"The flight was OK, but I'm tired," she said. In reality, she was bursting with countless quite illogical, even childish questions, the most important of which was, what is America like? But she didn't want them to think she was a silly, impressionable girl.
"It wears us out every time," he agreed. "We have an apartment for you in Arlington that is convenient to a subway station. You should get some rest, but try not to sleep. If you stay awake you'll get accustomed to the time difference lots faster. Tomorrow morning, you have to be in the office." He shot her a sympathetic glance.
Outside the terminal the fresh air revived her. Unlike Moscow which already was sinking into the Autumn blues, mid-October here was more like Russian September – the same bright Fall foliage, a still warm sun, and an overarching blue sky. The road from the airport was little different from Russia, only a bit smoother, cleaner, and wider. Olga leaned back against the car seat and sighed heavily. Nothing was impossible for her now.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing to a high wall that stretched along the Dulles Access Road. "Do all the roads have walls? Are they afraid of being robbed?"
Stash laughed. "This isn't the most picturesque area. It's nicer farther ahead. But don't let it fool you, Olga Vladimirovna. Always keep in mind that all of this was created on the corpses of millions of ruined lives and dead children. Libya, Syria, Yugoslavia, Iraq, Ukraine. American wealth is created at the expense of the poverty of other countries. They don't even deserve the land that was taken from the Indians …"
She didn't need any schooling in the cant she already knew by heart, and did not reply.
Mistaking her silence for disappointment, Stash gave her a mischievous grin. "Would you like to see something interesting? Let's make a little detour along the George Washington Memorial Parkway past the Headquarters of the CIA."
"The CIA?" She experienced a variety of sensations. Excitement, fear, joy, shock – all at once, that erased the fatigue. "Let's go!"
Traffic clogged the Beltway, and Olga wondered if there was an accident ahead.
"No," said Stash, "this is the way it always is. There's a perpetual rush hour all around Washington."
The Parkway heading toward Washington was less crowded and unexpectedly scenic. It was like being in a forest similar in all its aspects to the forest just outside Moscow. Large trees leaned over the road, shimmering in the slanted late afternoon sunlight in shades of gold, pale green, and burgundy in a joyful confusion of solar sparks. She peered through the trees and caught a glimpse of a large river far below. She suddenly caught sight of thick white tree trunks with broad, black stripes.
"Beryozi!" she exclaimed. "Russian birches under the nose of the CIA."
They laughed, and it seemed to her that the forest laughed with them in all its sun-intoxicated transparency.
A few moments later she spotted a sign: George Bush Center for Intelligence – the CIA.
"Look up to the right." Stash pointed to an exit from the main road. "Just a short distance up there are the main gates. Unfortunately, they won't let us in," he smirked.
Olga silently peered in the direction he indicated, the direction of the Main Enemy, but little could be seen.
They exited at Key Bridge and Stash pointed back over his shoulder. "That's Georgetown across the river. It's full of bars, restaurants, and rich people. Maybe I'll take you there sometime."
She didn't know how to interpret this. Was he talking about business or pleasure?
He finally stopped in front of an attractive high-rise on a narrow side street. As promised, the subway station was only a block away.
"Your apartment is on the third floor facing the street," said Stash. "I think you'll like it."
He retrieved her bags from the trunk and escorted her to the apartment door where he handed her the keys. "I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at seven o'clock. The fridge is stocked, so you can fix something to eat and get a little rest. But try not to sleep right away," he reminded her.
The place was furnished, if not sumptuously, certainly more luxuriously than the place in Yekaterinburg. There was even a flat screen television.
She busied herself for a while putting away her clothes and then stepped out onto the balcony. The sky was beginning to darken. The evening air was cool on her skin, and she breathed deeply, taking in the essence of the enemy hidden beneath the appealing surface.
Chapter 26
Derrick Williams poked his head into Johnson's office. "You summoned me, oh Prince of Darkness?"
