Holmes grasped the significance of Vlad's rejoinder. It was almost physically painful to see such a young man so consumed by hatred. As gently as he could, he said, "No, Vlad. That's not likely to happen here.
Vlad controlled the anger that scorched and darkened his soul. The inescapable guilt for betraying his father's secret to Olga Polyanskaya was a cilice that pricked his conscience daily. It filled his thoughts with an oppressive blackness that colored even his joy at the impending revelation of one of the Kremlin's darkest secrets. Maybe he was no longer capable of happiness.
Chapter 52
The old man led an unsteady Olga, clutching one of his heavy terrycloth robes around her, into the living room where two strangers studied her with unconcealed curiosity. The man was barrel-chested and sturdy with black hair and piercing blue eyes. There was the shadow of a beard on his face. He was not dressed for the mountains, and his trouser legs and shoes were wet from the snow.
The woman was taller and older than Olga, with auburn hair and hazel eyes, wearing jeans and a sweater. She was quite attractive, but her demeanor was businesslike, and she wore a badge and pistol on her belt. Under the woman's steady gaze Olga was acutely aware of her own disheveled appearance. She must be the very image of guilt.
After an uncomfortable silence, the old man performed introductions. Olga's discomfort increased now that she actually faced the man from the FBI and the woman identified as a police officer. Why a police officer? Surely they meant to arrest her.
"Why don't you all take a seat by the fire," said the old man. With a meaningful look at Krystal and Ferguson, he added, "You need to get acquainted and explain why you're here." The first order of business was to build rapport with the subject of the interrogation.
He led Olga to the sofa, and the policewoman sat next to her. The old man and the FBI agent pulled up some chairs. Olga pulled to robe closer and sank her chin onto her chest.
Krystal had a plethora of experience dealing with crime victims, and if she had ever seen a victim, this young woman was one. In the gentlest voice she could muster, she took Olga's hand in her own and said, "Olga, may I call you Olga? We're here to help you. We understand that you've been through a terrible experience, and all we want to do now is hear your story."
The policewoman's hand was warm on her own, and Olga resisted the urge to pull away. In her experience the police assumed a person was guilty and all their questions were intended only to prove that guilt. There was no threat in this woman's voice, but it could be a trick.
"Do you understand English?" Krystal asked.
Olga nodded mutely.
"Good. Can you tell us what happened, how and why you turned up here? We'd like to know about the two men, as well."
Mention of the Chechens brought back the horrors of her kidnapping and the terror of the night before. She could not prevent the fat tears that rolled down her cheeks. But she still said nothing.
Krystal turned to their host. "Do you know how to make a hot toddy? I think it would be a good thing."
The old man busied himself with honey, lemon, hot water, and a generous slug of whiskey. Olga accepted the steaming mug in both hands and sipped the sweet contents that began immediately to spread warmth throughout her body. Finally she was able to speak in a barely audible voice. "You're going to arrest me, aren't you?"
Given what Strachey's account of the girl's story, Krystal understood her fear. "No one is here to arrest you," she said. "You must believe me. If anything, you are a victim, and our only intention is to help you in any way possible. But we have to understand everything that happened. It's the only way we can protect you."
They expected her to say something. She had to say something, but what could she say without incriminating herself?
"Why don't we start with how you came to be here?" asked the policewoman. Did those men kidnap you?"
Yes, she had been taken by force. That was no crime. She could safely talk about that.
"Yes." The words in English came slowly. "They came to my apartment at night saying they were from the Embassy. When I opened the door they grabbed me. They tied my hands and gagged and blindfolded me, and carried me to their truck. When they removed the blindfold, I was in a dark room in that old house. When they left me alone, I managed to free myself and crawl out the window. I didn't know where I was or which way to go, so I just set off blindly toward the forest. After a while I saw a light and followed it here."
"Where is your apartment?" asked the policewoman.
"In Arlington, near the Clarendon Metro station." She immediately regretted mentioning the Metro.
Krystal and Ferguson locked eyes. The conversation was moving in the right direction.
