In the Shadow of Mordor

by Michael R Davidson

  He started to object, but she shook her head vigorously. "Don't worry about it. You've got to get that information out of the country now. There's no other way."

  He wanted to object, but in reality there was nothing left in Russia for him. To remain meant death. The uncompromising truth was that he could not stand up to an organized group of murderers. The gang of bandits in charge of his country would never permit the publication of the material if they had to kill half of Moscow.

  Golovina's voice penetrated his thoughts. "You can do so much for Russia," she was saying, "but you won't survive here. You must live even if only so that your parents' deaths were not in vain. They were murdered, and so was Tretyakov and God alone knows how many more or where it will stop."

  Guilt again engulfed him. People were dead because they had agreed to help him or had even a single contact with him, just because they had been seen with him.

  I've got to get out of the country. Not for myself, but for them. So that no one else suffers.

  He suddenly thought about "Darth Vader."

  "I've got to make a phone call," he said, surprising Golovina.

  He dialed Nikolay's number on his cell phone. He planned to arrange to meet him so they could escape together. After several rings, a female voice answered, and it sounded like she was in distress.

  "Excuse me," he said, "but may I speak with Nikolay? I'm a friend."

  "No." There was a catch in the voice now. "You can't."

  "But what's happened?" His stomach plunged into a dark pit.

  "He was in an automobile accident. He's dead." These last words sounded as though they were wrenched forcibly from her throat before she closed the connection.

  Vlad slumped against the wall and closed his eyes, now more convinced than ever that he rather than Solntsev was an accomplice to murder. I can't save anyone. I only destroy lives. This terrible thought saturated his mind, and it frightened him more than the possibility of his own death. Irresponsible, naïve boy! What have I done?

  "I'll go," he covered his face with his hands and sobbed like a lost child.

  Chapter 17

  Gorlovka, Ukraine

  Alena Melnichenko dreamed she was in a parched field searching for her son. He must be nearby, but she couldn't find him. There was a rumble in the air that grew louder and louder, until it was a roar of explosions and she awoke. From the edge of town came the sound of gunfire and the familiar echoes of artillery, though not as loud as in her dream.

  Only half awake, she could almost imagine she was happy, but this lasted only a few seconds before she was brought back down by the realities of her existence. At such moments, she could barely gather the strength to get out of bed.

  But she had to if only for the sake of going yet again to her mother-in-law's to try to see her son. It was already mid-day, but she felt exhausted. After a night of unending dances at the strip club where she worked, a few hours' rest in the morning just was not enough.

  She stretched, wincing at the pain in her right shoulder, a reminder of Artem's anger the night before. I must decide about Artem.

  Sometimes it might be better not to wake up, at all.

  Seized by self-pity, she sank deeper into the pillow and tried to wipe the painful thoughts from her mind. Her husband and his mother would not return her child, and Artem would do nothing. This was especially clear after last night. In fact, the man she was living with seemed pleased not to have a young child underfoot.

  It was the first time he had struck her, and that was a bad sign. She would have to find another place to live because the problems here would only get worse. But if she left Artem he would stop giving her money. Without money how could she pay for an apartment? If she took a second job to pay for an apartment, who would care for her son?

  The autumn weather was chilly, but there was no city heat in Gorlovka. She tiptoed to the tiny kitchen with its bare shelves. Alena simply could not find the time to clean the stains or the scum from the gas stove or the oilcloth that covered the small table by the window. The fridge was almost empty, not counting the half-empty bottle of vodka that Artem had uncharacteristically left unfinished. There were some mushrooms she'd gathered in August. It would not be a simple thing to get more food.

  She started at a knock at the door. Could it be Artem? But he always left early and got home late, if he even came home. She went to the door and fearfully put an eye to the peephole. With a sigh of relief, she opened the door to a welcome visitor.

  "Misha!"

