In the Shadow of Mordor

by Michael R Davidson

  2 Americans. From the ancient Greek Πίνδος

  3 Leader

  CHAPTER 5

  The empty square glistened wet from rain, indifferent to the fact that Dzerzhinsky's enemies no longer filled it. The end of August in Moscow was predictably damp, and already an autumn chill was in the air. Olga stopped on the opposite side of the square in the shadow of the yellow brick façade of Lubyanka.

  Thanks to decisions taken behind these forbidding walls she could sleep peacefully at night. That orders to destroy entire buildings, knock them down like so many paper houses originated here was unthinkable.

  Her sense of participation in the fate of the country and nearness to power connected her to this building and the people inside, especially Gleb Solntsev. This was the beating heart of the strong and unassailable mechanism that daily protected the future of Russia.

  When she spoke with "regular" people, she used simple terms, with no ostentation, but with a special, slightly condescending dignity. She treated people correctly and with respect, almost on their level, but she spoke with authority. Sometimes she permitted herself some sincerity in the knowledge that these people would soak it up like a fur coat in the rain.

  The slightest indication of approval from members of the organization, the smallest gesture or nod of the head, confirmed her personal value.

  She rushed away from Vlad to find Solntsev to warn him about the filthy slander his enemies planned to publish. She found him surrounded by television cameras in the main hall giving an improvised press conference.

  After fifteen minutes, he made his way to the exit with an apology to the press that he had an important meeting with someone from the Ministry.

  She rushed after him. "Gleb, we have to talk. It's urgent."

  "I can't right now, Olga. I'll be in the office this evening after seven. Come then."

  Now, on Lubyanka Square, she had second thoughts about going to Solntsev's office. She was sure he had forgotten already about seeing her.

  But this was important. In only a few days terrible and slanderous "revelations" would be made public naming the man she held dearest a murderer and terrorist. She couldn't live without telling him. It was impossible to explain to people like Vlad how her entire being was defined by the organization. She had no choice but to warn Solntsev.

  She rushed along the sidewalk on Bol'shaya Lubyanka Street, past FSB Headquarters looming on the right. It was nearly three-quarters of a mile to the intersection with Sretenka Street, but she barely noticed the distance. "Svoi" maintained an office here hidden away from prying eyes inside a courtyard.

  Gleb was waiting for her.

  She spoke clearly and concisely, like a soldier reporting on an important mission. She told him how she knew Vlad, who his father was, and most importantly, the plan to slander Gleb in the press.

  The act of doing her duty produced nearly a physical catharsis, as though her energy were being renewed.

  Solntsev listened attentively. When she finished, he smiled and said, "I would never have believed that you knew the son of Sergey Illarionov. He's one of the most dangerous journalists in the country. I haven't figured out who he's working for, but for a long time now he's manufactured a wild and crazy campaign against key people. It's well known that his articles don't contain a grain of truth. But you know Goebbels' basic rule of propaganda: the more outrageous the lie, the easier it is to believe. Illarionov never bothers with evidence. He just makes a lot of noise and sows doubt in the hearts of our people."

  "So what's to be done about it?" Olga was alarmed. "He will cause a lot of trouble this time. A lot of people might believe him …"

  "Don't worry." He was unperturbed. "We have only one weapon on our side – the truth, and it is we who must deliver it. Sooner or later the entire web of slanderers will collapse upon itself. But I'm very grateful to you. You acted correctly. Now we know what to expect."

  Olga's alarm turned to pride. Gleb was strong and kind, as always, prepared to face any threat. "They should all be exiled," she said, surprising herself. "They are so arrogant."

  He only smiled and led her to the door.

  *****

  Dark thoughts consumed Solntsev. The information in Illarionov's hands could be published at any time. He shuddered like a criminal about to be caught, and this incensed him. What had this upstart dug up after fifteen years? Who did he know in Ryazan that might have helped him?

  He grabbed his jacket from a peg on the wall and hurried out of the office. He had to take action before it was too late.

