In the Shadow of Mordor

by Michael R Davidson

  "It means articles or blogs," he said breezily, "extremism, or illegal meetings, or regime change. Regime change is the most difficult. With extremism, they usually push people into exile. Meetings are more difficult here, but they don't follow them too closely. But when it comes to treason they apparently have to fill out a lot of papers listing the evidence." Mitya said all this with an air of authority as he opened two bottles of beer.

  "But …" Vlad finally understood. "No, they've not opened an investigation on me." Then he added, "I hope. No, with me it's something else, a journalistic investigation. They want to kill me. They've already tried."

  He accepted the cold bottle of beer and dropped onto the sofa, suddenly aware of his fatigue. But he would conceal from this imperturbable young man the sort of danger that came of contact with him.

  "Well, that's complicated," muttered Mitya. "It's the first time, to tell the truth, that I've come up against one like this. Here's how things work. The train to Kharkov takes just over an hour. Get on here; get off in Kharkov. There are no stops along the way. That's why you go through Russian Customs at the station before boarding. If they let you board the train, it's all good, and you're on the way to the free world. Then you have to pass Ukrainian Customs in Kharkov before you get off the train. If they let you through, get off the train, walk out of the station, and go wherever you like. These days, with the war, the Ukrainians require that any Russian man of military age have an invitation from a Ukrainian citizen. They won't let you through without it. But if someone meets you there and vouches for you, the problem is solved. This is the first and easiest variant."

  "What's the second?"

  "If there is a warrant out for your arrest and you can't legally board a train, then you go by car. There's a chance of getting across the Russian border illegally, but not the Ukrainian border. The possibilities are practically nil. They're very vigilant about fighters and subversives. In this case, you have to ask for political asylum right at the border. Except that with this variant they normally hold the car at the Ukrainian checkpoint for five to seven hours, so you are still stuck in Russia. During this time they may well search you and then kill you. Well, you said they already tried once …" Mitya seemed a little abashed.

  "Let's try the train." That was an easy decision. He was tired of playing games with killers, so tired he was almost indifferent. If all this ended sooner than he thought, so be it. He was dealing with professional, well-trained killers. If they already knew he was here, they'd be waiting for him at the station and all along the border. On the other hand, he had still been in Moscow only that morning, and Solntsev's people were unlikely to find out so soon that he would be at the Belgorod train station. He didn't thing there was an arrest warrant out on him, and that meant there was a chance that his name wasn't on any watchlist. Time was on his side for the moment, and the thought that he should spend more long hours in Russia was insupportable.

  "OK," sighed Mitya, the train it is. If there's nothing more, we need to get a move on. So, you'll leave tomorrow morning?"

  Vlad shook his head. "No. I'll go right now. Check the Internet, will you? There should be a train schedule."

  "It'll be very late by the time you get there, and you'll have no time to rest up …" Despite his reticence, Mitya concluded, "Maybe you're right. In your place, I wouldn't waste any time."

  Within an hour, they made their way through the night to the station. The city with its night lights and illuminated fountains seemed incompatible with someone passing through its well-tended streets to escape certain death.

  Vlad bought a ticket at the counter, not having wished to alert anyone with an Internet purchase. Ticket purchases were computerized, but he wanted to keep risk to a minimum. The station Customs official gave his passport a thorough examination, squinted at him, but finally let him pass.

  Through the window he could see the people still standing on the platform, among them Mitya smiling up at him. There, outside the window was Russia, the homeland he had never thought to abandon. He was certain he would never see it again.

  Beyond the thick glass of the train window in the chill September night, he was leaving behind twenty-five years of his life – his entire life: the school years, university, friends, work, his first adolescent love about whom he least wished to think at this moment. There also was the hell of the recent past, his father's corpse stretched on the cold, wet ground, the destroyed ash of his apartment and his deceased mother. He could not bring himself even to bid farewell to the familiar places as he gazed at the lights of another, unfamiliar but still Russian city … With a slight lurch, the train started to move, and the platform slipped away. Ahead was a different world. A free world.