The Chief of Station acknowledged the sobriquet with a wry smile. "Ah, Derrick, if you only knew the half of it I'd have to kill you."
It was an old joke, but it always elicited a laugh, sometimes a nervous laugh.
Johnson stood and walked around his desk. "Guess where we're going."
Williams groaned and trudged after the COS to the S.C.I.F.
"Derrick," began Johnson, "I'm going to share something with you that I shouldn't. In fact, I'm breaking a cardinal rule. And if you're not careful with the information, I really will shoot you."
Williams' eyebrows shot to his hairline. Like most of the uninitiated, he harbored a secret envy of the spooks. "Oh, yeah?"
A long, tired sigh escaped Johnson before he spoke. "I have it on reliable authority that the FSB is sending an assassination team after Vladislav Illarionov in Ukraine, and I want you to do something about it."
Williams features froze in shock. He might secretly envy the spooks, but he certainly had no yearning to be involved in their business. "Me?" he squeaked.
"Now, don't go all girlyman on me. I don't expect you to charge in with guns blazing. It should actually be quite simple. How soon can you travel to Kiev?"
"Kiev?"
"Stop giving me monosyllabic answers. I just want you to go to the Embassy in Kiev and talk to your counterpart there. The rest will be up to him if you're convincing enough."
That didn't sound too daunting, but Williams was leery. "Why don't you go to Kiev and talk to your counterpart?"
Johnson ignored him. "This is simple, not in the least risky, and I'm not suggesting you do anything out of the ordinary. We talked about this before – your guy needs to find Illarionov pronto and help him get out of Ukraine. I thought you were on board with this."
Williams was immediately abashed as he recalled their previous conversation. Johnson's idea might just work. "You're sure they're going to try to kill him?"
"Scouts' honor." Johnson held up three fingers.
"Maybe we could set up a study grant in the States for him."
"That's the spirit. Now get some travel orders and get your ass on a plane. I don't know how much time we have."
Back in his office, Johnson brewed a fresh pot of coffee as he considered his options. Half-way through the first cup, he made his decision. He lifted the handset of his secure telephone and dialed the number for his counterpart in Kiev.
Jack Kelly's voice, processed through some very sophisticated encryption technology, was clear but slightly distorted and accompanied by whistling and hisses. "Hi, Vance, how're things in the heart of evil?"
"Still evil and becoming more so with each passing day. Listen, Jack, I'm going to share something with you that Headquarters has not disseminated yet, so this call is off the record. Is that OK with you?"
"Hell, yes. We're here, and Langley is thousands of miles away, and they usually don't know what they're talking about anyway."
That's my boy, Jack. The response was what he expected. Jack Kelly was young and had a healthy disrespect for authority. This was not a trait normally admired in intelligence officers, but Johnson could use it to his advantage.
"Jack, I just learned that the FSB is dispatching an assassination team to Ukraine. Their target is a Russian dissident writer who is now in Kharkov. His name is Vladislav Illarionov. By coincidence our Press Attaché, Derrick Williams is on his way to Kiev to help arrange a study grant in the US for Illarionov. You should have nothing to do wi
th those arrangements unless our help is absolutely required. But I thought you might have a chat with your local counter-intel boys and give them an informal heads-up that a Russian snuff squad might be operating on their turf."
"I don't know, Vance. The SBU is riddled with Russian penetrations."
"But I'll bet there are a couple of guys you can trust."
"I think so."
"Good. Tell them the goons will come from the West, not through the battle lines. Capisci? Or they might have a team already in place for contingencies. God knows, they're well-practiced at infiltrating Ukraine."
"I get it. No need to tell Headquarters about this, right?"
"I always figured you for a smart fellow, Jack. And, by the way, keep an eye out there for Derrick Williams, our press attaché."
*****
Derrick Williams was no James Bond, but he wasn't a slouch either. He was pretty sure that Johnson and he were on the same side, but then again you just never knew what games the spooks might be playing. He'd heard stories.