  Mihailo Korzh smiled broadly as he stepped inside. "Shall we have a bite to eat?" he strode into the kitchen and set a large, cloth bag on the table then began pulling groceries out of it as he announced each delicacy with the aplomb of a TV announcer.

  "Imported cheese. A forbidden product that must be eaten quickly. Real Ukrainian salo5, bananas and sugared pineapple, but that's for dessert. A few cans of corned beef for reserves. Fresh milk and yoghurt for your son. Chicken legs – you can find some vegetables and cook up some borscht. And finally, we have some oil, sausage, and fresh apples."

  "Misha," she could barely speak, "where did you find all this?"

  "My aunt was in Mariopol. Don't worry. She brought back enough for everybody."

  "Your aunt?" Alena was dubious. "You're an orphan."

  "A man is an orphan if he has no family, and an aunt is family. So, take a seat and eat something."

  Mihailo was lying. There was no aunt. He'd bought the food with the last of his money from resellers from Mariopol. He hadn't worried about money since he'd sent his wife and son to Kharkov under the pretext of an operation on the boy's eyes.

  "So, how are things with you?" he asked, taking a seat at the small table. He spread some salo on a slice of bread.

  "It's not good, Misha."

  He could see that she wanted to talk.

  "You know," she said, "I told you already. Life was normal with my husband before the war, and then he lost his job. He fell apart. I'd come home and find him passed out on the floor with a broken vodka bottle beside him, and my son was crawling through it and playing with the shards of glass. I had to get my son, Vitya, out and at first found a small apartment. But the prices have gone through the roof, as you know. They don't pay much at the club, not enough to keep the apartment. I got into debt and then met Artem, just like I met you, in the club. I've lived here with him ever since. I took Vitya to my mother-in-law and tried to convince Artem to bring him here. But my mother-in-law gave me an ultimatum – return to my husband, or never see my son again."

  She began to sob softly.

  "And Artem? Couldn’t he help you get the boy back? He's in the militia and has a lot of pull in the city."

  "He doesn't want to, Misha." She finally broke out in tears. "He doesn't want my son. We argued about it again last night and he hit me. I want to leave him, to find an apartment of my own, but what would I live on then? Artem sometimes brings food home. He helps with my debts. I live here for free. Sometimes he gives me some money and I can go a few days without working." She rolled her eyes.

  "Did you do what I asked?"

  "Yes," she sighed. "No problem. He thought he must have lost his credentials somewhere in the city."

  Alena rose from the table and retrieved the small, leather wallet from a drawer where she'd hidden it under some dish towels.

  "But, Misha, you're not going to do anything bad, are you, something that would create a problem?" She was nervous.

  "Alena, I already told you. No problems. I just have to get out of town. It's a stupid situation. My son needs an operation on his eyes, but they won't let me travel because I was an artist at the DNR Ministry of Defense. An artist! I made the decorations for the Victory Day celebration. But once you've worked for the military on DNR territory, they won't let you leave. I'm going to put my photo on this ID and go to Kharkov with my boy. That's all. I'm an artist, after all, so I can surely falsify an ID."

  "I understand." She shrugged almost ind
ifferently. "That's the way things are. I suppose it's necessary in wartime. The Junta won't leave us in peace."

  Her words were painful for Mihailo, but he ignored it. He said, "Alena, if I can get out for a week or two you and your son could use my apartment. For free. Here are the keys."

  "Misha." She leapt from her chair and wrapped her arms around him. "I thought Artem loved me, you know? But he's just like the rest. I know things are tough on him, too. He's in the militia. But that doesn't mean he can slap women around. War makes such pigs of men. Or maybe I'm just unlucky. But you're not a pig. You're a good man, but you're married …"

  "I understand why you hooked up with him …" Mihailo stopped talking and gently extracted himself from her embrace.

  He choked back a silent scream, keeping his face calm so as not to betray the storm that raged in his heart. But he's a terrorist, a murderer, a tool of the occupiers, and you sleep with him and still wonder why life is so unpleasant?