  *****

  Bogdan Kosti did not disappoint – he met Vlad in Kharkov wearing a camouflage uniform and a prepared invitation. He handed the document to the Customs official, and Vlad passed without delay through the checkpoint.

  The khaki uniform awoke an irrational awareness in Vlad, as though he were destined somehow to undo the despicable and senseless war in Ukraine. He could not dispel the thought that this young man who was forced to fight instead of leading a peaceful life, was now helping him – a citizen of the aggressor country.

  Reading Vlad's thoughts, Bogdan spoke first. "Don't worry. I understand. Before the war, I was in the international human rights movement. I know a lot of guys from Russia, and they're still my friends. I met Golovina in Moscow a few years ago. What a grand old lady! In Soviet times our Ukrainian dissidents worked with her – and that's why she went to the Gulag. She's pretty famous here. And if she asks us to help someone, no one will refuse. We're well aware of how things are with you in Mordor. You see how this war began."

  "I'm incredibly sorry …" Vlad got a few words out before Bogdan interrupted him.

  "Don't apologize. No one in my family has died yet, thank God, but you – both parents. Marya Fedorovna let me know all about it, so it's not for me to complain to you about anything. You're lucky to get out of there. We know what it's like, believe me, and if we can help, we'll help.

  "I hope you don't mind, but my living conditions right now aren't great. I have a two room apartment, but one room is now occupied by a family from Gorlovka. There's a mother and baby, and her husband just arrived today. They left their home there and can't return. You understand what 'can't return' means? We haven't found them a place yet, so I took them in. So we'll be sharing one room. OK?"

  "You ask me that? Listen, how can I help you? You know, so that I'm not a burden. Are you accepting people in the Battalion?"

  "We really don't need you right now in the Battalion," Bogdan replied. "You rest up and get yourself together. You just got away from a bunch of murderers, and you want to get in a gunfight now? Where do you think you could fight without any training? We'll find something for you, don't worry. Marya Fedorovna said you're a journalist. Do you know how few journalists there are in the cities along the front? All the press is in Kiev and afraid to come out here. Those who do come are amateurs. We might need to get some important information out. Today I asked armed forces headquarters, the VSU, and there's something they want published as soon as it's approved, and it'll have to be written quickly. So you see, you came just in time."

  Bogdan smiled for the first time since they'd met.

  Chapter 21

  "YEVROPEYSKIY KHARKOV" WEBSITE:

  Russian Fighters Mine a City and Its Inhabitants

  By: Vladislav Illarionov, Kharkov

  The artist Mihailo Korzh recently escaped from occupied Gorlovka and was an eye witness to everything written here. Finding himself in an occupied city, here was no choice but to contact the so-called "MGB DNR" in order to obtain permission to leave. But the normal bureaucratic procedures led to an unexpected outcome: Mihailo witnessed the occupiers' plans to destroy his home town. We met with the refugee in Kharkov, where he told us about how the city was occupied by Russians, Chechens and Serbs, about hunger and repre
ssion and even how these occupiers resolved to blow up the city and all its inhabitants.

  "Field Commander Bezler, nicknamed 'Bes,' is a fanatic," asserts Mihailo. "He thinks a bunch of 'Bloody Banderists' rule in Kiev. He actually believes what Russian propaganda says."

  However, according to the artist, problems in the currently occupied city began even before the appearance of the "Russian Beast." At the end of February 2014 almost four thousand Russian citizens entered the city, practically simultaneously with the events in the Crimea.

  "I don't know if there were Spetsnaz among them, but I do know that there were criminals and Russian fascists – I saw their swastika tattoos. The occupied workers' quarters and guest houses on the outskirts of town and were transported to every pro-Ukrainian gathering in the Donbas where they started fights. For example, they provoked a massacre in Donetsk. They were armed only with knives and rebar, but this was enough," recalled Mihailo.