So the first thing he did after making reservations to fly to Kiev was visit Golovina. He'd not risked visiting her often following the confrontation with the "Svoi" thugs, but now he was compelled to do so by the sense of urgency thrust upon him by the Chief of Station.
The plight of dissidents in Putin's Russia went largely without notice in the wide world, where so many terrible things were happening. While the West was distracted by terrorists, the Chinese, and insane North Koreans and Iranians, the Kremlin was left free to wield a large club without too much kickback. Ukraine had damaged Russia's international standing and sparked repercussions, but Williams doubted if anyone on main street America even was aware, let alone cared, that a bloody war still raged there.
Today's dissidents went unrecognized except for a few people who cared, and Williams was one of those people. He admired and sympathized with brave souls like Golovina, a woman whose persecution spanned two historic eras but who still maintained the struggle. If there was anything he could do to promote and support their cause, Williams was determined to do it.
Across the rough plank surface of the table that served her as a desk Golovina cocked her head to one side as she listened.
"Marya Fedorovna, I can't tell you everything, but I've got to warn you that young Illarionov is in very real danger, even in Ukraine."
"They're going after him, aren't they?" Sadness and weariness washed over her face, and she suddenly became the old lady she was, a Russian babushka worried about her family. The young people she attracted and guided were indeed her only remaining family, and Vladislav Illarionov was one of her favorites.
"I can't say more," said Williams, "but I'm going to Kiev this afternoon, and I'm going to try to find a way to get him to the States."
She stretched a bony arm across the table and clasped his hand. "God bless you, Derrick. You may be his last hope."
"I was hoping you might be able to get word to him somehow. There may not be a lot of time." Williams did not know the extent of Golovina's network and never asked. You never knew who might be listening. But he hoped she had resources to call upon.
She nodded. "Don't worry. I'll get word to him, and he'll be waiting to hear from you. How can he contact you in Ukraine?"
Williams wished Johnson would suggest some safe, secret mode of contact. The best he could come up with on his own was to tell Illarionov to contact him at the American Embassy. He wrote the phone number on a scrap of paper and gave it to Golovina. "I'm afraid that's the best I can do right now. This is happening so fast."
Golovina was a veteran of a thousand conspiratorial meetings, but she was more than grateful for anything Williams might do. In all the world there was no one people like her could count on but the Americans, and although they could occasionally find some NGO money to keep them going, she missed the old days when Western leaders regularly and loudly denounced the Kremlin's repression.
"Thank you again, Derrick, and good luck. Now I must get to work if we are to be successful."
Williams left her there in her "office," a thoughtful expression on her face as she puzzled out her next move. He emerged from the basement door into the afternoon sunlight and scanned the area carefully in all directions to see if he could spot anyone watching. He didn't, but he knew he wouldn't be able to see them even if they were there.
Chapter 27
The Russian Embassy sits high up on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington's exclusive Georgetown, more precisely on Mount Alto, the third highest point in the District of Columbia. The Embassy's web page boasts "a view of the Capitol, the White House, the Pentagon and the State Department," a veiled boast about the ideal line of sight for communications intercepts. They were keeping an eye on the Americans.
The architecture of the buildings on the compound is modern and functional, and the chancery is finished in white stone, as is the sumptuous "ceremonial building" with its lavish interiors of Russian white marble. They were constructed exclusively of materials of Russian origin, proving yet again the superior common sense of the Russian Foreign Ministry over the feckless bureaucrats of the U.S. Department of State. Early on, the FBI attempted to tunnel under the grounds in order to tap into communications lines, but the operation was discovered, resulting in snickers throughout the halls and drawing rooms of Washington.
The chancery with its slit windows glistened like alabaster in the early afternoon sunlight. It reminded Olga of a fortress, a white, shining fortress high on a hill overlooking enemy terrain. She stepped out of the taxi and presented her passport to the uniformed guard in the enclosed checkpoint at the entrance.
