He gave her another hard stare, and said, "More than anything else, Russia itself is strategically significant to Russia."
She couldn't take much more of this. "The boss gave me the Donbas assignment, and I don't argue with orders."
For just an instant she thought she detected a hint of approval in Karpov's eyes.
"What kind of training did they give you before coming here?" he asked.
"Solo and team surveillance, counter-surveillance …"
"And do you understand what you'll be doing here?"
"Only in general."
Karpov leaned back in his chair and lit a Marlboro despite the closeness of the room. "Olenka, our situation is complicated. Our country made a strategic mistake. Possibly, in the course of events, there was no other choice. The invisible Cold War had gone on too long, and at some point it was bound to turn hot. The Yankees grabbed Ukraine by organizing an armed coup, and Russia was forced to act. Those at the top, of course, had a clearer view as to whether there was another way …" He was silent for a few beats before continuing, "But now it's clear that the States wanted to draw us into a destructive war, and they succeeded. And now they'll do everything possible to extract maximum gain and destroy us in the end."
As his words soaked in, she experienced fear for the first time and to such an extent that it erased her indignation.
Karpov continued as though he were talking to himself. "And they have every resource and possibility. Many organizations serve this American goal, and not only the CIA. There's the State Department, various government commissions, many funds that provide grants to Russian traitors, several research institutes – every one of them working for American intelligence. Our traitors and liberals who've come to the States work with these organizations. And you must sort it all out: their programs, actions, specializations, goals and methods. You should have learned all of this before coming here. Your cover work will place you in contact with all of this, but first you must realize what they are actually doing and what they're after. This can be a dangerous game."
"I'll sort it out," she said with some heat. "Believe me. I'll do it."
"OK." She detected condescension in his voice and eyes. "I'll explain it simply. They may be divided into 'doves,' or 'hawks' - neocons. It's even easier to deal with the latter: they are clearly enemies, and they don't hide the fact that they want to destroy our country. They dream of our collapse. They don't hide their goals from anyone. But the 'doves' are more complicated. They pretend to be the 'party of peace,' but it's far from the truth. They're just more refined and delicate: they pretend to be weak and create the illusion that they're easy to trick. But they actually want to entrap you. At first glance, it seems that these two tendencies work against one another, but it's really nothing more than a banal lust for power. Both hate Russia."
"What kind of traps do these 'doves' have?" she asked, quite taken aback by Karpov's exposition.
"That's what we have to find out, Olenka. That's the task set before us all. Sometimes they can create the illusion that there is no trap, but there is. It cannot be otherwise. If we don't find them, it just means we aren't looking hard enough. The very survival of our country depends on our success here. This is a war of destruction, and it's us or them. You know what will happen if the liberals and national traitors come to power in Russia. They'll demand to get rid of people and to put anyone associated with the present government on trial, and that means you and me. If we lose, we'll lose not only Russia, but our freedom and maybe our lives. There is nowhere we can go; the time for compromise is past. Our real enemies are the Americans - not the ragged bunch of sell-outs you were after in Russia. Our real goal is to save Russia and not to go on some quest in the Donbas. Do you understand?"
"Understood." Olga gulped and then blurted, "Valeriy Eduardovich, I understand that you don't think I'm a professional, that I know nothing and can't do anything. But I was able to fool a lot of people in Russia. They believed me; I could convince them of anything. If I have to, I can lie and pretend to get along with anyone. I love Russia, and I'll do whatever is necessary. You'll see."
"We'll see. Now, let's go over some of your first tasks here."
Her first marching orders against the enemy.
"It may seem obvious, but you must learn your way around, streets, public transportation, etc. This will be very important when you are given surveillance assignments, and there will be such assignments as soon as I am convinced you are ready. In your cover work you must be alert not only against enemy provocations, but also for people who may be sympathetic to Russia, people who may one day be co-opted or recruited as agents. You will, of course, prepare your reports in writing. We will meet here at the Embassy once a week to gauge your progress."
