In the Shadow of Mordor

by Michael R Davidson

  Karpov clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Don't play the ingénue with me, Olga. I've read your file. You were given high marks for your denunciation of Sergey Illarionov."

  Bile rose to her throat, bitter and acidic, filling her mouth with its unpleasant taste. She'd denied her own suspicions so strongly that she'd almost forgotten them. Almost. But the seed was still there, buried and waiting.

  She pondered Karpov's philosophy and could not fault the logic. Yes, it was simple, maybe too simple. It was a quintessentially Russian point of view. All of her country's actions were seen as part of a zero sum game. There are only two choices for a Russian: be Russian or be a traitor. There is no middle ground, so it's impossible to be neutral.

  The memory of that sun-lit day in the Kremlin dining room and Vlad's burning eyes as he revealed his father's plans – all of that swam before her eyes, as well as what she had done afterwards.

  Karpov poured himself another shot and frowned into the glass. Maybe Polyanskaya was not cut out for FSB work, after all, no matter her pedigree. She was acting like a frightened child. But maybe it was just youth and the reality of an operational mission on foreign soil – something a bit more than simple denunciations at home.

  He recalled his initial doubts about her.

  "Duty is what we have as operatives," he said.

  "Anything goes?"

  This was a question he did not like. He threw the drink back and slapped the glass onto the desk bottom up. A thought struck him. This could be a teaching moment. "Do you know what SMERSH was?"

  "Everybody knows that. 'Death to spies.' It was a GRU operation during the Great Patriotic War."

  "Exactly. And it was very effective. But just because we won the war doesn't mean we still don't have enemies. And today, we have enemies within and enemies without."

  The immediacy of Karpov's words struck Olga as strangely out of time. The Great Patriotic War, as Russians termed World War II, had ended 70 years ago, and the Cold War allegedly ended in 1989. Karpov made it seem like only yesterday that the Red Army had stormed the Reichstag.

  Karpov continued without pause. "Depending on the level of danger or betrayal they represent, these enemies must be eliminated for the good of the Rodina, the Motherland." Karpov did not have much use for nebulous, easily manipulated concepts such as patriotism, but it might appeal to the girl.

  She nodded. "You mean people like Litvinenko."

  "That was a sloppy job. The two idiots entrusted with the mission left a radioactive evidence trail all over London and created a lot of problems for everyone. They should have swallowed their own polonium."11

  Karpov smacked his fist into his palm. "That sukin syn, Litvinenko, was doing - had already done - enormous damage to us. He was a shitfaced traitor. Hell, yes, we took him out. We had every right, even a duty to do it. But it was not handled professionally. Now we use more delicate means to track down and eliminate traitors."

  The words slipped out before she could think, "And killing a hundred people to get to one is 'delicate?'"

  He scowled, his anger rising, "Sacrifices have to be made. The vodka was loosening his tongue, and he decided on a different tact to make his point, an incident farther in the past and therefore safer. "Ask your hero Solntsev sometime about 1999 and the bombings in in Buyansk, Moscow, and Volgodonsk."

  Karpov thought about opening another bottle, but discarded the idea. "But that operation was flawed, too. Three of our guys were caught planting explosives in Ryazan." He paused to lean across the desk, so close that Olga felt his vodka-charged breath on her face. "That was unfortunate. But it won't happen again, at least not on my watch."

  Olga leaned farther back in the chair to escape the verbal onslaught. Her stomach churned. She did not want to think too much about what Karpov was saying. Over two hundred Russian citizens had died and over six hundred were injured in the 1999 bombing of apartment buildings. Olga had been only a teenager at the time. Officially, the butchery was attributed to Chechen terrorists, but in Ryazan three FSB operatives were discovered planting explosives in another apartment building. This gave rise to the horrifying suspicion that the atrocities were intended all along to raise the popularity of a longshot candidate who was running for president. Indeed, that candidate, Vladimir Putin, won the election and initiated the second Chechen war. This was what Sergey Illarionov planned to expose. Did anyone really knew the truth, whether Illarionov was just spinning a yarn? But here was Karpov saying it was true. She just wanted the conversation to end.

