Michael Beres - Chernobyl Murders

“This is all quite strange. We’re told Horvath is armed and dangerous, we’re issued Stechkins and AKMs, and Komarov turns up the music so we can’t hear an attacking elephant herd.”

“You know what they say about fish.”

“Rotting from the head first?”

Both men chuckled, their feet shuffling in the weeds. They continued their conversation.

“Captain Azef is in his glory back in Kiev.”

“A lot of the men have been saying Azef will take over. An old-timer in the office said Komarov’s been a paperweight the last few years. A serious drinking problem. That’s why he’s still a major.”

“I wouldn’t mind a drink now.”

“Brovko went for tea. I hope he doesn’t spill it when he hears what’s happened.”

“What do you think of Brovko’s closeness with Nikolskaia?”

“He wonders why Nikolskaia was assigned here. His partner was the one Horvath shot.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yes. A couple of PK amateurs from Pripyat.”

“Ha. I knew Nikolskaia came from Pripyat, but I didn’t know he was PK.”

“Don’t say anything to him. He has enough trouble. He’ll get cancer in a year or two from the radiation. My brother and his family had to move, and their place was even farther away. I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing here. I thought we’d be sent up north or at least to the roadblocks watching for looters.”

“I hope we’re out of here soon. I met this girl in Kiev.”

“I’d rather go back to Moscow. The hell with these Ukes.”

The two men were silent for a while, then one of them said he should get back to his post. Because of the music and the similar-ity of the youthful voices, Lazlo could not tell which man had gone.

Lazlo pulled his legs up to a fetal position. The remaining man moved into the clearing, stood for a moment, and finally settled down on the coat spread on the ground. The man’s back was to Lazlo. He could smell the leather of the man’s jacket. If he reached out, he could touch the man’s back.

Lazlo studied the man, determined the AKM was in the man’s right hand, its skinny folding stock against the ground, its barrel upward. He would have to kill the man or disable him without creating a disturbance. Choking him would kill him, and somewhere a brother or even a sister would wonder why. Lazlo recalled the look in the eyes of the Gypsy’s sister, the look on the face of the Gypsy when the bullet pierced his head, and finally the look on the face of the dead PK agent he now knew was the partner of a man named Nikolskaia. The music of Lakatos was being played by Komarov to make the confrontation a deadly one. He did not want to kill again.

But he would kill Komarov.

The agent stirred, and Lazlo knew he could wait no longer and still take advantage of the turmoil caused by the search for the women and children. When the violin prima again changed into a louder and faster czardas, he slowly pulled his pistol from his belt.

He sat up and, measuring in his mind a blow appropriate to knock a man out without crushing his skull, hit the man over the head with the butt of his old battered Makarov.

After determining the man was still breathing, Lazlo exchanged trousers, coat, and cap to transform himself into a KBG agent. He used his discarded belt to tie the man’s hands behind his back, gagged the man with his own scarf, knotted his bootlaces together, and covered him with discarded clothing. He inspected the AKM and found the safety off. He retrieved his pistol from the ground and tucked it into his waist at his back beneath the agent’s leather coat. The music continued. Komarov was waiting.

The search through the weeds terrified Nikolai, and he was relieved to be back at his post at the front of the house. But even here with his back to the wall and men sitting in the Volgas parked out front, he had to be watchful, especially with the music screaming inside.

Although he had enjoyed Hungarian music on occasion, Nikolai now hoped he would never hear it again. The solo violin reminded him of his friend Pavel across from him in the Pripyat post office, Pavel innocently singling out the letters of Detective Horvath and his brother written in Hungarian.

Nikolai sensed something in his peripheral vision. When he turned, he saw the man positioned out by the road, about fifty meters behind the parked Volgas, walking slowly his way. The man was outlined against the light from the village. Instead of going to the cars, the man turned and headed for the house, his AKM held casually at his side. When the headlights of an approaching car cleared the top of the hill, the man walked faster. The car was Captain Brovko’s, bringing tea from the village. Perhaps the man had seen the Volga coming up the hill and wanted his share. But after Brovko parked, the man did not turn to go to the Volga. Instead, he continued to the side of the house, walking still faster, and Nikolai knew something was wrong.

Nikolai gripped his machine pistol, turned off the safety, and aimed it at the man who had now begun running to the side of the house.

“Hey! Stop!”

The man did not stop, and suddenly Nikolai realized he was running after the man. He heard car doors opening and other men running and shouting. When he rounded the side of the house, he saw the man’s legs dangling from the window. He aimed the machine pistol at the man’s legs but could not pull the trigger. He watched as the man disappeared inside the house.

Men shouted and gathered. One man said his partner was tied up and his clothes had been taken. Another said it was Horvath.

Nikolai felt a hand on his arm, a hand pushing his arm and the Stechkin machine pistol down. He was turned around. Brovko stared at him in the shadows.

“Nikolai! Did you see him? Was it Horvath?”

The profile, a moment before he passed the corner of the house.

“Yes. I saw him, but…”

“Never mind! Come with me!”

The bedroom was warm. He tried to control his heavy breathing. Of all things, he was aware of the smells in the bedroom. The comforting smells of clean linen, the sweet smells of children’s bedclothes. If he was going to die, he might as well die here. If only he could be certain the women and children were safe. If only he could be certain Juli was safe.

When the music stopped, it was dead silent, until Komarov shouted from the other room.

“I wouldn’t shoot through the door, Horvath, unless you wish to kill your cousin!”

The sound of a chair being pushed across the floor. Bela shouted, “I’m here in a chair! Shoot high, Laz! He’s…” Then Bela screamed.

Komarov shouted, “Horvath! Come out now! The knife is at his neck!”

Lazlo aimed the AKM at the door, aimed high, but did not fire.

If he fired, men outside would open fire. He could hear their voices, closer, outside the window.

“To prove my point!” shouted Komarov.

Bela screamed in agony.

“Stop! I’ll come out!”

Other men joined Komarov. Lazlo could hear them running about the room. No choice. He put down the AKM and reached for the door. His life no longer mattered. In a few hours Juli would be across the frontier into Czechoslovakia, where Komarov could not get her.

When he opened the door, three agents were on him, one grabbing his pistol from his rear waistband.

The goal Komarov had pursued was finally within his grasp. He sent one of the men to the van for handcuffs, rope, and a bandage for the cut on Bela’s neck. “After all,” he said to his men, “we’re not brutes.”

Horvath and his cousin were put in kitchen chairs, their ankles tied to the front chair legs; their hands cuffed behind, pulled down tight with rope looped over the cuff-link chains, and tied to the back chair rungs. Horvath stared at Komarov. Bela stared at his lap.