So it was to be the same in Washington as in Yekaterinburg - endless walking, riding buses, the subway, studying maps. The second part of Karpov's instructions was more interesting.
*****
After dismissing the girl, Valeriy Eduardovich made his way to the top floor of the Embassy to the office of Dmitry Nikolayevich Olesnikov, the SVR Rezident in Washington. It was not his purpose to brief Olesnikov on Olga's visit. It was time for their regular afternoon chat.
The relationship between the two was tenuous. Officially the SVR was responsible for foreign intelligence and counter-intelligence, and the Washington rezidentura was large and capable. But the President of the Russian Federation was the former head of the FSB, and the FSB was more genuinely "Chekist" than the "modernized" former First Chief Directorate that was the SVR. The foreign intelligence service suffered from numerous failures, including having its illegals operations wrapped up in the United States. That was why the President entrusted certain sensitive tasks to the FSB.
Formally, Karpov was to coordinate all of his operations with Olesnikov because, technically, he was on SVR "turf." The rezident nevertheless suspected that Karpov did not share everything with him. And the rezident was correct. He resented Karpov, but managed to remain philosophical about it.
It was nearing embassy closing time, and Olesnikov was pouring his customary afternoon vodka when Karpov walked into his office without knocking.
Olesnikov downed the vodka in a single swallow and said, "What the fuck do you want?"
"Aren't you going to invite me to drink?"
"Why not?" Olesnikov pulled another shot glass from his desk drawer and filled it after re-filling his own.
Karpov sat without an invitation and picked up his glass. "Ura!" he said, and downed it.
"Do you have anything important to share?"
Karpov knew it was not a serious question. "No," he replied, "just business as usual."
"You had a visitor this afternoon, a very pretty little visitor." He leered at Valeriy Eduardovich over his glass.
Of course, the rezident would have a list of all visitors and who their contacts at the embassy. "Just a new staffer at the Russian-American Study Group. I gave her the standard security briefing."
"So she's not here to bump anyone off?"
Karpov laughed to cover his embarrassment. "Of course, not, Dmitry Nikolayevich. That joke's getting a little stale."
*****
It was not yet three P.M. when Olga stepped back out the Embassy gate onto Wisconsin Avenue. With nothing more on her schedule now was as good a time as ever to begin her reconnaissance of the District of Columbia. She set off toward 'M' Street with a determined stride, but after several blocks decided it would be too far to walk.
She raised her arm at a passing yellow taxicab, and to her delight it pulled over immediately. The driver was large and black, and this led to second thoughts as she hovered indecisively between getting in and remaining on the street. Finally, she slid into the car, safely separated from the driver by a Plexiglas partition. On a whim, she instructed him to take her to the Capitol building. What better place to start than the heart of the enemy camp?
The cab stopped on Capitol South in front of the L
ibrary of Congress, and she carefully counted out the fare before placing it in the slot in the partition. She was taken aback by the fierce glare of disgust from the driver and then recalled the American custom of tipping. Apparently, working people were so poorly paid they depended on the charity of others to make ends meet. This cabbie was a member of an oppressed group. She reached back into her purse and placed an additional dollar bill in the slot. The driver shook his head philosophically and pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires.
Across the wide street the Capitol Building at first seemed quite unremarkable - a building with some columns surmounted by a dense network of scaffolding. But as she walked around it, she appreciated it more as the afternoon sun splashed off its columns and broad steps in contrast to the bright, autumnal colors of the trees. Stash's warning came to mind: "Even if you really like something, even if it's beautiful, always remember that it's all built on the blood and bones of millions of destroyed lives."
This place is the center of evil, she said to herself.
Chapter 28
Vlad stared blankly into the darkened countryside rushing past the window. Four hours earlier he had boarded the train at Kharkov's twin towered station, and in two more hours he would arrive in Kiev. The departure from Kharkov was precipitous, triggered by the urgent message transmitted along Golovina's ratline to Mitya in Belgorod and across the border to Bogdan Kosti in Kharkov.
