Traffyck (52 page)

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

Deep in the woods, Lazlo felt the string of garlic about his neck and occasionally caught a whiff. The light of day grew high in the trees as Lazlo followed Vasily along an overgrown trail.

Time had collapsed, reminding Lazlo of the distant past. Vasily was young, the same age as Lazlo when he was in the Soviet Army long before Chernobyl and the destruction of so many lives. He recalled being put in the situation of having to kill another boy his age simply because he could speak Hungarian. He and his partner had been assigned in 1963 to arrest deserters near the Hungarian and Romanian borders. Boys assigned to hunt down boys who deserted their ground forces draft obligation. Boys killing boys because their officers were still angry with Khrushchev and his Cuban missile fiasco. And now here he was, decades later, following another boy to meet with his friend Janos, who worked for a woman whose husband had been murdered.

It was the circle of life and death. He could feel it in his chest.

Suddenly, Vasily stopped in the path, and Lazlo could hear whispers ahead at the shoreline. Lazlo knew before he saw him. Janos was here. But also, not far away, toward the tip of the peninsula, a man with a deep voice was shouting.

Vasily moved ahead slowly, his rifle at the ready, and when they came upon a man and woman pulling an inflatable boat onto shore, Janos turned and saw Lazlo.

Lazlo walked slowly forward, reached out to lower Vasily’s rifle, and saw the smile on Janos’ face. As they hugged, Lazlo saw the woman named Mariya smile toward Vasily, who stared at her with fascination as if she were the first woman he had ever seen.

Mariya, Janos, Lazlo, and Vasily cut their introductions short and improvised, agreeing to observe and go from there. During their brief discussion, Mariya realized Vasily knew of her husband’s death but had not taken part in it. The question of who actually killed Viktor no longer mattered because there were many young lives at stake, and there was no way out but forward. And so, the four took the guns they had and crept slowly and quietly north toward the tip of the peninsula.

Mariya carried one of the silenced pistols from the men on the left bank. Janos carried his own pistol and the AK-47 left by the muscular young man who’d escaped after Mariya had killed Zoltan. When Mariya and Janos described the young man, Vasily told them his name was Ivan— the one who had headed the attacks in the Romanian mountains, in Kiev, and in other cities. Lazlo carried the other silenced pistol stolen from the left bank and kept his Makarov in his shoulder holster.

Janos said they should not bunch together. They spread out, the men insisting Mariya watch behind them. There were multiple paths, and Vasily led the way, stepping high to avoid dragging his feet through the weeds. In less than a kilometer, they stopped because there were men’s voices nearby, to the left.

“This way,” whispered Vasily. “There is a slight rise near the beach.”

When Vasily and the others dropped to their hands and knees, Mariya did the same but kept her distance, as she had been told. It was almost sunrise, and Janos had left the night vision binoculars behind. Mariya had taken the flashlight and put it in the back pocket of her jeans because it was heavy enough to be used as a club.

Suddenly, the sound of boots passed close by, and because she was back from the rise, she could see two men running toward the beach beyond the rise. The men had rifles slung over their shoulders, but both of their faces were hidden because they each carried a bundle of clothing. Mariya recognized the legs of blue jeans and the arms of sweatshirts dangling, the same kind of jeans and sweatshirt Vasily wore.

Vasily was closest to the top of the rise, on his stomach. After the two men passed, he slid backwards down the hill, and all three came back to where Mariya watched the rear.

“Everyone is on the beach in their night clothes, and the guards are making them dress.” Vasily hesitated. “The Chernobyl survivors must be in their cabin. It is bad on the beach. I counted twenty-two men with rifles, some of them AKs.”

“What do you suggest?” whispered Janos.

“I don’t know,” whispered Vasily.

“I realize it is difficult,” whispered Lazlo, “but we should separate. Perhaps one of us should go back to the boat and come in that way while the other three—”

An object bouncing down the embankment stopped Lazlo. Mariya watched as Lazlo tried to climb over Janos and Vasily, and then there was a loud explosion and sand in her face.

When the sand cleared, Mariya saw Lazlo, still trying to crawl over Vasily and Janos. He had his AK-47 aimed when two men came over the rise, and he shot them both. Another came from the left. Lazlo turned to fire, but the man fired first, hitting Vasily, who was beneath Lazlo. Lazlo peppered this man, but two more came, plus several from the right. Mariya shot one man, but now there were five … seven … ten. The men were spread out, lying on the other side of the embankment, their rifles aimed. No words were spoken. Lazlo lowered his rifle and raised his hands, looking back to Mariya and nodding to signal her to do the same.

Janos was shot in his right arm, and Vasily was shot in his left leg. Both of them, and Lazlo, had facial lacerations from the grenade. Two men grabbed Mariya from behind. Guns were kicked away and collected. Men dragged Janos and Vasily over the hill, followed by several with guns behind her and Lazlo.

“Do not make sudden moves,” whispered Lazlo in Hungarian.

One of the men behind kicked Lazlo’s legs, and he fell. The men waited while he stood, and they were marched into the crowd on the beach while Vasily was dragged and Janos was shoved, the man purposely pushing at Janos’ wounded arm.

