In the Shadow of Mordor

by Michael R Davidson

  Johnson took another sip of his martini while Vlad cooled down, then said, "Vlad, I'm on your side. Derrick here has told me a lot about you, and I may be in a position to offer some discreet assistance in getting your story published. You shouldn't be thinking of putting such material out in some insignificant blog on the Internet. The Kremlin can too easily discredit such things, and next thing you know, you'll become the target of a horde of Russian trolls from St. Petersburg. The material should be published in a reputable medium."

  Vlad had been worried about the same thing, but he had no idea how to overcome the obvious obstacles. "I'd hoped that Derrick might have some contacts at VOA …" he began, but Johnson cut him off.

  "That's possible, of course, but don't you think it would be better to find an outlet that has nothing to do with the U.S Government? For some reason, there is a lot of distrust of the government these days, even here in the States. You need a more independent publisher."

  Williams grimaced, but nodded his agreement.

  "What do you have in mind?" asked Vlad.

  "I'd rather not say right now. I just got into town yesterday, and I need a few days to check some things out."

  "In the meantime," said Williams, "I'll get you introduced to the folks at AEI and see what they have in mind about your internship.

  Chapter 41

  Vance Johnson was in Washington on a ruse, claiming that his elderly father was ailing. He'd reported briefly into Langley to touch base with the Russia House, but they had been sympathetic and set him free to see to his personal business.

  It wasn't that he distrusted his Headquarters colleagues, it was just that he knew the bureaucratic routine and the strictures they had against working with the press. He would do this solo, hope he didn't flunk his next polygraph, and if things worked out, he would make no waves. In fact, he would remain entirely invisible. Vance liked being invisible. He had made a career of it.

  Ethan Holmes was a senior reporter for the Washington Post, and his beat was the Intelligence Community. He was one of Washington's most knowledgeable people when it came to the wheels and gears of the "wilderness of mirrors." He knew who was who, who hated whom, and how the rank and file felt about their leaders. In order to be successful, Holmes had learned to respect the people who inhabited that obscure world, and he had won their trust. It was why he was so successful.

  Holmes had known Johnson for several years, dating from the time the reporter got wind of a highly placed Russian asset. The culprit was a loose-lipped staffer on the House Intelligence Oversight Committee. When he called Langley for comment, he found Johnson on his doorstep within an hour. The soft-spoken spook had convinced him that if the story were published, the agent would surely perish, and Holmes agreed to spike the piece.

  The two had seen one another on and off since then, and so Holmes wasn't surprised to receive an invitation to lunch from Johnson. "I thought you were in Moscow," he said.

  Johnson's chuckle reached him across the ether. "I'll be heading back there soon, but in the meantime, I have something I think will interest you."

  Holmes' ears perked up at that. In the past, Johnson had been willing to discuss things of which Holmes already was aware, but he had never volunteered anything.

  At noon on the dot, Holmes entered the Capitol Grille and spotted Johnson beckoning him from a corner booth. They greeted one another like old friends, but friends who nurtured a rivalry. Reporters like Holmes are fond of saying their job was identical to that of intelligence officers. Johnson's response was that intelligence officers are the guardians of secrets reporters want to reveal. In that sense, reporters were akin to enemy intelligence officers. Between Johnson and Holmes, though, the rivalry was not hostile.

  Johnson observed the usual formalities at the outset by telling the reporter that everything he said today would be off the record, and he was confident that Holmes would obey the rules of the game.

  "I want to tell you a story about a dissident in Moscow," began Johnson.

  Holmes interrupted, "There's not a lot of interest in Russian dissidents like in the old days, Vance."

  "I know, and more's the pity because most Americans don't know and don't care to know what's going on over there, and your colleagues aren't doing much to correct the situation."

  Holmes sighed and pushed his Caesar salad around with his fork. "Terrorism is front and center now," he said.

  "Yes, and the Agency has regressed into the OSS to fight that battle. But the Russians are still there, and they still have ICBMs. The current regime is as bad as anything we've seen since Stalin. It looks different since 1991, but behind the façade of Gucci stores on the Arbat, the same bad guys are pulling the strings. Life is getting harder since they invaded Ukraine, and that means the regime is cracking down more. And speaking of Ukraine, how much coverage of the war does the Post give its readers?"

  Holmes shook his head, "Almost none, I'll admit. It's not what's on peoples' minds."

  "If it's not on people's minds, it's because the American media does a shitty job of informing them."

  Johnson noticed that Holmes was cutting into his sirloin as though he had a grudge against it. He was getting off track, and his purpose was not to alienate the reporter. "Let's start over," he said.

  The story of Vlad Illarionov, his father and mother, the escape to Ukraine and the Russian death squad held Holmes spellbound for the next half-hour. To protect his source in Moscow Johnson attributed discovery of the death squad to the diligence of the Ukrainian SBU, but he provided the facts about everything else. The story of Sergey Illarionov especially touched Holmes. Illarionov had been an investigative journalist just like him, after all, and had died for his efforts. By the end of Johnson's recitation, Holmes was hooked, and he agreed to a meeting with Vlad.

