In the Shadow of Mordor

by Michael R Davidson

  In the back of the auditorium someone was vomiting.

  Simultaneously horrified and fascinated, Lieutenant Gleb Solntsev did not dare turn his head from the screen or close his eyes like a child at a horror movie lest his fellow graduates notice his discomfort, and he choked back his own rising gorge. The film had been in color, and the sound track, while scratchy, had been amped up to ear splitting levels.

  General Nikolay Davydovich Lisitsyn, accompanied by Colonel-General Rstislav Kromarkin, head of the Dzerzhinsky Higher School of the KGB, stalked to the middle of the stage. The only sounds in the auditorium were their footsteps.

  Kromarkin, his slightly corpulent figure held stiffly erect so that the buttons of his uniform jacket strained to hold in his gut, stood in the middle of the stage and gazed out over the audience of new graduates. His voice, when he spoke, filled a nervous silence. "To be worthy of the title of Chekist you must remember always that ours is a mission of love and devotion - love of the Fatherland, devotion to the Russian people, the narod. This was the philosophy of our founder, Feliks Dzherzinski. And we, you, are the beneficiaries and guardians of his legacy. We do our duty in the true Chekist tradition."

  Kromarkin glanced over his shoulder at the now blank movie screen, then back at the audience. "I want to introduce General Lisitsyn of the Second Chief Directorate, who will now address you."

  He surrendered the dais to the Colonel, who in contrast to Kromarkin was lean and broad-shouldered and still with a full head of jet black hair.

  Lisitsyn stared silently at them for long moments, seeming to engage each of them directly in the eyes until the young officers fairly squirmed in their seats. At last, he spoke.

  "The film you have just seen would be shocking were it not for the truth behind it. The man was a traitor, one of the worst traitors in our history who betrayed the trust of the KGB and the Motherland. You are too young to remember his name, but he betrayed our most precious military secrets to the Americans. You are privileged to be the first graduates to see the film since 1965. It is a reminder of the fate that awaits all traitors to the Motherland, and it is a warning."

  Lisitsyn glared at the audience to underscore the import of his words, before concluding, "From now on, as in the past, the film you have just seen will be a part of every graduation from the Academy. True Chekist tradition will be restored and honored."

  Gleb Solntsev took those words to heart.

  Chapter 14

  The continuity with a glorious past that Lisitsyn represented inspired Solntsev as much today as thirty years ago. The general had generously shared his skills with the young KGB officer and others as he molded them into his own image. His legacy was to pass to the orphaned children of perestroika the iron spirit of the true Chekist.

  "If you don't know what to do, talk to a veteran." Gleb followed this rule from the beginning. Davydych was just such a starik, having formally retired long ago he remained vigorous and worked in the Lubyanka archives where he planned to die on the job. He simply could not live without these walls.

  It did him no harm when a former student was named to head the newly formed FSB, and even less when that same person became President of Russia. Certain tasks were entrusted to the FSB that would never have been shared with the SVR. One these assignments fell on the general's shoulders.

  "Nikolay Davydovich, how're things," said Gleb, still in the doorway.

  Davydych greeted Gleb with a warm smile, but spotted the concern on his protégé's face.

  "So far, so good. But there's still a loose end. We had a chat with Illarionov's editor. At first he professed complete innocence, but finally admitted that Illarionov's son has the prison recording. He also said the little bastard was going to look up Zhuravlev, one of the people who wrote the original Ryazan report. That rat Tretyakov gave the name to Illarionov."

  "Surely this Zhuravlev doesn't have any proof."

  "We can't know for certain. He's dead," was the General's dry response. "Our boys went to his apartment for a chat, but the idiot threw himself from an eleventh floor balcony. No one expected that. It was all very unpleasant. They searched his apartment and found nothing. The possibility that he passed something to Illarionov's son seems small, but ..."

  "Illarionov's son will have to be taken care of," said Solntsev, his voice low, as though he feared someone might overhear. "Otherwise, we'll never hear the end of it, especially now that he has that recording."

