"Donetsk? But I have a child, don't you understand? I'm guilty of what? Painting a few damned pictures? I only want to help my family. I just need to go to Kharkov and back. It's the same New Russia we live in. I'm sure that soon we will liberate Kharkov."
"Well, then, when we liberate it, then you can go there."
Mihailo would recognize that significant and feigned unconcern from miles away. He'd encountered this unfortunate fact of life in Ukraine many times even before the war.
The officer was fishing for a bribe.
Mihailo sighed. Professionial intelligence operatives in such situations always have a handy bag of money near-by, but the Ukrainian "Donbas" volunteer battalion in which he served lacked such resources. People from Ukrainian villages provided food, medicines, clothing, even uniforms, handed over old binoculars, night vision equipment, army boots, and once they had even come up with an armored transport vehicle, a "BMP." Any money they came up with went for equipment or assistance to refugees from the occupied cities. There was nothing for bribing the occupying forces.
Mihailo pulled his last paper money out of his pocket and held it out awkwardly to the Chekist who peered at it from the corner of his eye as he calculated whether he should take it or pretend to be insulted. After a slight hesitation he took the crumpled hryvna and said, "I simply can't help. You don't have much … justification here. But I can write a letter of recommendation to Donetsk. And one of our boys can take you there. Maybe you can get it all taken care of today."
One had to be philosophical. Something was better than nothing.
The car was a standard "UAZ" with its doors bearing a hastily painted DNR flag. The reason for the art work was most likely not the particularly zealous separatist patriotism of the driver, but rather a precaution against being shot at a road block. He knew of at least two instances of fighters confiscating cars from staunch Russian sympathizers. In one, when the driver protested, they beat him and then killed his younger brother to prevent them going over to the other side. And there was the danger of falling under "friendly fire." Not a single separatist had been punished.
Behind the wheel was a friendly young man, clearly a local. He grinned broadly at Mihailo and nodded toward the seat next to him. Mihailo got in without a word. He couldn't be sure whether this fellow, who appeared not at all threatening, might be an enemy. They might have played together as children at one of the schools in the Old Quarter, as the Solnechniy area was known. They might have watched movies on the big screen in the square at the city center. How could it be that this young man worked for the worst of the occupiers?
The driver navigated the checkpoint without a problem with neither of them speaking. Mihailo couldn't think of anything appropriate to say.
"Why are you going to Donetsk?" asked the driver.
"I need an exit pass." His companion wanted to talk, and it would be necessary to gather his strength and get to work. "My son needs an operation on his eyes in Kharkov."
"Why didn't they give you a pass here?" The driver was suspicious. "My name's Vasiliy, by the way."
"Because, Vasya, I worked in the DNR Ministry of Defense, and they just don't give passes to such people." He said nothing about being an artist.
"OK," said Vasiliy, now with the camaraderie due a colleague. "I won't ask what your job was, but I hope they give you a pass," he added with unexpected sympathy.
"Why is that?"
"Because soon enough everything here will be blown sky high."
"Really?"
"Didn't you hear that yesterday they blew up the bridge? The day before yesterday it was the reservoir."
"Of course, I heard," sighed Mihailo, doing his best to act cold blooded. "It's because the 'ukropi' (dill pickles) are attacking."
He was accustomed to calling his fellow Ukrainians 'ukropi,' all in all a relatively inoffensive term from the rich arsenal of curses with which the separatists were so generous.
"Well, yes!" Vasiliy replied. "But that's small potatoes. I'm not talking about the chemical plant that our guys mined. I'm talking about the munitions factory. Do you know it?"
Mihailo went cold.
"Wait a minute ... there are a lot of defective explosives stored there. They could all be detonated by an explosion and there will be nothing left of Gorlovka. The whole city will go up."
"Yeah," Vasiliy agreed sullenly. "And the results will be worse than Chernobyl. They've even mined the conduit for contaminated water. If it goes, there will be no water fit to drink here."