Bogdan's friendly manner was instantly replaced by marshal determination as he rushed Vlad out of the apartment to the train station.
On the platform, Bogdan pressed a wad of bills and a page torn from a notepad into Vlad's hand. "This is all I have right now," he said, "but it's enough to pay for a hotel in Kiev for a couple of nights. I'm giving you the number of a reliable contact there, but I advise you to contact the Americans as soon as possible." Golovina's warning message included the embassy number provided by Williams.
Escape into Ukraine was not the last step in Vlad's flight, but he hadn't expected FSB wolves to be on his trail so quickly. Maybe he shouldn't have published that article in Yevropeyskiy Kharkov. It was a foolish gesture of gratitude to Bogdan, but it revealed his location to enemies who might already be in Ukraine. Maybe they were waiting in the Kiev train station scanning the faces of arriving passengers.
By the time he arrived it was after ten P.M., and an icicle of anxiety pierced his chest as the train pulled to a stop. He remained in his seat for a long time as he surveyed the platform through the window in a vain attempt to spot any FSB operatives lurking in the shadows. Finally, he realized he would never be able to spot them. He lacked the necessary training and knowledge. His only choice was to step out of the train and hope to luck that an assassin's bullet would not cut him down.
No one took a shot at him, and he rushed out of the cathedral-like terminal into the late September night casting frequent glances over his shoulder. He headed straight up Petlyuri Street, a decidedly unimpressive thoroughfare. It was much too late to call the American Embassy, and he wanted to get off the street and out of sight as quickly as possible. After a long block, he turned right onto Zhylyanska Street and walked into the first hotel he saw, more than relieved to discover the rate was the equivalent of twelve dollars per night. Vlad was worried that his Russian passport would be a problem in Kiev, but the desk clerk assigned him a room with no comment.
There was no question of sleeping. He was much too wound up for that. There's something about being under threat of imminent death that bans drowsiness. His room faced the street, and he kept the curtains closed, a thin barrier against the danger he imagined lurked outside.
He had no idea when the American Embassy opened, or even if anyone there would know who he was. Nine AM seemed a reasonable hour, and he dialed the number Williams had given to Golovina. It was answered by a female voice, "U.S. Embassy, Press and Culture. This is Janet."
In his best English, he said, "Is Mr. Williams there, Mr. Derrick Williams?"
"Who may I say is calling?"
Such a simple request, and yet Vlad was afraid to pronounce his own name on the phone. "Erm, just tell him a friend of Marya Fedorovna, please."
There was a pause before Janet replied. "Hold, please," and one of Kenny G's tunes poured into his ear.
"Hello. This is Derrick Williams. Is this Vlad?"
He immediately recognized the voice. "Yes."
"Where are you?"
"I'm in Kiev."
"Are you safe?"
"I don't know."
"Tell me where you are, and I'll come pick you up in an Embassy car. Be ready to leave immediately. I should be there within a half-hour."
*****
Derrick had arrived in Kiev the day before and went directly to the embassy where he met with his Kiev counterpart in the Press and Culture Section, Brad Peters.
"I don't see a way to get him paroled into the States any time soon. There's really no hard evidence that he would qualify for political asylum."
Derrick started to protest, but realized that Peters was right. There was nothing besides Johnson's unofficial and unauthorized warning. "I know, but I don't doubt that he's in danger. We have to find a way to get him out of here, preferably to the States. We might help him get a tourist visa, and he could ask for asylum after he gets there. Or how about a study grant of some sort? Do you have anything pending?"
Peters was doubtful. "The guy is Russian, not Ukrainian."
"Well, he did write a big article in a Ukrainian newspaper, and there's no way I can help him in Moscow because he can't go back there." He cast in his memory for possibilities. "What about that AEI grant? They're willing to sponsor a six-month internship in Washington. I think they'd jump at the chance to get a real Russian dissident journalist."
"Yeah, well ..." Peters' attitude softened. "Let's work on that. But you've got to find him first."
That problem solved itself.