After scrutinizing the document and checking it against a list of approved visitors, the guard instructed her to take a seat while he arranged for an escort. She found a place in a row of straight-backed chairs along one wall and glanced nervously at her watch. She didn't want to be late to the first meeting with her FSB case officer and arrived with twenty minutes to spare. As the minutes ticked away, she became more and more nervous.
On the top floor of the chancery, a middle-aged woman knocked on his office door and announced to Valeriy Eduardovich Karpov "The Polyanskaya girl is waiting at the gate."
"I'd almost forgotten about her," was his sour response. "Go fetch her up here."
Karpov slumped behind his desk and reached for a pack of Marlboros.
Why had the Center saddled him with this inexperienced young girl? What could she possibly know about his work? On his desk lay the mottled green cardboard folder containing her dossier, and he flipped through it again. She's just a little propaganda bitch that works the Kremlin parties. All she's good for is shrieking slogans and waving placards. What the hell am I, a nanny? Do they think I have nothing better to do than mess around with an empty-headed kid from Moscow? He could only conclude that some powerful friend in Moscow was rewarding her with a "vacation" in the U.S. Or perhaps she was the mistress of some silovik who just wanted to get rid of her.
But the orders were clear. Use her as efficiently as possible, and keep an eye on her. How was he to interpret that?
There was a light knock at the door. "Come," he said, closing the file folder.
The girl entered the office and stood uncertainly before his desk while he gave her a frankly appraising once over.
She was of medium height with jet black hair and large green eyes, what the Russians would call a real krasavitsa, a beauty. Karpov settled on his mistress theory as the most likely explanation for her assignment.
Olga would not have called the man behind the desk handsome. He was dark-haired, around forty with high cheek bones on a sallow face currently arranged into a sardonic expression. He possessed none of Solntsev's masculine charm or the refined courtesy of Stash. In fact, she found something repulsive about him. He was more like a former soldier than a successful diplomat. She was disappointed.
"My name is Valeriy Fedorovich." He shot her an irritated glance. "You're three minutes late," he s
aid, as though no better was expected from her.
He stood and walked around the desk, gesturing for her to follow him out the door. "Come on, we're going to talk somewhere else."
Without uttering a word she followed in his wake. He led her down a flight of stairs to the floor below and to the end of a corridor. He used a key to unlock a featureless door, and they entered a small, windowless room. It contained a small table surrounded by four chairs. He took a place across from her.
"Well, Olga Vladimirovna, tell me what you did in Moscow."
She was confused by the question, although it was not unexpected. This man's unconcealed displeasure erased the words she'd planned to say.
Looking down at her hands, she said, "Officially, I worked as a press secretary, meeting with media and the public. I prepared presentations and made speeches, supervised student meetings and social and charity events."
He cut her off. "And unofficially?"
She swallowed uncomfortably. "Unofficially we followed opposition activities, especially those traitors who were in touch with Americans. We organized counter-demonstrations, interrupted their gatherings, we explained patriotic values and the danger of revolution to young people."
"So you persecuted dissidents." She couldn't tell from his voice whether he approved or disapproved.
"Not at all." Olga didn't bother to conceal her indignation. "We worked to prevent a revolution, so that people can live normally. I took no personal pleasure in 'persecuting' anyone. I just did not want blood and chaos in my country."
She wondered if Valery Eduardovich might be somehow testing her. But it was impossible to penetrate his opacity, and it was driving her crazy.
"Is that all?"
"We recruited volunteers to send to the Donbas."
"Why?" His tone was sharp.
This was a provocative question. She wanted to talk about the terrible Ukrainians, the fascists, about protecting the Russian-speaking population, how New Russia was a historic possession of Russia, but instead she answered, "Because Ukraine is of strategic importance to Russia." She was doing her best to appear professional and cynical.
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