As soon as he crossed the threshold and stepped onto the steep stairs leading to the basement, Marya Fedorovna Golovina rushed to meet him.
"Vlad, my dear, dear boy," she cried. "Please come on in. I know. I know everything … My God! You poor boy."
Vlad was normally irritated when women made over him as though he were a little boy, but it was impossible to resent Golovina.
"I'll make tea," she said.
This was no time for tea, but he accepted the invitation.
She conducted him to the room that served as an office, the same office that the tough guys from "Svoi" had invaded. There was a small electric burner on a counter along one wall, and she busied herself with the kettle.
"I can't stay long, Marya Fedorovna. I have work to do." He was now feeling guilty for what he was about to ask her. "I want to leave something with you for safekeeping, if it's OK," he said as Golovina poured the tea and set a plate of waffles on the table.
His words tumbled over one another, sounding jumbled and confused to his own ears, "It's the recording my father made with the former FSBnik, the one who directly accused Solntsev of having managed the bombings in Moscow on orders from the Kremlin. This was why they killed him. And I have the official report on explosives in Ryazan, the original, and it confirms that the sacks contained RDX – hexogen."
Golovina's face turned hard.
Vlad realized at that moment how much he and other Russians owed to this old woman who had been beaten but not broken by the Soviets and now was persecuted by their successors. It was remarkable to see how this fragile old lady transformed suddenly into the fearless dissident of the past, molded by decades of caution.
"And what are your plans?" She transfixed him with a stare.
"I don't know. Even father's old editor refuses to print it. I'm thinking of giving it to someone in the West."
"Correct," nodded Golovina. "But it's not enough simply to hand the proof over to western journalists. You have to go to the West yourself, as soon as possible, preferably to America. Get any kind of visa you can, even a tourist visa. Tourist visas can be valid for a long time. You might be able to take advantage of some sort of study grant. I'll get word to Williams at the American Embassy to see if he can do anything. And as soon as you get to the States, ask for political asylum. Only then should you take this material to a serious media outlet."
Vlad was discouraged. He had not expected to encounter such a serious and uncompromising tone from her.
"Wait a minute, Marya Fedorovna, I don’t plan to leave Russia. This is my country, after all. I was born and raised here. Let them leave. We could get an article published that would rid the country of this bunch of thieves and murderers."
"Vlad!" Golovina was so agitated that she half rose from her chair. "Don't you understand who you're dealing with? This isn't just a gang of common criminals. By now you should know how pitiless and powerful they are."
Vlad barked a humorless laugh. "You're the third person in the past two days who's told me I don't know what I'm mixed up in. I know what you're talking about. But if all of us run away, hide, give up without a fight, these maniacs will slit our throats one by one. I can't just surrender the country to them because I'm scared. My father was no coward." His throat constricted as he forced out the last words.
"Your father was a great man, and someday he'll be honored as a hero in Russia, but leaving doesn't mean giving up the fight. Your greatest weapon is the truth, but here no one is allowed to speak it. Sometimes from abroad it's possible to do much more than you can here."
No, my father will never be thought of as a hero in this country, no more than you are considered a hero. Even now, after so many years, after all the truth that was revealed about Soviet times, they smear you with mud. Russia has always destroyed her best people.
"I must identify the people who killed my father. I can't leave without doing that. And my mother is all alone now. May I leave these papers in your files? And I'll be grateful if you could ask Williams about getting them published."
"Of course," said the old dissident, resigned to the young man's stubbornness. She'd seen it before in others, had been in their place as her friends disappeared one by one into the Gulag. "You may leave whatever you wish. I'll contact Williams today. And don't worry about me. They'll never take me alive."
Vlad couldn't contain a smile at Golovina's stab at black humor. "Take care of yourself, Marya Fedorovna. If any of those bastards show up here again, call me."
She surrendered a haggard smile and a final warning. "Agreed. But please think about getting out. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for the sake of your father's legacy. There are too many people who need you to stay alive."
Vlad returned home full of gratitude for this sturdy old lady who had endured so much.
Chapter 11
Derrick Williams was the cultural attaché at the American Embassy in Moscow and was frequently in contact with Russian citizens who had beefs with their government. His favorite was Marya Fedorovna Golovina, whom he considered a woman of great courage. He'd learned to trust the iron-willed old lady and respect her opinion. Thus, when one of her people delivered a sealed envelope to him at the Embassy, a rare occurrence, he took it seriously.
Five minutes after reading the note, Williams entered the office of Vance Johnson.
"Erm, Van. Could we have a word in the S.C.I.F.?"4 He referred to the Plexiglas "room within a room" that was impervious to eavesdropping. This was a standard precaution for sensitive conversations.
Construction on the new embassy building on Bol'shoy Devyatinskiy Pereulok began in 1979 at the height of the Cold War with some of its structural components built by the Soviets. Six years later, American inspectors discovered that the building was literally riddled with listening devices and strange apparatuses for which no purpose could be determined, and the site could not be occupied for years.