They were going through the paperwork next morning when Vlad called in to the Embassy. He was on his way to check out a car from the motor pool when he ran into a tall man with a friendly, Irish face and shockingly red hair.
"Are you Derrick Williams from Moscow?"
"Erm, yes."
The redhead thrust out a large, freckled hand. "I'm Jack Kelly. I have the same job here that Vance Johnson has in Moscow."
CIA guys, thought Derrick, have such an elliptical manner of speaking. I have the same job here that Vance Johnson has in Moscow. Why couldn't he just say he was the Chief of Station?
"He said I should lend you a hand … if you want, of course," Kelly finished.
"I'm on my way to pick up Illarionov right now. He's in a hotel not far from the train station."
"Good. Why don't you let me take you in my car?"
Any port in a storm. Derrick agreed without hesitation. It wouldn't hurt to have a friend along when picking up a guy on the FSB's assassination list. He gave Kelly the name of Vlad's hotel.
"Great," said the CIA man. "Let me just make a quick phone call first."
Kelly was back in ten minutes and led him to a parking lot at one end of the Embassy compound where he directed him to a late model BMW 5 series. Not an Aston-Martin, but nifty, nonetheless.
Less than 30 minutes later, they pulled up in front of Vlad's hotel on Zhylyanska which turned out to be an unremarkable one-way street. The hotel was large and equally unremarkable. Kelly pulled up in front and turned on his blinkers. As he stepped out of the car, Derrick caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster under the CIA man's jacket.
"You're carrying a gun?"
Kelly grinned. "I'll probably never use it, but I wouldn't want to need it and not have it on me."
Derrick also noticed that Kelly was scrutinizing their surroundings as he closed the car door. He was doing it casually, but it was a complete 360-degree scan.
They called Vlad from the front desk, and he appeared within a few moments dressed in jeans, a leather jacket, and with a backpack over one should
er. The young man was obviously relieved to see a familiar face and shook Derrick's hand heartily as he cast a curious glance at the big redhead at his side.
"Vlad, this is Jack Kelly. He, erm, works at the Embassy here and gave me a lift."
"Ochen' rad poznakomitsya," (Glad to meet you). Kelly's Russian was good.
They headed for the exit, and Kelly waved them to stay behind him. He stepped outside and again scanned the vicinity. When he turned back toward them, that big grin was on his face again. "We're good to go."
Outside, a large, black Mercedes sedan sat with its engine idling right behind the BMW. It contained four men with their faces turned toward them.
Derrick skidded to a halt and grabbed Vlad by the elbow. "What's going on?"
"That's our escort," said Kelly. "I called some friends in the SBU for back-up before we left the embassy."
"SBU?" Derrick was unfamiliar with the term.
"The Ukrainian Security Service. We'll be perfectly safe. Now, hurry up and get in the car." He continued toward the BMW with a nonchalant wave at the men in the Mercedes.
"I wish he'd said something," grumbled Derrick. He and Vlad slid into the back seat.
*****
The peculiar warble alerted Vance Johnson of an incoming call on the secure line. Jack Kelly's distorted voice greeted him when he answered. "I just wanted to let you know that your fugitive dissident is safely inside the embassy here."
"So, you met Williams?"
Kelly chuckled. "Yeah. Rather a nervous type, isn't he?"
"Maybe he has a good reason to be nervous. Putin's Nazis haven't made his life pleasant here."
"Is that a fact? They've caused some problems for the Ukrainians, too."
"So I've heard. Are they going to get Illarionov to the States?"
"I think so. Williams was talking about some sort of internship in Washington."
"That'll work, if he can get out of Ukraine alive."
"About that: I called in some markers from the SBU, and guess what. This afternoon the editor of that Kharkov newspaper started getting calls asking about Illarionov. The SBU boys were sitting with the editor at the time. To make a long story short, the editor invited the caller to his office to collect the information, and a couple of very interesting Serbians turned up. They're being interrogated as we speak. The SBU is very grateful."
In the Shadow of Mordor Page 13