The Fall of Moscow Station

by Mark Henshaw

  65 kilometers north of Berlin, Germany

  General Stepan Illarionovich Strelnikov kept a steady pace as he walked through the abandoned streets, though not fast enough to satisfy his impatience. He could not walk faster, not anymore. The cushions between several of his vertebrae were eroding, so the doctor had said, and walking any serious distance was agony. He had taken the painkillers before setting out this morning, but they weren’t up to the task. He ignored the pain as much as his discipline allowed, which was very little.

  The road was familiar. That wall of trees to his right hadn’t been there in his youth, and now, though pleasant on the eyes, it blocked his view of the old buildings he knew were sitting beyond. No matter. Strelnikov hardly was paying attention to the scenery. Vogelsang brought back memories thick as the flies swarmed these woods during the summers. He had been stationed here in his youth, when the first Soviet nuclear base outside of the Rodina had sheltered fifteen thousand soldiers and their families. It had been a lively place, an entire Russian town cultivated inside East Germany, where the signs all had Cyrillic letters and children had always been running between the buildings, some to the cinema, others to the school or the playground.

  Now Vogelsang was a desolate waste, empty and crumbling, with trees growing up through the floors of some of the buildings. Grass erupted in straight lines through the concrete seams of the open spaces, and the buildings were all turning a uniform gray as their paint eroded. There was hardly an intact window anywhere, though most still had metal bars covering the openings. Doors were missing or hanging open. The wind made an ugly sound as it passed through the structures, the cracks in their facades creating a symphony of whistles and moans that combined in random tunes. The Germans wanted to level this reminder of the days when they had been in bondage to his country, but it seemed like nature was determined to do it first.

  Why meet here? he wondered. The old general’s knees had quivered when he’d recovered the meeting instructions that his CIA handler had left at the dead-drop site in Moscow. He’d had to read them twice, but there had been no mistake. Was it all coincidence, or did the CIA know his history? If that, what purpose could they find in calling him here? That was a question they were going to answer before he would answer any of theirs.

  He stopped to orient himself, trying to remember which decrepit building was which, and his old mind wandered. His memory of the place became as real as the world around him and for a minute the pain in his back was gone. Strelnikov recognized the old theater across the intersection, where he had met his wife. He’d courted Taisia here and they’d dreamed of building a dacha a few miles north to retire in the German woods—

  Foolish old soldier, he cursed himself. “No time for that,” he muttered. Maybe after the meeting.

  He found the building after another half hour’s walk. The base commandant’s office had been a high-class facility in its prime. Now it was a shell, but good enough for a clandestine meeting, he supposed. He trudged up the small flight of concrete steps onto the landing, pulled open the door, and stepped inside.

  The loop came down over his head. Strelnikov thought it was a garrote, and he was sure a metal wire was about to crush his windpipe and choke off his air. But the attacker pulled it short and Strelnikov felt a fat cotton rope force itself between his teeth, to stop him from biting down.

  In that instant, Strelnikov knew that the man behind would not kill him, not in the next few minutes anyway.

  One hand pushed his head forward and down while others seized his arms and pulled them high over his head, spreading them like a chicken’s wings flapping in the air. The pain surged in his shoulders, narrowing his vision into a black tunnel, and for a moment he was sure the men would keep pulling until the rotator cuffs tore, but finally they stopped before he passed out. More hands stripped his coat and shirt from his body. The Russian general offered no protest.

  There are no suicide pills hidden in my clothes, young comrades.

  When he was stripped to the waist, Strelnikov’s arms finally were allowed to fall free. The men behind him pulled a hood over his head and suddenly he was blind.

  His pants were pulled down to his ankles and Strelnikov was pushed down to sit on a stool. His shoes were pulled from his feet. More unseen hands covered with latex gloves searched his body, leaving nothing untouched. His captors forced him to stand, then bend over.

