In the Shadow of Mordor
Page 3
Illarionov nodded. "Did it bother you at the time?"
"Not as much as it might have." Tretyakov was emotionless. "You didn't dig down to the most important thing – to the name of the man in charge of the bombings."
"And you know his name?" Illarionov prayed the pocket recorder was working.
"I planned the operation in Ryazan with this person. The explosions were supposed to be synchronized, but some insignificant little fucker found the sacks."
Sergey leaned back in his chair. The Chekist's sangfroid struck him: the hard eyes, cynical directness, and cold recitation of the facts. Across the table from him slouching in his chair was a man who had been prepared to blow sky-high several multistory apartment buildings along with their occupants. Hundreds of lives snuffed out in a second by the spark of a detonator at the whim of a petty dictator.
Had the order from Moscow shocked Tretyakov? Or had he considered only how best to do the job and leave no trace? Was his response a banal, "Yes, sir?" Had he been proud to be one of the cogs in the wheel of a cruel system?
Illarionov forced himself into a semblance of concrete and steel incapable of terror or forgiveness. He asked only one question.
"The name?"
The arrival of his train at Dobryninskaya Station jarred him out of his reverie. He joined the stream of people headed for the connection with Serpukhovskaya on the Gray Line that would carry them south. He lived a couple of bus stops from Prague Station in a standard nine-story building. Like a gray soldier, it stood in a precise row with identical neighbors on Krasniy Mayak Street. A bit farther was the entrance to Bittsevskiy Park which stretched all the way to Yasenevo.
The long ride home provided ample time for thought. The name Tretyakov gave him was too well-known and influential to allow for mistakes. Of course, he could publish the material based on the recording, but in such form it could lose its significance, forever remaining only a rumor, the unique testimony of a lone individual rather than documented fact. There remained to Sergey only one other lead – the FSBnik had given him a telephone number.
"His name is Aleksandr Zhuravlev. Fifteen years ago he was the Chief of Staff of the Headquarters Expert Center for Civil Defense and Emergencies for Ryazan Oblast. He's retired now and lives in Moscow. He's the one who conducted the examination of the sacks of powder and established that it was RDX. He knows what happened, and I wouldn't be surprised if he kept a copy of the official report despite orders."
A call to Zhuravlev was first on the agenda for tomorrow. To judge from the distress of the prison staff, the FSB must already be aware of the conversation with Tretyakov, maybe even of its content. There was only one means of self-defense – make it public – that was the only thing that saved him whenever he discovered egregious cases of corruption in the FSB, torture in police stations, or official misconduct. And so, he must gather the missing information as soon as possible.
His son was already at home, and this pleased Sergey. He was proud of his only child. Vladislav Sergeyevich Illarionov had always been smart, inquisitive and impatient - the same qualities that had distinguished Sergey in his youth. Vlad was 25-years-old and a graduate of the journalism faculty. He had no desire for a "normal" life. While still a student Vlad had been asked to work at one of the big federal television channels but refused. He preferred to work at a dissident website which he moved from text-only to full-blown videos and won a fivefold increase in viewership. The authorities did all they could to block the site, which resulted in the loss of viewership and lowered salaries. These days most of Vlad's time was taken up helping people with internet anonymization software to get around government blocks.
"So what's new?" asked Sergey.
"Tomorrow I'm going to the Kremlin Palace to take pictures of the local Hitler Youth. They'll be with the President, and I managed to get myself accredited. Imagine, a week ago these freaks raided the office of Marya Fedorovna. Golovina's a classy old lady, a real human being, and these shitheels are so juvenile they can't even understand who they're barking at. They deny everything, of course, but I want to ask Solntsev a few questions to see how he reacts."
Sergey shuddered involuntarily at the mention of the man's name. "Be careful with Solntsev. He's very dangerous."
"Sure, papa. I know all about him. And how many times have you written about him? Yeah, he's a former Chekist who's managed to re-create the Nazi brown shirts. He's a rare breed. But where can he hide at a public event with a camera stuck in his face?"
Sergey considered whether he should share Tretyakov's information with his son? Why should he hide from Vlad something he intended to publish in a few days for everyone to see? He had only to visit the expert and find out what happened to the Ryazan report. Such a reliable source for his sensational article would be more than enough. In a low voice he said, "No, Vlad. You don't know everything about him. The man is a mass murderer. "
CHAPTER 4
The palace glittered throughout its broad corridors and richly decorated halls. The foyer boasted a well-stocked bookstore, its counters laden with colorful booklets, vividly illustrated calendars bearing the image of the President, and the eternal matryoshkas and models of the Kremlin cathedrals. Symbols, posters, books, pictures – all combined to lend to the scene the delight of a fairground with its various attractions connected by slow-moving escalators that stretched between floors.
Through a spacious window of the long, endless dining hall the lower portion of the Russian crest could be seen, as if the double-headed eagle had alighted on the windowsill. Olga gazed spellbound, reveling in the nearness of this symbol of Russian power. The eagle gazed into the distance as he spread his golden wings, separated from her only by thin glass. He made her proud.
She turned back into the hall and imagined the beating heart of the Motherland manifested in the crowd of "Svoi" members. A kinship of the spirit, never more powerful than at this moment, reigned in the hall, and she immersed herself in it as though sinking into a warm embrace. She would be with these people to the very end. To be among them was to experience the elation of victory.
Solntsev approached and took her by the hand. "Olga, will you speak?"
She was confused, not knowing what pleased her most – his unexpected enthusiasm or the proposal.
