Traffyck (28 page)

“Can you say anything more about the two men who came to see you?”

“Please,” said Uszta. “This must end. My family is at risk. Viktor Patolichev and Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved are gone. I do not know who wanted this or why. I am simply a family man and a produce man, and none of this shit means anything to me anymore!”

“Back when you knew him, did Patolichev ever mention using a different name?”

“Never.”

“Have you ever had dealings with Ivan Babii?”

Uszta waved his hand frantically. “Fuck! Get out of here!”

“One more detail that will not affect your family … Was your daughter held in the back of a van?”

“Yes! How the hell did you know?”

“Do you really want me to tell you?”

“No! I don’t want to know!”

After Janos left Pavel Uszta at his produce stall, he was stopped in traffic waiting for a long freight train of boxcars entering the train yards near the market. The wait gave him time to think.

Trains. Yes, Uszta had definitely said Patolichev had dreamed about riding in a rowboat with Jesus and falling out of trains.

Janos drove to Darnytsya to see Investigator Arkady Listov. Because Listov had been a friend of Viktor Patolichev’s before he’d met Mariya Nemeth, perhaps he would ask Listov if there were trains in Viktor’s drunken dreams.

“What did Listov say?” asked Mariya that evening.

“After I sobered him up for an hour with tea, he said Viktor never mentioned trains.”

It was Friday evening. Janos and Mariya sat at the kitchen table sipping wine.

Mariya stared at him. And the way she stared, he knew she was thinking and he knew he should keep his mouth shut and not interrupt her.

“I also thought about trains today, Janos. I remember an incident after I met Viktor. It was a few days before Christmas. We had driven in his new BMW to the Cathedral of St. Sophia to see its decorations. I remember during our return drive, we were stopped by a train. Viktor had not spoken after the cathedral visit and seemed in a trance. But while we waited for the train, he said something. He whispered it, and I asked him to repeat it. I was not sure if I heard right.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘I was a train when I was a boy.’ I thought he meant he’d had a model train. But when I asked if that’s what he meant, he said, ‘No, I was a train.’ After this, he changed the subject, showing off the electronics in his new BMW. When I asked him about his being a train later, he said I must have heard him wrong. This is the only out-of-the-ordinary thing having to do with trains I can think of.” Mariya was staring at him, and a big smile spread across her face.

“But something made you think of it today. Something you have not yet told me.”

“Yes.”

For the last two days, Mariya had been on the phone, eventually discovering a St. Francis orphanage that had survived two wars but burned down in the year 1978. After calling various Catholic organizations, trying to locate anyone associated with the orphanage, she finally succeeded. Mariya went to the phone on the wall and brought back a pad of paper she had on a shelf. She flipped through several sheets, which Janos could see were filled with notes.

“You have been busy.”

Mariya smiled. “I simply did what you asked. Here is the result. In 1978, shortly before it burned down, St. Francis orphanage received a call from a railroad yard employee in Kiev reporting two boys wandering among railroad cars. The old priest I spoke to said he was certain Viktor and another boy boarded a train, because the militia could not find them. The problem is, trains leaving the yards at that time could have been going to Moscow or Minsk or Kharkiv or Rostov or Odessa, or even Lviv. Therefore, I found out the Catholic orphanage lost track of Viktor, and the old priest considered the possibility he was taken to a forced labor camp in Siberia.

“Then, as soon as the old priest said this, he recalled receiving a letter from Viktor. In the letter, Viktor said he missed the other boys but was happy where he was. He said he was living in a commune and admired the leader of the commune. He said to get to the commune, he had to go by boat, and he was frightened of boats … The priest was very old, you understand, and all of this came out in pieces. The priest said he specifically recalled that when other boys went on canoe outings on the river, Viktor refused to go. So he was frightened of boats even back then.”

Mariya put the notepad down and smiled.

“Boats,” said Janos. “A commune requiring a boat to reach it. Whenever a seemingly minor piece of information emerges in more than one place, I’ve learned to pay close attention. We have our Dnepr River so close by and so wide …”

Janos stood and went to the phone. “I’m going to try the Odessa number I found in Shved’s office again.”

“You don’t have to,” said Mariya. “I was getting to that. Between my other calls today, I tried the number several times. A few hours ago, a man answered. When I mentioned Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved, the man was silent, but did not hang up. At first I worried you had already reached someone at the number. But then the man finally asked what I wanted, and when he did, I simply told the truth. I said Shved was killed with my husband under mysterious circumstances and a close friend of Shved’s was investigating their deaths. He demanded your name. I hope I did the correct thing. I did not want him to hang up, so I gave him your name. I also gave him your cell phone number. He said he would call back later tonight to speak with you. When I demanded his name, he laughed and said, ‘the Pied Piper,’ before hanging up.”

Janos’ cell phone rang at midnight. He reached for it on the bedside table, where it rested beside Mariya’s quartz crystal. Janos had forgotten he had plugged in the phone’s charger, and almost pulled the crystal to the floor. He sat up in the dark and felt Mariya’s hand touch his back.

