“Whom could he possibly represent?”
“What does it matter?” whispers Ilonka, smiling an evil smile.
“We’ll confront him. Two against one.”
Lazlo shrugs. “What language shall we use?”
“Native Ukrainian,” whispers Ilonka.
They stand and quickly walk over to the man, who takes off his sunglasses and backs away when he sees them, almost bumping into the streetlight.
“So what can you tell us?” asks Ilonka, her whisper in Ukrainian harsher than before.
The bald man puts away his sunglasses and eyes them both with a smile, but not really a smile. “About what?”
“Chernobyl, of course,” says Lazlo. “The murders. Tell us about the conspiracy and murders at Chernobyl.”
The man shifts the sport coat he carries from one arm to the other. “All right. You’ve got me. I’m here to ask about Chernobyl, but it’s simply a matter of cleanup.”
“Cleanup?” asks Lazlo.
The man eyes Lazlo’s tie draped over the sport coat on his arm.
“A side job for Hungarian State Security while here in Kiev. Nothing active. They simply want to know the fate of an American who was doing work for them.”
“Andrew Zukor?” asks Lazlo.
The man turns to Ilonka. “How did he know about Zukor?”
Ilonka shrugs and smiles back at the man. They both look to Lazlo.
“You should go to the United States for your research,” says Lazlo. “Zukor’s widow was quite open with U.S. authorities before her death.”
“Unfortunately, they sent me here,” says the young man. “For cleanup, you go where they tell you to go, ask predetermined questions, and report back. Have either of you heard of a KGB major named Grigor Komarov?”
Lazlo looks to Ilonka, who smiles back at him, a large infectious smile with one finger to her lips. Soon all three are smiling like old friends who have met beneath the streetlight.
“I guess they sent me to the right people,” says the young man.
He holds his hand out to Ilonka. “By the way, my name is Zandor.”
Zandor continues after shaking hands with Ilonka and Lazlo.
“Anyway, Hungarian authorities want to know if Major Komarov had a reason to order Andrew Zukor’s assassination in 1986, or if he simply disliked the man. There have been many investigations into Komarov’s activities, going back to the cold war. We know Zukor was with U.S. intelligence, and we know a Major Dmitry Struyev in Komarov’s office may have given the order. So, my friends, what can you tell me?”
It is an unusual interview, all three of them smiling and talking like old friends while they wait for the bus from Chernobyl. At one point, without realizing it, they switch from Ukrainian to Hungarian. When Zandor asks the identity of the Gypsy Moth, both Lazlo and Ilonka shrug.
“No one knows who the Gypsy Moth was,” says Lazlo. “For all we know, he, or she, never existed.”
“A fabrication for Komarov’s grandiose plan?” asks Zandor.
“A fabrication,” says Lazlo. “A name from the past.”
After leaving Slavutych, the town built for Chernobyl cleanup workers, they switch from Anton’s van to the larger bus at the Dytyatky Control Point. The evening bus transports both tourists and workers going off shift back to Kiev. It is a comfortable bus with better air-conditioning than the van, as well as ceiling-mounted television monitors. Because it is Lyudmilla’s last tour for this shift, she rides back to Kiev with the tourists. She sits across the aisle from the young American couple. At the end of the tour, she noted their names on the tour sheet. The woman is Tamara Horvath, Hungarian. Because of her tears at the visitor center, Lyudmilla assumes she is related to a Chernobyl victim. The young African American man is Michael Richardson. Both are from Chicago. While the driver closes the door and settles in, Lyudmilla leans across the aisle and smiles at the Americans.
“Finally, end of duty for a few days.”
“Do you live in Kiev?” asks Tamara.
“With my husband, Vitaly. It is surprising how much I miss him.”
“How long have you been married?” asks Tamara.
“Since the fall of the Soviet Union.” Lyudmilla reaches across the aisle and touches Tamara’s arm. “Tell me. Are you related to one of the victims?”
Michael leans forward and smiles. “She was one of the Chernobylites. Of course, she didn’t fill me in on the details until today.”
He nudges Tamara. “A mystery woman.”
“You’re too young to have been a Chernobylite,” says Lyudmilla.
Tamara touches her tummy. “My mother was carrying me at the time.”
“She… it must have been terrible for her. Is she… how can I say it?”
“She died in the United States in 2000. My father was one of the engineers taken to Moscow, where he died within days of the accident. My stepfather came with me on this visit, but he stayed in Kiev. He was in the Kiev militia in 1986. He says he never wants to visit the plant or Pripyat again.”
Lyudmilla shakes her head. “I don’t blame him. For me, it’s a job. Are you visiting others during your stay?”
“My stepfather is bringing his niece to the museum to meet us, then we’ll go to dinner. Tomorrow we’re all going into the countryside to visit my mother’s roommate from Pripyat and her husband and family.”
Michael points to Tamara. “Her stepfather’s niece is her stepsister, if you can believe it.”
Lyudmilla nods while she tries to decipher the relationship. As the bus begins moving, the overhead television monitors come to life. The volume of the televisions, all tuned to a news station giving the latest statistics on global climate change records, is loud, but not so loud for Lyudmilla to tune out the voice of the inquisitive German tourist at the rear of the bus.
“Will we get more radiation screening at the museum?” demands the German in English. “I wonder if Dytyatky was the last.
Can anyone tell me?”
Lyudmilla wishes she could stand and tell the German to shut his mouth. But she is off duty and is not required to respond one way or another. Instead, she closes her eyes and thinks of home, wondering if Vitaly will be there, or if, like the last time they had an argument, he will be away with his friends when she arrives.
The television commentator is also speaking in English. “In Kiev, celebrating the traditional Day of Victory Parade, two elderly World War II veterans who managed to march remain in hospital suffering from heat stroke. In other news, lack of spring rain has caused water shortages on farms throughout Ukraine…”
Lyudmilla dozes during the bus ride to Kiev. When she awakens, it is almost dark. A small group of people waits beneath the streetlights in front of the Chernobyl museum, among them a handsome younger bald man talking to an older man and a young woman, both whom are wearing Sox baseball caps. The young woman has short hair beneath the cap, reminding Lyudmilla of how she wore hers when she was young and slender and could wear a short, tight skirt in public and feel good about it.
Suddenly, there is a surprise. Just as she is anticipating the hot evening walk alone to the Metro Blue Line, she sees Vitaly jump out of their car parked across the street. He runs to the bus stop like a younger man. He is smiling. He is carrying yellow spring flowers.
Kiev’s Casino Budapest throbs with everything from bump-and-grind to techno to rock and roll to disco, and even some traditional folk music. Tonight, while the striptease bar and the disco pound out their rhythms, the variety show for restaurant guests features a Gypsy orchestra playing traditional Hungarian music.
The restaurant is crowded with tourists. Americans at table twelve, which tonight seats five but can accommodate six, have brought along baseball caps. Two caps, inscribed with the word Sox, decorate the center of their table. No one wore the caps into the restaurant, and everyone is dressed casually but appropriately, men in jackets, women in skirts and blouses. The waiter has determined the man paying the tab will be the older, thin- faced man with a prominent nose and who is wearing a garish red, white, and green tie. All five at the table have finished eating, and the table has been cleared.
The two young women at the table are both beautiful in their own way. The young American woman has long
