One of our acquaintances received a phone call from a contact, a lab technician with access to forensic evidence. The contact insisted Vadym did not have smoke in his lungs. This suggested that he died before fire broke out in his apartment. We speculated that someone might have killed him and then drenched his body in gasoline and set it alight.
As the days passed, we all searched for clues but did not learn much more. Lesyia and I went to Vadym’s apartment. It was a painful visit, especially for her. Lesyia knew the way well. I had never been before.
Vadym lived in a modern concrete block high-rise, so ordinary, not a place for murder. We climbed the stairs to his apartment, the red stencilled “2B” still visible in a patch of white beneath the scorched door. Paint peeled away, melted by intense heat from the fire. A note lay on the threshold with some red carnations, a candle and a red sash. Others had come before us to say their goodbyes as we did now. Lesyia and I stood in silence for some time.
Then we left the building and looked at Vadym’s apartment from outside. A long trail of soot stretched four floors up from his windows, a black marker of death. Plywood replaced shattered glass in one window frame. His apartment was boarded up and abandoned; all life was gone from this place.
We noticed a large rubbish container outside the building. Lesyia recognized some of Vadym’s belongings, half-burned pages from his copy of The Maltese Falcon. I clambered up the container and leaned in. I pulled out a page, hopeful for anything that might, however unlikely, one day provide evidence to unravel this mystery. I could not believe a faulty TV had caused such an intense fire and a horrible death.
I called my parents. I wanted a connection to home, a place where I felt safe. My father answered the phone. I could not explain what I needed but felt soothed by his voice. We discussed those small events, mundane for others but not for us, that made up daily life at home. He spoke about the latest antics of our family dog. I told my father the story of Vadym’s death and heard from this intelligent, grounded man, a lawyer who thought rationally, how unlikely it would be for someone to die through a malfunctioning TV.
In Kiev, rumours swirled. Because he was handsome, Vadym had always attracted a lot of male and female attention. I heard speculation about a crime of passion — a romantic entanglement that prompted jealous rage and a brutal attack. Others traced his death to the coup. They remembered Vadym’s investigation into who in Ukraine had supported the Moscow coup plotters and thought someone afraid of exposure had arranged his murder.
In a press conference with Leonid Kravchuk soon after Vadym’s death, one journalist put the question bluntly: “Boyko’s death, was this an accident or a political murder?” Kravchuk replied, “All the information that I have had so far points to a tragic accident.” He said that the forensic evidence and injuries were consistent with those that could be inflicted by a television set that exploded.
“If that is true, we’ll have to come out with a number of measures that would rule out the possibility of such accidents in the future,” Kravchuk added. I left the news conference full of doubt.
In the days that followed, I juggled my usual reporting duties but still thought about Vadym. I could not accept that so many questions remained unanswered. I bumped into Mary in Parliament. I wanted to talk about Vadym’s case with her, but she had no updates and seemed very excited, her mind clearly on something else.
“I think I just got permission to go to a nuclear bomber base,” she said. “Are you interested in coming?”
“Where is it and what do you mean you think you have permission, don’t you need a permit?” I asked.
“Uzyn.” Then she named a military man whom I did not know and said “He telephoned my name through to the base. How about giving it a try before he changes his mind? He could add your name to the list.”
“Is that Bashkirov’s base?” I asked
“Yes, and 70 percent of the servicemen on the base just swore the oath of allegiance to Ukraine,” she said. “This is serious stuff. It’s the first strategic forces division to swear allegiance.”
I had been surprised, like so many other people, when news first broke that Bashkirov, a major general in command of the Ukrainian Uzyn base, had disobeyed an order from Moscow to land his plane in Russia and instead flew back to his base in Ukraine. When Bashkirov arrived safely in Uzyn, he swore an oath of loyalty to Ukraine and now nearly his whole base stood behind him. We all wondered if Russia would retaliate. There had already been so much tension between Russia and Ukraine over who would control the Black Sea Fleet in Crimea and now, this. Of course I wanted to go. It would be an opportunity to assess whether Russia and Ukraine might actually go to war over division of their military assets and their states.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll get my car and pick you up in an hour.”
On the way to the stoyanka, I remembered one problem. My headlights had burned out and I had not been able to find replacement bulbs. If only Evgenyi left those as presents instead of dried-up fish. When I returned to pick up Mary, others stood with her on the sidewalk—Toronto Marta, Stephen and Sasha, who interpreted for Stephen and me.
“We’re all going,” Mary said cheerfully. As everyone squeezed in and buckled up, I mentioned the problem with my headlights.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be back long before dark,” Mary said.
When we arrived at the base, Mary spoke to the guard and mentioned the name of the general who was supposed to have called with permission for us to visit. The guard raised the barrier and waved us through. There could be no better sign. We had entered a nuclear bomber base, a place strictly off limits weeks ago. I saw planes in the distance and tried to move closer. Before I got far, a minder appeared. Once in the main building, he shooed us down a corridor and into a room.
“Please wait here,” our minder said. He locked the door behind him. We waited patiently. Our trip was spontaneous. Base personnel must need time to find us a guide.
One hour passed, then a second hour. Stephen tried the door.
“Still locked,” he said.
“Do you think we’re under arrest, or detention?” I asked. We waited longer. Another hour passed. Stephen and I practised our Ukrainian. Sasha, ever dapper and patient, coached us.
Every half-hour or so our minder, a lieutenant colonel, kept appearing with new excuses as to why we should remain locked in the room. He told us at different times that Major General Bashkirov was not on the base, then that he was on the base but could not meet us, and finally, that he had left.
“Pictures?” Toronto Marta suggested. “At least we can record our trip.” We perched on a windowsill and posed. Then we waited quietly as more time passed. I thought of Vadym. In his case, just like this one, we sensed there was something important to discover just beyond our reach but we were so easily shut out.
Evening fell. Eventually our minder came back again.
“I have to go the bathroom,” Marta said to him. He unlocked the door and allowed her out. Within seconds she came racing back.
“Bashkirov, he’s here,” she shouted. We ran out of the room and down the hallway toward a group of military men a short distance away. The general was polite. We asked questions, but he provided no answers of real news value. Then we were escorted off the base.
It was dark now. With no headlights, I drove slowly down a pitch-black country highway. I could not see where the road ended and the ditch began. Mary hung out the passenger window, trying to prevent me from driving off the road.
“Left,” she shouted. “Left again.” Eventually we flagged down a truck and paid the driver to go slowly so we could piggyback on his tail lights.