  "Ethan, I can't emphasize enough the importance of keeping my name and any hint of Agency involvement out of this story. It would give the Kremlin the ammunition it needs to discredit everything Vlad Illarionov has to tell. And, in fact, the CIA has never been involved officially."

  Holmes nodded his understanding, and Johnson continued, "That also means that your name likewise should not be associated with the story. Your connections with the Intelligence Community are simply too well known."

  Holmes didn't like this one bit, but he could see the logic, and Johnson pressed his point.

  "Ethan, almost 200 Russian journalists have been outright murdered since 1991, including one American, and only one person has been jailed for the crimes. If there is such a thing as honor among journalists, you owe it to your colleagues to see to it that Vlad's story sees the light of day."

  Holmes raised his hands in mock surrender. "OK, Vance, I promise that if the material this kid has is everything you say I'll find a way to get it into print."

  "That's all I ask. You'll be performing a great service for both countries and for journalism, as well."

  He told the reporter how to contact Derrick Williams to set up a meeting with Vlad Illarionov.

  There was nothing more Vance Johnson could do, so he made preparations to return to Moscow.

  Chapter 42

  Williams took Vlad on a short driving tour of Washington before introducing him to AEI. It was nearing the end of October, and the air had acquired a chill. But as if to welcome Vlad, the alabaster monuments and buildings shone a brilliant white under a cloudless sky. Everything looked so new, and like Alexandria, there was a limit on the height of buildings that somehow imparted a sense of human proportion that emphasized that government here was subordinate to the people. Vlad was well aware that even here that concept was not universal, but for the moment he chose to ignore it.

  The headquarters of the American Enterprise Institute are on 17th Street, just a few steps from the venerable Mayflower Hotel. It was a bit late in the year, but Vlad had been accepted into the fall internship program's Russian Studies group under the aegis of one of the institute's resident scholars. Unlike most interns, Vlad'
s expenses would be paid while he was in the U.S.

  The meeting with Ethan Holmes was more complicated because it was to be confidential. So they gathered one evening in Vlad's hotel room.

  It required several hours to tell the whole story and finally show the American reporter the report written so long ago by Zhuravlev and play Sergey Illarionov's recording of Tretyakov's jailhouse confession. Holmes did not understand Russian, but he had seen and heard enough to be convinced.

  The next task was for Holmes to convince his editor of the value and validity of the story. Fortunately, the news cycle was nearly stagnant with most attention focused on domestic matters. Although the editor was not particularly interested in the fate of Russian dissidents, Holmes sold the idea as a human interest story. He thought there was enough material to serialize over several editions and also would appear on the Post's web page.

  In the meantime, as agreed with Holmes, Vlad began work on the article. He would write very little about himself but rather focus on his father and the man's dedication to getting the truth into print, even at the risk of his own life. He decided to entitle the article "In the Shadow of Mordor."

  Vlad had no choice but to write in Russian, and he was immensely grateful for Williams' offer to stick around long enough to complete a translation. The article, complete with photos of his father that Vlad had stored on his camera was ready for publication at the end of November. But it was postponed.

  That was when the Clarendon metro station exploded.

  A cab dropped Vlad in front of the AEI building. The entire Metro transit system was at a halt on orders from the Department of Homeland Security. Snow had stopped falling early yesterday morning, but there was still a sharp chill in the air. He stepped carefully over the curb with his eyes down, wary of slipping on a patch of ice.

  When he raised his gaze, he stopped cold and stared at the last person on earth he ever thought to see again.

  Chapter 43

  Salt on the sidewalks and streets produced rivulets of dirty water that washed away the remaining slush. The patchy snow remaining in parts of Arlington and the sharp bite of the frigid air somehow reminded Olga of Moscow in the autumn or spring. The thought cut through her like a knife. The faint reflections of Moscow reminded her mercilessly of the bombings of Russian apartments, of Solntsev's bold countenance and broad smile, Vlad's burning eyes, and Nastya's approving look following her training in Yekaterinburg.

  The memories pursued her more doggedly than any professional surveillance team. There was no escape from them. She could slip around a corner, jump onto a bus, enter a shopping mall from one side and exit from another, run as fast as she could, but not one of these maneuvers would permit her to escape.

  Some recollections exuded warmth while others struck her like physical blows. It was unbearable that what had so recently been dear to her should now consume her with hatred; that which had attracted now repelled and horrified. Today the city around her no longer felt like enemy territory and became simply alien – as alien as all the rest of the world. Never in her life had she been so alone.

  Nothing was as it had been before and would never be again. The black smoke of the explosion poisoned the present as well as the past, Moscow and Washington, reason and emotion. She still had Karpov's envelope in her purse, and she feared it too might burst into flame. When she touched it her skin seemed to burn as though the paper itself were impregnated with poison. Mechanically reminding herself of the task she must perform, Olga covertly scanned the street to see if she was being observed. She started when she realized she was searching for Shtayn. But unlike her triumph in Kharitonovskiy Park, she would never find him again. Shtayn was no more, and the thought was unbearable. But still she searched for him in the dim November evening.

