It was a long walk to the museum this afternoon. After Lazlo told his niece about Viktor and the Gypsy, Ilonka told about a girl-hood friend from Pripyat. Svetlana had settled with her family at another collective a day’s drive from Kisbor. She had corresponded with Ilonka for several years, then there was a delay, then a letter from Svetlana’s father saying she had died from Chernobyl disease.
While walking to the museum, Lazlo leaned in close to Ilonka so he could hear her whisper above the noise of the street. “I was a very sad little girl, Uncle Laz. How could a little girl understand that Svetlana didn’t get enough potassium iodide and I did? At the time I thought about you always seeming sad. I wanted to be like you from then on. It seems I have wanted to be sad my whole life.”
“Are you sad now?”
“Half of me is; the other half is not.”
“I am the same, Ilonka. The half spending an afternoon with you is content. My contentment will continue into tonight after we retrieve Tamara and Michael from their tour of Chernobyl.”
“Where will we dine?”
“I made reservations at Casino Budapest. I wanted to see a striptease or two.”
It is after sunset, and the bus from Chernobyl is late. Streetlights have come on around the museum, and other relatives and friends of Chernobyl tourists mill about waiting. With the museum closed, traffic has eased, and it is quiet, allowing Lazlo to hear Ilonka’s whispery voice without leaning in close.
“Mother waited until we were teenagers before she told us we were stepsisters to Tamara. Because you were married to Juli, we naturally assumed you were Tamara’s real father. Mother said Juli spoke of cancer often, saying many would get it. I was so sorry when it happened.”
“Do you remember much about Pripyat?”
“I remember being happy, the playground outside the apartment building, the lights of the Chernobyl towers out our window.
I remember you visiting.”
“What about the evacuation?”
“We got a ride to the plant in a car, then a bus took us past apartment buildings and away from Pripyat. The bus driver wore a handkerchief over his nose and mouth and drove very fast. I remember looking up at the apartments and seeing bicycles stored on balconies. I remember wondering what would happen to all those bicycles. Anna, on the other hand, always said she remembers dogs chasing the bus. She said dogs chased the buses their owners were on for many kilometers until they gave up or died. Later, the dogs were shot by soldiers because they picked up radiation during their search for food and for their masters.”
Ilonka stares past Lazlo and is silent for a time. But then she whispers again.
“There’s a man over there I recognize. Wait, don’t look yet. He followed me from one of my classes several days ago. When I confronted him, he said he was a journalist doing a Chernobyl story from a conspiracy angle and is also writing a book. He said he’s hunting for remaining suspicions. Okay, he’s turned away. You can look now.”
Lazlo recognizes him. It is the bald man from earlier in the day on European Square.
“He questioned me this morning,” says Lazlo. “He said he was a tourist, but he knows too much and speaks too many languages.
Why is he still wearing his sunglasses?”
“I think he’s an intelligence agent,” says Ilonka.
“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.