  ****

  The day after the Kremlin affair, Vlad Illarionov was editing the video he had shot there, adding commentary where needed. He also spliced in scenes of "Svoi" activities not intended for public exposure.

  It was the end of the day by the time he turned to his computer to dredge up the news. "AT ILOVAYSKIY, THE DONBAS MILITIA DEALT A RESOUNDING BLOW TO THE KIEV JUNTA …" Propaganda.

  "THE PRICE OF OIL REACHED A TEN-YEAR LOW."

  "IN CHELYABINSK A CHILD FELL FROM A TENTH STORY WINDOW OF A MULTI-STORY BUILDING."

  A tautology right in the title, he thought, and then mentally chastised himself for being so accustomed to deaths in the news that the life even of a child had not affected him.

  The next headline jerked him upright in his chair" "LAST NIGHT IN THE RYAZAN PRISON FORMER FSB OFFICER VIKTOR TRETYAKOV COMMITTED SUICIDE …"

  His father had just returned from Ryazan. Vlad could not know for certain that it had been Tretyakov his father had met there – Sergey Illarionov never mentioned the names of his sources before publishing an article. But on the flickering screen of his monitor, the news about Tretyakov glowed like an omen.

  Someone in Ryazan told his father about Solntsev's crimes, someone who had worked with Solntsev in the past. So it could only be an FSB officer. Why would he have revealed such information to an opposition journalist?

  Vlad was seized by a quiet panic and paced the room trying to decide what to do. Call his father's cell phone? But what to say? "Papa, did you meet with a Viktor Tretyakov from the FSB?" But such things were not discussed on the phone. Besides, his father had likely already seen the news. He would know what to do. Maybe he could just call and ask when his father would be coming home. But this seemed childish. It was still light outside, and his father often was out until dark. He might be conducting an important interview.

  Vlad went to the window overlooking the courtyard. A thin line of trees between the building and the sidewalk lent some coziness to the two-room apartment. The leaves of an overgrown poplar brushed against the window sill.

  Vlad squinted through the leaves. From the fourth floor he had a good view of the iron frame of the toy rocket with its peeling paint, a relic of Soviet times. He had played in the courtyard as a child. Beyond the rocket was a new playground with a tall slide and large sandbox. There was a bench near-by, shaded by birches, where two mothers were smoking and drinking beer. They shouted occasionally at their children playing in the sand.

  He could hear the screech of the swings with their long metal beams and worn wooden seats. The swings, too, had been in the courtyard as long as Vlad could remember, and not once had they been lubricated. Now, as a child swung in vigorous arcs, they complained, clanging and screeching as though about to break apart.

  Vlad resumed editing his video in a vain attempt to quiet his fears. The last pre-twilight rays of the sun, filtered through a lacework of clouds, penetrated the room, and traversed the wallpaper, moving closer to Vlad's desk, but failed to reach it before disappearing into the carpet.

  After two more hours Vlad finally punched his father's number into his cell phone and listened to the far off ringing.

  "Papa, where are you?"

  "On my way home." Sergey Illarionov sounded in a good mood. "I was in Yasenevo, and you know how long it takes to get there. I took the subway this morning because it was quicker than the car. Now I'm taking a shortcut through the park. I'll be the
re in a half-hour."

  "It's not the best idea to be strolling through the park in the dark. Remember, there was a murder there not long ago. They're still writing about the 'Bittsevskiy Maniac.'"

  "He's long gone," replied Sergey. "There's little to fear in the woods while the biggest maniac of all is sitting in the Kremlin."

  Vlad chuckled with relief at his father's playful tone. He was abashed that he had become so agitated, like a frightened child. He went back to work and did not notice the passing time.

  After a half-hour passed he hesitated to call his father again, not wanting to play the fool. Perhaps Sergey had miscalculated the time it would take to get home. It normally took no more than an hour to walk the whole way through Bittsevskiy Park to Krasniy Mayok Street.

  His mother poked her head into the doorway. "Did you call papa? When will he get home?"

  "In a half-hour," Vlad lied, not wishing to alarm her.

  He decided to send a text message: Mama wants to know when you'll get here.

