In the Shadow of Mordor

by Michael R Davidson

  "Zip. Zero. Nada," said Johnson. "But getting the information out through a respected, major Western publication would find some resonance. The Russians would react no differently, but it might keep American and EU eyes on the ball."

  "So what can we do?"

  Johnson chewed his lower lip. He experienced an intense need for a cup of coffee. He did not doubt the importance of the information Illarionov possessed. The problem was what, if anything, to do about it. Williams was placing his hopes in the hands of the CIA, but he was probably betting on the wrong horse. No, Vance wouldn't pass this hot potato to Langley, where it would in all likelihood be dropped. There were still too many people in Washington who actually believed they could coax the Kremlin into the international fold if only they treated the Russians as if they were normal people.

  "I think this is one for your guys, Derrick."

  Williams was surprised. He didn't especially care for the CIA, but he thought they could get things done. "I don't understand."

  Johnson leaned forward with elbows on the table. "Illarionov is no longer in Russia. For all intents and purposes, he's already in the West. There are no restrictions on travel out of Ukraine. All he lacks is a visa. Maybe your guys could arrange a study grant or something …"

  Williams was immediately enthusiastic. "That might just be possible. But we'd have to find Illarionov first."

  "That shouldn't be too difficult," said Johnson. "I'm sure your press attaché in Kiev would have no trouble contacting the editor of the Kharkov newspaper. That's a pretty good starting point."

  Vance's coffee was stone cold by the time he returned to his office.

  * * *

  8 УкроСМИ: "Ukrainian mass media." In Russian, "СМИ" stands for "Средства массовой информации," i.e. "mass media."

  Chapter 23

  Olga met Gleb Solntsev at the Sretenka office. With September fading into October, the weather had turned chilly, and she wore her best coat with fur trim over a simple, but elegant dark green dress with a modest hemline. Her calves were encased in fashionable black leather boots.

  Solntsev greeted her with an avuncular hug and then held her at arm's length to look her over as though he were the judge at a livestock contest. "Perfect," he pronounced his verdict. "You'll make a fine impression.

  He escorted her along the familiar route on Bol'shaya Lubyanka. Olga was surprised when he guided her into Furkosovskiy Pereulok. FSB headquarters is located in the massive Lubyanka building, a huge pile of yellow bricks that housed an insurance company in pre-Soviet times. Behind the familiar massive façade that faces Lubyanka Ploshchad lays an entire complex of interconnected buildings.

  The officers of the FSB, formerly the Second Chief Directorate of the KGB, do not envy their former colleagues of the SVR their modern Yasenevo high-rises. Tradition is valued in the Lubyanka.

  It was Olga's dream to enter the doors that faced the square. Noting her curiosity, Gleb explained, "The main doors off the square are used only for ceremonial occasions. This is where the operatives enter."

  He pointed to an imposing set of solid metal gates with a small traffic signal to one side.

  Inside the gates was a featureless courtyard with a vehicular entrance to a subterranean garage and several other closed doorways without any indication of where they led. Immediately to the right after entering was a set of double doors, and this was where Solntsev led her, explaining that this was Building 1.2, where the executive offices were located.

  Olga was thrilled to the bone. She was following literally in the footsteps of real Chekists. Probably "Iron" Feliks Dzerzhinsky himself had trod these stones. She did her best to conceal her enthusiasm, but it did not escape Gleb Solntsev's practiced eye. "She'll do," he thought. He detected no doubts or suspicion in the girl. His instincts had once again proven accurate.

  He led her down a corridor to an elevator that took them to the third floor, and then down another long corridor covered by a beige runner. They stopped outside a room that bore the number given to Olga in Yekaterinburg.

  Boris Ivanovich, his Stalin/walrus face wreathed in a smile, waited for them in a straight-backed chair at the head of a well-polished conference table that could easily accommodate twenty. Today he was wearing an olive green FSB uniform with the three stars of a full colonel on the epaulets.