  Lisitsyn shook his head, "I don't like it. Imagine the suspicions the boy's death on the heels of his father's would raise. We need to find out what materials he has before deciding. For time being, the public won't make a connection between the deaths of Illarionov, Tretyakov, and Zhuravlev. But you're right. We can't wait too long.

  "Now why don't you tell me what brings you here?"

  Solntsev told him about the conversation with Pasha and the boys.

  "And what do you think?" asked Lisitsyn.

  "She's too smart not to have understood the consequences of telling me about Illarionov. I think we can trust her discretion. But Pasha does have a point. She knows the son."

  Lisitsyn folded his arms and waited like a patient uncle listening to a nephew's problems.

  Solntsev shook his head. "I don't want anything to happen to her. She's truly talented and has served us well."

  The general pulled at his chin as if arriving at a decision. "I may have a way out," he said softly. "At the beginning of this year the Ministry of Foreign Affairs requested a secret meeting with us that resulted in an interesting decision. They want to strengthen our disinformation and influence operations in the West. They finally realized that more needs to be done than buying politicians. The idea is to create organizations to attract the children of Russian emigrants and their American friends. In the old days we got them right out of the cradle, Oktyabryata, Pioneers, Komsomol." He closed his eyes in nostalgic recollection, but caught himself quickly.

  "It's not a bad idea, but we didn't show much enthusiasm. What intelligence officer wants to spend resources and send highly qualified professionals for youth propaganda work? Of course, there are some elements of espionage involved, such as spotting candidates for recruitment or keeping an eye on what dissidents and other traitors are up to – simple surveillance operations."

  Gleb perked up as he caught Lisitsyn's drift. "Of course. Such work would not appeal to ambitious young officers. They wouldn't see it as a winning career track. It would take years to produce results. They all see themselves recruiting a brilliant source after a couple of years and getting some more stars on their epaulets."

  Lisitsyn agreed. "This would have been an ideal assignment for the Komsomol, but there no longer is a Komsomol. I've been thinking about your kids and planned to call you. It's a job more for external intelligence than us, but you know who the Kremlin trusts more."

  "So what you're saying is that we could give Olga a few months' training and send her abroad, maybe to the States?" Solntsev saw a double benefit. Olga would be far away from Moscow and more importantly, far away from Illarionov's son, and she would be doing a job for which she was ideally suited.

  Lisitsyn cocked his head and grimaced slightly at Gleb's enthusiasm. "You don't think sending her to the States entails a risk?"

  "Her handlers will pay careful attention to her. On the plus side, Olga already has three years' experience with "Svoi," speaks excellent English and works well with young people. She's good at public speaking. It doesn't hurt that she's attractive, either. She's proven she can handle the tough jobs. And she'll get better with proper training."

  Chapter 15

  Vlad stared blankly at his computer screen. The hundreds and thousands of words were beginning to run together. The web was replete with obscure rumors, heated arguments that spread like wildfire and disappeared just as suddenly. There were pictures, faces, absurd clips from movies and cartoons designed to hide the true identities of their originators. He was a patient and methodical reader,
shifting from one on-line forum to another like a machine, a cold mechanism incapable of human emotion, forever trapped in a virtual universe, a search engine like Google.

  He was afflicted by the unthinkable suspicion that he was responsible for his father's death. The realization washed over his body like an icy shower. He had told one person and one person only about his father's plans. It had been irresponsible, a childish desire to win an argument.

  Could Olga Polyanskaya have informed on him, pointed the murderers to his father?

  Of one thing he was certain: the murder was no coincidence. There was Tretyakov's death, and now Zhuravlev's suicide. Could little Olga really have been the spark that ignited this horror, just as the FSB ignited those bombs so many years ago?

  Olga was deeply involved in "Svoi," and he did not doubt that people from "Svoi" were responsible for his father's death. It was the only thing that made sense. It was far from the first time that "Solntsev's bully boys had beaten a journalist.