In retaliation, the State Department refused to permit the Soviets to occupy their new embassy high up on Washington's Wisconsin Avenue. Too late, the feckless State Department realized they had given the Russians a site ideal for the collection of signals intelligence. In the meantime, of course, the FBI tunneled under the Soviet structure in order to tap into phone and telecommunications lines. In due time, this was discovered by Soviet technicians.
Finally, in 1991 following the fall of the USSR, KGB Chairman Bakatin supplied the Americans with diagrams showing all the listening device emplacements. Nevertheless, the Americans took the structure apart and re-built it at enormous expense.
The recidivism demonstrated by the current Russian government dictated that security precautions still be taken seriously.
Vance Johnson was the CIA Chief of Station. His friendship with Derrick Williams might seem odd to many, but the two shared a common love of Russian poetry and single malt whiskey, as well as growing horror at the kleptocratic Russian regime. They seldom were seen together outside the Embassy for the very good reason that it would do Williams no good to be associated in even the most innocent way with anyone from the CIA.
Johnson looked up from his desk with raised eyebrows. Williams, whose tall gangly figure and wire rimmed glasses reminded Johnson of Ichabod Crane, was a good source of information on what was happening in this increasingly Machiavellian country.
The two found the S.C.I.F. unoccupied and settled at a corner of the conference table that took up most of the space inside.
"What's up, Derrick?"
Williams handed him the note from Golovina. "I just received this, and I think it's dynamite." He could not conceal the excitement in his voice.
Johnson read the handwritten note, then read it again before speaking. "I know about Illarionov's death. It's the latest in a series. The siloviki have a knack for getting rid of troublesome journalists like Anna Politkovskaya. We suspect they even killed an American, Paul Klebnikov, some years ago. Unfortunately, there's little we can do about it."
"Did you see w
hat she says Illarionov's son has – a recording naming Gleb Solntsev as the mastermind of those apartment bombings fifteen years ago? And maybe something even more important – the original investigation report from Ryazan, the one they suppressed."
"I'm not surprised about Solntsev. He's former KGB and then FSB, and he's a real bastard. I call him Putin's Goebbels. But it's just an accusation from a man convicted of crimes and now in prison in Ryazan. Written reports can be forged. The Kremlin will just dismiss it."
"The Kremlin might, but outside of Russia it will be taken seriously. It could do real harm to Solntsev and that means harm to his bosses in the Kremlin. Why else would they resort to murder?"
"That may be, but it won't matter much what western journalists say. The Russians will just dismiss it as propaganda."
"What if we could get Illarionov's son to the West? What if he published the material there? He has the actual recording."
"That might work." Johnson chewed his lower lip. "What are you getting at?"
"Couldn't you guys help him out of the country?"
Johnson's lopsided smile was bitter. "Derrick, as much as we might like to, exfiltrations are complicated and risky. We don't undertake such things lightly, and then only for our most valuable sources when they get in trouble."
"I'd say that Vlad Illarionov is in pretty deep trouble."
"Maybe, but he's not one of ours. And there's another consideration. You know our policy is to remain at arms' length from the dissident movement. It's bad enough that the Kremlin claims to see our hand behind everything they don't like. If we start actually getting involved with dissidents and the Russians were able to confirm it, it could well destroy the legitimacy of the opposition. I'm sure you wouldn't want that."
"So you won't help?" Williams' disappointment was palpable.
"Not 'won't;' can't. And you'll agree once you think about it."
Williams slumped in the chair. "They'll kill this kid next, you know."
"I wish I could do something, Derrick, I really do, but my hands are tied. You know that everyone at the Embassy is under surveillance by our friends at the FSB. It's back to Cold War days here, except the new bosses in the Kremlin are fascists rather than communists."
"Fuck," said Williams.
"My sentiments exactly."
After he returned to his office, Johnson sank heavily behind his desk. The importance of the documents was unquestionable regardless of what he'd said to Williams. But without a living, breathing witness, a Russian witness, nothing would come of them.
Langley, he was certain, would dismiss any suggestion of an exfiltration out of hand. There were more important things going on in Moscow, and the care and feeding of dissidents was not one of them. The value of dissidents was here in their own country where cases such as Magnitskiy's could be seen by the entire world. The persecution of such people meant that some realization of the sly brutality of the Kremlin would leach into the consciousness of the world and bolster resistance to Russian aggression.
If the Illarionov boy could only get out on his own, maybe something could be done. Even then, the long, toxic arm of Russian vengeance could snuff him out.
Johnson resolved to follow this case, discretely, of course, and Langley had no need to know about it for the time being.
* * *
4 Secure Compartmented Information Facility – pronounced "skiff."
Chapter 12
Gleb Solntsev gathered his inner circle at the small office on Sretenka Street. Olga was not among them because she was the subject of discussion.
Pasha, Kostya, and Volodya, Solntsev's most trusted enforcers were there, and they all wore expressions of concern.
"Gleb," said Pasha, "we don't know enough about her, and she would have noticed our absence from the organization meeting the night of Illarionov's death. What if she starts putting two and two together?"