  Then Girkin/Strelkov6 appeared, and Bezler came with him. In order to control the recently arrived and local criminals, "Bes" made an agreement with the local establishment and even made an ally of the mayor. His next task was to bring the Chechen and Serb bandits under control.

  "The Serbs were in charge of counter-intelligence against so-called 'agents of Right Sector7' and random criminals. Most of the Serbs didn't even speak Russian and for the most part were happy to arrest people on suspicion and turn them over for torture or execution. The prisoners were interrogated by officials of the Russian FSB. The Chechens handled routine patrols whenever it was necessary to frighten the locals, and they were very efficient at this," says Mihailo. "The Serbs who knew a little Russian said openly that they were there to continue the war they'd fought in Croatia.

  Things became chaotic in Gorlovka. Bezler and his men confiscated all the microbuses and four-wheel drive vehicles. Anyone who resisted got a bullet in the head, according to Mihailo. Many of the occupiers actually believed they were fighting NATO and the Americans.

  The repression began shortly after Bezler organized his homegrown "siloviki." They were quick to deal with any sign of dissent. The beginning of the repression was the death of Rybak, who was a member of the City Commission, but he is far from the only victim of the occupiers. Later came the firing squads for those who refused to turn over their property, demands for bribes from important businessmen, and the arrests of activists.

  "As often as not, people simply disappeared, and then either their bodies were found or they were never heard from again. The official line was that these people had fled to Ukraine, but we knew this was not so. At least 600 people disappeared, even if they offered no resistance following the occupation," Mihailo recalls.

  It has become even more chaotic in Gorlovka over the past week. Like Girkin, Bezler left the Donbas and returned to Crimea, and at the beginning of September Russian troops entered the city and mercilessly exterminated the former "leadership."

  "There were battles between different elements that controlled sections of the city, including use of heavy weapons. According to Russian media, at least half of the destruction was due to these outlaw skirmishes," says the Ukrainian refugee.

  In the meantime, the economic situation in the newly declared "republic" worsened with each passing day. No one received a salary for a long time because all the businesses were closed. There was a catastrophic lack of food.

  Mihailo confirms that during the recent advance of Ukrainian forces the city might have been re-taken. But this was prevented through filthy blackmail. One side began blowing up the railroads, bridges, and reservoirs while the other threatened not only to destroy the city's infrastructure, but to devastate it completely along with the population.

  "At this time Bezler officially notified the Ukrainian side that Gorlovka had been completely mined with explosives. I learned of this by accident, personally from an MGB employee. Later, other local officials confirmed this. Right now in Gorlovka, the water lines are mined, and toxic substances are emplaced that would be released into the water supply when the charges go off. The mined the sewers, the gas lines, and the power plant, and also two large industrial sites – the "Stirol" chemical combine where there is a great deal of dangerous substances and the factory that manufactured explosives for municipal works and for military purposes. There is a mountain of defective and unused explosives that would be detonated by an explosion. If that were to happen, nothing of Gorlovka would be left. It would be like another Chernobyl. Even the factory workers say so," explains Mihailo.

  Locals have noted that a great many important sites also have been mined in Donetsk and Lugansk. In recently liberated Slvyansk and Kramatorsk all the schools and means of subsistence were mined. According to Ukrainian sappers, everything was wired to be detonated by a single phone call. Thus, occupied Donbas is literally held hostage by terrorists who threaten to erase it from the face of the earth.

  * * *

  6 Igor Vsevolodovich Girkin aka "Strelkov," a Russian GRU colonel who played a prominent role in the invasion and occupation of Ukraine and the eventual formation of the so-called "Donbas Peoples Republic." He was sanctioned by the EU for his actions.