  Vlad refused to spare himself the guilt. It would weigh upon him forever and perhaps eventually bring him down. But before that happened, he would have his revenge on the ravening beasts that were devouring his country.

  He needed more information, more evidence, and so he began with an internet search for anything related to "Svoi." Many considered the organization an excellent starting point for an administrative career. But Vlad paid special attention to the critics in the hope that someone knew the organization's darker secrets.

  It took several hours, but at last his efforts were rewarded. An anonymous writer using the pseudonym "Darth Vader" responded to a long, laudatory post about the Kremlin's useful work with young people. "This guy Solntsev trains 'socially active citizens? In truth he turns them into banal murderers. Compared to the things that take place in this sect the Soviet Komsomol was kindergarten."

  Navigation of the Internet is a survival skill for Russian dissidents, and Vlad was no exception. Like a bloodhound on the scent, he teased out everything he could about "Darth Vader." The representative of "the Dark Side" was 29 years-old, lived in Moscow, liked to play the electric guitar, and his old instrument was up for sale. Vlad didn't need a guitar, but this was a way to contact "Vader." He posted a message indicating interest in the guitar.

  He was rewarded by a return post the same evening proposing to meet the next day. The movie villain's real name was Nikolay, and he lived in the Cheremushki area in south-western Moscow.

  Vlad spent a restless night disturbed by visions of a world on fire while he stood by and watched as houses, trees, and tiny human figures lost their form and color until they were shapeless mounds of ash. Then came a strong, cold wind that blew across the gray landscape to sweep away the remains of the charred universe and leave an empty black plane as the wind dispersed the brittle flakes.

  The rendezvous in Cheremushki turned out to be a garage used by a rock band for rehearsals. He was met by a long-haired fellow whose indifferent manner did not promise a long conversation. As soon as Vlad asked about "Svoi," Kolya (Nikolay) refused to talk.

  "You don't understand," he said with a nervous glance over his shoulder, "They're murderers. If I say even a word about them and they find out, I'm a dead man. Forget about them, and forget about me."

  "I'll forget," said Vlad, "but will they? You've already written about them on the Internet and publicly called them murderers. It's foolish the think they didn't see it. If it was easy for me to find you, how hard would it be for a former Chekist like Solntsev?"

  "But what can I do?" Kolya was terrified.

  "Hiding for the rest of your life isn't the answer," replied Vlad. Then he remembered Golovina's advice. "Maybe you should go to the West, maybe to the US. Get any kind of visa you can and then ask for political asylum. Tell them all you know. Maybe after a while you'll get into some American rock group."

  "Do they grant asylum so quickly?"

  "Not right away. But tell me what you know before you leave. I'll not publish anything until you're safe. After that, no one will believe you could ever come back."

  He had no right to say such things to Kolya, but his father's death drove him to extremes. He was fighting his father's war as best he could, like a wounded wolf cub snapping at every opportunity to strike a blow against powerful and ruthless enemies. He didn't intend to deceive Kolya, and would not, of course, publish his information so long as he was in Russia. He knew nothing about political asylum, but he was certain of one thing: he would never seek it himself so long as his father's murderers remained unpunished.

  "OK," sighed Kolya, who was not as realistic as Vlad. "But don't judge me too harshly. I was there myself. I was young and stupid. I wanted to serve my country, understand? I wanted to be a part of something important. You probably don't understand."

  "I understand perfectly."

  "I was very active," continued Kolya. "I was dedicated. After a couple of years, Solntsev took an interest and invited me into what he calls his "inner circle." He uses these people for special tasks. There were ten of us, and they used us for all sorts of dirty work: beatings, blackmail, slander – I literally picked up shit and throw it at people. Sometimes we went to opposition gatherings and broke them up. Once we even released noxious gas. Solntsev said we were defending our country. Then some young liberal managed to infiltrate our group. He found out a lot and was going to make it public. Gleb ordered us to beat him to death."

  Vlad struggled to keep his voice even. "And what did you do?"

