Komarov stopped at the hole, gasping for breath as he looked down with the others at the traffic passing below, the traffic going west.
Despite his gasping, Komarov ran with the others to the west end of Lenkomsomol Square. At the railing, all he could see was the traffic. There was no one running. No one on a car or truck. Did he expect Horvath to stand on whatever car or truck he must have taken for a ride and wave to him? Mock him? Wasn’t it enough he had escaped?
“Back to the hotel!” Komarov gasped for breath. “Find the woman!”
A few meters away, a violinist who had ducked behind a row of benches because of the commotion stood and started playing a Hungarian song. A Gypsy song!
This was too much. Komarov put his pistol away and walked up to the violinist, a somber, skinny wretch of a man in a tattered brimmed hat playing his idiotic tune. Komarov felt the weight of the knife in his pocket as he walked. He stopped before the old man, pulled out the knife, and opened it.
The old man stopped playing. Komarov held the knife underhanded, not certain if he could stop, not certain if he would.
Then he felt a hand grip his wrist. When he turned, he saw it was Captain Brovko. Behind Brovko, Komarov could see insects hovering below the lights lining the square. Beyond the lights was the sparkle of the Dnieper River to the east. How would he be able to blame the Chernobyl explosion on the Gypsy Moth if he could not catch him?
“Come, Major,” said Brovko, staring at the knife. “We might still find the woman.”
Brovko watched as Komarov folded the knife and put it away.
They joined the other men running back to the Hotel Dnieper.
25
On May 14, 1986, eighteen days after the Chernobyl explosion, Gorbachev finally addressed the nation. Seven had died, and 290 were hospitalized. After speaking of the seriousness of the disaster and praising rescue workers, Gorbachev criticized exaggerations by the West. But most importantly, he spoke of the lessons the Chernobyl disaster should teach the world, comparing the disaster to the even greater threats that could be unleashed by nuclear weapons.
A few days after Gorbachev’s speech, the death toll was said to be thirteen, with many thousands exposed to radiation. The fire was out, and construction workers were building a cement tomb around the reactor. Livestock within a twenty-kilometer radius had been destroyed, and other livestock and fields of winter wheat were being monitored. Outside the Soviet Union, Common Market countries banned the import of Ukraine meat and produce.
On Sunday, May 18, a day one would expect to see crowded streets and parks, almost all of Kiev’s children were gone. Perhaps labels appearing on milk containers saying either “For Children” or
“For Adults” had been the final Pied Piper leading children away.
Many parents went south to be with their children, leaving Kiev with its old and middle-aged.
But the world did not stop. There were quotas to be filled and a few extra rubles to be made for those shrewd enough to take advantage. Kiev morning radio quoted a Pravda editorial criticizing Black Sea resort owners who had increased their rates, taking unfair advantage of parents who wanted to be with their children during this difficult time.
Standing at his office window, Komarov watched old men and women wearing dark coats amble out of a church on Boulevard Shevchenko. It reminded him of the night Detective Horvath made fools of his men at the Hotel Dnieper. The Philharmonia had let out, and the crowd gave Horvath the cover he needed. Idiots in the crowd making way instead of stopping him. The same idiots who more than likely applauded Gorbachev’s idiotic Chernobyl speech a few days later in which he warned of the global nuclear threat instead of keeping his mouth shut.
Over a week had gone by, and there was still no clue as to where the two Hungarians had gone. Outgoing airlines, trains, and buses were being watched. Members of the KGB and militia carried photographs of Horvath and Juli Popovics, but still there was nothing.
The militia also wanted Horvath for questioning regarding the poet’s murder because officers had seen the poet talking to Horvath at the roadblock.
Komarov had gone over the scene at the hotel again and again- the time that passed after the knock on the door; the time needed to lower Juli Popovics, still wet from the shower, onto the scaffold; the statue of Lenin holding a pistol; the sofa in front of the window; the gunshot from outside the window; the exit through the hotel kitchen disguised as a waiter; and finally, the escape through the floor of Lenkomsomol Square. But where had Juli Popovics gone?
The search of the hotel after Horvath’s escape had done nothing but upset patrons and prompt calls from both Chief Investigator Chkalov and Kiev’s public prosecutor to Deputy Chairman Dumenko in Moscow. Idiots!
In less than an hour, Dumenko’s flight would arrive in Kiev.
Komarov needed to blame the incident on someone else while convincing Dumenko the case was still worth pursuing. He sent Captain Brovko to Kisbor, telling him Horvath had to go there because his sister-in-law, Nina Horvath, was the one remaining woman with power over him. Brovko’s implication that Komarov had lost control by pulling his knife on the violinist in Lenkomsomol Square made it necessary to get Brovko out of Kiev, and the Horvath farmhouse would be a good place for the captain. Brovko would be in charge of several less skillful agents in Kisbor on the western frontier, including Nikolai Nikolskaia.
The thought of Brovko and Nikolskaia sitting atop a dung heap surrounded by peasants was humorous. But the thought of Dumenko’s arrival made laughter impossible.
“I find it difficult to believe your men would be so easily fooled by a statue!” shouted Dumenko. “Perhaps, if their memory is poor, you might place miniature statues of Lenin on the dashboards of their cars!”
“I agree it seems preposterous, Deputy Chairman, but the statue was disguised. He had a jacket about his shoulders and a woman’s stocking stretched over his head.”
Dumenko raised his eyebrows. “A woman’s stocking over Lenin’s face? And a pistol fastened to his hand?”
“Yes, Deputy Chairman.”
Dumenko shook his head, the sun from the window reflected off his hairless skull. “It is all quite clear now. Your men defended themselves against what they thought, at first glance, was a live gunman with a stocking over his head.” Dumenko raised his voice again. “But please tell me why, if the pistol never fired and the statue never moved, your men found it necessary to put so many holes in Lenin? The hotel manager will now have to replace him!”
“The men who fired at the statue carried Stechkin machine pistols, Deputy Chairman. I’m afraid they were set on full automatic.”
“Perhaps we should issue field artillery to the Kiev office! Instead of simply blowing Lenin’s crotch away, they could have blown off his head and put the poor man out of his misery!” Dumenko pounded his fist on the desk. “Next time, Major, I expect more control of these situations! Do you realize the extent of damage to the walls and ceiling? Do you realize how many guests were scared shitless? Not to mention the female hotel guest yanked from her bath because she, like Juli Popovics, had dark hair!”
Dumenko shook his head. “KGB agents shooting the balls off a statue, mortally wounding a sofa, and pulling a woman out of her bath. I feel sorry for you, Major. This brain disease of yours is taking its toll. Perhaps your men had a nip of vodka to give them strength. Is that what happened?”
“None of my men drink while on duty, Deputy Chairman.”
Komarov knew it was necessary to go through ridicule so that Dumenko would eventually listen to him. At last, after several more sarcastic statements, Dumenko asked about the escape of Detective Horvath and Juli Popovics. In the process of answering these questions, Komarov placed the blame for the incident on Captain Brovko.
“Captain Brovko’s training in interrogation and nuclear engineering did not adequately prepare him for an emergency field situation.”