The Pied Piper’s voice was high-pitched, and he spoke in rapid Russian.

“Janos Nagy?”

“Yes.”

“What is your other name?”

“Gypsy.”

“Very well, Gypsy. I have investigated briefly. Shved has eaten his last McDonald’s hamburger. Do you take his place?”

“Yes.”

“It will cost two thousand euro.”

“What the hell do I get for that?”

“We end it here, or you provide two thousand euros.”

“Is the information worth it?”

“Shved thought it was.”

“Perhaps the information resulted in his death.”

“Perhaps,” said the Piper. “Valuable information is often dangerous.”

Janos turned on the table lamp, jotted a note in his notebook, and handed it to Mariya. The note read, “He wants two thousand euros.” Mariya nodded.

“Very well, Comrade Piper. When and where do we meet?”

“Kharkiv. Sunday morning at zero eight hundred in Shevchenko Gardens at his statue. You will need to take the early train from Kiev. Wear a Gypsy scarf so I will recognize you. The euros must be in large, crisp bills, but not too large or too crisp.”

“Of course. Would you like my scarf to be a certain color?”

Comrade Piper laughed. “Use the Gypsy imagination.” Then he hung up.

The shadows outside Lazlo’s Humboldt Park apartment had stretched thin as the sun prepared to set, when his cell phone rang. Lazlo saw the call was from Janos and immediately calculated the time difference in his head.

“Janos, I have finished dinner here; therefore, I know it is well after midnight there.”

“Greetings, Lazlo.”

There was a series of clicks, but not the tone associated with a lost signal.

“Janos, are you there?”

“Yes. I have moved closer to the window facing the cell tower. Old Russian steel embedded in the concrete of this apartment blocks signals.”

“You are not at your apartment?”

“Correct,” whispered Janos.

“I understand,” said Lazlo, switching to Hungarian. “The signal is now strong, and you may speak as softly as you like in the mother tongue.”

“Are you familiar with the Pied Piper fable?” asked Janos.

Lazlo recalled his recent meeting with Russell McCullum, who had retired from the State Department to a Frank Lloyd Wright home in Oak Park. Inside the prairie-style home with its high windows inviting the sky into the room, McCullum had shared a list of trafficking informants from around the globe. McCullum made a photocopy of the list for Lazlo, carefully blocking out the State Department headers and footers on each page. Lazlo had studied this list in preparation for his next contact with Janos. He had been tempted to call Janos with information about informants in Ukraine, but was now glad he had waited.

“Yes, I know this fable. He was supposed to rid Hamelin of rats, and when he did not receive his agreed-upon fee, he led the children to drown in the river. But this is not the Piper to which I refer. I have an Irish friend who knows of the name. It is one of many names in my friend’s list. If we were partners playing cards, we would now be in a good position because I have not shown my hand. Some on the list are themselves rats, and one must be careful.”

Janos said nothing but cleared his throat into the phone several times to let Lazlo know he was still there, thinking. Finally, Janos responded.

“This one wants to meet. Left bank. An overnight train to a city in which the mother tongues are not heard on the streets. I am to visit the garden of our beloved poet.”

“I understand,” said Lazlo, checking the list given him by McCullum. “Yes, this is home base. He has worked with the organization whose English acronym is sometimes dropped into the vodka glass here in the US before it is sipped at celebrations for aunts, uncles, cousins, and various other family members, alive or cold in their graves. We in the US are uncivilized when we drink vodka. If you understand my meaning, I will light a candle for you.”

“And I for you,” said Janos, which Lazlo knew meant Janos understood the message—
ICE
in vodka, the acronym for Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

“Janos?”

“Yes.”

“I may decide to visit our family in Ukraine in the near future.”

“Will we see one another?” asked Janos.

“Of course. I consider you and your friend close family.”

“How do you know about my friend?”

“I can hear it in your voice.”

After the usual patter of wishing all members of their imaginary family the best, Lazlo hung up. Because Janos had not objected to a visit, Lazlo knew the investigation was in a critical phase. Perhaps an elderly Ukrainian-American on a nostalgic journey could be of use.

Lazlo carefully folded the list of trafficking informants McCullum had provided, and buried it deep in his wallet. As he cleaned his meager dinner dishes at the sink, Lazlo tallied lists in his mind for his journey. Money belt, visa, passport, maps, and a few typical brochures for cathedrals and castles.

As the evening wore on, Lazlo was online, viewing various flights and stopovers from Chicago to Kiev. When searching for travel in Eastern Europe, pop-up ads for so-called “Pleasure Holidays” appeared. One ad mentioned Highway E-55 in the Czech Republic near the German border with its many brothels. Another ad showed images of beautiful “Russian” women, which Lazlo knew would be any good-looking Eastern European girl with blond hair and fair skin. Kiev had its share of “Pleasure Tours,” including strip clubs and casinos, many of which, he learned from McCullum, were currently run by a syndicate tied to the Russian Mafia.