“It could be related to the Gypsy Moth Captain Putna told us to watch for,” said Pavel.
“Why would it have anything to do with the Gypsy Moth? It’s nothing but a code word, and it wasn’t mentioned in the letter.”
Pavel touched his finger to his temple. “I was thinking. Horvath is a Hungarian name. Gypsies have connections to Hungarians.
And last summer, remember the letter in which they spoke of the visit of their cousin, Andrew Zukor, the American? Consider the gypsy moth insect, the one causing problems in America since its introduction last century. I read about it in Entomological Study of
…”
“What are you talking about?” asked Nikolai.
“I’m talking about the American cousin of the Horvaths,” said Pavel. “I’m talking about letters to Detective Horvath last year in which Andrew Zukor told of plans to visit the Horvaths during their summer holiday. This could be a Gypsy Moth connection.”
“A weak connection at best,” said Nikolai. “We could mention it in our report to Captain Putna. But I think it best if we wait and see if there is another letter from the American cousin. You know how the captain feels about unfounded speculation. In the meantime we’ll copy all letters to or from the Horvaths.”
“Challenging idea,” said Pavel, floating the letter like a giant flake of snow into the copy tray at the corner of the table.
The sky was overcast, snow covering the rolling farmland in virgin white. Although the drive to Pripyat was slow, it gave Lazlo time to think. As he passed through a village, he saw two boys heaving snowballs at one another. Even though he and Mihaly were eleven years apart and were never really young boys together, he was reminded of quiet winters on the farm. Quiet winters before he went into the army to fulfill his draft obligation, before the hazing in camp, before the assignment to arrest the deserter near the Romanian border. Boys killing boys.
The snow covering the hilly road forced Lazlo to continually shift up and down through the gears in order to maintain his speed. The Zhiguli’s transmission whined, its engine sputtered and coughed, and snow packed into the wheel wells rubbed against the tires. Because his tires were small and almost treadless, he could not maintain the speed of a Volga, which passed him, its fat tires lifting packed snow onto his windshield. If he had a Volga, or newer tires, he’d get to Pripyat sooner. But a mere detective in the Kiev militia was lucky to have any car to drive on his day off, even a three-year-old Zhiguli in need of tires and, from the new sound he was hearing, a muffler or exhaust pipe.
The use of the car provided some freedom, but also meant he was on call, day and night, for every type of crime, from the most mundane theft to murder. Lazlo recalled the day, several years earlier, when Chief Investigator Chkalov told him he was free to use a militia car for personal business instead of turning it in to the garage after each shift. He also recalled the day three years ago when Chkalov handed him the keys to the then- new Zhiguli.
As Lazlo shifted madly through the gears, most likely taking months of life from the transmission, he glanced at his keys swinging from the ignition and recalled the conversation with Chkalov on the day he received the keys to the new Zhiguli.
“You have been with the militia for many years, Detective Horvath. Your service has been loyal, and you have proven your detection skills. Although it is not a promotion, the receipt of a new car is an honor.”
“I realize this,” said Lazlo. “And I appreciate it.”
“Many other detectives do not respond as consistently as you.
Perhaps because you do not have family matters to attend to. The woman murdered near the post office in Kalinin Square, for example. If you had not arrived at the scene before dawn to have the area cordoned off, street cleaners would have flushed the shell casings down the sewer. Timing. It’s all a matter of efficient response.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And your translations of Hungarian material have also proved valuable,” said Chkalov. “When you joined the detectives, pessi-mists questioned whether an officer from the western frontier could be trusted. Despite your comrades still calling you by the pet name Gypsy, you have proven yourself worthy.”
“I appreciate your comments, sir.”
“By the way, Detective Horvath. Why do you think the name Gypsy has endured so many years?”
“It’s an affectionate name. I’ve not tried to discourage its use.”
“Well,” said Chkalov, his tone becoming heavier, “perhaps you should discourage it. Gypsy could imply you’d wander off. We wouldn’t want you making off with the militia’s shiny new Zhiguli.”
Chkalov had laughed then, his chair squeaking as his chest heaved. “I’m joking, Detective Horvath. I know a man of your stat-ure would not run away. There’s too much for you here in Kiev.
Your position, wine and women, and even Gypsy orchestras playing in the clubs. Not as many Gypsy orchestras as in Budapest, but enough. Of course, the Gypsy culture is nothing more than nostal-gia, even for you. And now Hungarian is a second language to you.
You are a true Soviet citizen, Detective Horvath.”
But Chkalov was unaware of many things. After the holiday at the farm last August, speaking Russian again had been difficult.
If it weren’t for his brother, Mihaly, and his family, Lazlo would like nothing better than to leave the Soviet Union. If only Chkalov knew how much all the detectives at the Kiev station hated to sit through his long-winded sessions ranging from syrupy praise to chest-pounding nationalism. Very few knew how Lazlo came by the name Gypsy, not even Chkalov.
The keys dangling from the ignition of the Zhiguli rang out as the wheels hit a series of holes hidden beneath the snow. Lazlo held the jittering steering wheel tightly and drove on. To the north, where Mihaly and Nina and the girls awaited him, the sky was dark.
When Lazlo neared Pripyat, he could see evidence of the Chernobyl Nuclear Facility to his right. A tall fence paralleling the road, warning signs threatening trespassers, high-tension towers leading away from the facility. It had stopped snowing, and where the road crested a hill, he saw the red-and-white-banded reactor stacks and the rectangular-shaped buildings in the river valley. The buildings resembled a string of coffins. The high-tension towers leading away from the buildings became a line of mourners waiting to pay their respects.
If something was wrong at Chernobyl, as Mihaly had implied last summer, perhaps the denials in letters and phone calls were because he feared the mail was being read and phone calls overheard.
Today they would finally be face to face.
The road came to a T. When Lazlo stopped, he could see the entry gate to the Chernobyl Facility to his right. A black Volga was parked outside the gate and a man in a dark hat and coat stood talking to a uniformed guard. It was the same Volga that had passed him earlier.
Lazlo turned left on the road to Pripyat and looked into the rearview mirror. The man from the Volga glanced his way. Although there was no way to be certain, Lazlo knew the man could be KGB. But even if it was KGB, the suspicious nature of their agents made them glance at any car driving past on a snowy Sunday. Driving the last few kilometers to Pripyat, he watched the mirror but did not see the Volga.
“If the KGB is watching you,” said Mihaly, “I can understand why.
It’s your letters. I kept telling you everything was fine. Why didn’t you believe me?”
Lazlo was alone with Mihaly, an after-dinner walk in the small park outside the apartment complex. They walked among abandoned playground equipment, looking down and listening as their boots creaked in the snow. They spoke in Hungarian.
“I carefully phrased the letters,” said Lazlo. “Anyone reading them would assume it was a personal matter. And I didn’t say the KGB was watching me. I simply told you about a car I saw on my way here. You’re the one who started it back in August, talking about Chernobyl.”
Mihaly nodded. “I suppose you needed reassurances after what I said.”
“You had me picturing Gorbachev trying to win propaganda points by blowing up a reactor, then showing how compassionate he is.”
“I’m sorry, Laz. Last summer it was the wine. My letters were the truth. Everything’s fine. Simply occasional problems to be solved and tests to be run. On holiday I made a mistake with my big mouth. You asked me about something else, and I used Chernobyl to cover it up.”