"Why do you think these men kidnapped you?" It was Ferguson who asked the question.
"I … I don't know." How could she tell them that this was the way the FSB handled unreliable people?
"That's not what you told our host last night, is it?" There was an edge to Ferguson's voice now, and Krystal gave him a warning glance.
"Well," said Krystal, "whatever the reason, they're no longer a threat. Your apartment is in Arlington, and I work for the Arlington Police. You were kidnapped, and that makes it also a matter for Special Agent Ferguson here. We mean you no harm. We're only here to help."
When Olga said nothing, Krystal continued, "Last night you told our friend here that you work at the Russian-American Study Group in Washington. Would you like us to call them now?"
Call Zaretskiy? He undoubtedly would notify Karpov at the embassy. Her heart sank as the realization hit her that she could not go back. She could never go back. Karpov was FSB, and so was Gleb Solntsev. She no longer had friends in the FSB. Something broke inside, and like a piece of jetsam in a raging sea she was swept under alternating hot and cold waves until she drowned in blackness.
"She's fainted," said Krystal.
Ferguson carried Olga to the bedroom, and Krystal made sure she was comfortable before leaving her to rest.
"She's finally realized she has nothing to go back to in Russia," said the old man. "I've seen it before. She couldn't cope with it, so she just shut down."
"But she told you the whole story last night," objected Ferguson.
"She was in shock and wasn't thinking about what she was saying. Eventually, she'll make peace with the situation, but right now it's like she's being dragged over hot coals and the pain is too much to bear." The old man smiled crookedly at Krystal, "That was a very clever question, Lieutenant."
"I didn't expect her to faint," said Krystal.
"There are two frozen dead guys outside," said Ferguson. "And you shot 'em. Kidnappers or not, it doesn't look like you gave 'em much of a chance."
"That's how you stay alive, son."
"Nevertheless, there has to be an investigation to sort all this out. I think a good place to start is to have a forensics team go over that old farmhouse down the mountain."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," said Krystal. "We have to call Whitehall first."
"What about the JTTF and Homeland?"
"Hey, Nick, you're the FBI guy here, remember? Anything that happens from here on should be Whitehall's decision."
He couldn't argue with her and wondered if anyone could.
Chapter 53
At seven AM, Gleb Solntsev was stirred out of sleep by the telephone. The caller was Assistant Administrative Director of the office of the President of Russia, Oleg Verbin. No one of that rank had ever called so early before, and it did not bode well.
"Yes, Oleg Mikhailovich, I'm listening." Solntsev struggled to erase the sleep from his voice.
"I want to hear what you have to say." Verbin's voice was rough. "How do you explain all this?"
"What are you talking about?" His lungs were squeezed by a nauseating chill.
"Fuck me, but he doesn't know!" exclaimed Verbin, loading his words with the entire weight of Solntsev's fall from grace. "Well, now you'll find out what it means to
wake up famous. While you slept you became the main subject of conversation in the States. The Washington Post published an article devoted entirely to you."
"The Washington Post?"
"Yes, exactly. They say it was you who organized the apartment bombings in Moscow fifteen years ago and that you've created a destructive cult in the guise of a youth organization that has a secret team of 'special operatives' for 'wet work,' hooliganism, beatings, and murders. They speculate that you ordered your 'death squad' to kill the journalist Sergey Illarionov because he planned to reveal the truth about you. Do you want to hear more?"
He didn't reply. The premonition of a moment ago was replaced by a terrible thought, even a certainty. That damned punk! It could only be him. But how could he have made it to America and gained access to a publication of such importance? How could they have believed such a worthless youngster?
"The article concludes by asking if it is possible that the President of the country knew nothing about the actions of a member of his own administration. By morning the article was being discussed on CNN by their talking heads and politicians," added Verbin.
Was there a hint of malevolence in his boss's voice? But that would be only logical – if there was a scandal, Verbin would be threatened no less than he. His head was spinning. The Washington Post. CNN. A fifteen-year-old crime. Illarionov's murder. What a nightmare.
