“So, an officer in charge in the field is not necessarily an officer in charge unless the officer in charge at the office is notified?”
Chkalov scowled. “I find it necessary to suspend you, Detective Horvath.”
“Did Komarov tell you to suspend me?”
Chkalov’s face reddened. “The militia is independent of the KGB!”
“Independent?” shouted Lazlo. “If we’re so independent, then why the hell am I being followed day and night? I’ll tell you why!
Komarov is investigating Juli Popovics and me and my dead brother because he needs scapegoats for Chernobyl blunders!”
Chkalov’s fists clenched on the desk. “Impossible! It was an unfortunate accident!”
Lazlo stood up. “How long will I be suspended?”
Chkalov stood, but because he was shorter, he had to look up to Lazlo. “I don’t know! Check back weekly with Lysenko!” The flesh at Chkalov’s neck shook violently. “Don’t stand there looking at me! Get out! Leave your car at the motor pool!”
In the hallway, Lazlo passed Lysenko standing at his office door.
“Good morning, Detective Horvath.”
Lazlo raised his fist, and Lysenko backed into his office. In Hungarian, Lazlo said, “Your foot is still in your mother.”
“What?” whined Lysenko.
“It means the Gypsy is not pleased.” Lazlo continued down the hallway.
“Detective Horvath, a message…” said Lysenko, calling him back.
“What?”
Lysenko handed him an envelope. “It just came up from the front desk.”
Lazlo took the envelope and continued walking. Detective Horvath, Kiev Militia. The handwriting was unfamiliar. He tore open the envelope and stood in the hallway reading it.
My dear Detective Horvath
The when is now
The who is one plus someone more
The where is east of the river
The what is danger to the one plus someone more Foreshadowing the fate of Vasyl Stus
The why is a flower with deadly pollen
Flattening the grass to wormwood
A friend of a friend of Shevchenko
Who would be a friend of a dead nineteenth-century poet? A poet?
The bearded poet in the Zil who brought the message from Tamara. A friend of a friend could mean the message was from Tamara.
Lazlo read the lines again. East of the river. East of the river in Visenka there was danger for Juli and her baby-the one plus someone more. Tamara said Vasyl Stus was a poet who died in a labor camp. Danger to Juli because of the deadly pollen of Chernobyl, the Chernobyl grass, the wormwood Mihaly had spoken of. He recalled telling Tamara about the biblical Chernobyl star. She would know.
She would refer to the fate of Vasyl Stus.
He ran down the hall to the stairway. He pushed through the front entrance of militia headquarters, almost knocking down a uniformed militiaman coming in. Was the message literal? Was Juli really in danger? If so, how would Tamara know?
The van followed him around the corner. Chkalov had said to return the Zhiguli to the motor pool, so he was simply following orders. He sped into the fenced-in motor-pool yard where marked patrol cars were parked. One of the garage side doors was open, and he skidded inside to a stop amid the shouts of mechanics.
“Imbecile! Who are you trying to kill?”
Too many mechanics around to switch cars. They would question him, demand papers. Although cars were parked in the aisle, he was able to drive through with no more damage than removing a side mirror from another turd-green Zhiguli.
“Madman! Stop!”
The back door of the garage was closed. He jumped out and pushed the door up on its rollers. While running back to the car, a mechanic threatened him with a large wrench. The mechanic dropped the wrench and stepped back when Lazlo drew his pistol. Other mechanics gathered at the back door to watch him drive down the alley.
From the front of the garage, everything would seem ordinary, the KGB men in the van waiting for him to come walking out of the garage. Lazlo drove slowly so he would not attract attention. He turned northwest, went several blocks at traffic speed to make sure the van did not follow. If a car followed, he could not tell because there were too many on the street.
When he turned southeast, back through the heart of the city, he sped up, back to Khreshchatik, past the post office and the cafe, where he had stopped for tea. Khreshchatik would take him to Lenkomsomol Square. He would go through the underpass, branch south onto Kirov Street. If he took the ramp fast enough, he would be able to see if anyone followed, because they would also have to speed through the underpass. If not, they would lose him in the maze of ramps and exits.
Ahead, the gaping mouth of the underpass was busy swallow-ing slower traffic. When he plunged into the underpass, he flashed his headlights at cars ahead, moving them out of the way. He was below Lenkomsomol Square, where he often walked to lunch in hot weather. Would he ever walk here again? Would Kiev, his world, ever be the same again? Would he get out of the underpass without killing himself and perhaps others?
A sputtering Zaporozhets nearly lost control as it fishtailed to avoid being rear-ended. Lazlo had never driven this fast through the underpass. The sunlight coming through drainage grates on Lenkomsomol Square flashed like strobe lights. The Zhiguli’s tires squealed, the echo screaming through the tunnel. When he hit a wet spot in the tunnel, the Zhiguli lunged sideways, tipped up on two wheels, dropped back to the pavement, and slid into the wall. The wall straightened the Zhiguli, clawing away metal on the passenger side as he exploded up onto the Kirov Street ramp to daylight.
There had been many turns in the underpass, and he had been too busy to see if anyone followed. But now, as he shifted the Zhiguli into high gear and sped onto Kirov Street, he saw a gray Moskvich driving like mad behind him.
They were after him and would not let go, two men in a gray Moskvich, one of the cars alternating with the van earlier in the week, probably radioing the van right now. If he was going to lose the Moskvich, he had to hurry.
Right on Karl Liebknecht, left on Revolutsii, right on Mech-nikov. His city. His Kiev, the streets he knew. But the KGB agents also knew the city. They stayed behind him, seemingly anticipating each turn. This was not getting him to Juli, east of the river where there was danger. But if he drove to Visenka with the KGB in tow, and if the danger came from the KGB…
He turned onto Lesya Ukrainka and headed south. The boulevard was wide and straight, and he could maintain his speed by crossing from lane to lane, passing moving cars as if they were parked haphazardly in the street. He would soon cross over Friendship of Peoples Boulevard, the fastest route to the bridge over the Dnieper, the fastest route to Visenka.
He maintained his speed and stayed in the left lane as he approached the overpass. The ramp down to the boulevard was on the far right. He would cross several lanes of traffic and enter the ramp at the last possible second. He only hoped the Moskvich would miss the turn.
An old woman stepped from the island, and he had to brake and swerve to miss her. A marked militia Zhiguli passed in the opposite direction. In his mirror, he saw its roof light come on as it U-turned to join the chase behind the Moskvich.
The ramp coming up. No choice. Horns and tires screaming as he veered right across lanes of traffic and plunged down onto the ramp. A quick glance in the mirror, and the Moskvich was there, sliding sideways before entering the ramp.
He had to get to Juli! He had to get rid of these men now!
