Traffyck (21 page)

Vasily did not answer.

“What is it?” asked Pyotr, staring at Vasily.

“The peninsula. It does not seem the same.”

“In what way?”

“With Ivan’s so-called training, the young men are harder to control. It is unwise putting automatic rifles in the hands of irrational young men who ignore you.”

“Why would they ignore me, Vasily?”

“Your speeches are completely dependent on our good works, caring for the Chernobyl orphans. But you rarely mention God.”

“Your point is well taken, Vasily. Perhaps I should look back at past speeches. I assume you refer to the ones I gave after our abandonment of the trafficking business.”

“Yes,” said Vasily, “those were effective. But my point is, we’ve put ourselves on the offensive by drawing the attention of investigators. First was Aleksandr Shved; now there is Janos Nagy. I’m wondering if we are serving the needs of the handicapped with these forays outside the compound.”

Pyotr approached, put his hands on Vasily’s shoulders, and stared at him. “Do you recall the old days, Vasily? Parading about with Geiger counters, using the old aluminum boats to cross to the left bank, and exiling troublemakers to one of the islands for a night so they could have time to think and pray?”

Vasily stared at Pyotr. “More than this, I recall the pledge in the old days. Before God’s fellowship lowers in final judgment of the children, I pledge.”

Pyotr shook Vasily’s shoulders gently. “The pledge still holds, Vasily! I know you were fond of many residents we sent away, but that was long ago. I need you now more than ever! I make my own pledge, Vasily. I pledge to become a better clergyman.”

When Pyotr let go of his shoulders, Vasily forced a smile and said good night.

After Vasily was gone, Pyotr turned out the lights and went to the stairs. As he climbed slowly to his loft, he thought about what Vasily had said. Not the words, but the emotion behind the words. Was it true emotion? Or was Vasily testing him?

Perhaps Vasily was right. Ivan, so easily taken in by religious and sexual fanaticism, was becoming a nuisance. While Pyotr had stayed busy on the peninsula caring for his own needs and the needs of his Chernobyl orphans, Ivan had ignored Vasily and taken control of the boys, creating his own private army. Was it an army that would defend the compound? Or had Ivan developed radical plans similar to those of fundamentalist terrorists loose in the world?

When Pyotr reached his sleeping loft, he went to his bed and sat in the dark. Vasily had given him much to think about, and he knew it would be difficult to fall asleep.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Although Chicago’s Humboldt Park Ukrainian neighborhood grew more ethnically diverse each day, there was still the Bakery Café within walking distance of Lazlo’s apartment. Here he could relax, sipping coffee or tea. Here he could stuff himself with pastries, hoping the delicacies would find it in their hearts to block an artery and take at least a few years off his life.

It was a warm September morning, the heat of the sun warming his table through the linen window curtains. During summer, he often brought Jermaine to the Bakery Café. But as Ilonka said during her visit, Jermaine now rested in peace, perhaps looking down on his old friend. By now Jermaine would have been back in school with playground gangs vying for his soul. Perhaps Jermaine watched over the playground these days, ready to take vengeance on recruiters. Perhaps Jermaine watched over him.

Jermaine would consider Lazlo’s wish to clog his arteries foolish. Causing one’s death would be unfair to those who had gone before him. And it would be especially unfair to his niece Ilonka and Janos Nagy, who both lived on the other side of the world. Because of these two, Lazlo kept his passport and Ukraine entry visa in order. Like any true Gypsy, he must be ready to travel at a moment’s notice.

Ria, his favorite waitress, had already refilled his coffee, the traffic outside was easing as rush hour ended, and the shadow of his coffee cup had shortened. Earlier, when he told Ria he was not hungry this morning, she did not persist, but refilled his coffee cup and stood over him to be certain he took his blood pressure and cholesterol pills with plenty of water. He admired her figure as she walked back behind the counter.

Ria was not a young woman, but younger than Lazlo, and ten years was ten years. Her hair was the color of bread crust, long and tied up in back. Although she was not Ukrainian, she did come from what was now the Czech Republic, not far from his roots in western Ukraine. He and Ria spoke often of changes the region had been through. Behind the counter, when she turned to serve a young black man from a city work crew, Ria leaned to the side and winked at Lazlo. The young man was obviously ordering a huge bag of pastries for the morning shift. Within Ria’s smile and wink was the memory of Jermaine.

When Lazlo’s cell rang, he knew it was Janos before he opened the phone.

Janos spoke in Hungarian. “According to my calculation, you are eating pastry.”

Lazlo laughed. “I am stuffed and sipping we-are-proud-to-serve-Starbucks.”

“You do not sound stuffed. You ring hollow like a bell at the Uzhgorod factory, where grandfathers, fathers, uncles, and cousins worked.”

“And you sound like someone filled with questions.”

“Yes,” said Janos. “Do you recall the hornets we spoke of when you last visited?”

“Have you ventured too close to a nest?”

“I was trying to eradicate a nest in my old office, and now they are at my new office. Like a fool, I try to run, and I am stung repeatedly. It seems they nest everywhere in Kiev, from government buildings to cathedrals to brothels. What can I do to find the source?”

Lazlo paused a few seconds before saying, “Aleksandr Vasilievich?”

Janos paused a few seconds before answering, “Yes, the source. His search will be my search. But he left many unanswered questions. He was seeking very young hornets … not really the hornets themselves, but I think you know what I mean.”

“I do,” said Lazlo, watching as the construction worker left with two huge bags of pastries. “I recall speaking with him some time ago. Were his findings repugnant?”