  There was no reply. After ten minutes he tried calling again. There was no answer.

  Car horns pierced the night-time silence, constant and unrelenting like alarums. Papa, where are you?

  Vlad stepped onto the balcony and lit a cigarette, something he did only when he needed to calm his nerves. The darkness on the street was relieved by weak cones of light from streetlamps, surrounded by gloom. Someone began to use the swing in the courtyard again, and from the deep, viscous darkness the scrape of the metal sounded like a cry for help.

  The night was deepening, and his father might well have fallen or turned his ankle – but if so, why didn't he call? Vlad would have gladly grabbed a flashlight and headed for the woods, but he knew full well that in the huge park he would be lucky to find anything by himself.

  After another half-hour his mother became seriously concerned. "When did you speak with him last?"

  "Two hours ago. He was in Bittsevskiy Park."

  "My God! And you said nothing all this time?"

  They called the police but were informed that people were not considered missing before three days had passed. "Are you sure he doesn't have a sweetheart on the side?" was the only comment of the indifferent police duty officer.

  Vlad would remember events of this night for the rest of his life. The scenes would repeat themselves minute by minute, over and over, indelibly imprinting the inevitability and helplessness of it all. His mother called her father and brother. Along with a good-hearted neighbor they armed themselves with flashlights and spread out among the many pathways of the woods. In some spots they crossed depressions full of mud from recent showers with the ends of fallen branches protruding from them. The night enveloped them in cold desperation, abetted by another shower driven by a wind that whined through the trees.

  It was Vlad who spotted the shapeless form lying face down at the foot of an old, cracked birch. He rushed to turn it over. In the flashlight's beam he recognized his father, beaten nearly beyond recognition. Viscous blood that had not yet been washed away by the rain fell in rivulets over his disfigured face.

  Vlad grabbed the lapels of the gore-covered jacket and tried to lift his father's body. One arm bent unnaturally as though instead of bones it was filled with straw.

  He cried out, not from terror, not from pain, but rather from an impotent wish to break through the hopeless wall of death, to reach his father, to call him out of this broken shell.

  His mother screamed behind him, and he heard his grandfather wail. From the corner of his eye he saw the quick gesture of his neighbor who pressed his hand to Sergey's throat to find a pulse, but Sergey's heart had stopped beating.

  Vlad knelt on the muddy earth and grasped his father's cold, muddy hand. From behind him, as though through a fog came his grandfather's words. "He was beaten … beaten to death … Dear God! Who could have done this?"

  Vlad stood unsteadily and embraced his mother. She needed his comfort now. His father's careless words echoed more loudly in his ears than his mother's sobs: "The biggest maniac of all is sitting in the Kremlin."

  That very maniac was behind every cruel blow that had beaten the life out of Sergey, behind the scum who gave the order and those who carried it out.

  He forced himself to look again at the battered body and resolved to find every one of his father's murderers if it took the rest of his life.

  Chapter 6

  Gorlovka, Ukraine

  The Ministry of State Security of the unrecognized Donetsk Peoples Republic (МГБ ДНР) (MGB DNR) was located in an unremarkable, Soviet-style gray building. It was the former quarters of the Ukrainian Security Service, the SBU (СБУ). Mihailo Korzh was challenged immediately by a guard, a sergeant of short stature with small, mean eyes.

  He held out his passport. "Mikhail Korzh. I'm expected." Best to use the Russian version of his name in this building. It might get him farther.

  The guard examined his documents and reluctantly wrote out a pass. "Go straight ahead then left to reception," he growled. "But first, empty your pockets and pass through the metal detector.

  One wall of the faceless lobby was decorated with the black-blue-red flag of the DNR. The entrance to the basement was guarded by two rough men who might be Serbs.

  Mihailo was long accustomed to the presence of Chechens and Serbs in his home town. Since February, thousands of Russian citizens, the majority of whom clearly belonged to the criminal classes, had flooded into his city with the braggadocio of an occupation force. Arrogant skinheads with swastika tattoos swaggered through the streets as though they owned everything and had come to oversee the conquered. They took over workers' quarters on the outskirts of town and came out in force to every pro-Ukrainian rally in the Donbas to start fights. Armed with knives and rebars from construction sites, intoxicated by their anonymity, inflamed by herd instinct, these gangs of bandits attacked unarmed groups of protesters and pitilessly beat them.