  You will find nothing in there either, he assured them in his thoughts, but Strelnikov didn’t bother saying the words. He had no plan to end his life on his own terms, but his promises would carry no weight with these men and he held his silence. Strelnikov had known the cavity check would be coming, but it was painful all the same. Suicide pills were small and the men were thorough, if not gentle. The rope in his mouth was a convenient outlet for that particular pain, and Strelnikov bit down hard until the clinical search was finished.

  He was pulled by his arms, pushed around corners, and marched in circles until he could not longer orient himself by memory. They dragged him forward and up a staircase, then into some room, and he heard a door close behind. He was made to dress in what he knew to be a blue jogging suit. His modesty restored, his assailants removed the hood. The men wore no masks and Strelnikov knew soldiers when he saw them. The hair, the bearing, the efficient manner told him that these men were Special Forces.

  They checked his mouth with a penlight and a dental pick for false fillings or other implants. Strelnikov offered no resistance. These men had specialized tools for wrenching open the jaws of anyone who stupidly thought they could keep their mouths shut as far as the rope allowed. Finding nothing, they finally removed the cord, cleaned up their kit, and evacuated the barren room. Strelnikov watched them go, waiting for the door to close before turning to the interrogator he knew was still inside.

  “Good evening, Stepan Illarionovich.” General-Major Arkady Lavrov, director of the Main Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation (GRU), sat in a cheap wooden chair by the corner of the door.

  Strelnikov said nothing for several seconds, his mind pondering the surprise, and then he spoke. “Good evening, Arkady Vladimirovich.” He made his way to the lone wooden stool in the room. It looked like it was original to the building and he hoped it wouldn’t crumble under his weight.

  “It looks so very different, does it not, the old base?” Lavrov asked.

  Strelnikov exhaled long and slow. “It’s hard to say. Time is cruel to memories,” he said, making no effort to hide the sarcasm. What he’d said was true in so many ways. To admit that this country was a better place now than when the Soviet empire had controlled its eastern end would have been to admit that he had spent his life in the service of a mistake.

  Lavrov waited for the other man to say something else, then finally spoke when the silence grew too painful. “It has changed, very much. A testament to our failures.” He pressed his lips together. “We were in Berlin that night. Do you remember, on the embassy roof? We watched the people dancing on the Wall.”

  “I do,” Strelnikov said. “That was an unhappy night.”

  “Yes, it was. I question, sometimes, how we did not foresee what happened that evening,” Lavrov admitted.

  “We did not see it,” Strelnikov advised him, “because we lacked the great virtue that would have let us predict it.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Honesty. The Kremlin would not hear of failure, so we would not let ourselves consider the possibility.”

  Lavrov let out a quiet laugh after a moment. “Yes, you are right, but not all of us were so blind.”

  Strelnikov sighed. He’d pushed away his memories on the walk here and he was in no mood to let his old friend indulge in them now. “You were the one who left the instructions at the dead drop in Moscow for me to come here. I must congratulate you on your penetration of the CIA. I was told that my case files and reports were being held in a very secure compartment.”


  “They are,” Lavrov agreed. “And our new asset is impressive. It is regrettable that he cannot be allowed to remain in place, but your betrayal has forced me to exfiltrate him. He doesn’t know it yet, but he will very soon.”

  “How long have you known?” Strelnikov asked.

  “Not long,” Lavrov admitted. “Your knowledge of my operations left us little choice but to act quickly. But you are my old friend, Stepan, and I had to be convinced beyond any doubt that you truly were guilty. There was no question once you left for Berlin. Your fellow GRU officers dismantled your dacha. I’m told they found the smartphone and software the Americans gave you to use, among other toys. It doesn’t matter where you’ve hidden whatever money they have paid you, you will not see it.”

  “There was no money,” Strelnikov told him. “I asked for none. I did not do this for money.”

  “I had hoped not.” Lavrov looked to his comrade, a painful sadness twisting his face. “More than forty years we have been friends. So, please, tell me why you turned to treason,” Lavrov demanded.

  “Do you truly want an answer?”

