Michael Beres - Chernobyl Murders

“I’m going there myself as soon as the idiot driver arrives! If Zimyanin is Horvath, the ministry asses and local militia will most likely let him escape if I’m not there!”

“He most likely moved on after the questioning.”

“I know. But if he was staying at the collective with Juli Popovics, there will be evidence remaining, people who saw them or spoke with them. There may even be evidence of contact with outside intelligence. I refuse to trust local idiots to do any more interviewing!”

“I understand, Major. Will you be gone long?”

“However long it takes. If the Zimyanins have left and if I find evidence proving they are Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics, I will have Horvath in my grasp.”

“How will you have him in your grasp if he escapes?”

“Put yourself in his place, Captain. Try to think like him, as I have. Why would a clever man with militia connections giving him access to fake papers, perhaps even confiscated passports and visas, not have crossed the frontier by now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you see, Captain? He can’t leave. He needs to wipe the slate clean by eliminating those who know of his involvement in sabotage. Our agent in Visenka was just the beginning. The poet, an associate of Tamara Petrov, was next. And, before leaving Kiev, Horvath obviously murdered Tamara Petrov. A vengeful man becomes desperate, and a desperate man becomes careless. He will be captured if someone doesn’t bungle it! I will not let him escape!”

“What about Chkalov, Major? He called twice yesterday wanting to speak with you.” Azef smiled slightly. “He told my secretary an underling would not do. When I asked if he considered me an underling, he said the secretary had put words in his mouth.”

“Not words,” said Komarov. “His foot, or something else if he could reach it over his belly. Don’t worry about Chkalov. He won’t have any choice but to speak with you because you’ll be in command while I’m gone. Chkalov’s only concern now is the fact he allowed a saboteur and murderer to remain under his command in the Kiev militia!”

Komarov stood. “Leave me for now, Captain. My driver and the men who will accompany me are waiting… I have things to gather before I go.”

Azef paused at the door. “Should I use your office while you’re gone, Major?”

“By all means, Captain.”

After Azef was gone, Komarov put on his shoulder holster, with extra cartridges loaded into the strap holders. He pulled on his jacket, put his overcoat on his arm, and picked up the valise containing two changes of underwear and a dozen packages of cigarettes. At the door he put the valise down and patted his pockets. He had not forgotten. The knife was there, resting against his chest.

A shame about Tamara Petrov. He admired her defiance. Like a true Gypsy, she had spit in his face. But once the knife went in and twisted, she opened her eyes wide and, like the others, glowed for a few moments in the ecstasy of dying.

Komarov picked up his valise and went to join his men.

As Juli walked along a dirt road on the farmland belonging to the Kopelovo collective, her overnight case tugged at her fingers. The sunrise, initially bright, was now cut off by clouds hanging low at the horizon. The land was flat, with plowed fields on both sides of the road. A dog barked in the distance, perhaps at the collective village a kilometer or two behind her. But it wasn’t the bark of a dog she listened for. What she wanted to hear was the sound of a car.

Lazlo had left long before dawn to get the car. A white car, he said. He had purchased it yesterday and left it hidden several kilometers away so as not to arouse suspicion. He planned to meet Juli on the dirt road heading straight west out of the village. She was to keep walking along the road until he picked her up.

Yesterday, Lazlo’s journey to the town of Korostyshev, the purchase of the car, and the long journey back had taken hours. She’d been alone most of the day and well into the night. It had been cold last night, more so because after sunset Lazlo was not beside her.

He returned near midnight and left again early this morning. During the few hours with him, she held him tightly. Now he was gone again, and she shivered with cold as she listened intently for a car on the road.

After a few minutes, she heard tires thumping into ruts in the road behind her along with the struggle of a misfiring engine. When she turned, she saw it was not a white car. As it came closer, she saw it was a battered old bus.

She wondered if she should hide. After spreading the news yesterday, saying she and Lazlo were leaving on the relocation bus early in the morning, could she afford to be seen out here? Obviously the bus coming down the road was not the relocation bus, but the dilapidated bus used to transport collective workers. She looked about and realized the ditch at the side of the road was too shallow to hide her. But why should she hide? If the people on the bus saw a woman walking along the road, what would it matter? She would simply look away when the bus passed.

When the bus approached, she turned the overnight case so the lettering she had applied faced out into the field. It would not do to have passing passengers see a radiation warning sign now. The farmers on the bus might remember her and Lazlo, especially if agents came to the village asking questions.

Instead of going past, the bus pulled to a stop, coughing and sputtering as the front door scissored open. The door was slightly ahead of her. She placed the overnight case on the ground with its message facing the field and watched as a thin man wearing a leather cap leaned out. The idling engine clattered like a thousand mechanical hearts.

“Where are you going?” asked the man in the local Ukrainian dialect.

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“Funny place to wait.” He pointed up the road to the west.

“How come you’re walking this way?”

“Because it’s the way we’ll be going when my friend picks me up.”

“This also is funny because after several kilometers the road ends in the middle of fields. Perhaps you’re on the wrong road.”

“The wrong road? Yes, I must be. I’ll return to the village and call my friend from there.”

“You’re one of the refugees, aren’t you?”

A story, something to make this meeting insignificant to the militia or the KGB. “Yes, my mother and sister and I have been living in your village for almost a week. We are very grateful for your hospitality.”

The man smiled. “So, why are you leaving?”

“I’m not leaving. I’m simply meeting someone.”

The man glanced at the overnight case on the ground. “I see…”

“My laundry. I know someone who lives in Korostyshev. She has a washing machine…”

“Is she picking you up?”

“Yes, here, on the… the east road out of the village.”

“Aha!” said the man. “This is the west road.”

“Hey!” yelled the driver from inside. “Tell her to get in and I’ll drive her to the village on my return trip.”

The man jumped down, reached for the overnight case. “Come on.”

Juli held onto the case. “No! I… I’ll walk.”

“Come on. It’ll only take a few minutes.” He snatched the case from her.

A horn sounded, and when she turned, she saw a white car approaching behind the bus.

She grabbed at the case, and the man let go. She held the case in her arms, the lettered side against her.

“My friend is here. She knew I’d take the wrong road.”

Juli waved to the car, waved for it to stop if it was Lazlo. The car pulled off to the side and waited. She turned back to the man who had removed his cap and was scratching his head.