Traffyck (34 page)

When Janos returned to the camper van that afternoon, he told Mariya about his meeting with Gennady Vorobey. Then he got out a detailed Ukraine map and the names and numbers of the lodges and resorts he had copied from the brochures found in Shved’s car. Together, at the camper van’s small dinette tucked in behind the driver’s seat, Janos and Mariya studied the southwest finger of Ukraine with Moldova on one side, the Black Sea on the other side, and the Danube Delta and the border with Romania at its tip. There were many lakes formed by the delta. But near the town of Kilija was the village of Vasylivka that Vorobey had mentioned. North of the village was a small peninsula sticking out into Lake Kytaj.

Mariya pointed to the far west side of the map. “There is a city also named Vasylivka on the Dnepr River. To me, it seemed when he spoke of his fear of boats, Viktor meant a river rather than a lake.”

“But Vorobey definitely said it was the village near Kilija, and the lakes in the region are all part of the Danube River Delta. Perhaps this is part of a trafficking trail. Like Albanians using high-speed inflatable boats to cross the Adriatic Sea, traffickers here would be able to cross the Danube in many places.”

Mariya leaned close to Janos’ side of the map. “Or they could travel up the river and take the Dun?rea River tributary into the heart of Romania, and from there, on to Turkey.”

After studying maps and brochures, Janos retrieved his violin from the bottom of the camper van’s closet. He tuned the violin and stood looking in the narrow mirror mounted to the closet door. Mariya watched and listened as Janos played a tune Mariya had heard as a child when she visited her grandfather and he put on a record for her.

When Janos finished the tune, he loosened the tension on the bow and gently, as if handling a baby, put the violin back in its velvet-lined case, and the case back in the closet. Then he sat across from her.

“It would be best if I went on this trip alone. Instead of flying, I would drive the seven hundred kilometers in less than ten hours.”

“What would you drive?” asked Mariya. “You cannot take my car or your car. This home on wheels is all that is left. I assume you used a false name during the rental process?”

“Yes,” admitted Janos.

“So, it is settled,” said Mariya. “I have already been in the position of thinking you were killed, and I will not do it again. We will share the driving. If you play with fire, I will be there.”

Janos smiled. “We should leave now. I’ll disconnect the electrical and water lines while you fasten everything down.”

“Do you really think a camp for children and young people in the region could go back far enough for Viktor to have been there?”

“Anything is possible. And because we don’t have enough evidence to contact the militia or the SBU for help, I say we have no choice.”

At a motorist stop along E-95 south of Kiev, Janos used a pay phone to call Kiev militia headquarters. When he discovered Svetlana Kovaleva was off duty, he called her apartment.

“Do not tell me where you are,” said Svetlana. “I don’t want to know. Chief Investigator Chudin said you might have something to do with the men found dead in Kharkiv. Is that true?”

“Yes, it’s true.”

“This is quite praiseworthy,” said Svetlana sarcastically.

“What do you mean?”

“Normally, Chudin restricts inside information. But today he hints I should pass some along. He thinks powerful elements are after you. Apparently his contact at the SBU agrees.”

“If you mean Yuri Smirnov, he and I already had a meeting.”

“I know,” said Svetlana. “Chudin told me.”

“Svetlana, are they tracing my cell phone?”

“Both yours and Mariya Nemeth’s. The SBU runs the system, and Smirnov is not certain the information stops in his building.”

“I’m surprised Chudin told you so much.”

“So am I,” said Svetlana. “I can only assume he and Smirnov at the SBU are concerned for your safety. Chudin is angry about Shved’s death. He said you were both fine militia investigators. He does not like what has happened with you and Mariya Nemeth. He even mentioned Father Rogoza’s television propaganda.”

“Thank him for me.”

“I will, Janos. One more thing. The BMW you chased from your informant’s hotel was stopped east of Darnytsya. One man was caught.”

“Have they been able to get him to talk?”

“No, Janos. He used a lethal dose of cyanide hidden in his mouth. They never made it to Kiev militia headquarters. He had no identification, and there were no fingerprint matches. He was a young man in his twenties, and the BMW was stolen. There was a baseball cap in the car with the name Leonid sewn on the inside band.”

After the call to Svetlana, Janos and Mariya stopped at an all-night shopping center in the city of Bila Cerkva and found a package shipping store. Janos shipped both of their cell phones to Svetlana with a note asking her to make a few calls around Kiev, and then turn the phones off. Recalling Svetlana’s mention of his new friend, Janos signed the note, “With love from both of us to both of you, Gypsy.”

While Janos took care of the shipping, Mariya purchased new phones at a phone kiosk.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

Lazlo was packed, a rolling suitcase with carry-on bag strapped on top standing at attention like a resolute soldier at his door. Outside his apartment window, morning traffic hurried past, rolling over the worn-away bloodstain where Jermaine had been killed. The delivery van driver, at a brief appearance before a judge, had been given a fine and sent to drivers’ school. The driver was a young man of only nineteen—yet another example of boys killing boys—and Lazlo wondered how the driver’s life would be changed.