  “Of course. It will not change what comes after, but I prefer knowledge to ignorance.” His desire to know was genuine, Strelnikov knew. Lavrov needed no confession to condemn him at a tribunal. An answer to the question could not hurt him more and perhaps might do some good.

  “My grandfather was a Jew, Arkady. I never talked about him, of course. There were so many Jew-haters among the chekists. Still today too, though not so many. You are not one of them, I know, but still you and your foundation threaten my grandfather’s people . . . my people.”

  “Ah,” Lavrov said. “The assistance I gave to the Iranians.”

  “Yes,” Strelnikov said. “You should not have sold them nuclear technology. And now the new device you want to sell them—”

  “We must help our allies,” Lavrov said, as though that simple fact alone was justification enough.

  “Our allies are butchers, Arkady.”

  “And we are not?”

  “We have been, but we could be better men. We can restore the Rodina Mat in other ways than this.”

  Lavrov sighed, feigning a loss of energy. “I will have your clothes returned after they are inspected. I will give you that dignity. But you already were a better man, Stepan Illarionovich. I know you were.”

  “It was not my head but my heart that made my choices, Arkady,” Strelnikov said, defiance in his voice. “As it always has.”

  “In honorable men, true men, the head and the heart speak with the same voice,” Lavrov told him. “I regret that you forgot that. Remember it now and you might find some peace.” The senior Russian official stood to leave.

  “Arkady . . . a question for you,” Strelnikov pleaded.

  “Yes?”

  “Why this place? Why bring me back here?”

  Lavrov smiled, rueful. “Death and resurrection, old friend. This is the place for it.” He turned away from Strelnikov and walked outside.

  • • •

  Aqid (Colonel) Issam Ghazal of the Syrian Army had learned, of necessity, to be a patient man. With no familial connections to advance his career, his promotions had come through careful maneuvers and waiting for those more ambitious and less careful than himself to make mistakes that could not be dismissed. Such steps created enemies and each rise in the ranks forced him to be ever more deliberate. Greater heights put him under more scrutiny, and ever-smaller mistakes could be his undoing. Still, his self-control was rigid now and he enjoyed the thought that his enemies were going slowly mad waiting for him to make mistakes that never came.

  But patience did not mean he could not be mindful of the time. Ghazal checked his watch, a Suunto Core digital that he’d picked up in a highbrow Berlin shop the day before. He wished he could afford one of those finer Swiss watches, one of the TAG Heuers that he’d seen under the glass, but those would stay beyond his means until he could secure a promotion to flag rank.

  The Russian general, Lavrov, had been inside the decrepit mansion for a half hour before emerging. “Colonel Ghazal,” he said. “It is my great pleasure to meet you again.”

  “General Lavrov,” Ghazal replied, bowing slightly.

  “If you will walk with me, I will escort you to the test site,” Lavrov requested.

  “You don’t want to drive?” Ghazal asked.

  Lavrov shook his head. “I would like my car to be in working order after the weapons test.” He extended an arm and Ghazal began to trudge across the cold ground with the Russian, their boots crunching in the hardening mud.

  “That was a spectacle that your men put on a few minutes ago,” Ghazal noted. “Who was the man they detained?”

  “Regrettably, an old friend,” Lavrov said. “But one who could not find it in himself to remain loyal.”

  “Ah,” Ghazal said, his manner sympathetic, “that is always regrettable. The foundation of any friendship is always loyalty.”

  “Indeed,” Lavrov replied. “And to violate it is the unpardonable sin. Trust cannot be recovered once lost. Doubt always remains after treason, no matter what a man says or does thereafter.”

  “Yes,” Ghazal agreed. “I presume that you wanted me to see that so I could reassure my superiors that your operation is secure.”

  “Correct,” Lavrov admitted. “The debacle our Iranian friends suffered last year caused many of my clients to question our ability to be discreet. I wanted to show you that we can manage the problem.”