This couldn't just have happened. There had to be a lot of money behind such a huge maneuver – that's the way it works in Russia. Big media information campaigns against individuals are mounted only on direct orders from "on high." Huge sums are paid out of the federal budget, and "journalists" base everything on a Kremlin script. Solntsev couldn't think of any other way it would work. Who in Washington would launch a campaign of persecution against a mid-level Russian official? Could it be some powerful enemy here who did business with the West? But who? Even worse, had the President made some sort of deal with the damned Yankees, and decided to sacrifice him, Solntsev, like so much small change? If it was like that, he was finished.
"There was a young man." He had to be careful, try to dig a little deeper to discover how high up and from which quarter he should expect the most trouble. "Just a kid who should now be dead. It's not my fault that he got away. It was up to someone else, real specialists, and it's them you should be sorting out. The boy had a recording, the evidence of another man who accused me of the Moscow explosions. But that man was a criminal, a prisoner already in jail, and he's no longer among the living. His word means nothing …"
"Whatever his word means, you'll have to explain it." Verbin delivered his message with calculated brutality. "They'll be waiting for you today at eleven AM at Ilinka13. We'll listen to your explanations and suggestions about how to cope with the situation. And don't dare be late – immediately after the meeting I'll be sending a report to the Kremlin."
"I understand."
Verbin closed the connection.
What time was it? A quarter to eight. There was still time to drop by the Lubyanka. It was only a short distance from there to Ilinka. Lisitsyn habitually arrived early, sometimes at dawn, but just in case he made a call.
"Nikolay Davydovich? It's Gleb."
"Yes?" There was nothing that could be read in the general's voice. He knows everything already. "May I come see you right now?"
"Come ahead."
Solntsev lived in a pre-revolutionary house at the intersection of Petrovka Street and Kuznetskiy Most. The windows overlooked a pedestrian street that was lined on both sides in summer with café tables adorned with umbrellas. Down the center was a line of old-fashioned street lamps and orderly beds of flowers. But in the gray pre-dawn the familiar street offered no comfort. He decided to walk to the Lubyanka. He turned up the collar of his winter coat and nearly ran to the intersection with Petrovka before entering the wider Kuznetskiy Most.
He had always loved old Moscow. The city was as much a part of him as he of it. He loved the columns and stucco cornices of her low-rise buildings – squat and massive, with strong walls and high ceilings. He loved her dark, twisting alleys that opened suddenly into broad avenues. His entire life, and his work, too, had been like that: twisting, shadowy, hidden from prying eyes by the massive masonry of thick walls that finally opened to reveal the spacious and brightly lit thoroughfare leading to Olympian glory. Although, truth be told, the sort of fame that visited him now he wouldn't wish on anybody.
He turned into Neglinnaya, a wider and more heavily inhabited street than Kuznetskiy Most, and hurried past GUM. There was much that was unclear. How had Vlad Illarionov succeeded without connections, money, influential protectors? Solntsev didn't doubt that someone else was behind it, but he had no idea who it might be.
Panic was unnatural to him. Fear had the power to paralyze the mind and will, to confuse. He'd been trained never to lose the capacity to think clearly and logically in high stress situations. He should be able to find a way out of any situation. But now his very ignorance of what was really happening interfered with his analytical ability, and despite everything such powerlessness gave birth to irrational fear.
He entered Teatralniy Proyezd, a broad, majestic avenue that gave onto Lubyanka Square. FSB Headquarters was already visible ahead, but this time, the yellow façade promised no surcease.
Lisitsyn was waiting for him, and when Gleb entered his office, the old man's face did not radiate its accustomed welcome, not in the slightest. The general was absolutely opaque. He simply rose from his desk with an unblinking stare.
There was no invitation to sit. Gleb returned his mentor's gaze. "How could this have happened?"
Instead of answering, Lisitsyn asked, "You've already seen it?"
"No. Not yet. There was no time. I came here immediately. I'm to report to the Administration in a couple of hours."