"And no one knows about this?" Mihailo couldn't believe it.
"What do you mean, 'no one?'" snorted Vasya. "Do you think I'm revealing something top secret? Of course, they know. We in the MGB know practically everything. And the khokhly (Ukrainians) know it, too. We mined it so we could blackmail them. 'Bes' told them all about it yesterday. If they try to take the city, there'll be nothing left. We'll blow everything up along with them. So even the enemy knows. The locals are the only ones who've not been told."
"Bes" (demon) was what they called the new governor of Gorlovka, a former (or formally former) GRU officer. The nickname was well-deserved. Blow up the city! His native city, every corner of which he knew. A city with rooftop pavilions known locally as "Athens," the dilapidated façades of old houses that somehow conjured up images, not of ruins, but of comfort, parks full of frolicking children, and stores filled with tired women. And they so easily plan to murder these people if the lawful powers of this country should try to take back the city.
"Are you from around here," Vasiliy asked carefully.
Mihailo shrugged.
Vasiliy continued speaking with such vehemence that Mihailo feared he would lose control of the car. "What else can we do? Himself ordered this, understand? A direct order from the Kremlin. And he's right. It's unacceptable that Kiev's fascists retake the city. During the Great Patriotic War they permitted the Germans to occupy Kiev, and what happened? The khokly and Banderites loved working for the occupiers so much that even after all these years they are returning to Nazism. All these concentration camps, genocide, torchlight parades with portraits of Bandera, all of it … If it comes to it, it's better to destroy the city than surrender it … There would be nothing to it. This fascist plague should be burnt to the roots. At any cost!" Vasiliy finished, and turned the wheel so hard that the car nearly careened off the pockmarked road.
Mihailo didn't reply. This wasn't his first experience with fanatics reciting Russian propaganda. Still, every time it happened the words shook his soul. What concentration camps? What genocide? This was all lies from the first to the last word. And thanks to these lies a bunch of dimwitted fanatics wanted to erase a city from the face of the earth. It was impossible to come to terms with this.
"Are you sure all that is true? That they've already laid the mines?" he asked, hoping for a negative response.
"I'm sure," growled Vasiliy. I planted the explosives myself."
Maybe his trip to Kharkov and the meeting with the battalion command should be postponed. He couldn't leave Gorlovka without discovering the precise locations of the explosives.
Chapter 7
Moscow, Russia
"Like I said, this is all I have." Vitaliy Tolmachev repeated himself in a dry voice. "Just the recording of the conversation with Tretyakov that your father copied onto the editorial computer. I don't know who he met with before his death."
"But you said it was the man who wrote the report on what was in the sacks they found in Ryazan. According to my father, the report was prepared by the research center at the Headquarters for Civil Defense and Emergency Situations of Ryazan Oblast. Someone has to know who wrote it."
Vlad wasn't backing down from the chief editor of his father's newspaper. He had to follow the Sergey's trail.
"There's no way you'll find it. The report was classified, and the names of the authors will never be made public. No one will give you this information. It was fifteen years ago, and most of those peop
le are by now retired and long gone. Whoever it is you're looking for must have moved to Moscow. This is a big city, and you have no idea where he might be."
"My father was returning from somewhere in Yasenevo."
"What of it? You're still looking for a nameless person."
"Wait a minute," said Vlad, "Did you listen to the recording of father's conversation with Tretyakov? If he named this second witness it must be in the recording."
"Listen to me," said Tolmachev. "I already said I'd give you the recording, and you can do with it whatever you like. But don't count on us for help. With due respect to your father, don't come here again. It'll be better for you and for us."
"But I hoped that if I can find the rest of the evidence, we would still publish the material. He died for this." Vlad was almost shouting. "We have to at least finish what he was working on so that his death wasn't in vain!"