  "What now?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

  This was better - a proper question. "As a Chekist you will learn that the ability to recognize an opportunity and take advantage of it is your greatest weapon. Now we'll take advantage of this situation and stir the pot with a little desinformatsia, misinformation."

  "How?"

  "We send a message to the media laying responsibility for the bombing on the vahabiti,12 the damned Muslims. That will scare the shit out of the Americans. As a matter of fact, my young friend, that's your next job."

  "Me? Why me?"

  "You speak perfect American English," he said. "We'll keep the Americans off balance. It's all good."

  Karpov stood a bit unsteadily on vodka loosened limbs, extracted a plastic baggie from his pocket and dropped it in front of her. Inside were a half-dozen envelopes addressed to various major media outlets.

  "Find a mailbox somewhere and drop these in. Be sure you don't touch the envelopes unless you're wearing gloves. We wouldn't want any of your DNA or your fingerprints on them. Do this tomorrow morning."

  He handed a piece of notepaper to her. "These are the phone numbers of four local television stations and a short statement. Make the calls from one of the burner phones you have, and then toss the phone. Make sure there are no surveillance cameras near-by. Then go back to your work at the Russian-American Study Group and carry on as usual."

  She stared at the plastic baggie. Karpov's instructions were simple and straightforward. The only thing she had to worry about was avoiding surveillance cameras when mailing the envelopes and making the phone calls. She could accomplish everything within the space of fifteen minutes. But could she "carry on as usual?"

  Karpov stood scrutinizing her, swaying slightly. "Is everything clear?"

  "Yes. Of course."

  "Good," said Karpov. "Now, go."

  She left the Embassy on rubbery legs. Karpov had tricked her into participating in a mass murder. She had been part of an indiscriminate massacre, even if unwittingly. Was this what it meant to a Chekist?

  When she was gone Karpov returned to his office and threw himself wearily in his chair. He was still for several minutes staring at nothing then shook his head and regarded the nearly empty bottle of vodka. The thought came to him that he was very like the bottle – mostly empty with only the dregs remaining. He missed the old days when the KGB had been a serious organization. When he had been the girl's age there had been important work to be done. Now, he found himself little more than an appendage of a machine that he both feared and served. It was all such a squalid business.

  Karpov would never be as unimaginably wealthy as some of his former colleagues, but was a survivor and would continue to survive by unquestioningly following orders. Did his superiors in Lubyanka even realize that the subway bombing was an act of war? If the Americans discovered the truth, would the missiles fly and bring all the madness to an end?

  But the bombing had had another goal besides just killing Shtayn. The geniuses in Moscow thought that Islamist terrorist attacks on the West coincided with Russian interests. Soon the Europeans and Americans would decide that they needed Russia on their side in the war against terror more than they needed to worry about places like Ukraine. Put enough pressure on them, so the thinking went, and sanctions would be dropped, and the Russians would be viewed as saviors. And the Americans would never connect Russia to the bombing, would they?

  He very carefully refill
ed his glass and drained it.

  The bottle was now completely empty.

  * * *

  11 Aleksandr Valterovich Litvinenko was a rogue FSB officer who went public with accusations of assassination committed by the FSB. He escaped to London where he was murdered through polonium poisoning.

  12 Wahabis – the term used in Chechnya and Dagestan to refer to Islamist terrorists.

  Chapter 39

  Krystal Murphy and Special Agent Ferguson grabbed a table by the window at a Starbucks on Courthouse Plaza, not far from her office. This followed an uncomfortable impromptu press conference at the crime scene. Without his parka and watch cap, the FBI agent was solidly built with a shock of unruly jet-black hair that matched the dark shadow of a beard on his jaw.

  She didn't get on well with the press, but Chief Fogerty introduced her to the gaggle of reporters as his primary investigator and the go-to person for questions. She'd had no choice but to politely say to the microphones that it was too early to speculate on what might have caused the explosion and that the Arlington police were working hand in hand with the FBI and Homeland Security.