  He waved them to be seated next to him at the head of the table. Just as they were sitting down, the door opened to admit a tall, spare, older man with a full head of iron gray hair and fierce, nearly black eyes under a thick tangle of eyebrows.

  Boris Ivanovich and Solntsev quickly stood, and Olga followed suit. This was clearly a man of importance. The older man pulled out a chair halfway down the table and flicked his wrist for them to be seated. He didn't say a word, but those black eyes never strayed from her. She was afraid to return the gaze.

  Boris Ivanovich cleared his throat. "Olga, this is an important day for you, and one you will not forget. First, my name is not Boris Ivanovich. I am Colonel Aleksandr Kozlov, and officially I do not exist."

  Unsure where this was leading, Olga straightened her spine and kept her eyes on the Colonel, who continued ponderously, "I do not exist on any roster of FSB personnel. I am paid from a special fund that is untraceable. From this moment, your name and records have been expunged from FSB files, as well."

  It occurred to Olga that she had been unaware that she even had an FSB file.

  "You are known publicly as a member of 'Svoi,' and nothing can be done to change that, but we can take certain precautions. You will inform your family and friends that you have resigned from 'Svoi,' for perfectly honorable reasons, of course. There will be no reason for you to hang your head. On the contrary, you have been offered a lucrative position with a think tank in Washington that specializes in Russian affairs. It is called 'The Russian-American Study Group.' You will be paid through them, and you will receive an extra stipend for clothing. Naturally, an apartment will be rented for you."

  Kozlov paused to see how she was receiving his words. Satisfied, he continued, "The avowed purpose of the 'Russian-American Study Group' is to promote good relations and understanding between the Russian Federation and the United States. Its true mission is to promote Russian ideas and counteract American propaganda. You will be expected to engage influential Americans, young people, and media in dialogue and convince them to support our cause. This will not always be easy, but Americans are easily corruptible, not very intelligent, and we already have many of them working for us in Washington and throughout the country. We are especially interested in working with Russian émigrés to strengthen their ties to the Motherland. Do you understand?"

  Olga gulped and nodded her head. She was not a little daunted by the tasks they were setting for her.

  The Colonel smiled benignly, reading her thoughts. "You won't be alone in this work, Olga Vladimirovna. Besides your colleagues at your cover office, you will have regular contact with one of our people at the Embassy in Washington. He will be your case officer, your guide, and is there to support you in any way required. While your work with the 'Russian-American Study Group' is very important, there is another side to your mission that will be handled exclusively between you and your case officer. This is the reason for the training we gave you in Yekaterinburg. Do you think you can handle all that?"

  Olga nodded and managed to say, "Yes sir."

  The men in the room regarded her somberly for what seemed an eternity until Kozlov nodded and pushed a button at his side. The door opened, and a man in a white jacket wheeled in a cart loaded with delicacies and a bottle of shampanskoye.

  The tall, older man, who had not uttered a word, rose from the table, nodded at the Colonel and Solntsev, and left the room after a final, judgmental glance at Olga.

  When the three of them were alone, Kozlov popped the cork on the bottle with practiced finesse and filled three champagne flutes. He raised his glass and said, "With the dissolution of the S
oviet Union and the advent of 'democracy,'" his voice dripped with sarcasm as he pronounced this word, "traitors were suddenly and inexplicably made into heroes, state secrets were revealed to our enemies. And all the while the Americans continued to recruit agents of influence, to dig tunnels under our embassy in Washington, and to expel dozens of our people. I cannot list all the injuries inflicted upon us. But now, thank God and our new leadership, Russian special services are regaining their feet and becoming what they should be – strong, professional, and supported by the narod. The chekist is once more valued and admired, and you are now one of us, Olga."

  Chapter 24

  He was an older man, a KGB veteran now assigned to the SVR's Directorate KR, counterintelligence. Given his intimate familiarity with the control exerted over the capital's streets by surveillance teams and cameras, as well as technology to detect clandestine communications, it was surprising that, among the several in-place assets handled by the CIA, he would insist on personal meetings. This was risky, but he was an extremely valuable source.

