Olga barely contained a laugh. She recognized Petrov who was doing his best to keep his voice calm.
"What you are saying is totally unconvincing. First of all, there is no proof that these are actually Russian soldiers. You yourself say that they have no unit designations. And as for military groups … Military formations exist throughout Europe, there are secret CIA prisons in other countries, and for some reason no indignation about that. Besides that, Russian troops had every right to be in the Crimea. The Russian Black Sea Fleet is there."
This was getting good. Petrov was her man, and she was proud of his effort to spoil the traitor's night.
"You talk about Russian saboteurs, but obviously not even the best prepared saboteurs could ignite a rebellion without the support and participation of the local population. Without massive support you can't establish logistics or guarantee communications, or gather intelligence. And it goes without saying that you can't ignite a civil war in a happy country where there is consensus and where the government has legitimacy – that's just conspiracy theory. Try dropping some saboteurs into Finland. Such things are obvious to clear-thinking people, but not for you and your American sponsors." Petrov finally lost his temper.
The room went quiet. Shtayn spotted Petrov with a slight grimace of disgust, as though he recognized him. But his response was restrained and dignified.
He squinted at Petrov. "You want to ask if I am aware that there were problems in Ukraine and that some citizens were pro-Russian? Of course, I'm aware. In fact, you just admitted to the entire audience that if there are contradictions in a country, then saboteurs could be effective. In other words, the existence of problems in a country, in your opinion, is sufficient basis to unleash a civil war and armed invasion. That's your position?"
Petrov snorted loudly.
"And so," Shtayn continued coldly, "I remind you of the fact that I passed my childhood and youth in just such a country. A country full of social contradictions that make the Maidan events look like child's play. This country is called Russia. Do you recall the separatist tendencies in the Urals? More precisely, Sverdlovsk Oblast only demanded more local control and independence, and no one even thought about armed uprising or calling in foreign troops. The project was known as the Ural Republic, but even the weak Yeltsin government would not permit it, and nipped it in the bud. And do you know, I'm grateful that there were no egotistical cynics in America that wanted to send armed soldiers to our streets to 'support the Ural Republic." I know very well that Yekaterinburg would have been destroyed within a few days. At the time, the majority of Russians suffered from hunger and dreamed of living in another country, no matter where. But the States did not make matters worse, but only tried to help. And what did we get in return?"
"Help?" Petrov was screaming now and rolling his eyes. "They tried to destroy our country for ten years and nearly succeeded. They stole from her every day, broke her to pieces. If it hadn't been for Putin …"
"Destroyed?" Shtayn's voice was filled with irony. "Mr. Petrov, believe me, if they wanted to destroy you, they would have done it long ago."
There was a sprinkling of laughter in the auditorium, and Olga clenched her fists.
"Immediately after the fall of the Soviet Union the remains of the KGB became tightly involved with the criminal class. You know very well that after Yeltsin it was former 'Chekists' who monopolized resources and power in Russia. I find it strange that against the background of an orgy of crime, banditry, so-called 'new Russians,' mafia gunfights and all the other unsavory realities of the 'wild 90's,' you still blame it all on democratic reforms and the West. In the 90's crime was due to people from the Soviet KGB, not young reformers. The West was not happy with this symbiosis and even suffered from it. I've collected a lot of information about how these 'respectable' vory v zakone9 laundered their ill-gotten gains in foreign banks, all the while establishing espionage networks. The activities of their agents are directed primarily against the West to discredit and corrupt its basic institutions. If you, Mr. Petrov, should have friends in the KGB, I suggest you ask them about it."
The laughter that greeted this remark petrified Olga with shock. That's wrong. He can't be right. It was a miracle that Russia survived the 90's. The West failed then, but they would try it again.
She wanted to flee the auditorium. It became physically difficult to listen to Shtayn. But she dared not bring attention to herself. She should never have come. This was disaster.
A young female voice rang out from the audience. "Isn't it hard for you to do this? Russia is your country. Isn't it hard to work against her?"
To Olga's astonishment, Shtayn did not try to justify himself or hide behind a smokescreen of pretty words to the effect that he was doing this for Russia and not against her – no false patriotism. He simply said, "Miss, have you visited any local parks?"
What kind of answer is this?
He continued, "Sometimes it's very good go visit parks, simply to walk around, unwind a little, breath fresh air. Children play there, just like they play in the courtyards of Russia. Can you tell which children are 'ours' and which are 'theirs?' Just go and take a good look and them and their parents for maybe a half-hour. Stroll around the streets and see the houses, everything around you. Then ask yourself – is this worth defending?"
The girl replied with some heat, "But there are parks in Russia, too, and a peaceful life."
"There are, undoubtedly there are," said Shtayn, "But Russia is an aggressor. Either through brute force or deception Russia strives to bring destruction to other countries. I've seen the results with my own eyes. I've seen how they try to destroy everything others have created. I've followed them for many years and seen nothing apart from a permanent desire to destroy. They bring only strife to the world, only eternal blackmail with their oil and gas. What kind of future is Russia preparing for her children? To be sent as cannon fodder in the Donbas, to kill foreigners? To end up in prison for a careless cartoon posted in a social network? Or to quietly drink themselves into a stupor, fearing to say what they think? Is it worth defending such a place?"