  After the scene inside the Metro Station, neither she nor Ferguson harbored any doubt about what they faced. This was no gas main explosion, no electrical malfunction; this was a terrorist suicide bombing, and it scared the hell out of her.

  Random acts of terrorism by self-motivated extremists were at the top of the law enforcement's threat list. Without forewarning about a specific individual who might be contemplating such violence, it was impossible to predict where and when an incident might take place. Heretofore, terrorism on American soil had been perpetrated almost exclusively by men. But now this unknown, apparently lone woman had blown herself and dozens of others to bits and increased the suspect pool by a hundred percent.

  Ferguson stared glumly into his coffee, his thoughts as dark as the brew. "We need a starting point," he said.

  "Agree. There won't be much, if anything, to go on until we have the forensics results, unless we get a break. What does your gut tell you?"

  "My gut tells me there's going to be hell to pay. We might not be able to confirm to the press what we suspect, or even what we may find, but the speculation is already out there, and before you know it we, the FBI, Homeland, even you cops, will be blamed for 'missing the clues.' Then the politicians on one side will demand scalps, and the ones on the other side will say it was only the action of a single deranged person and has nothing to do with religion. Meanwhile, people are dead and maimed, and we could be in store for more."

  "Maybe someone will claim responsibility for the bombing," she said.

  "Yeah, and maybe there'll be fifty claims from nutcases all over the place, and we'll have to track down every one. Like you said, Murphy, if we don't get a break, a big juicy break, a lead we can't see right now, we might never solve this case. Or if today's bomber has friends, they could all blow themselves up before we find them."

  "Jeez, Ferguson, you're just a bundle of optimism, aren't you?"

  He gave her a rueful grin. "Sorry. What we just saw isn't exactly a confidence builder."

  "No need for apologies. But you feebies have the lead on this."

  He sighed. "Yeah, I know. We'll start by checking the alerts and potential bad guys we have on file. Maybe something will pop from the travel lists. Leads aren't quite so easy to come by since they clipped the NSA's wings. Assholes!"

  "The NSA?"

  "No, the politicians and the gullible idiots who believe the hype, the absolute falsehoods they've been fed about metadata."

  "Copy that. The way I see it, you guys and the intel types are damned if you do and damned if you don't. That's why I like being a simple cop."

  Ferguson regarded her with what might have been envy. He gulped the dregs of his coffee and said, "I'd best get downtown. It's going to be a long night. Can I drop you anywhere?"

  She didn't want to go to the office where she would face a barrage of questions to which she as yet had no answers. So she hid out at home in the hope that more information would be available tomorrow. She hadn't been in the apartment long enough even to unpack before Fogerty's phone call. Frankly, she just wanted to close her eyes and wish it would all go away.

  Chapter 40

  Like Olga, Vlad Illarionov walked into the reception area of Dulles International Airport clutching his backpack, unsure of what awaited him. He was surprised and relieved to spot the familiar, loose-jointed figure of Derrick Williams striding toward him, a broad grin on his face.

  "Derrick. I didn't expect to see anyone I knew."

  The two embraced in Russian fashion in a reunion more emotional than expected. After the violent deaths of his parents, Vlad had been through a lot since his abrupt departure from Moscow. The tense border crossing into Ukraine, a Russian death squad, and temporary asylum in the American Embassy in Kiev combined to tell him his fate was no longer his own.

  Williams and Peters had accompanied him to Boryspil International Airport under the watchful eye of Jack Kelly and a bevy of SBU men who followed them in a black Mercedes. The last time he had seen Williams was the departure area of the Kiev airport.

  From Kiev, Vlad flew to Amsterdam where a man from the American Consulate General who introduced himself only as "John" escorted him to a small hotel not far from the Waterfeitsen Canal. He remained there for several days while his visa and documentation for the United States were prepared. And now, he was in America.

