Traffyck (40 page)

“It is this way,” he said, switching to Hungarian. “Whether we are lost or not, we did not come in here to fuck with you or your mothers.”

“He is Hungarian!” shouted one of the men.

“But you are looking for something,” said Barabás, also in Hungarian. “I followed you long enough to know.”

“We are looking for missing young people,” said Janos.

“Missing young people?” said one of the older men, laughing.

“What the hell do you think we are?” said another. “I only wish Natashas were here.”

“I’m an investigator from Kiev,” said Janos. “I received a tip about this peninsula. Someone I trusted said I might find young people being kept here.”

“No one is here but us,” said Barabás. “Have you seen any young people, Vajda?”

“Only my own,” said Vajda, one of the old men, grinning. “The she-wolf sent them to fetch me. But I climbed a tree. That was a long time ago.”

The old man, Vajda, had broken the tension. Everyone calmed down. The two who had been circling squatted once again at the fire.

“Are you men Hungarian or Romany?” asked Janos.

“A little of both,” said Barabás. “We are unemployed Transylvanians with nowhere to go. During summer, we lived by fishing in the river delta. But now with winter coming—”

“We are both part Hungarian,” said Janos, pulling Mariya close as the men eyed her. “This woman’s husband was murdered not long ago. Have any of you ever heard of an investigator named Aleksandr Vasilievich Shved?”

Suddenly the men broke into laughter, passing a bottle around, saying they remembered Shved had asked the same thing about young people, but not in such a direct fashion. When Janos told them Shved was dead, the men became sad and silent, until one old man brought out a glass and poured vodka. He took a gulp and then offered the bottle and glass to Janos and Mariya. Janos’ gun stayed in its holster. The men knew nothing about missing young people. The vodka bottle and the glass made its way around. It was paint thinner vodka, and Mariya took only a sip while pretending to take a gulp.

“There are a few other peninsulas in this estuary,” said Barabás, trying to be helpful. “But those are too small to support even Gypsies like us. We wished we could have helped your friend when he was here, and we wish we could help you.”

Janos and Mariya moved closer to the fire. Janos asked a few more questions, such as whether Shved had said where he was going next. When his questions led nowhere, he let the men talk.

They spoke of freedom from government and freedom from the militias of bordering countries. The two older men yearned for Soviet times. The three younger men yearned for travel. Mariya could see, by the smile on Janos’ face, that he both envied and pitied them.

“Do you know who owns this land?” asked Janos.

“A church,” said Barabás. “When the republics broke up, they took what they could get. They fence it off for Christ. I should know. I once hung with him!”

Everyone laughed at this, and the bottle went around twice more until it was empty.

In the rowboat on their way back to the cabin, Mariya sat next to Janos, and they each took an oar. They rowed a crooked course toward the light glowing from the cabin. When they got inside, she stooped with Janos at the fireplace while he built a fire. After the fire was roaring, Mariya turned out the light, pulled the thick, down-filled comforter from the bed, and spread it on the floor in front of the hearth. The fire was hot, and Janos unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Mariya smiled and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.

“We found nothing on the peninsula,” said Mariya. “What will we do next?”

“Go to bed.”

“Shouldn’t we search the cabin for anything Shved might have left behind?”

“We’ll do it at daybreak when we can see better.”

Janos stood and pulled Mariya up. They took the comforter, warm from the fire, with them. In bed, away from the heat of the fire, they embraced and kept warm for the night.

The cabin shower spit lukewarm water like a swimmer surfacing. The bar of soap was shrunken and cracked as if from an archaeological dig. Janos wondered who else had used the soap. Perhaps Shved, perhaps a Soviet officer or a KGB agent, perhaps a Jew searching for remnants of family history following the Holocaust, perhaps a Nazi officer. The shower stall was very old with a worn marble floor. The walls, originally cedar, were patched with bits of wood and aluminum. How many had died while this shower stall survived? It reminded Janos of the sarcophagus at Chernobyl, and how many lives would come and go during its lifetime.

After his shower, Janos went to the lodge office while Mariya showered and dressed. His cell phone had no signal at the cabin or at the lodge. By providing a substantial tip and much praise for the cabin and lodge, Janos convinced Guzun to bring out his last bill from the telephone company. Janos copied three calls Shved had made while at the lodge. Among the numbers Shved called were those of Viktor Patolichev’s video store and the apartment of Elena Dobrin, Shved’s girlfriend. Another number was an Odessa area code, and when Janos called the number, he got the information desk at the airport in Odessa.

Janos then called Svetlana Kovaleva at Kiev militia headquarters.

“Do not tell me where you are,” said Svetlana. “I do not want to know.”

“Is there anything new?”

“Plenty is new,” said Svetlana. “The SBU has put you on their wanted list.”

“For what?”

“The minor reason is because they want to question you about the murders in Kharkiv. The major reason is because you are suspected in the kidnapping of Mariya Nemeth.”

“We went into hiding.”

“I know,” said Svetlana. “But Chudin is not happy. The SBU blames his men, who were supposed to be watching her apartment. In any case, how is Mariya Nemeth?”

“She is good, Svetlana.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You, Janos, are also good. Therefore, I will give you news about recent inquiries into developments in Nikolai Kozlov’s investigation of the video store fire. He has information on Shved’s travels.”

“I’m listening, Svetlana.”

“Shved was billed for an unusual trip prior to his death. He flew to Odessa, rented a car for three days, and then flew back to Kiev for a connecting flight to Chernigov, where he rented another car.”