As Mariya was dragged past them, the young people on the beach stared up at her with eyes empty of emotion. The guards leered at her. Suddenly, the four of them were presented like trophies to three old men. The largest of the three, dressed in an old Army uniform and carrying a rifle, raised his hand in greeting.

“Welcome to the Zone!” he shouted in Ukrainian. “I see you have murdered some of my men. How uncivilized! They were mercenaries for the Motherland. But still, we should have introductions!”

After introducing himself as “Maxim Vakhabov, Soldier of Reconciliation,” he introduced Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov and Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza, bowing to them in an obvious show of ridicule.

One man digging through pockets found Janos’ GPS and tossed it to Vakhabov, who put it in one of his many pockets. Vakhabov smiled and scanned his men. Most were on the beach guarding the young people who were still pulling on jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers. The rest of his men guarded the four who stood before him. Vakhabov’s men murmured among themselves and were obviously restless.

“It is like a film spectacle!” shouted Vakhabov. “A fight to the finish, and we have finished it! It is like the end time! Unfortunately, several of my men have died, and we will need to burn them up with the others.”

Vakhabov looked beyond Mariya. “You! Bring that other murderer of my men! What is her name?”

One of the guards shouted back. “They called her Lena!”

“What a beautiful name,” said Vakhabov scornfully. He pointed to Mariya. “Now we have two beauties of the proper age. What is that age?”

“In Kiev, Chernigov, Kharkiv, or Tashkent, they are foxes!” yelled one of the men.

“Very good,” said Vakhabov. “In order to mean business, please, lieutenants, take the two foxes over there and prepare them for their new and productive life!”

Mariya struggled, kicking a man and landing her fist in the face of another, but it was no use. A punch in her stomach and boots kicking behind her knees brought her down. They carried her and the young woman named Lena onto a sandy mound some distance away, but still within view of everyone on the beach. The men threw them down, one holding each arm and each leg, while others pulled off Mariya’s and Lena’s jeans, a leg at a time.

Lazlo had met Mariya only minutes earlier when she and Janos came ashore. The young woman named Lena he had met moments ago when she, too, was dragged to Vakhabov. Mariya was here trying to find out who killed her husband and, according to Janos, also trying to help the young people being held captive. Lena was a captive accused of killing two of Vakhabov’s men.

When Vakhabov’s men began taking turns raping Mariya and Lena, Lazlo felt anger as never before. The anguish confronting his loved ones from Chernobyl had been terrible, but not like this! Except for his brother, who died a quick death shortly after the explosion, the women in his life died slowly from radiation. Not like this, by humiliation and condemnation to a life of slave prostitution! Even the KGB major, who tried to create a conspiracy in 1986, had tortured Lazlo and his cousin Bela rather than the women and children. This was too much to bear! And, worse, he felt Janos’ anguish. He could hear it—Janos emitting a low growl.

Up on his mound with Pyotr Alexeyevich Andropov and Father Vladimir Ivanovich Rogoza, Vakhabov took out a cell phone and opened it. “Cell phones do not work here!” He pointed to Andropov. “This one has computers for his trafficking operation. Perhaps he can send e-mail! He is a trafficker getting even with other traffickers while using so-called ‘good works’ for cover!” He pointed to Rogoza. “This one is a priest in the
traffyck byznis
!
“

To Lazlo, it seemed as if Vakhabov meant to justify the brutality of his men. The idiotic speech gave Lazlo a chance to think before he shouted out to him.

“I am an American! I work with US intelligence agencies! I personally know members of the FBI, CIA, NSA, ICE, and even the SBU here in Ukraine. If you do not stop, they will be down upon you like vultures on your flesh. I have a homing device in the car I drove. They will come soon. Stop your men before it’s too late!”

As if in answer to Lazlo’s threat, the sounds of motors revving at high speed came from the reservoir. Everyone except the men busy with their assault on Mariya and Lena turned to the river. Two gray inflatable boats like the one Janos and Mariya had used sped toward shore. But before they could beach, Vakhabov raised his rifle toward the boats and made a motion to his men on the beach. The men with AK-47s immediately turned and fired off hundreds of rounds. The two boats turned at high speed, headed south out of range, and kept going.

Lazlo pulled his right arm free and reached out toward Vakhabov, trying to get to him, but the guards held him back. When Lazlo turned to look to Janos, he saw the tears, swung his arm out, and put his hand on Janos’ shoulder. The guard between them, busy watching the rapes and the boats speeding away, did not pull Lazlo’s hand away.

Suddenly, Janos seemed to realize Lazlo had hold of his shoulder and stared at him. Yes, he and Janos were one. When the time came, they would sacrifice themselves to even the score. Helpless, Lazlo was reminded of boyhood and his father’s oft-repeated oath when recalling Stalin’s reign in Ukraine: “Blood brought to boil will not bleed out onto the ground!”

The shouting and screaming during the rape of the two women expanded into the crowd on the beach. Young people shouted protests. Guards ordered to stay in position alternately cheered their comrades on and cursed their own absence from the two women held spread-eagled and helpless. Several young men on the beach stood and stepped forward, but guards clubbed them down with the butts of their rifles. Despite his past errors in judgment, Pyotr despised this open show of abuse and wondered if there was a way he could take advantage of the situation.