  "We seem destined to see one another in airports," said Williams. "But this is an arrival, not a departure. I rented a car, and I'll drive you into town. We'll get you settled in your hotel. You can rest up from the flight, and I'll pick you up for dinner later, if that's OK with you."

  "That would be great," said Vlad. He switched from Russian to English. "I'd like to speak English now. I guess I should get used to it as soon as possible."

  "That's a good idea," grinned Williams.

  Vlad had no luggage other than the backpack which contained a few changes of clothing and his father's precious papers and the recording.

  Williams checked him into a Best Western called the Old Colony Inn in Alexandria, just off the George Washington Parkway. "It's an old place, but it's comfortable." He handed Vlad a wad of American money "for expenses" before leaving.

  At seven that evening Williams picked him up and drove the short distance to Alexandria's Old Town, turning into a busy street that led several blocks down to the Potomac River. Vlad was fascinated by the red brick architecture and the people crowding the sidewalks of the brightly lit streets.

  He didn't consider himself to be particularly impressionable. There had not been sufficient time to sort everything out, but the unfamiliar, peaceful scene was balm for his scorched soul. He was not so arrogant as to believe that his heretofore feeble efforts might somehow topple the brutal Russian regime, but at least he could light a warning fire on the shores of America. The idea that he was on the same side as these carefree people gave him the moral right to rejoice in their innocence.

  Williams gave him a brief history of "George Washington's town" as they searched for a place to park. Alexandria is an old city by American standards, but a blink of the eye compared to the millennium and more of Russia's existence. After a thousand years, might America too fall victim to despotism?

  On-street parking was hopeless, so they left the car in a public garage and walked through the crowds on the sidewalk almost to the end of King Street, finally stopping in front of a restaurant called Landini Brothers. But rather than entering the restaurant, Williams led him to a discrete door a few steps farther, which led up a flight of stairs to a sleek, multi-level space that Williams explained was a private club devoted to the enjoyment of fine cigars.

  They climbed narrow stairs to an upper level and through a door into a dining area where Williams led Vlad to a table occupied by a man of about fifty with brown hair graying at the temples. When he stood, Vlad saw that he was of averag
e height, trim, with intelligent blue eyes. He held a lighted cigar in his left hand.

  "Vlad, this is Vance Johnson. He works at the Embassy in Moscow like me, and he was instrumental in seeing that you made it to the States safely.

  Vlad accepted Johnson's firm handshake, and the three took seats around the table.

  "I'm very happy to meet you at long last, Vlad. I hope you don't mind cigars," said Johnson raising he one he was smoking to shoulder level and waving it in a little circle.

  "I'm totally unfamiliar with them," replied Vlad. "In Moscow, only the big shots smoke them." He used the Russian term "bol'shiye shishki."

  Johnson gave him an easy smile. "Well, Vlad, here in the States you don't have to be a big shot to enjoy yourself."

  Vlad was uncertain how to respond and said only, "Thank you."

  A white-jacketed waiter bustled up to take their orders. At a loss, Vlad deferred to Williams and Johnson, and the latter selected items from the menu. "Would you care for something to drink?" asked Johnson.

  Vlad shook his head. "Just water, please. I'm a little jet-lagged."

  Williams ordered water, as well, but Johnson asked for a martini with olives. When the drinks came, Vlad was fascinated by the conical, stemmed glass placed in front of Johnson. He had seen this only in movies, specifically James Bond films.

  After taking an appreciative sip of his drink, Johnson said, "I understand you have some important materials concerning certain past events in Russia. Did you bring them with you?" He plucked a large olive on a toothpick from his drink and popped it into his mouth.

  Vlad cast a questioning glance at Williams, who nodded and gave him a reassuring smile.

  "Erm, yes, of course. I have them with me here." He held up the flat leather folder he had carried in his backpack. He never allowed the folder out of his sight."

  "And you're convinced they're genuine?"

  Vlad flushed with anger. "Genuine enough for my father and mother to be murdered."

  Williams placed a hand on his arm. "Don't be upset. This is an important question if the material is ever to see the light of day."