  "He's a militiaman." She finished his sentence. "They always have money."

  She said this so simply, so naïvely, that Mihailo didn't know how to react. He'd never figured out exactly how to act with Alena. She supported his enemies, she slept with murderers for a handful of hryvnia and a basket of food. But she was so unhappy and weak that he could not think of her as an enemy. She was another casualty of war, like many others – ignorant and deceived, maybe lacking some scruples, but still a casualty. Whatever her conduct, he was fighting for her.

  Mihailo did not know Alena by chance. He'd gone to the strip club because fighters frequented the place. He wanted to see if they had particular girlfriends that might be susceptible to providing military secrets they learned from pillow talk. Artem and Alena were easy to spot.

  A short investigation showed that Artem Volkov held fairly senior rank among the separatists and that meant he could pass through checkpoints without inspection and enter nearly any military site. All of this power lay in his credentials. The groceries were the price for Alena's cooperation.

  He was ready to hate her for some of the things she said, incapable of coming to terms with her omnivorous naïveté. And still he cared for her the way one might care for a wayward child. He wondered how she would react if he told her that her so-called Junta were fighting to protect the city's residents, risking their lives for her, while the man with whom she shared a bed was ready to blow up entire cities along with their residents.

  It was strange, but the more he lied to Alena, the more responsible he became for her; the more he took advantage of her blindness, the more grateful he became for her involuntary help. The more she became entangled in his net, the greater the need to protect her from danger.

  This remarkable coincidence of cynicism and humanity was new to him. It was strange that these contradictory emotions should so easily fit together, like pieces of a huge jigsaw puzzle. So now he freely offered his apartment to her knowing that if he got out of Gorlovka alive he could not return before the war was over.

  "Alena," he said, striking his palm against his forehead, "I'm an idiot. I brought food, but nothing to drink. Could you run out to a store, even if they only have juice or water? I'll give you the money. Don't spend it on wine. You probably don't even have tea or real coffee here. I'll wait for you."

  She was more than happy to take the hrynia. "Sure, it'll just take a few minutes. There's a kiosk not far from here."

  "Don't buy the junk they sell from kiosks," he said. "Find a real store and bring back some imported coffee."

  He waited for the door to close behind her and then went to the living room where a high cabinet stood against the wall. He started pulling out the drawers one after another. There were maps, documents, lists, and a diagram of command duties. Types of weapons, battle plans.

  Good Lord! He was almost overwhelmed. His blood churned, threatening to burst through thin veins. This was more than he could have hoped - an invaluable discovery.

  Using his smartphone, he photographed everything. The Ukrainian intelligence operative spread out every page, checked the focus, and pressed the button to capture every secret on the small screen and store it safely away in the phone's memory. He determined to copy every document regardless of what might happen.

  He left Alena after an hour. The cell phone seemed heavy in his pocket. Now came the second part of the operation: alter the credentials and pay a visit to Vasya of the MGB – and then get out of town as fast as possible.

  A talk with Vasya could not be more appropriate. Following the full-scale invasion by Russian forces at the end of August, local fighters in many occupied Donbas cities faced serious difficulties. Professional Russian troops entered Gorlovka almost immediately, accompanied by GRU Spetsnaz. The GRU was ruthlessly efficient. Some separatist field commanders simply disappeared, some were dismissed, and others arrested.

  "Bes" and his closest advisors had left the city a few days earlier for an undisclosed location, and those who remained behind occupied themselves with "cleansing."

  The Russian "stewards" did not forgive their Ukrainian satellites the slightest initiative or disobedience. Amid the confusion, Gorlovka officials became so concerned for their own fates that they neglected to deal with the dissent among the common people.

  The lower ranks did not know who their commander might be the next day and thought of only one thing: guess who it might be and do anything to please him. Some groups resisted the "cleansings" and engaged in armed skirmishes with the invaders. To be on the street after curfew could be fatal. In other words, it was hard to take advantage of the dark in Gorlovka.

