Zukor, the CIA Gypsy Moth.”

“Your memory is excellent,” said Komarov. “But now recent findings lead me to believe Detective Horvath may be the so-called Gypsy Moth. He arranged meetings between Zukor and his brother.”

“You think Horvath sent his brother on a suicide mission?”

“No, Captain. A stronger possibility exists. Fed by resources supplied through Zukor, the Horvath brothers and Juli Popovics could have been the conspirators. It’s possible the escape plan for Mihaly Horvath failed, and now his brother and former lover are on the run.”

Komarov saw mild interest in Brovko’s eyes, an interrogator observing an interrogator. He filled Brovko in on the basics of the case, including the events at Visenka that morning. Of course, he did not tell Brovko about the inexperience of Nikolai and Pavel, or about his harassment of Horvath leading to suspension, or about the note delivered by the poet.

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.

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.”