  “I do not think that was ever in doubt,” Ghazal said. “But they do not want it managed, only prevented. At our level, one breach is too much.” The Syrian ran a hand through his dark beard. “If that man taken in the house truly was your friend and a loyal officer for decades, then anyone else could be vulnerable. If the Americans could persuade him, who could they not reach? No, I do not think my superiors will be convinced that your operation is secure.”

  “The Americans did not persuade him,” Lavrov countered. “He had a weakness that led him to falter. A relative of his was Jewish, so my dealings with the Iranians and now with you worried him.”

  “Zionists and their friends are everywhere. How many more like him might be part of your organization? We can never know.” Ghazal sighed. “I am under orders not to pay you nor take possession of the material until my superiors are convinced that you have reestablished your security,” he said. “My leaders do not want trouble with the Americans like the Iranians suffered last year, much less with the rest of NATO or, Allah forbid, the Israelis.”

  Lavrov frowned. “What are their terms?”

  “They are not asking for changes to the contract,” Ghazal admitted. “They simply do not want it executed until they are sure there will be no unexpected publicity.”

  “That will happen very, very soon,” Lavrov said. “The man who identified Stepan as a traitor can identify any others in my organization who are disloyal.”

  “That is reassuring,” Ghazal replied. “And you will be pleased to hear that I have convinced them to pay you interest for the time spent cleaning out your own house.”

  “A small investment now that will save you from greater problems in the future,” Lavrov advised. “But for now, come, I have something to show you.”

  The Großer Müggelsee Lake

  Treptow-Köpenick District

  Berlin, Federal Republic of Germany

  The gray clouds made the day look as though it was already dying despite the morning hour when Sigmar Mueller stepped out of the Mercedes Vito onto the wet grass. The vegetation had grown wild and thick along the lakeshore here, and the recent storms had fueled its growth as much as the Müggelsee water. Some underpaid labor had not mowed along the roadside and the green shoots rose to a height that reached up past his boots and darkened his pants where they touched his legs. He closed the car door, trapping some of the wet plants inside the cabin, and Mueller muttered something indiscreet about the work habits of immigrants hired to keep the g
rass down.

  The marshy ground pulled at his feet as the grass gave way to cattails that gently hit his thighs until he reached the paved trail, but the damage was done. The old man, tall, graying hair, and smooth faced, ignored the feeling of his trousers growing more damp and cold with each stride. It hardly qualified as an annoyance. The senior investigator for the Bundeskriminalamt, the Federal Criminal Investigation Office, had been called to study corpses in locations far more hostile and personally uncomfortable than this one. The worst had been the dead prostitutes that some patrons of the street had stuffed into sewer holes. Those pictures in his mind stood out in his memory, which was impressive given the many competing images. Mueller hoped that dementia might help him forget them all someday after he had given up the job.

  The Müggelsee had been an attraction for him since he’d been a child, a lake so large that one could always find some quiet solace on a weekend near a tree line. He brought his family here often during the gentler seasons, the October fall and the April spring before the air turned either frigid or humid, and he prayed that what he would soon see here would not put him off this place. But he supposed the lake’s size and secluded shores that made it such a draw for him would eventually call for less benign reasons to the organized criminal groups that operated out of Berlin, sixteen kilometers to the northwest.

  The highway encircled the lake, no more than a few dozen meters from the shore at the farthest point, but trees hid the water from the road in places and early September rains had left the ground a humid bog on the southeastern side. Mueller muttered to himself, then chuckled, amused by his own absurdity of wanting to ask murderers to accommodate him and his fellows by depositing their victims in convenient spots. They would earn an extra measure of his gratitude if they would also concede to pick less onerous seasons to do their work. He had missed enough Advents and Christmas days with his family and feared he would have too few left to make up the difference.

  He cleared a slight rise, the far side of a low swale where the water had pooled an inch deep, creating a tiny marsh that sank under his feet until the dirty water covered the toes of his boots. He pushed himself up the embankment, then pulled himself forward by grasping an exposed root, scrambled up, and saw that he had arrived.