“What is so unusual about the trip?” asked Janos.

“The airline billed Shved for an unused, unreturned ticket. He was not on the return flight from Chernigov to Kiev. This was two days before he died in the fire. Therefore, Shved returned to Kiev another way. Also, Shved did not retrieve his mail. His Kiev post office box was full.” Svetlana’s voice softened, and he knew someone had interrupted. “That is all for now.”

When Svetlana hung up, Janos called Elena Dobrin. She answered after several rings.

“Um?”

“Elena, I woke you. You must be working late at The Basket of Plenty. This is Janos.”

“Are you calling about… my precious Shved?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Please think back to the days before he was killed. You said he called.”

“Yes, he called,” said Elena, her voice shaky. “I told the militia about it. Shved said he was flying home the next day.”

“What about calls before that?”

“Before he was due in Kiev?” She paused, started to speak, her voice catching. “Damn you, Janos! What a way to awaken me! All I can think about is the last time we spoke!”

“I’m truly sorry, Elena. Words do no good. Finding out who killed Shved is what I want. He was in Odessa before he flew to Kiev and on to Chernigov. He must have called you from Odessa. Perhaps you recall something he said. Think of your own experiences, Elena. Did Shved say anything about traffickers, or a location to which young people are taken?”

“You know how to pull the rug from beneath my past,” said Elena, speaking slowly. “Yes, some of the things Shved said when he called from Odessa came close to my past. I knew he had spoken with recruiters. I knew he had managed to pose as a customer and speak with a fresh recruit. You are a devil, Janos. You are much like Shved. Speaking with you, I feel I am speaking with Shved. Sometimes we did not need to use words…” Elena paused, took a deep breath before continuing. “Shved sniffed out a trail. It led north to Chernigov. From there, I can only say there was mention of what they call
Chernobyliski byznis.”

“People who make money in the Zone?”

“Yes. That’s all I know. Now you are Shved. Please do not die, Janos Nagy.”

“I will not die, Elena.”

When Janos returned to the cabin, he saw Mariya sitting on the bed reading a Bible. Without looking up, she said, “It was in a drawer. It is Orthodox. I found something written on a certain page. I don’t know why I would look at this page. Why would I do this?”

Mariya looked up. “The page number coincides with the address number of the video store. It is as if Shved wanted me, or perhaps Viktor, to find it. This is insane.”

“What is written on the page?” asked Janos.

“It is in the Cyrillic alphabet, just like the Bible. If one were to flip through the Bible or even glance at this page, the note would appear to be part of the text, two lines at the bottom that were poorly printed. It says, ‘Go by way of the river to the Zone.’ It says, ‘Chernigov, Slavutich, and between Vasyleva and Tuzar, cross to the peninsula.’“

Mariya handed the open Bible to Janos. It was indeed in Cyrillic, written very carefully in an attempt to match the Bible typeface.

Mariya held up a map. “This Ukraine map was also in the drawer. The drive from here to Chernigov would be more than eight hundred kilometers. It is at least a ten- to twelve-hour drive. I don’t know if I pronounce the small towns correctly. But they are here on the map.”

Janos took the map and studied it. “It’s still early in the day. We can return the car, then drive. It would be early morning but still dark when we arrived.”

“I suppose we have no choice but to go,” said Mariya.

On the way out of the cabin, Janos tore the page out of the Bible and put it into his inside pocket with his portable GPS. Then he thought of someone finding the Bible with a page missing, stuffed the Bible inside his bag, and turned off the light switch.

“Wait,” he said, and went back inside.

He turned the light back on, and when he did, the wall switch plate jiggled loosely. It had not been loose when they’d arrived. He remembered feeling for the switch, and it had not been loose.

Janos motioned Mariya to stay outside, turned the light back on, and took a coin from his pocket. He removed the switch plate slowly, saw what he needed to see, and put the plate back loosely. Before leaving the cabin, he spoke loudly to Mariya. “This cottage is just like the saying! It is at the edge. Perhaps we should play wolves and run into the woods for awhile!”

On their way up the hill to the car, he told Mariya about the bug. “I have used the device myself. It has about a kilometer range and uses the hot-wire line for antenna and power.”

“Janos, when we were going out to the peninsula last night, I thought I saw the light go out momentarily. I thought it was a tree. And when we got back, I turned out the light and should have noticed. I should have said something.”

“But I flipped the switch when we first arrived,” said Janos. “How would you have known it had not been loose when we arrived? Besides, if they want to bug someone, they can always manage.”

“Who?”

“SBU, Mafia, or perhaps a trafficking network. Whoever it was heard everything we said. And they are close by.”

“So why did you shout about a cottage and wolves?” asked Mariya.

“I tried a couple of Ukrainian idioms to confuse them. The cottage on the edge … not knowing anything. And what we’re doing not being a wolf … implying we can get back to our investigation later. I’m also hoping your mispronunciation of the smaller towns helped.”

“We didn’t mention the camper van,” said Mariya.

“I know,” said Janos, throwing their small bags into the backseat of the Fiat. “We will see how fast this car can go and get rid of it.”

At first, the road back to the campground outside Kilija was flat and relatively straight. They could see the dark van about a half kilometer back. As Janos slowed, Mariya prayed the van contained bird watchers who would pass them. But the van stayed back. And then, when Janos accelerated hard and put the Fiat into fifth gear, the van kept up, staying a half kilometer back. Mariya leaned over and looked at the Fiat’s gauges. As the engine of the little car screamed, the speedometer needle approached one hundred fifty kilometers, the maximum.