Michael Beres - Chernobyl Murders

“Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“Me?” said the man. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t let your wife hear you!” shouted the driver. “She might get the wrong idea. Especially with all the Chernobylites at your doorstep.”

Juli hurried back to the car, away from the joking voices of the man and the driver cut off by the closing door. When she glanced up, she saw the faces of the farmers staring at her. Men and women were out of their seats, their heads stacked at the bus windows like multiheaded monsters, or like an investigative committee considering the verdict. Some smiled, but many frowned.

“Try to look like a woman. I told them I was waiting for a girlfriend to pick me up.”

Lazlo pulled the visor down as Juli got in. Beneath the visor he watched through the dirty and cracked windshield. The bus pulled away, leaving a cloud of smoke.

“It’s a good thing you stopped when I waved. I don’t think they saw you. We have to turn around because this road doesn’t go anywhere.”

“I know, but I didn’t think about a bus carrying farmers. And the car got stuck in the mud where I’d hidden it.”

Lazlo cranked the wheel to turn around. When he reached for the shift lever, he felt Juli’s hand on it. He turned to her, and they kissed, holding one another tightly. He held Juli until she stopped shaking. Then he turned the car around and drove back to the main road.

He drove south, heading for the town of Zhitomir. There was little traffic, only an occasional farm truck and other buses carrying workers to fields along the way. After he had driven about fifty kilometers, he glanced at Juli. She leaned against his arm, her eyes closed.

While Juli slept, Lazlo recalled the transaction for the car, the man suspicious about his use of cash and wanting the car immediately rather than waiting for the cracked windshield to be fixed.

He’d found the car at a gasoline station and, seeing it had an expired plate, inquired about its sale. In Kiev it would have been easier to buy a car. But out here there were no dealers, no parking lots where locals struck bargains.

The purchase of the five-year-old Skoda from a stranger had de-pleted his savings, and he wondered if it would have been better to steal a car. Perhaps before this was over, he would have to steal a car.

Cars were scarce in the countryside, and stealing one would have attracted the republic militia. Even so, stealing a car would be nothing.

He only hoped he would not be forced to kill again. But he knew he would if he had to, especially if someone were foolish enough to aim a gun at him and Juli the way the agent had in Visenka.

Before falling asleep, Juli had related the story she told the man from the bus. If they were to get over the frontier, they would both have to be clever, perhaps tell many more stories. Although there seemed no room for mistakes, he felt he had already made one. Instead of filling the gas tank when he purchased the car, he’d left with a half tank. In an hour or so, he would have to stop for gas. He kept glancing at the Skoda’s gas gauge and wondered how accurate it was.

After sleeping less than an hour, Juli awakened. “Where are we?

This doesn’t look like the main road.”

“I’m taking a route around Zhitomir. It’s a sizable town with an active militia. We’ll stop for gas at Berdichev. After Berdichev we’ll take back roads to the Carpathian foothills.”

“They’ll be watching for a man and woman. I’ll lie on the back seat beneath the blankets. If you put on a lab coat and leave the case with its lettering clearly visible, I’m sure the station attendant will want to get rid of you as quickly as possible.”

The gas stop in Berdichev went exactly as Juli said. At first the attendant wanted to talk about the Chernobyl accident, saying how terrible it was and asking if Lazlo knew anything. But when the man began cleaning the windshield, it was obvious by the speed with which he finished the windows and completed filling the tank, he had read the Russian words on the case. When Lazlo handed the ruble notes over, the attendant handled them with thumb and fore-finger, as if picking up a baby’s diaper.

On their way out of Berdichev, Juli stayed hidden in the back seat while Lazlo stopped at a local market for some sausage and canned vegetables and fruit. Before going inside, he took off the white lab coat and put his own coat back on. He also turned Juli’s overnight case so the lettering faced down.

“We’ll have a picnic,” said Lazlo, driving again.

“I can smell the sausage from here,” said Juli from the back seat.

“I’ll find a place where the car will be hidden from the road.”

“What kind of car is this?”

“A Skoda. It’s a Czech piece of shit. We’ll see more of them as we head west.”

“From back here it sounds like a dog growling.”

“The muffler’s right below you. I think it has a hole in it. That’s why I’m keeping the windows open.”

“How much longer do I have to stay back here?”

“Not long. We’re almost out of town.”

“Do you see our picnic grove yet?”

“No. But don’t talk now. There’s a militia car behind us.”

In his mirror Lazlo saw only one man in the green and white Moskvich. He was certain it was a local militiaman because republic militiamen normally traveled in pairs. The Moskvich followed closely, the driver obviously trying to read the license plate. Although the registration was expired, Lazlo had smeared mud on that portion of the plate. But if the car was stolen, or if the man who sold it to him had reported it stolen instead of sold…

Railroad tracks ahead and a station to the left. Lazlo turned in, but the Moskvich followed. He parked near the station’s passenger ramp, pretended to yawn so the militiaman would not see his mouth moving.

“Juli. Stay where you are and don’t move. We’re at a train station. I’ll go in and pretend I’m waiting for someone.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Until I get rid of this fellow.”

Lazlo rolled up the windows, got out of the car, and locked it.

Then he walked up the passenger ramp, trying to look as casual as possible. He found out the next train wasn’t due for a half hour.

Outside the station, he saw the militiaman had gotten out of his Moskvich. The militiaman walked up to the Skoda and bent to look inside.

Don’t move, Juli. Please don’t move.

After looking inside the Skoda, the militiaman went to the back of the car, bent down to wipe at the license plate with his finger, stood and glanced to the station, then walked slowly back to his Moskvich. He did not drive away, but waited.

The stationmaster had a side business selling wine and bottled water. Lazlo bought two bottles of water and a bottle of wine and carried these back to the Skoda.

“I’m back,” he whispered, pretending to examine the wine bottle label.

“Is the militia car still there?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We’ll wait a while. His car is too fast to outrun in this piece of shit, and I don’t want to pick a fight with anybody unless it’s necessary.”

“Why don’t we keep driving?”

“He’ll stop us before we get out of town.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s watching us. I don’t think he’s used his radio. It’s a dull morning, and he has nothing better to do. An expired license plate is one thing, but being covered with mud… He’ll stop us unless he gets another call.”

“And if he simply sits there?”

“A train is due in half an hour. It’s coming from Kiev so the engine and the lead cars will have to stop across the road. We’ll get over the crossing before he does.”