"But that place is your homeland." The question reflected Olga's thoughts.
"Yes, it is my homeland. I don't have American citizenship, and I don't know if I ever will. But the fact of my birth does not cloud my ability to distinguish the guilty from the innocent, freedom from slavery, happiness from force. For me, the innocent will always be dearer than the guilty. I don't wish ill for Russia, but I will always defend those who are innocent against aggressors and thieves. And for me, a country which can provide its own citizens and others happiness rather than despair is worthy of defense. Do you see how simple it is? It's nothing personal, nothing more than an objective view of the world. Truth and conscience should not depend on where one was born."
His logic was perverse, openly and rudely unpatriotic. He spit on his country and didn't hide it, but he possessed some special power that demanded respect and did not jibe with her image of a traitor. Could treason be worthy of respect? The man was an enemy of her country. He did not even pretend to be a patriot. What more was there to think about?
She left the auditorium, hiding herself in the crowd, as she cast a venomous glance back at her target. She and her colleagues must spoil his plans, compromise him somehow.
All of what Shtayn said, the clever manner in which he manipulated people would go into her report to Karpov. Her mission was almost complete.
* * *
9 "Thieves in the law" a traditional Russian term for certain criminals
Chapter 35
"Life on earth is suffering on the path to Heaven."
Mid-November is early for a snowfall in Washington, but white flakes were falling from an iron dark sky over Arlington. Forecasts said there would not be a heavy accumulation, but road crews were out in force with their clumsy trucks, distributing salt and sand.
Mark Shtayn carefully increased his pace as he approached the entrance to the metro
station and the anticipated warmth inside. A ten-minute ride would take him to the Dunn-Lorring Metro Station where he expected his car to be covered with the white stuff.
He did not notice the woman behind him.
For someone in his position, he was habitually unaware of his surroundings and the people around him. This was attributable to the fact that he was usually deep in thought and today the snow forced him to pay close attention to his footing in the slush on the pavement.
The young woman was unremarkable, unless one were to look closely into her eyes and notice a glassy vacancy which might be associated with drug use, an almost trancelike state. Even that was unremarkable these days. She wore a snow-dusted heavy winter coat that almost entirely covered her, and a knit hat pulled far down. Her hair was dark where it strayed from under the hat.
She had no idea where she was, not even the name of the city. The drive had been long as she rode docilely between the two men in the old truck. She followed the man onto an escalator that sank under the curved, metal and glass roof sheltering the entrance to the Metro station. Behind her, cars with their wipers working crawled along the wet street. Such cars, and so many of them, the likes of which she had never seen in her mountainous homeland.
The two men had deposited her on the street a few moments ago, but she could still see them where they waited on a side street ahead. Their eyes were upon her urging her on.
She was weary, and the clear liquid the older man had given her to drink made her feel as if her feet did not touch the ground, as if she were caught up in a current that effortlessly carried her along like flotsam on a great, heaving sea. Her will was not her own but was subordinated to a greater volition, something glorious. Try though she might, she could recall only imperfectly what her life had been before and so far away. Now she was someone with a purpose, someone almost holy.
What was it she was supposed to do? Oh, yes, find the center of the crowd on the train platform.
The escalator carried her down, down until she was on the platform surrounded by people bundled against the cold, all of them too intent on their own cares to notice a lone girl in a long, dark coat. She struggled to concentrate on her task as the train slid into the station.
In the pocket of her coat she wrapped her fingers around the triggering device that would detonate the explosives strapped to her body. She need but to push the button and the misery of her life would be transformed instantly into the joys of Paradise.
Just before she pressed the detonator she intended to say, "Allahu Akhbar," but Instead, she only whispered, "Oy!" as though she were shocked by what she was doing.
When the investigators later found what was left of her body, they remarked on how her face was untouched, long dark hair spread beneath, blue eyes still open as if in surprise at the havoc her action had left, her lips half open as if about to speak. "Oy."
*****
In the F-150 half a block away on North Highland Street Arbi Basaev blinked as the whump of the explosion was felt more than heard before black smoke and flame vomited from the Metro station entrance, cascaded against the Plexiglas shelter and spread out over the street in a malevolent cloud.
"I was afraid she wouldn't do it," he said as he put the truck into gear.
The bearded older man beside him smiled thinly as Arbi drove carefully south toward 10th Street. The area would soon be congested with fire trucks, police, media, and lookiloos.
The older man with his narrow, ascetic face, white beard and dark eyes could have been Iranian or even Arab. In fact he was a Chechen named Bolat Zakayev, and he possessed a doctorate in chemical engineering from the Bauman State Technical University in Moscow. He patted Arbi affectionately on the shoulder as he maneuvered the van into the slow-moving traffic heading toward Route 50. "She did well, Arbi, your little 'bride.' We didn't have to use the remote detonator." They could trust their suicide bombers only so far.
