to shut the reactor down. I guess something went wrong.”
“Could my brother have been on one of the trucks you saw?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Tupolev.
“Your neighbor, the one who came to Kiev with you… would he know?”
“I’ll write down his name and the address of his parents.”
Lazlo quickly supplied pen and paper. While Tupolev wrote the information, Lazlo looked at the faces of the others in the apartment. They looked like visitors to a wake who must now face the next of kin. During the conversation, Tamara came to his side and put her arm about him, holding him gently.
Yuri Tupolev’s neighbor said the engineers and technicians at the plant ran from the control room after an initial explosion. He knew nothing more. As for Mihaly, he might have escaped because several cars and trucks were seen speeding from the plant.
After questioning Yuri Tupolev’s neighbor, Lazlo stopped at a phone and tried to call Pripyat. Again, the call could not go through and the operator was unable to give a reason. Lazlo called militia headquarters and spoke to the sergeant on duty. The sergeant knew nothing about an accident at Chernobyl, and neither did anyone else at headquarters. However, Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko, Chkalov’s right-hand man, was at the city’s boundary on the road leading north and had called for additional uniformed men for some kind of roadblock. Chkalov was not in, and the sergeant could give no further information.
Before driving to the so-called roadblock on the north end of the city, Lazlo dropped Tamara off at her apartment.
“Thank you for being so understanding, Tamara.”
“How could I not be understanding? He’s your brother.”
“I mean about going with me.”
“I only wanted to ride in your speedy Zhiguli and listen to the two-way radio.” Tamara placed her hand on his knee. “Promise me something, Laz. If you decide to drive to Pripyat, take the long way around.”
Tamara put her arm around him, pulled him close, kissed him.
As she walked up the steps to her building, Lazlo paused a moment.
Seeing Tamara walk away after the weekend they had spent together, and speculating about the trouble ahead, made him feel the elusive-ness of life and its pleasures. He put the Zhiguli in gear and sped up the street.
There was no mention of a nuclear incident on the Zhiguli’s radio, not even when he managed to tune to Voice of America. He tried the Radio Free Europe frequency, but there was no morning programming. For a moment he began to wonder if it was all a mistake.
But the roadblock at the outskirts of the city where the extension of Boulevard Shevchenko curved north was no mistake. Two marked militia cars blocked the road, and uniformed officers turned traffic back to Kiev. Amid the officers, dressed in his Sunday suit, was Deputy Chief Investigator Lysenko, who always wore what looked like a Sunday suit, the uniform of one who seeks promotion. Lazlo pulled to the right of the waiting vehicles and walked to where Lysenko stood in the morning sun, staring at the barren road to the north.
Lysenko turned. “Good morning, Detective Horvath. Are you here to help?”
Rather than take time to explain, Lazlo used a direct approach.
“The chief sent me. He said you should fill me in.”
“It’s the nuclear plant at Chernobyl.”
“I’ve already heard rumors,” said Lazlo, wanting to get on with it. “Do you know if anyone was killed or injured?”
“All I was told is no one should try to drive there,” said Lysenko.
“The republic militia has blocked the road farther north. Apparently there’s some radiation, but the chief said civilians are to be told nothing except the road is closed. It’s already caused arguments.
These people with their Sunday plans.”
Lysenko looked up the road. “Something is puzzling about this.
I thought there would be heavy traffic from the north. So far we’ve only had a few cars come through. I’m beginning to wonder if there really was an accident at the plant.”
“Did you question the people coming south?”
“My orders were simply to let no one go north.”
Lysenko’s profile, with his pointy chin and upturned nose, suddenly looked foolish. Lazlo wanted to call him what he looked like, but instead he said, “You didn’t question anyone or take names?”
“No. My orders were simply to let no one go north.”
“If you’re still wondering, my fine deputy chief, why there are so few cars, perhaps a bit of logic is in order.”
Lysenko turned and frowned at Lazlo. “What do you mean?”
“One look at a map would tell you the two largest towns up there, Chernobyl and Pripyat, are very near the nuclear facility bordering this road. If there is radioactivity in the area, citizens might be directed away from this road. If you wish to see accident refugees, I suggest you put men on the road from Korosten!”
Lysenko stared at Lazlo in obvious anger, saying nothing.
After Lazlo sped off, Lysenko turned and trotted to the front of the roadblock.
“What did he want?” asked one of the uniformed men.
“He probably wanted to drive the two hours to the nuclear plant so he could make himself into a hero,” said Lysenko.
“But his brother works there. Didn’t you tell him about all the fire trucks and buses sent from Kiev?”
“Why should I tell him anything?”
The uniformed man shook his head, muttering as he walked to one of the green and white militia Zhigulis.
Tamara was correct when she said ministries were gloomy places.
The contrast between fresh outside air and the smell of floor cleaner and polish was apparent. As Lazlo walked quickly down a long hallway, a washerwoman standing on a ladder cleaning portraits turned to stare at him as if humans mattered less than the portraits of the bastards lining the walls. Bastards like Ryzhkov and Chebrikov and even Gorbachev. All bastards who followed the Party line so workers got lost in the woodwork of buildings like this.
The only person available at the Kiev office of the Ministry of Energy was a deputy minister named Mishin who wore thick glasses and spoke with a northern accent.
“You say everything is fine at the plant?” said Lazlo.
“Yes,” said Mishin. “Everything is under control.”
“If everything is under control, why are you here on Sunday?”
“The minister ordered it.”
“What exactly happened at Chernobyl?”
“I must repeat, everything is under control.”
“What about radiation and injuries?”
“We know of none.”
Lazlo felt like asking Mishin to remove his thick glasses so he could flatten his face.
“Pardon me if I seem outspoken, Comrade Deputy Minister, but I have relatives in the region, and I’m trying to determine if they are safe.”
“I know of no injuries or danger to the population. Because of the possibility of gossip developing, I’ve been ordered to quell false rumors. There was a minor incident at one of the reactors at the Chernobyl facility. Everything is under control, and no one is in danger.”
“Who is your minister?”
“His name is on the plaque at the entrance.”
“When will he be here?”
“Tomorrow morning with the rest of the staff. Perhaps by then there will be more news.”
In the lobby Lazlo took out his notebook and copied down the name of the minister of electric power, Viktor Asimov. At first all Lazlo could think of was his friend Viktor from the army. But then he considered the last name and wondered if the Chernobyl stories he was being told were science fiction. The washerwoman on the ladder