  The only person Vance Johnson trusted to handle these meetings was himself. The CIA Station Chief was "declared" to the SVR and expected to manage liaison relations. If the SVR knew his identity and role, so did the FSB and its omnipresent surveillance teams. The question was: would his status lull the Russians into believing that a declared officer was unlikely to attempt clandestine activities in Moscow; or, would his status make him a prime surveillance target?

  The SVR penetration was uniquely placed to provide invaluable intelligence. In the post-Aldrich Ames era, he was in a position to provide early warning should another CIA officer be recruited, and he enjoyed some access to FSB activities. So, when the source signaled for an unscheduled meeting, Vance Johnson was set in motion.

  The techniques of a Moscow surveillance detection route were part of his DNA. He drove through the Embassy gates that afternoon and turned left on Bol'shoy Devyatinskiy Pereulok, the left again at the end of the street onto Novinskiy Boulevard past the old US Embassy building. It would be a long day.

  His first stop was the up-scale "Berlin House" shopping center where after a half-hour perusing the shelves, he bought two books on Russian history. His car was visible through the front windows, and he spotted nothing out of the ordinary, what he would have termed "hostile indicators."

  Next he made a second stop farther west across the Moskva River, using the Borodinskiy Bridge to funnel possible surveillance behind him. He spent an hour browsing the shops at the huge Yevropeyskiy Shopping Center, and still saw nothing that raised an alarm.

  He continued in this manner gradually moving to less routine cover stops and resorting to increasingly provocative maneuvers, and still drew out no signs that he was being followed.

  At last, he parked his car and jumped aboard a bus, after switching into a leather jacket and clapping a flat cap on his head. In the old days a CIA officer might have ducked into the subway, but now all the stations were packed with closed circuit television cameras, and that mooted the possibility of spotting physical surveillance.

  Johnson followed this routine until dusk, each phase bringing him ever closer to the meeting site. Finally, after an exhausting four hours in perpetual motion, Johnson stepped off a bus on Kutuzovskiy Prospekt and walked slowly toward the parking lot of a large, circular building that housed a Battle of Borodino Museum.

  This was always the most heart-pounding moment when the adrenalin electrified his veins. Had he been successful, or did a team of highly skilled FSB officers have him in their sights? Or had the agent been compromised and he was walking into an ambush?

  He spotted the agent's Volvo sedan parked in front of the museum, and there was a white box visible on the rear-window shelf – the safety signal.

  Johnson approached the passenger-side door and slid into the car. Colonel Sergey Lopunin beamed at him and tapped his wristwatch. "Right on time, Vance, as usual. You are a good razvedchik."

  "Thanks, Sergey. I hope this is worth wearing out a pair of perfectly good shoes. How much time do we have?"

  "Oh, as much as we need, but this won't take long. I came across a bit of information I think will interest you."

  Lopunin switched on the engine, backed out of the parking space and swung into the traffic on Kutuzovskiy. He drove carefully and glanced frequently in the rear view mirror.

  "Are you worried you're being followed, Sergey?"

  "One can never be too careful," said the Russian, concentrating on his driving. "Does the name Vladislav Illarionov mean anything to you?"

  Johnson's face remained impassive. "Should it?"

  Lopunin gave him a sideways glance. "You wouldn't tell me if it did, would you? That's fine. But you are interested in assassinations planned by the Russian special services?"

  "Of course, Sergey. They're becoming all too common here in Mordor and elsewhere."

  "I see you've adopted the jargon of the dissidents."

  "If the shoe fits … But you didn't call this meeting to discuss language. What's up?"

  Johnson wanted to finish this business as quickly as possible and return to the anonymity of the streets.

  "Our brothers at the FSB are on the warpath for this Illarionov. He's in Ukraine now, apparently not far from the front lines, and they're sending a team to eliminate him. It seems he has some sort of information that would cause the Kremlin a big problem if it came to light."

