Michael Beres - Chernobyl Murders

“The men I arrived with say Major Komarov is a powerful man who puts duty above all else,” said Nikolai. “They say he gained power many years ago by pursuing and killing a fellow officer wanted for murder. Have you heard of the incident, Captain?”

“It was called the Sherbitsky affair. I researched it before Deputy Chairman Dumenko assigned me to assist Major Komarov. My research into Major Komarov’s past is what prompted this conversation.”

“What shall we do?” asked Nikolai.

Captain Brovko leaned closer. His voice took on a threatening tone. “Perhaps you do not understand about speculation, Nikolai Nikolskaia. I said nothing about taking action.”

“But, Captain, I didn’t mean…”

Captain Brovko grasped Nikolai’s arm. “As KGB officers, we are not in a position to question orders. We will follow Major Komarov’s orders until the orders are overridden. And you, Nikolai Nikolskaia, will repeat this conversation to no one until the time comes!”

When Nikolai resumed his position at the front of the house, the damp chill of night invaded the space between his clothing and his perspiring skin. He wondered if, somewhere, a bullet in a magazine already had his name on it. After a little while, Captain Brovko started the Volga and ran the engine to use the heater. The steam from the Volga’s exhaust rose and hovered above the road like ground fog, the fog, local legend said, was the last breath of someone who had recently died.

The farmer’s name was Bela Sandor, Detective Horvath’s cousin, a shorter, more red-faced fellow. The house smelled of cabbage until Komarov smoked a few cigarettes, making the buxom wife, Mariska, sneeze repeatedly. The Sandors were plump and dressed like typical collective farmers, the woman even wearing slacks beneath her dress. In contrast to these two was Nina Horvath, who was slender and wore tight blue jeans and a bulky sweater to keep warm in the drafty old house.

There were two rooms and an inside bathroom. Nina Horvath’s daughters and the Sandors’ baby were asleep in the smaller bedroom. The larger room was a combination living, dining, and kitchen area. A short while ago, Bela Sandor drew a large curtain resembling an old blanket across the center of the room, leaving Komarov alone in the kitchen area. Komarov sat at the table, staring at the blank television screen just on his side of the curtain. Despite an occasional cough from Bela and sneeze from Mariska, he lit another cigarette and wondered about the sleeping arrangements of the Gypsies on the other side of the curtain.

Komarov stood, walked to a cabinet next to the television, and opened it. The top shelf was filled with unlabeled bottles of wine, the rotgut Bela Sandor used to paint his face red. In the center of the cabinet was a phonograph and a stack of records. Komarov flipped through the records. All were Hungarian, Gypsy music, the album covers with photographs of men and women in ridiculous multicolored attire. One album showed a photograph of a man in a bushy mustache throwing twisted circular bread loaves onto the ground for a woman in a full skirt and boots to dance around. The woman reminded him of Mariska Sandor, who had just released a barrage of sneezes behind the curtain. The man on the album cover had a red and green handkerchief around his neck and reminded him of the Gypsy landlord who had killed his father.

Komarov closed the cabinet and returned to the table. While he sat smoking, he heard what sounded like wheezing coming from behind the curtain. Soon the wheezing changed to a snore. After the questioning this evening, Bela Sandor had taken a half-filled bottle of wine from the table and gone behind the curtain with it. When Komarov could stand the snoring no longer, he put on his coat and went out the front door into the cool night air.

Nikolai Nikolskaia, on guard at the door, stared at him with eyes wide.

“Go inside and keep guard until someone relieves you,” said Komarov.

“Yes, Major.”

Komarov joined Captain Brovko in his Volga. They sat silently, the Volga’s heater blowing warm air over their faces. During this silence, Komarov wondered what Brovko might be thinking, wondered if Brovko knew it was he who had taken the blame for the fiasco at the Hotel Dnieper.

“Because of the necessity to question those in the house, I did not have the opportunity to speak with you earlier, Captain.”

“We have the opportunity now, Major.”

Komarov lit a cigarette, lowered his window slightly, and blew the smoke outside. “The militia found the crook who sold Horvath a car in Korostyshev. Two days ago, the car was seen in Berdichev.

Due to the ineptness of the local militia, Horvath escaped by out-running a train. Yesterday, a man and woman said to be radiation technicians were seen by farmers in Kolomya. They were seen again later in the day by more farmers. Idiot farmers and idiot local militia who fail to communicate with one another when specific orders were given to apprehend the pair! In any case, the man and woman we must assume as being Horvath and Popovics were seen traveling west on the road to Yasinya in the mountains. Their car had changed from white to black, but the pair fits the description.”

“If they crossed the mountains, they might be in Romania or Hungary by now,” said Brovko.

“They will come here, Captain. Or at least Horvath will come.

Deputy Chairman Dumenko agreed to have Nina Horvath sent here in order to guarantee it. This farm is where the cousin, Andrew Zukor, met with the Horvaths. Therefore, Nina Horvath may be involved. The supposed affair between Mihaly Horvath and Juli Popovics may be part of a larger scheme.”

Captain Brovko paused some time before commenting. “What will you do if Detective Horvath doesn’t come?”

“That is for me to decide, with Deputy Chairman Dumenko’s assistance, of course.”

“Of course,” said Brovko.

Komarov detected sarcasm in Brovko’s voice but felt it would serve no purpose to question him. Instead he asked to borrow a flashlight.

“Be careful of the recruits, Major. They might mistake you for Horvath.” More sarcasm?

“I’ll keep the flashlight on so they can see me, Captain.”

Komarov left the Volga, turned on the flashlight, and circled the house. The lights from the village were cut off by a hill so only the top windows of a few buildings were visible. Perhaps this is where Horvath would make his approach, the hill hiding him until he is within a few hundred meters. Komarov scanned the yard with the flashlight. Near the house beneath a tall tree was a fire pit and a few rusted cooking forks stuck into the ground. Near the fire pit was a tree stump with a rusted ax embedded in it. Upon closer inspection, he saw blood on the stump and realized this was where chickens were beheaded. Farther out in the yard was a wooden box shaped like a small coffin. A tattered tablecloth was over the box, and broken utensils and tin plates were placed neatly. A child’s game. The little girls already pretending they are mothers.

It was quiet here. Komarov closed his eyes, breathed the cool night air, and remembered his own yard, his porch, a place in which he was alone with his thoughts of the old days in the GDR and of Gretchen and success. When he thought of Tamara Petrov, especially the way she stared into his eyes after she’d spit in his face, Komarov realized he had an erection. Komarov opened his eyes, turned to the house, and imagined Horvath sneaking up at night like the Gypsy landlord sneaking up on his father after the night at the opera.

As he walked back to the house, Komarov remembered the phonograph and the Gypsy records. How fitting it would be to greet Horvath with the melodies of his ancestors.

Before he went into the house, Komarov turned and saw in the distance the shadow of a man outlined against the lights of the village. The man turned slightly, and the outline of his AKM was visible for an instant. Then the man stooped back down and disappeared.