"You're such an idealist." Tolmachev heaved a sigh. "Vlad, my boy, we can't print this stuff. Do you want to know the truth? Good. We got a call from a very influential organization that told us that under no circumstances may we write anything on this subject. Otherwise … well, you can guess. Otherwise, we'll end up like your father. I have a family." He had the grace to hang his head before saying, "I understand that you have a family, too, but … Everyone chooses his own poison, my boy. I have no right to demand this of others."
The editor was right. After all that had happened, he could demand nothing from these people.
"But if the material is published there would be no reason to kill anyone." This was his last hope. "Their goal is to prevent publication. If we tell the readers everything we know we would no longer represent a danger."
Tolmachev greeted this with a short, bitter laugh. "And you don't think they would put an end to us out of spite? You don't understand the kind of people your father tangled with. And you don't seem to understand what it is to be a journalist in Russia – if you're talking about real, honest journalism."
"Then why do you even try if all you can do is compromise. Just for the money?"
"No," Tolmachev was not in the least insulted. "Money is a problem for us, yes, but I persist so that I can provide the people with just a small piece of the truth, a tiny bit. And in order to do this, you're right - we make compromises. So take your recording if you want it so badly, but take my advice, too – it's not worth your life. They're much more powerful than we, and you'll never get the better of them."
In the depths of his soul he understood the truth of Tomachev's words. But he could not give up, not just for the sake of his father, but for his own self-respect. It was time for perseverance. He could not hesitate, not even for a moment, or he would have no meaning, and would be alone with the horror of his loss and the bitter realization that death had triumphed.
He feared despair and emptiness even more than death. The investigation gave his life some meaning, a way to resist, even if he was alone.
Arriving home to an apartment even emptier than his soul, Vlad went to his computer to listen to the conversation that had cost his father's life. An unfamiliar voice filled the room, cold and cynical, speaking of how the murder of hundreds of people had been prepared, as usual, carefully and professionally. When Tretyakov came to the moment when an alert resident discovered the sacks of explosive in the basement, his voice even now betrayed irritation.
Evidently, Sergey Illarionov noticed this, as well, and asked sharply, "And who was in charge of this operation in Moscow? What is his name?"
"Gleb Solntsev."
The words crackled in the air, dry and hot, as if they would scorch Tretyakov's lungs.
This is how hatred enters the world: the heart pounds against the ribs as though trying to escape while blood hot as lava surges through every capillary and permeates vessels. This name, pronounced clearly in a stranger's voice was the essence of universal evil – if one excluded the main evil-doer, the one behind Solntsev without whose direct order neither the innocent residents of Moscow apartments nor Vlad's father would have perished. The murderer was the person who ran the country – a hardened and bloodless killer.
Vlad listened to the end of the recording with the alertness of a hunter, and he finally came to what he had been waiting for.
"His name is Aleksandr Zhuravlev. Fifteen years ago he was the Chief of Staff of the Headquarters Expert Center for Civil Defense and Emergencies for Ryazan Oblast."
Vlad could imagine his father hearing the same words just a few days ago. He continued listening.
"He's retired now and lives in Moscow. He wrote the report on the powder found in the sacks and concluded that it was RDX. He knows what happened to that report – and I wouldn't be surprised if he kept a copy in spite of orders."
Vladislav Illarionov collapsed against the back of his chair. It shouldn't be hard to find an Aleksandr Zhuravlev who lived in Yasenevo. He could use the hacker's directory of Moscow telephones and addresses that a friend had given him years ago – illegal, but very useful. And he must do it now, before it was too late.
Chapter 8
An early autumn crept into Moscow, wrapping her in gold and crimson, almost stealthily replacing outgoing summer, but preserving its warmth and adding its own special tints. The temperature remained pleasant, in no hurry to give way to rain-induced depression. But this time of year that inspired Russian poets had little effect on Olga.