  Johnson concealed his alarm. "Has the team already been dispatched?"

  "I don't know, but if not, it will be soon. The FSB has its panties in a wad."

  "How will the team get into Ukraine, through the lines?"

  "No. They'll enter from the safe side from somewhere in the West, posing as normal visitors. Their local agents will supply the weapons. They'll leave the same way when the job is done."

  "Are you sure of your source?"

  Lopunin was slightly insulted. "Of course. I don't trade in crap. I heard this directly from one of the Lubyanka planners, an old drinking buddy from KGB days."

  "What's his name and position?"

  Lopunin was reluctant to supply this information, but after some urging, he did.

  After a half-hour of aimless driving, he pulled to the curb and Johnson got out of the car. Before closing the door he leaned back in to say, "Thanks, Sergey. Your efforts are very much appreciated."

  "Just see that the appreciation is placed in my bank account as soon as possible. I'll have to get out of here one of these days."

  Johnson watched until the car disappeared into traffic. No one was following Lopunin.

  It took another 45 minutes to return to where he'd left his car. After another 40 minutes, he drove through the Embassy gates some six hours after his departure that morning. He saw the Russian security guard dutifully note the time of his return.

  He didn't go to his office because there was a lot to think about and also because he knew his wife would be on tenterhooks.

  The following morning, he was in his office after only one cup of coffee at home. He had not slept well despite his exhaustion.

  He was obligated to report the results of last night's meeting to Langley. He would send a single, strictly compartmentalized cable reassuring Headquarters that no security problems had arisen and transmitting the intelligence provided by Lopunin.

  The intelligence would be of only passing interest to Langley, maybe a footnote to a report, but it meant a great deal to Johnson. The reason was that the subject of the information was Vladislav Illarionov

  Johnson's problem was that he had not shared anything with Langley about Illarionov. His reasoning had seemed sound, but now he was obligated to inform them of Lopunin's warning. Johnson could either give Langley the whole story and wash his hands of it, or figure out something else.

  He opted for something else, maybe something that in the end would bring the cautious bureaucrats on board without knowing exactly how it had come about. At least he could give Illarionov a fighting
chance to survive.

  Chapter 25

  So this is America.

  Through the plane's window Olga watched as the homeland of the Main Enemy rose up to meet her. They descended along a gentle glidepath, having first circled far west of Washington before turning back above the Shenandoah Valley for the final approach to Dulles International Airport. Through scattered patches of cloud, she saw large wooded areas with Autumn-painted leaves, farmland, highways and smaller roads – the arteries and veins of an arrogant and powerful country that wanted to rule the world.

  The eleven-hour flight from Moscow was exhausting, but now a chill of apprehension ran through her as the wheels of the big jet screeched onto the runway.

  The cleanliness of Dulles International Airport struck her, and the "people movers," the huge bus-like vehicles on fat, oversize tires that carried the passengers from the plane to the main terminal were unlike anything she had seen before. They debarked into the cavernous immigration and Customs hall where she stood in the queue with other foreigners of all stripes.

  She offered the passport control officer a radiant smile and handed over her passport – a claret-red, Russian passport. He took it as though her country of origin made no difference, noted the reason for her visit, stamped it and handed it back with a wave toward the baggage area on the other side of a Plexiglas wall. Olga smiled triumphantly. She had arrived behind enemy lines.

  In the reception area outside Customs, she spotted a well-groomed young man in a dark suit holding up a cardboard placard with her name. Perhaps unconsciously, Olga was accustomed to the rough and tumble boys in "Svoi," quite unlike this avatar of the "golden youth."

  "How was the flight?" he asked. "I'm Stash Dobrovolskiy, the Deputy Director of the Russian-American Study Group. And I understand you're to be my assistant."

  She was being greeted by the number two person of the Group, which made her feel even more responsible for carrying out her mission.