Their anxiety surprised him. "Boys, do you really think she is so stupid as not to have known what she was doing when she told me about Illarionov's plans? She's a smart girl, and she's been with us now for over three years. She's never shied away from any task I've given her, and her behavior at Golovina's was near to spectacular."
"But she's not really one of us," insisted Volodya. What he meant was that she was not an FSB operative in mufti. "We still have to be careful of her."
Solntsev drummed his fingers on the desk. The only light came from the lamp at his side, and the corners of the room were cast in appropriately conspiratorial darkness. The group resembled hunters gathered around a campfire discussing their next prey.
After a thoughtful pause, Gleb said, "I understand what you're saying, but I've seen no signs of unreliability in the girl. Quite the opposite. She's dedicated and loyal."
"Nevertheless …" ventured Pasha.
Solntsev studied the three men with their hard, feral eyes that glowed yellow in the lamplight. My pack of wolves, he thought. They will not be satisfied with inaction.
"Pasha," he said, "you're one of my best men, maybe the best, and I respect your opinion." He waved a hand at the group. "I can personally guarantee that you all have bright futures. Now go and leave this to me. I think I have a solution."
Pasha brightened visibly as he considered the possible permutations of Gleb's solution. It was easy, and not a little frightening to read in the big man's square face that he was willing to take care of anyone for the sake of the organization, even his own mother. Kostya was reliable, but stupid. He would obey any order without question. Volodya also was basically just muscle without Pasha's sly intelligence.
Solntsev remained in the dark office for a long time after they left.
The tenacious Sergey Illarionov's investigation and his collaboration with the traitor Tretyakov had required too many deaths. Olga Polyanskaya's acquaintance with Illarionov's son was the reason he had been able to nip the problem in the bud. The question Pasha now raised was whether the girl might see the Illarionov boy again and start to put it all together.
But Solntsev did not agree with Pasha's suspicions about her. She had demonstrated her value. Surely she had known what she was doing when she told him about Illarionov's plans.
But new complications arose daily, and Pasha might well decide to take matters into his own hands. Something would have to be done quickly if he were to avoid a serious problem. Without further thought, he picked up the telephone and dialed a number he knew by heart.
"Nikolay Davydovich? It's Gleb," he said, "Something's come up here that might be problem. I need to see you now."
Listening to the response, he hung up the phone, once again pleased at the handy location of his office. In a half hour he was on his way to the building with which he had been connected for most of his adult life and which, if the truth be told, was still his home. He could walk there, a few blocks along Sretenka, then south along Bol'shaya Lubyanka, then left onto Furkosovskiy Pereulok, past the small parking area and through the metal gates of the discreet "working entrance" of FSB Headquarters.
Prudence dictated that visits be rare over the past few years. The familiar beige carpeted corridors enveloped him in a kind of sweet nostalgia. These walls had molded him into the ruthless, shrewd and invincible professional he considered himself today. This was the only place capable of arousing sentimentality in him, and "Davydych," as today's Chekists called him, was the only person toward whom Gleb Solntsev evinced any human emotion.
General Nikolay Davydovich Lisitsyn was known as "God's operative." He'd served in KGB Counterintelligence and played a role in the capture of famous traitors, such as Dmitriy Polyakov and Adolf Tolkachev. The old man was a living legend, the personification of a heroic past. In a word, Davydych represented continuity.
Chapter 13
1987
Dzerzhinsky Higher School of the KGB
Michurinskiy Prospekt, 70
Moscow, Russia
The man's eyes were wide, and he was screaming, the veins in his neck distended
. His shrieks echoed through the empty foundry. There was no other sound.
The terrified man was naked and bound to a heavy wooden plank with what appeared to be thin piano wire, wrapped round and round his body in tight, painful coils, rendering him completely immobile except for his head. It required four stout men to carry him toward the open, flaming maw of one of the foundry's furnaces. The men wore heavy, heat resistant suits and gloves, their faces grotesquely masked by hoods with a rectangular slit of thick glass for eyes that made them even more hideous. The flames were so intense that the two men at the foot of the plank raised their hands to protect their faces from the heat despite their hoods.
The man bound to the plank, knowing what was to come, continued to scream.
With a heave the men dropped the foot of the plank onto the lip of the open furnace. The ones nearest the furnace retreated quickly to the other end to help their comrades feed the plank ever so slowly into the flames.
As his feet were consumed, the shrieks of the bound man took on an unearthly quality, warbling almost to the edge of audibility and renewing with each breath. His mouth was so far open that he might have dislocated his jaw.
The men continued to shove the plank into the flames. The bound man's legs were now completely engulfed as the white hot furnace, hot enough to melt metal, greedily ate away his flesh and then turned the bones black and brittle until they too were so much smoke up the flue.
The screaming continued until the flames reached the bound man's chest. By that time, the face was no longer human. His gut exploded in a riot of wet entrails that lasted but a few seconds, sizzling in the flames. When the screaming stopped, the men heaved what remained all the way into the furnace in a single motion.
In the Shadow of Mordor Page 6