  "Me? What about them?" Kolya's words were heated. "I didn't sign up for 'wet work.' I left and didn't go back. I never found out what happened, and I didn't want to. It's better not to know. You don't just walk away from Gleb Solntsev. It makes you a traitor and a potential danger. So I hid and didn't say anything until I wrote that bit on the Internet. I wish I hadn't done it."

  The former "Svoi" thug lived like a rat in a hole afraid for his life and stirred a vestige of sympathy in Vlad. "OK. Thank you, Kolya, man to man, if only because you didn't kill anyone … You should try to get out of the country. Don't waste any time, and let me know. Agreed?"

  "Agreed," glumly replied Kolya. "I want to make music in America."

  Vlad shrugged. "Good luck."

  Chapter 16

  On the way home Vlad regretted the additional stain on his already overburdened conscience. He'd held out a false hope to Nikolay and secretly recorded their conversation. He would come clean about the recording once Nikolay was safe and unlikely to do anything rash, but this thought did little to lighten the mounting burden of guilt. It seemed to flow through his veins like poison that would infect everyone he touched.

  The street in front of his apartment building was blocked by emergency vehicles and a fire truck. The smell of smoke became stronger as he approached the entrance, and the premonition of last night's dream hollowed his stomach.

  Men in protective gear descended the stairs toward the landing below his apartment. The blue paint on the walls bore smudges of soot scored with rivulets of water. The smell became oppressive. Vlad rushed up the stairs.

  "What are you doing?" One of the firemen restrained him.

  "I live here!" he cried, shoving the fireman aside. "What happened?"

  "A gas leak." Was the laconic reply, as though such things were an everyday occurrence. It apparently led to the fire. Unfortunately, a woman died – the only casualty." He attempted without much success to appear sympathetic. "Could you identify her? Who was she to you? Mother?"

  Maybe the smell of smoke was too strong – he was suddenly faint, his will paralyzed to the point that he could no longer think. He stood there unable to move at the threshold staring into the scorched apartment that was now stained in the black and ash gray tones of death, like an old movie drained of color. In a breeze from a broken window brittle flakes of ash circled in a macabre ballet.

  *****

  Marya Fedorovna Golovina intuited that something terrible had happened. The look on Vlad's f
ace expressed something inexplicably horrific – profound emptiness and despair infected his soul.

  "My dear boy, what has happened?" She stepped aside to allow him to pass.

  His voice was cold, mechanical. "Do you have the material I left with you yesterday?"

  She detected the fevered light in his eyes and the barely perceptible shaking of his fingers. Her own tragic experience signaled that the young man was on the verge of collapse.

  "Come in." She spoke calmly, willing her strength to him. "I have it. What's happened?"

  "They were looking for them." He sank heavily onto a chair at the table in the big room. "They tried to find them in my apartment. Then to conceal the search, they organized a small gas explosion."

  "My God!" Horrified, Golovina took his hand. "Was anyone hurt?"

  "Mother is dead."

  Golovina saw the tears start in his eyes.

  "We've got to go."

  She unexpectedly grabbed his arm, surprising him with her strength. She pulled him to the tiny office with the archived documents. Not a trace of her former worry remained. A remarkable inner strength showed through her wrinkles and frail frame.

  "Forget everything I said to you before." She spoke rapidly as she closed the door behind them. Forget about a visa. You'll never get one. Any attempt to leave legally will be detected. But there is a way out. Before the war with Ukraine I managed to get some dissidents across the border, people with no other way out. We worked out a reliable route near Belgorod, not far from Kharkov."

  She opened a drawer and produced an old, torn map.

  "We saved about ten people, but these days it's more difficult to get into Ukraine. When the war began my friend Bogdan volunteered for the Donbas Battalion. As far as I know, he's on rotation right now in his home town, Kharkov. So I propose that you travel to Belgorod on the electric train. This is safer than by car. I'll write the name and address of the man you need to contact in Belgorod."

  She reached across the battered wooden table and took his hand. "You'll stay here tonight, and tomorrow morning we'll send you on your way. I'll give you whatever money you'll need for the trip."