  7 Right Sector was a far-right, Ukrainian nationalist organization with fascist tendencies.

  Chapter 22

  Vance Johnson took a second to admire the steaming cup of ink-black coffee in the white Navy mug in his hand. It was his personal Sumatra blend, supplied by a coffee shop in Alexandria, Virgina, and the aroma was worth the slight delay before tasting. In fact, it would be his third cup of the morning, having ground the beans and consumed the first two cups at home in the townhouse he and his wife occupied behind the high brick wall along Konyukovska Ulitsa. The townhouses were all on the Embassy compound. The Russian "White House" stood kitty-corner to the Embassy on the other side of the street.

  Johnson was somewhat of a novelty in the new Central Intelligence Agency. At 47, in the CIA since the early 90's, straight out of the military and with a degree in Russian history and literature. The fact that he was still with the Agency was in itself an anomaly at a time when the average "career" there lasted only seven years. Long gone were the days of the 30-year man.

  No, these days Langley was much more concerned with ensuring employee "diversity" than sticking to the business of developing professionals for the collection and analysis of intelligence. But then that was just him. Many of today's crop just went along with the flow because they could resign after a few years and flaunt their credentials as an "intelligence operative." In the old days, even before Johnson joined up, seven years was barely enough time to be permitted to walk across the street unattended in the world of espionage.

  Some bright thinkers who occupied desks at Langley also thought it was a good idea that officers should not specialize in any one area or culture. Now a tour in Kuwait might be followed by a posting to Japan. There were still days when Johnson, a fluent Russian speaker, was surprised to have been named Chief of Station, Moscow. Obviously, someone in Human Resources had made a mistake.

  As he raised the steaming cup expectantly to his lips, the office door swung open, and Derick Williams rushed in waving a piece of paper.

  "Did you see this?"

  With considerable regret, Johnson set the cup on his desk. The coffee would never see 197 degrees again. He glanced at his watch. "Christ, Derrick, it's only 7:30, and you're interrupting an important morning ritual."

  "You've got to see this." Williams thrust the print-out across the desk still waving it like it was burning his fingers.

  Johnson took the paper. It was a print-out of a story from the day before on a Kharkov newspaper's website.

  "Look at the by-line," said Williams.

  "Vladislav Illarionov," breathed Johnson. "So he made it out, after all."

  "He sure did, and he's already in print in Ukraine. He could publish the Ryazan story any day now."

  Johnson made a sour face. "I sure as hell hope not. That would be a big mistake."
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  Williams was as astonished as if Johnson had risen from behind the desk and mooned him. "I don't understand. That information is very important. And the kid has hard evidence. He left the country so he could get it published."

  "And because some FSB skinheads wanted to kill him."

  "That too," agreed Williams, "but I still don't understand your attitude."

  Johnson raised his arm and waved a finger around in the air. "I think we should go to the S.C.I.F. again."

  Once they were safely ensconced in the plastic "bubble," Johnson sighed because he was going to have to explain Russian cynicism to someone who should already know all about it. He belatedly remembered the cup of coffee still on his desk.

  "Derrick, you know as well as anyone that the Kremlin's strategy is to block the ability of the general public to think critically. Their propaganda exploits and promotes emotion, not thinking. This is especially true of official 'reporting' from and about Ukraine. They call it 'укроСМИ' (ukroSMI),8 'Ukrainian mass media,' and they don't mean it as a compliment. The image of the enemy in Russian propaganda is not distinguished by its originality, and has taken form with varying degrees of intensity over the past few years. Of course, it's the USA, and those the propagandists call 'American puppets,' beginning with the Ukrainian authorities and ending with the whole of Western and Eastern Europe."

  He hoped his words were sinking in. "So, if young Illarionov is successful in publishing his accusations in the Ukrainian press, what do you think the reaction here would be? Do you think it would have an impact?"

  Williams' face sank as the import of the CIA Chief's words sank in. "They would denounce it as a fabrication, and no one in Russia would disagree."

  "Right. And the reaction would probably be little different in the West. What kind of credibility would an article from a small Ukrainian newspaper on the front lines of a war possess?"

  A crestfallen Williams nodded. "None."