  On their heels arrived the new "leadership" - officers and workers of the Main Intelligence Directorate of the Russian Army, the GRU (ГРУ), in khaki uniforms, unshaven and with a strange gleam in their eyes – a mixture of idealistic fanaticism and greed. Upon arrival they took over the city with predatory and ruthless force. They confiscated transport, businesses, money, kidnapped people and demanded ransom, cracking down on anyone foolish enough to try to escape their indiscriminate plunder. They dealt in the same way with anyone who disagreed with them.

  Soon it was the Serbs' turn – wide shouldered, no longer young, veterans of the Yugoslavian wars, taciturn and cruel; without a word they got busy with arrests, torture, and firing squads. Chechens appeared at guard posts and on patrol with the terrifying appearance of merciless fighters with AK-47's at the ready.

  It seemed as if the very earth had opened and hell itself had sown terror and death throughout the city. Hunger was one of the results – empty store shelves, astronomical prices and the absence of salaries. The battle over water and electricity would come later.

  The local inhabitants watched with resignation as the familiar elements of civilization disappeared to be replaced by a monstrous amalgam of chaos and military drill. The once peaceful city became sluggish as it awaited its turn to become a battlefield …

  "Why do you need a pass?" The officer studied Mihailo from under lowered brows.

  "My son urgently needs an operation on his eyes. This was arranged in Kharkov before the war, but his turn came only now," replied Mihailo. The office was a normal room, impersonal and maybe too sparsely furnished for its size. The only thing to distinguish it was a map on the wall with red rectangles for houses and green patches for parks. Mihailo made an effort to memorize as much of the map as possible.

  "On his eyes?" the MGB officer asked again.

  Everything was upside down in this bizarre new world as though they had drifted into another dimension: criminals were soldiers, former civilians were on patrol, regular soldiers were in charge of security, and intelligen
ce officers headed the city administration. And here was this well-fed MGBnik, clearly a bored and annoyed junior army staff officer, speaking to him in a sing-song voice. "There are children here of real patriots who can't leave. With heart disease, by the way, who've waited years for surgery. But eyes? You must be kidding. Get him some glasses."

  Heart disease, in truth, was the first idea that had occurred when devising possible reasons for leaving. He didn't know any heart doctors, but he did have a friend who was an eye doctor.

  From a cupboard behind him the officer withdrew a bowl filled to the top with sugar and set it on the desk. He unceremoniously intended to drink some tea right in front of his guest. Mihailo swallowed the saliva that started in his mouth. There was no longer any sugar in the stores, and when some did appear at a market it was outrageously expensive. Mihailo barely restrained himself from dipping into the white crystals to stuff some in his mouth and more into his pocket to take home.

  Instead, he spoke, making an effort to inject some pathos into his words. "This is not to improve his sight. This is a special operation to prevent his getting worse. He suffers from terrible myopia, and if it gets worse, he could go completely blind."

  The officer reluctantly turned away from his recently charged cup to Mihailo. "What was your job at the Defense Ministry?"

  "I'm an artist. I designed all the decorations for military parades and the Victory Day celebrations. May 9," he specified, hoping to imply that the one day the Soviets had proclaimed for the celebration of the end of WWII was somehow sacred to him. "I don't know any secrets," he added. "I only painted pictures, wall decorations, devised ways to decorate parade routes."

  "You saw all our weapons," cut in the officer. "You saw the weapons selected for parades, what was there and what was not, where weapons are stored, the types and quantities of heavy weaponry."

  "But I know nothing about that. And anyone who saw the parade saw those weapons."

  The officer gave him a dubious stare as he sipped his tea. "No," he said, not wanting to accept the responsibility. "I can't make such a decision. Permit you to travel to territory occupied by the Kiev junta? In time of war? I can't. You must go to the head office in Donetsk. Let them decide."