While it was morning in Chicago, it would be late afternoon in Kiev. Lazlo took his cell phone from his pocket, selected Janos’ name from the list, and placed the international call.

A woman answered in Ukrainian, “Yes?” The voice sounded tentative, yet familiar.

“Is Janos there?”

“He is unavailable,” said the woman. “May I take a message?”

“Tell him I am on my way to visit aunts, uncles, and cousins.”

“Aunts, uncles, and cousins?” asked the woman, not as puzzled as one would expect.

“He will know the meaning.”

“I see your name displayed. He has spoken of you.”

“Has he given you a message to pass on to me?” asked Lazlo.

“Is this an obscene call?” asked the woman sharply.

“An obscene call?”

“You heard me! If it is, I can report you to the Kiev militia! Perhaps you have stolen the phone to make this call! The government has ways to trace predators! I should know! Do you understand my meaning? I am acquainted daily with members of Kiev’s militia! Soon, comrade predator, they will be calling you! Therefore, my suggestion would be to hang up and think what you have done!”

It took a moment after the woman hung up before Lazlo realized the underlying message. Cell phones could be traced, not only the calls interrupted, but the location triangulated using cell towers and computers. Perhaps the woman who answered the phone was the woman Janos was with when he last called. Or perhaps Janos had left his phone with a woman he could trust. A strong and familiar voice had said, “I should know!” A woman who had been a fresh recruit in the Kiev militia at the same time Janos was a fresh recruit back in 1985 before Chernobyl. Svetlana Kovaleva. Janos was in danger and had left his phone with Svetlana Kovaleva!

Lazlo turned the power off on his cell phone and put it inside the cabinet where he kept his Hungarian and Ukrainian music CDs. The phone would be of no use outside the US. In Kiev, he would rent or purchase a temporary phone. He assumed by now Janos had done the same, leaving his phone in Kiev with someone he could trust. Perhaps telepathy would be possible someday, a skull implant so two Gypsies could converse without making waves.

Then suddenly, as if telepathy
were
taking place, Lazlo realized his error. If Janos had a new cell phone, how would
he
get the number? He had just spoken with Svetlana Kovaleva! Her harsh words had meaning!
Soon, comrade predator, they will be calling you!
Yes, this meant she or someone else would soon get a message to him.

Lazlo went to the cabinet, retrieved his cell phone, and plugged it into its charger. He would take the phone with him. If he received no call before leaving the continental United States, he would dispose of it, perhaps in a locker in New York. But now he felt there would be a call before his New York flight left for Ukraine.

Lazlo went to his house phone and called the local Ukrainian cab service, ordered a ride to O’Hare Airport, then stood back at the window. As he waited, he felt the tug of his childhood home in western Ukraine, and also the tug toward Kiev where he had worked so many years. Last time he was in Kiev, he had seen evidence of rollerblade and graffiti subcultures. But Ukraine would always be the home of his ancestors no matter the effects of westernization.

Pyotr did not speak often, but this evening during dinner he spoke at length of earlier times when the orphans they cared for were children rather than young adults. He ventured into religious territory, quoting the Russian Orthodox Bible. When the meal was over, Pyotr was still at it, causing many to doze off because of their earlier daytime pill combined with drugs put into their food. Lena, Nadia’s mentor, had warned Nadia about mealtime drugs. Because they took food reserved for older members, Lena and Nadia remained alert.

Nadia enjoyed listening to Lena’s adventures outside the compound—the men setting a fire here or planting a bomb there, and demanding sex afterwards. Adventures off the peninsula were better than being a sex slave because the men were young and handsome and waited until the time was right. According to Lena, the attacks were aimed at murderers and traffickers.

Life in the compound wasn’t so bad compared to when Nadia was thrown into the back of a van in Kiev and ended up in Moldova where fat men demanded sixty-nine. Or when she and the other two girls and Guri were taken to the pornographers in Romania, who forced them to perform all manner of acts including every bodily function and orifice.

When she came of age, Nadia hoped she would be able to have some fun with the boys during adventures off the peninsula. Coming of age here had nothing to do with physical age. Nadia learned several weeks earlier that Lena was only a year older. Coming of age here meant caring for the helpless orphans, preparing for the so-called afterlife, and, with any luck, getting in on some adventure. Lena taught her well, this morning confiding to her that the compound had once been a training ground for girls to be trafficked to other countries. But because of Pyotr’s religious enlightenment, all this had changed.

The honor given Pyotr by veteran members was understandable, considering most had come from street life and had once been in the hands of traffickers who beat or raped them into submission. Nadia rolled onto her side and reached out toward the next bunk. She found Lena’s hand and squeezed it gently as the comforting warmth of the potent sleeping pill took effect.