She was aware of Sergey Illarionov's death. According to the official reports, the dissident writer was attacked and robbed while walking through Bittsevskiy Park at night. He had been unfortunate, perhaps even foolish in his choice of routes.
Vlad would be shattered by his father's untimely end in so violent a manner, but Olga could not bring herself to go to her old school friend's apartment to offer condolences. The unpleasant conversation at the Kremlin Palace, especially his disparaging remarks about Gleb Solntsev terminated their friendship so far as she was concerned.
In fact, she had to admit to herself, the sudden absence of Sergey Illarionov meant that the odious man's lies about Gleb were now silenced forever.
That gave her comfort even though Gleb would easily have weathered such obvious slanders. Hadn't he told her not to worry about it? "We have a powerful weapon on our side – the truth, and we have to spread it. Sooner or later the slanderers' house of cards will collapse on itself."
His words were those of a man absolutely certain of his own verity.
The world was unambiguous, clear-cut, black and white - divided between true friends and obvious enemies. There could be no middle ground in the struggle for the Motherland's soul.
Pasha, Kostya, and Volodya (whom they simply called "Vovchik") were recent acquaintances. She had rarely seen them at meetings and was surprised when she when Gleb took her into his "inner circle" that these previously barely noticed men were there.
Her first serious act with them was the provocation at Golovina's office when she won her spurs and Gleb Solntsev's respect, perhaps even admiration. She would be making more speeches at public rallies, and she had even appeared on television, standing on the stage next to Solntsev. She could imagine no higher honor.
Chapter 9
Aleksandr Zhuravlev opened the door without a word, as if he had been expecting the visit. He was no longer young, but nevertheless physically imposing with a full head of iron gray hair and wildly tangled eyebrows that lent him a stern appearance.
Vlad introduced himself, offering his I.D. for Zhuravlev's inspection. "My father came to see you a few days ago."'
The old man gave the document a cursory examination and smiled thinly. "That's not necessary. Such things are meaningless. But you resemble your father a great deal. I thought you would be coming to see me. And … I'm very sorry for your loss," the last words spoken in an undertone.
Vlad expected to be invited inside, but Zhuravlev stood in the doorway a few beats longer before saying, "I have the document ready for you, the one your father asked about. I didn't ha
ve it here when he came because I don't keep such things in the house. Given what happened, maybe it was fate. Wait here."
He disappeared into the apartment leaving Vlad standing awkwardly at the door, his entire being tingling with anticipation. It was happening so fast - too easily, too fast, and this did not fill him with joy but with worry and a sense of desolation. He was moving from one task to another, losing himself in work to escape his pain. He had no idea what to do next.
Even his father's old newspaper refused to print the material. What would happen if the website on which he worked did the same? He could publish the revelations on his blog, but that would be a waste of the information and get him bogged down in the back and forth of social networks and ever present internet trolls. The material must be used in a way that did not permit the criminals to escape punishment. Should he hand everything over to the Western media? This was probably best, but he had to find the right contacts. This would take time, and Vlad didn't have much of that.
Zhuravlev reappeared at the door with a timeworn file folder. "Perhaps it's best that you have this now. It can bring nothing but trouble to me. Use it as you wish, but forget where you got it, understand? Forget my name, my address. Forget that I even exist."
"I understand. That's why I didn't call before coming. The last thing I want is to bring you trouble."
"I know." Zhuravlev for the first time looked like a tired old man. "Your father did the same, and that's the only reason I gave him the time of day. I'll give you one bit of advice – leave the country. I don't think you realize who you're dealing with, and by the time you do, it'll be too late. Under no circumstances can you leave this document in your apartment. Find a safe place for it."
Chapter 10
He sat for a long time behind the wheel of his father's car before the idea struck him. There was only one place in the city where he was always welcome, where he would find a reliable and brave person, and where he could easily conceal a document among hundreds of identical dog-eared folders – the modest basement apartment in Maliy Karetniy.
In the Shadow of Mordor Page 5