"I'm aware." Lisitsyn's voice was quiet, and he extended a newspaper clipping. "Here, read it."
Gleb took a seat and read quickly through the clipping, his mood turning darker with every word. "How could this have happened?" he repeated. "I mean, how did he get away from your people alive? How did he get to the States? Who the hell helped him? Why me? Why now?"
Lisitsyn drummed his fingers on the polished surface of the desk before speaking. "Do you think it's a political plot of some kind? I don't think so. Over the past few years you've been too distracted by politics. You thought only about power. You forgot what we taught you and everything to which you intended to devote your life. In the real world not everything is determined by backstage intrigues. This," he pointed at the clipping, "may be the work of an intelligence organization. You didn't even think of that, did you? You may have forgotten about its existence, but that doesn't make it go away. Your little 'punk' may well have contacted the CIA – that would be typical of money-hungry traitors like him. He associated with trash his entire life. If the Americans are behind this, it would explain everything."
"Maybe." Gleb didn't hide his relief. The worst danger, that he had been betrayed by his own people, faded in the face of the dread CIA. There was likely no Kremlin plot against him. "So that means it's not my fault. Your people were supposed to take care of Illarionov's kid. They let him get away. I did my part."
"It's not a matter of guilt." Lisitsyn said in a tone that made Gleb raise his head in alarm.
"Gleb," began the general forcefully, "you were always my favorite student, and you know how much I value you. I always thought you learned your lessons well. When you joined our service, when you took your oath, even while you were still in the Academy you knew the rules. Our work demands complete selflessness for the good of the Motherland, including readiness to sacrifice your life for her sake. There is no place for pointing fingers or speculating on guilt. We taught you from the beginning that in espionage work and counter-espionage anything can happen."
He went silent again as Gleb grimaced with irritation. What was the use of all this pompous flummery?
Lisitsyn c
ontinued, "Once, the GRU had a wonderful illegal officer, Captain Marya Dobrova, pseudonym Maisie. Her case officer was one of the worst traitors in our history, Dmitriy Polyakov. One of his first treasonous acts was to betray Maisie to the Americans. FBI agents visited her at her hotel and tried to recruit her. And what do you think she did? She leapt from a window and killed herself. She didn't ask who was guilty, although she was in no way responsible for the compromise."
"Nikolay Davydovich, drop the pathos. What's your point?"
"The point, my dear Gleb, is that if necessary you must accept all the guilt. Admit it was on your own initiative to organize the apartment bombings. You did it to strengthen the role of the FSB inside the Russian system. You must say the Kremlin knew absolutely nothing about your actions then and nothing about your "Svoi" death squad now. You must be prepared to be arrested, be subject to a public trial followed by one of the penal colonies. But don't be alarmed – of course, no one will demand that you sit out your entire sentence. After a few years, when things have calmed down, you'll be quietly set free to live out your life in peace and prosperity. We'll give you a new name and appearance. We'll never forget your sacrifice."
Gleb was on his feet, shouting. "Arrest? A penal colony? Public opprobrium?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Nikolay Davydovich, I'm no longer a junior lieutenant ready to dive under a tank with a grenade. I'm … an official of the Presidential Administration. I'm responsible for youth work and must be an example for them. What you propose would sink not only me but everything I've created."
"You're a Chekist, Gleb." The appellation of which Gleb had been so proud now returned to haunt him. "You gave an oath and swore to be loyal to this country to the very end. You wore the epaulets. And now the country demands this sacrifice for the common good and stability. Did you think that serving the Motherland only meant going to receptions at the Kremlin Palace? No, Gleb, your brother officers serve under much worse circumstances than you. Besides, I'm not demanding anything extraordinary. Yes, your reputation will be ruined, and you can forget about a political career, but these are small things. In no time you will be free and rich. And we will get our revenge. I give my word as an officer that we'll track down young Illarionov, even in the States. We have reliable and capable people to do this from one of the East European countries. They never lived in Russia, so there can be no connection to you or us. You'll just have to be a little patient."
In the Shadow of Mordor Page 23