  * * *

  5 Fatback

  Chapter 18

  Mihailo found Vasya the next day at a table in a small café near MGB Headquarters and headed straight for him.

  "Greetings," he said with abroad smile. "Remember me? You gave me a ride to Donetsk the other day."

  Vasya leaned away. "Yeah, I remember." His voice was not particularly friendly. Maybe things were not all well with the MGB.

  "They promoted me." Mihailo sat without an invitation and pulled out the altered identification. "You probably heard that the command has changed, there's a new Chief of Staff, and he knows me."

  "Congratulations." Vasya had no desire to get on the bad side of anyone of rank.

  "I have an almost official request for you," Mihailo began. "The new command is looking things over, and they want to know what we have in the old Gorlovka munitions plant. They need to know exactly where the mines have been placed so that our boys don't accidentally blow themselves up."

  "I can't help you," sighed Vasya. "You need to send an official request to Command. That's the only way."

  Mihailo gave Vasya a stare usually reserved for the mentally disabled, and then spoke slowly and carefully. "Vasya, What Command do you have in mind? Yesterday they found the head of the Gorlovka militia on his own doorstep with a cracked skull. The assistant prosecutor was shot. Your Command won't be around tomorrow, and the day after they'll find them in a ditch. Don't you understand? They're taking out all of the locals, all of them. I survived only because I serve the Russians. And you have to serve them too, if you want to survive. They're the bosses now. Forget about anyone else. I looked you up because I remembered you and want to help a good guy. If you do a good job for the new powers that be, they won't bother you. Think about it. Things have changed. 'Bes' is gone. If you want to act like a bureaucrat you'll end up like all the rest."

  The effect was immediate. "Actually there is no placement diagram," he said. "I helped plant the explosives and can show you where they are."

  "Excellent. Let's go."

  "Right now?"

  "No time like the present."

  *****

  The ruined hulk of the abandoned factory resembled the set of an American post-apocalyptic movie. A clear September sky was visible through the shattered windows. Overhead, teetering slabs of destroyed walls leaned against steel girders, threatening at any moment to bury
the entire building. Girders and rebar showed through gaps in crumbling sections of the floor.

  Mihailo followed Vasya, climbing over piles of stone and rubble and stumbling on the uneven floor through half-ruined machine shops.

  Periodically, Vasya would point out the location of a mine in a debris-covered corner. "Over here, and in the basement, too."

  Mihailo silently photographed it all with his smartphone and noted the positions on a crude building diagram he had drawn.

  "Is that everything?" he asked Vasya after what seemed an interminable period.

  "I suppose so."

  "You suppose so, or is that everything?"

  "That's everything."

  They were preparing to leave when footfalls sounded on the other side of the wall and echoed throughout the enormous space. Mihailo froze, and Vasya fixed him with a questioning eye. A camouflaged figure appeared around a corner with a machine-pistol Mihailo recognized as a Bizon 9X18mm Makarov, the same weapon he had trained on in Kharkov. The gun was pointed directly at them.

  "Who are you?" barked the soldier. "What are you doing here?"

  Vasya spoke first. "The Deputy Commander here wanted me to show him where the mines were planted."

  "Deputy Commander?" the guard squinted at them, the epitome of suspicion. "I spoke with the Deputy Commander not ten minutes ago, and he ordered me to see who was sneaking around the factory. The patrol reported a civilian vehicle on the property."

  "What do you mean?" Vasya stared at Mihailo, a shadow of comprehension clouding his face. He reached for his holster.

  Mihailo reacted without thinking. He struck Vasya on the jaw with one hand and grabbed his pistol with the other before diving behind a fallen section of ceiling.

  A shot rang out behind him, and then a burst of automatic fire. He sprinted for a door and turned the corner.

  He'd last fired a weapon was during training hurriedly organized by the Donbas Battalion in Kharkov. He'd never fired on a living person in his life. Would he be able to pull the trigger now?