“Yes,” said Janos. “The age of your friend who is gone.”

Lazlo used his napkin to touch away tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “Have you spoken to Ilonka?”

“She called when she returned to Kiev. I am sorry about your friend, Lazlo.”

“Thank you … but back to the business of Aleksandr. He collects information and is fatally stung. My contact with him sent me to a department of what we in this country call Homeland Security. The mere mention of the department will be detected by worker bees, if you know what I mean. Tell me what happened with the queen you encountered?”

“A near disaster. She was caught, but released. There are threats to the queen and to this worker bee. So the brand of insecticide you recommend is still the Shved variety?”

“Yes,” said Lazlo. “From one to another to another. Someone uses deadly poison, so there must be a reason. As I recall, this variety had an acquaintance who served food. An establishment between Zhulyany and Central Bus Station with dumplings as large as NBA star fingers. Do you understand?”

“I do,” said Janos. “It is also in the name.”

“Correct.” Lazlo switched to English. “The key to a man’s heart—”

“I accept the challenge,” said Janos, still speaking in Hungarian. “I had forgotten about this queen. Therefore, I thank you. By the way, how is the weather there?”

“It has been a hot summer. I wish
all
of my cousins, nieces, and nephews were here.”

“They could help you eat pastry,” said Janos.

“Yes, and one more thing, Janos. Be careful of multiple sources. You may want to look into”—Lazlo created an English acronym—”Nostalgic Geometric Oxymorons.”

“I will,” said Janos. “Enjoy your we-are-proud-to-serve-Starbucks, and give greetings to all aunts, uncles, and cousins.”

After Lazlo closed his phone, he recalled his visit to Chicago FBI headquarters, where he had been questioned thoroughly, taken to an inner office, and given a secure phone on which he’d been able to speak with an official of the Human Smuggling Trafficking Center of Homeland Security. A man named Anthony Jacobson, who would not give his title, said his office was working with the Southeast European Cooperative Initiative and was interested in any names of persons involved in trafficking. Lazlo told Jacobson he was in contact with an investigator in Ukraine who might soon have information. He said he was not far from the FBI office in the Chicago Loop and would travel there. Rather than accepting this and hanging up, Jacobson kept him on the line several minutes, insisting there must be something he could provide. During long silences, Lazlo wondered if he had acted correctly. What if Jacobson, if this was his real name, was in contact with someone on the take from the trafficking network and intentionally or unintentionally spoke out of turn? For this reason, Lazlo had refused to reveal Janos’ name.

As Lazlo thought about his FBI visit and being put on a so-called secure phone line, Ria returned to his table to once again fill his coffee cup.

“You are troubled?” asked Ria, leaning forward, her face so close to his he could smell her perfume mixed with the smell of coffee and pastry.

“I was. But you have chased troubles away.”

Ria smiled coyly as she slowly filled his cup. When she turned to walk to another table, Lazlo thought he noticed her hips shift side to side more than usual. A younger woman at the FBI office had shifted her hips so, but she wore high heels. Ria wore flats and this made her hips into significant signals to the passion buried in Lazlo’s past.

For the first time since Juli’s death, Lazlo felt a sense of being in this world. A beautiful woman walks across the room for him, while in his mind long silences during the phone call to Homeland Security pump suspicious energy into his heart. It was an odd moment, during which the sun seemed to shine more brightly into the Bakery Café. Ria glanced back to him and smiled as she poured coffee for an elderly couple at another table. Was it possible Ria knew her friend Lazlo Horvath was now among the living and once again had become a man with purpose?

A decision was made. Lazlo would visit an old friend, the man who had vouched for his and Juli’s honesty when it was time to apply for US citizenship. The man who had come to both Juli’s and Tamara’s funerals and, each time, given him a bear hug of love and trust. Russell McCullum, retired from the State Department office responsible for Eastern European affairs. McCullum, the Irishman who, back in 1987, welcomed a pair of expatriates and little Tamara, the newly born child of Lazlo’s brother, to America, where she would follow her mother’s fate, both victims of what everyone in Humboldt Park referred to as Chernobyl disease.

Janos was a Gypsy explorer, searching for dumplings as large as the fingers of NBA stars, which Janos knew meant very large dumplings. According to Lazlo, the name of the restaurant was a variation on NBA, so of course the word
basketball
came into play, and he knew Lazlo meant the Basket of Plenty, a familiar Hungarian/Ukrainian restaurant located between Zhulyany Airport and the Central Bus Station in Kiev’s southwest district. The Basket of Plenty, a location to which Lazlo had not only cleverly directed him, but which also reminded him of a particular waitress who had been a friend of Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved.

It was late afternoon. Janos’ day had started with a bang at dawn, his stomach turned upside down by the load of child pornography spilling onto his feet at Shved’s office. After this, the day continued downhill: from the warning given him by Chief Investigator Boris Chudin at militia headquarters; to hearing of the young woman wearing jeans and sweatshirt bicycling away from the tan Zhiguli wagon at the car rental agency in heavy traffic at Borispol airport; to the people on the phone who refused to speak with him even when he mentioned Shved’s name; to the luncheon chat with Investigator Arkady Listov from Darnytsya, during which Listov became drunker and drunker; to the sign at his office and the broken window; to the black Zil attempting to run him down; and finally, to the foolish conversation with Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza, ending when bodyguards with wide shoulders and arms of steel threw him into the street. It was a demented day, even for a Gypsy who expects days like this now and then.