The girl's name was Esila. She was a young, widow from Dagestan, where her in-laws, having no use for a childless daughter-in-law, sold her to Arbi. They took her to a safehouse in Baku where Zakayev put her on a steady diet of psychotropic drugs that left her pliable with no will of her own. The operation was meticulously planned: a ship from Baku to Havana, transfer to a smaller fishing vessel that carried them to Nicaragua. And then northward, guided by a well-paid coyote into the United States where the old, but reliable truck waited as promised at a truck stop in Arizona.
"The remote signal might not have reached her so far underground." worried Arbi.
The older man stared straight ahead as the snow increased and obscured the windshield. "You should have more confidence, Arbi."
It would be best to avoid main roads until they were completely out of the metropolitan area. The truck was equipped with a GPS unit, and Arbi had spent many days becoming familiar with the tangle of roads that surrounded Washington.
By the time they fought the traffic onto Route 50, which would take them west out of the metro area into Virginia, the snow had begun to taper off, but true to their reputation Washington area drivers were in a state of panic, abetted by reports of a possible terrorist attack that spilled from every radio.
As always, it was the unanticipated that changed plans. The snow was falling more heavily now and turning the roads into slushy toboggan runs. To make matters worse, darkness was falling fast. Cars were losing traction, sliding off the roadside or crashing into one another as panicked drivers failed to maintain safe distances.
"We cannot afford to be involved in an accident," said the older man. His brow furrowed in thought. "We must find a place where we can stay the night until this passes and the roads are clear. We'll never make it all the way back to base tonight in this."
"It could be dangerous," said Arbi with a sidelong glance at his companion.
Zakayev replied. "The greater risk is to be involved in an accident and questioned by the police. We have no choice." He waved his hand in the direction of the road ahead. "Look at the way these idiots are driving. It's as though they've never seen snow before in their lives."
Ahead they spotted the neon sign of a motel blinking redly through the falling snow. "Pull in there," said Zakayev. "We can take a room for the night. I'll remain in the van."
Arbi, with his youthful good looks and winning smile, won an admiring glance from the young woman manning the desk. It was a modest establishment near the Seven Corners shopping center, but the room was clean and comfortable with two beds.
Women were never a problem. Arbi was darkly handsome and magnetic, so much so that women fell in love with him on sight. All he need do was gaze into their eyes, squeeze their hand, whisper something, and they were his.
Behind the warm façade he was cold as ice and calculating. He knew exactly what he was doing, and the women were little more for him than transitory entertainment before they were initiated into the ways of martyrdom. There were always plenty of women.
Once in the room with Zakayev, Arbi punched a number into his cell phone. The call was answered immediately.
Arbi told Valeriy Karpov that the snow prevented them from clearing the metro area as planned and that they would have to wait out the storm.
Karpov was displeased. "Make sure you're out of town in the morning.
Chapter 36
Snow. Welcome back to Northern Virginia.
The sharp chill hit Krystal Murphy as soon as she ducked out into the Jetway at Reagan National Airport. The warmth of the Florida sun abandoned her like the fleeting memories of a daydream. The heavy clothing of the crowd milling inside the brightly lit, vaulted expanse of the airport bespoke of the cold waiting for her outside.
She shivered at the unwelcome thermal difference between Washington and Miami and hoped the Miami memories would keep her warm. The most lingering of those were of Dade County Police detective Ray Velazquez.
Several months earlier, when the heat had not yet abandoned Washington, Velazquez had been nearly killed by a .45 cali
ber slug from a serial killer's gun.10 This was followed by weeks in the hospital as his lungs and bones healed, and then a long convalescence in Krystal's small Arlington apartment. Chief Everett Fogerty of the Arlington County Police Department where Krystal was a Detective Lieutenant gave her "as much time as it takes," and had been only too happy to stand before the cameras to describe the investigation that led to the bloody denouement of the murderers Krystal had brought to justice. She was content to remain out of the media spotlight.
She had flown south with Velazquez when he was sufficiently recovered to return to Miami.
In the queue for a taxi outside the terminal a frigid, snow-laden wind quickly dispelled memories of the Miami nights and replaced them with a single-minded desire to return to her apartment, turn up the heat, down a slug of scotch, and flop on the couch in front of the television. An evening of mindless entertainment, she told herself, would prepare her for the return to the office the following day. Or maybe it wouldn't. She had no idea what to expect.
A long tedious cab ride later, she surveyed her small apartment from the vantage point of the galley kitchen as she poured herself a generous dollop of ten-year-old Laphroaig single malt.
During his convalescence Ray had slept in her bed, which would more than have delighted the Cuban lothario had the circumstances been different, and she took the couch. Fortunately, the building was wheelchair friendly, so she had been able to take him for short outings as he regained strength. Even after they returned to Miami, the doctors said it would be at least two more weeks before he could begin a modified work schedule, and possibly a couple of months before he would be fully recovered.
The idea of being cooped up in the small apartment with a recovering Velazquez had not at first filled her with joyous anticipation. Ray was a great guy. There was undoubted romantic heat between them that she wanted to explore further, but she feared that 24/7 propinquity combined with her Irish temper might sour them.
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