  She somehow carried out Karpov's instructions. There had been no video cameras near-by and no one in sight. She performed the task perfectly and hated herself all the more for having done so. The streets were filled with ghosts, as if the victims at the Metro station had risen and mingled with the living.

  *****

  The following morning she arrived at the office building on 17th Street somewhat earlier than usual, having been unable to sleep the night before. She did her best to concentrate on the day ahead and the all-important meeting with Sandberg. Her habitual confidence had deserted her.

  She froze in mid-stride when she recognized the figure approaching her. She fleetingly thought this must be another ghost, but the man was clearly flesh and blood. It can't be. Vladislav Illarionov was walking straight toward her.

  Her thoughts a tumult of joy and fear, Olga started backward. There was no explaining the sudden onset of joy. Maybe it was because in this world turned upside down, Vlad remained unchanged, not only reproach incarnate, but also the embodiment of childhood's innocence – their common childhood and the naïve dreams of the 1990's.

  Too late, Olga realized that Vlad should not discover her presence here. But he already had spotted her, no less amazed than she. She didn't know what to say to him and struggled to conceal her distress.

  "Vlad! I never expected to see you here. What are you doing here?"

  What happened with her ability to lie? Not long ago there was no role she was incapable of playing. Now she could feign neither nonchalance nor affability under his wrathful gaze.

  "I think I should be the one asking what you are doing here. Just last summer you were telling me how much you hated America. So now you've forgotten all that?"

  Realization crossed his face even as he spoke. It was a look with which she was familiar since childhood – the sudden spark of insight that lit his eyes as he grasped the truth. The years had not changed him. So why had she changed so much? He knew why she was here. He knew everything about her. Strangely, this no longer frightened her. It made no difference, at all.

  "I'm working in a research organization …" she began.

  His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Of course."

  "I'm happy you're here." At least this was the truth – the only true words she had uttered in this conversation. But he was having none of it.

  "Do you know what?" Vlad said, an undertone of menace in his voice. "In Moscow you and your thugs could do anything you wanted. You're the reason my parents are dead. But you and Solntsev got away with it because there you're the lords of the world. It's my fault, too. Only a complete fool would have entrusted such a secret to a creature like you. I acted like a naïve child trying to convince you. But I've given up on that. I won't lecture you; I'll just warn you that it's better to leave this place. This isn't Russia, and you won't get away with murder here. If you try the slightest foolishness in this country, I'll do all I can to make sure they put you away for as long as possible. You love Russia and Putin? Well, go back to them. You won't be able to poison our lives here."

  Her first instinct was to beg for forgiveness, to let him know that she had not desired his father's death, had not realized that things would turn out that way. But the words died before passing her lips. He would not believe her. All her pain, the hellish fire that consumed her conscience - all of this could never penetrate the steely wall of his distrust.

  Vlad reminded her of herself during that conversation in the Kremlin. But he was defending a new country while she had defended their old one.

  She now understood why he could not defend his homeland.

  Vlad had devoted much to his country but received only hostility in return. Too late Olga understood that Shtayn's life was quite similar to Vlad's, but now she could never ask the clever Jew how this had come about.

  To Vlad she was an enemy, and he was prepared to stand in her way just as she once stood in his. A remnant of pride spurred by despair lent heat to her response. "Don't you dare threaten me. I have every right to be here. I'm not breaking any law. If you're such a defender of human rights, tolerance and all that other crap, act like it. "

  She feared she might cry out in pain so unbearable was his contempt.


  "You're a spying whore," he gritted, "an accomplice to murder. I can't imagine how much blood you have on your hands."

  He turned away and entered the building, the same building where Olga worked. What was he doing there? But this was already unimportant. She turned into a side street and leaned against a wall, bursting into tears and hoping no one noticed. There was nothing left in her life, past or present, not in Russia or America. And she lacked the courage or even the right to beg Vlad's forgiveness.

  Chapter 44

  "She's late." Valentin Zaretskiy said irritably. He laid some papers on the table and shot a glance out the window at the street below. Only a few patches of yesterday's snow remained. How could she have forgotten how important today was to be?

  Stash was nervous, too. "There's barely enough time left." He wasn't sure which bothered him the most: the task itself, or the possibility that he might have to go to the important meeting without his prize subordinate. A pretty, attentive young woman could do wonders to motivate an older man like Sandberg.

  "Women," growled Zaretskiy. "They specialize in being late, and here I have all this material prepared – the dollar rises and there is a serious crisis brewing in Russia. There's trouble again in Chechnya. We're in trouble even if the sanctions are lifted. I have all of her talking pointed prepared: documents, ideas about how Russia could be an effective ally in the fight against terrorism. It's very convincing stuff, and all she has to do is make a nice presentation. And now she can't even make it here on time."

  "She was very enthusiastic about meeting Sandberg," said Stash, "and she's never been late before. Maybe something happened to her, an accident. Or maybe something came up there."

  He pronounced the word in an almost conspiratorial manner with a vague glance at the ceiling. This tradition – to refer only in a roundabout way to the special services, was ingrained in officials of all levels during Soviet times, and Stash adhered to the old nomenklatura habit now.