I knew something was wrong. I knew he had done something illegal and was dragging me into it so I would feel forced to help. I don’t want to do anything illegal. I’ve never done anything illegal before in my life. I have my literary review and my friends. I have my own life. To get rid of him, I… told him I could help him. And now, because I’m not a criminal and I fear Lazlo has done something against the people he’s supposed to protect, I’m here to tell you where he is.”
“You know where he is?”
Tamara Petrov wiped at her eyes with a billowy sleeve. “He’s waiting for me to meet him. I’m to bring clothing and have a taxi waiting.” Tamara wept again. “This is very hard for me, Major.
This was a man I admired. But I can’t become a criminal. I can’t!”
“You are very brave, Miss Petrov. Your secret will be kept, even from Detective Horvath. Now please, tell me where he is.”
“He… they are at the Hotel Dnieper, registered under the name Yuri Antonov… Yuri Antonov and his wife.”
On his way out, Komarov took Tamara Petrov with him. Captain Brovko met them on the stairs, causing Tamara Petrov to shriek.
“It’s all right, Miss Petrov. He’s not here for you.”
Komarov told Brovko to gather men and come with him. He left Tamara Petrov with the guard and told him to arrange for a car to take her home.
The night air was cool and moist. When he got into the car, Komarov felt adrenaline surging through him. He felt young and was glad to have the company of Captain Brovko instead of Azef.
If he had to share the glory of this night with anyone, let it be with a young man recently assigned who would relinquish credit to Major Grigor Komarov for the capture of Detective Horvath and his co-conspirator.
If it was necessary to kill Horvath and the woman, so be it. Evidence gathered in silence was often much more convincing. In less than a block, two other cars joined the Volga, racing along the night-dampened streets to the Hotel Dnieper.
24
Although the Moskva Hotel on October Revolution Street was newer and the Ukraine Hotel on Shevchenko Boulevard was larger, many tourists preferred the charm and location of the Hotel Dnieper, bordering Lenkomsomol Square. The Hotel Dnieper was centrally located near tourist attractions, including museums and cathedrals.
The Philharmonia, the library, and the cinema were directly across from the Dnieper. If your tastes were less cultural, you could stroll down Vladimirsky Spusk to the riverbank for a boat ride or take the path through the park for a walk across the footbridge to the beach on Trukhanov Island.
This night, the beach was empty. And even though it had been warm enough to swim during the day, only a handful had ventured into the Dnieper River because of news coming out of Chernobyl.
According to bus drivers from the north, the banks of the Pripyat, which drained into the Dnieper, were being shored up to avoid radioactive contamination to Kiev’s water supply. Outspoken bus drivers showed off face masks they’d been given to wear on their drives back and forth, and they spoke of soldiers on the roads, with Chernobylites hiding to avoid being bussed out. There were rumors of looting, buses abandoned, and entire villages bulldozed. However, despite the tragedy to the north, Kiev, the beautiful city, was peaceful, especially when viewed from the seventh floor of the popular Hotel Dnieper.
The window of the room in which Lazlo had registered as Mr. and Mrs. Yuri Antonov faced north. In the distant hills, beyond the quaint lights lining Lenkomsomol Square, he could see the plan-etarium and the ascending and descending funicular cable cars.
Farther west was the lighted bell tower of Saint Sophia’s Cathedral.
Straight ahead, a hundred kilometers beyond the black northern horizon, was Chernobyl. Lazlo thought of Mihaly telling him several times about the KGB snooping around at Chernobyl, looking for something to happen so they could cover it up. He thought of Mihaly’s body covered with radioactive debris from the explosion, Mihaly shipped to Moscow not for treatment, but for burial. He recalled the day over a week ago when he had gone to the cathedral and wept. Almost fifteen years earlier, when Mihaly came to Kiev to attend university, the cathedral was one of the first tourist spots Lazlo took Mihaly. He remembered the look on Mihaly’s face, an eighteen-year-old boy looking aloft at the domes and icons, Mihaly viewing the vast possibilities of his future. Last week, Lazlo went to the cathedral to pray for Mihaly. Now, several blocks away, Saint Sophia’s bell tower was outlined in the black of night.
Below the window of the room, when he opened it and leaned out far enough, Lazlo saw the window washers’ scaffold left hanging outside the sixth-floor windows for the night. That was why he had picked a room on the seventh floor with a northern view. It was part of his plan.
Lazlo took off his jacket and sweater, unbuttoned his shirt. Juli had given him undergarments from her overnight case. These he’d brought with other clothes in a fishnet bag. He rinsed and hung Juli’s undergarments to dry in the bathroom. He turned on the shower and left it running. Soon the room was warm and moist despite the open window. He sprinkled perfume Juli gave him into the tub, giving the room the pleasant scent of a woman.
He looked at his watch. Almost nine thirty. Tamara would have gone to KGB headquarters by now, and soon they would arrive. From his room, the sidewalk in front of the main entrance was visible. When he had asked Tamara to go to Komarov, it was obvious she knew that part of the plan was to put her in the clear, as he had done with Aunt Magda.
He went into the bathroom and turned off the shower. He carried a dripping washcloth out of the bathroom and to the window, allowing water to drip on the floor as he went. At the window, he held the cloth outside and let water drip onto the windowsill and the window washers’ scaffold below. When he took the washcloth back to the bathroom, he moistened a towel, dried his hands on it, and threw it with the washcloth onto the floor. He glanced at Juli’s brassiere and underpants hung to dry on the shower bar, left the light on, and closed the bathroom door.
In the main room, he pushed the tall-backed heavy sofa in front of the open window, leaving enough room for him to stoop behind it. He lowered the window enough so it would not appear open when viewed from the door, yet would still allow him to squeeze through.
Everything was ready. He sat on the sofa facing the door and waited. Next to the door on the hinged side, so he would be behind the door when it opened, was Vladimir Ilich Lenin holding a Makarov 9mm pistol.
Actually, it was only a statue of Lenin, and he wasn’t really holding the pistol. The pistol, one of the shiny new ones taken from the KGB agents in Visenka, was tied to Lenin’s outstretched hand with one of Juli’s nylon stockings. The other nylon stocking was stretched over Lenin’s head, his pointy beard forming an inverted tent over his face. Around Lenin’s shoulders, partially concealing the stocking holding the pistol in place, was Lazlo’s overcoat. The coat and stocking over the face gave Lenin color. The statue looked like a thief with stone-gray gloves and slacks, who had put a nylon stocking over his face as a disguise.
The statue was from a secluded stairway landing off the lobby.
Lazlo gave the elevator operator ten rubles to keep his mouth shut and take him with Lenin to the seventh floor. He told the elevator operator it was for a joke on a friend and the statue would be put back the same evening. The statue was heavy, but he’d been able to tilt it slightly and roll it like a barrel of wine.
Lazlo stood and took out his wallet. He emptied the money out of it, stuffed the money into his pocket, and placed the wallet on the lamp table. He would leave his identification and other papers because he no longer needed them. Leaving his identification would prove he was there as Tamara had said, on the remote possibility the agents coming through the door did not recognize him. He took his old Makarov 9mm pistol from the side pocket of his trousers and inserted it into the back of his waistband where it would be hidden from view. The other shiny new Makarov from the agents was with his shoulder holster, clearly visible on the bed. He turned off the floor lamp next to the sofa, leaving only the lamp on the bed table lit. This lamp cast its brightest light on the pistol and shoulder holster on the white bedspread. When he looked back to the door, he could see Lenin in the shadows, looking almost alive.
Everything seemed in order. He checked once more to make certain the door was locked, returned to the