"When?"
"Right now, immediately following the break. That is, first the President will speak, then me, and right after that – you."
She nodded mutely, afraid she could not conceal her excitement. But why should she? She was nearly overwhelmed by emotion when Solntsev took her hand.
"What should I talk about?"
"Our educational and social activities. Talk about how we are positive and constructive, white as the driven snow. Remember, there are Yankees and other liberal scum in the hall. We must project a solid image. Understand?"
"Of course," she nodded vigorously. She was frightened, but she could not risk Gleb becoming disenchanted with her and never trusting her with anything important again. She could do no less than succeed.
She barely heard Solntsev's speech. She caught only his concluding remarks.
"Our history – a time of unprecedented Russian strength and power, the history of a great empire and untold misery, suffering, and inhuman ordeals. We have always stood in the way of the worst dangers that threatened the world …"
Solntsev's amplified voice reverberated in the hall, and Olga feared that her lungs would burst with the incandescent air, the noise, the sound of his voice.
"We paid for the right of America to become a superpower. We paid for the right of Europe to live without concentration camps. The world turned away from us and fears us in the belief that we might hand them a bill for everything we have done for them, and then they would have to pay forever! The only way for the West to avoid paying their bill is to humiliate Russia …"
There was a burst of applause. Pride filled the room to the ceiling, a sense of superiority over the miserable and cowardly West.
He spoke like a father in his own peculiar, convincing manner. Olga was seized with terror as he stepped from the stage. How could she speak following that?
She couldn't feel her own body as she stepped to the microphones under the gaze of thousands of eyes that suddenly seemed strange and demanding. She began to speak as if her entire life consisted of good deeds, as though she had never snatched the report from Golovina's printer, as though she hadn't overturned the shelves. This was for her country, her organization, and her leader, and should it be necessary she was prepared to lie about anything to anyone, even to God, if he existed.
The applause dissipated her fears like clouds carried away by a strong wind. She was a conqueror, a supremely strong being capable of anything, as she stepped from the stage into the crowd of enthusiastic supporters. From somewhere a video camera focused on her.
During the intermission, still euphoric from the attention and recognition, she walked out to the foyer to reap the benefits of her newfound fame. She was immediately surrounded by journalists, and one of them, a young and especially bold man, stepped toward her and said something completely unexpected.
"Olga. I would never have expected you to be with these fascists."
She belatedly recognized him. Vlad - her former schoolmate and first adolescent love. He stared at her with a mixture of pity, confusion, and disgust. She took an involuntary step back.
They became fast friends in the seventh or eighth grade because they had been so alike. Common interests and a disdain for stereotypes united them in spite of their youth. At a time when young men fell in love with girls but were too shy to express it, the class seemed divided into irreconcilable sides. The boys talked about rock and roll and cars, tried out smoking, and surreptitiously watched porn. The girls flirted with older boys and university students and wore too much make-up, ignoring boys of their own age. But Vlad Illarionov brought computer printouts of world news and clippings of his father's articles to school and shared them with Olga, eager for her opinion.
Vlad was fortunate in his bold and cheerful character. He was bright, lively, and interesting, and maybe because of this did not slack off in his studies like many of the other boys. He might unexpectedly demand that a teacher account for how money contributed by parents had been spent. Or instead of a movie he might suddenly invite Olga to visit the Cosmonaut Museum or go to an American jazz festival. He was interested in the world in all its variety, and when asked about plans for the future, Vlad always answered, "I want to do something worthwhile in life."
Olga was one of the few who completely shared his dream of an uncommon, full, and meaningful life, full of challenges and successes. But had she not managed to realize those childhood dreams now when she occupied a solid position in the most advanced youth organization in the country, step by step changing the familiar world for the better?
Vlad's life progressed in quite a different direction. Olga had not seen him since their senior prom, but knew that even as a university student he had fallen in with those very enemies and traitors against whom she now fought. His articles sometimes appeared in hostile publications, and they were vicious, anti-Russian, filled with hate and sarcastic bile.
They were attracting attention. She was embarrassed even to know him. Fearing a public scandal, she said irritably, "Let's go somewhere we can talk. There are too many people here."
They took an escalator to the now empty dining hall, the same one protected by the outspread wings of the two-headed eagle, the mute witness of Olga's loyalty.
"What the hell?" she began, the sweet tone of her presentation forgotten. "What are you doing here?"
"I might ask you the same," he said. "How did you get mixed up in this? For a free lunch in the Kremlin dining room? For some cheap popularity? How long have you been involved in Solntsev's outrages to appear on the same stage with him?"
"Don't you dare judge me," she snapped, her gorge rising. "Do you think everyone is like you, vilifying your own country hoping for a handout from the Pindos2? Do you think they'll invite you to a free jazz concert at the American Embassy or maybe give you a trip to the States? Are you jealous because you've not been able to curry enough favor with them? I love my country, and I'm helping create her future."
He snorted. "An interesting sort of love - you support a charlatan who turns young people into zombie thugs. They spew poison and slander, glorify Stalin and the new "vozhd,3" attack people about whom the country should be proud, bully old women and anyone else who thinks differently. Such people are cowards, mockers who rely on force and lies. They're rude, stupid street punks. This is degradation, Olga. This is the transformation of people into crude beasts. But you – you weren't always like this. I don't understand how Solntsev managed to brainwash you."
"You're the brainwashed one." Resentment bubbled in her chest. "Have you repeated pro-American banalities so often, hoping they'll give you table scraps, that you actually believe them? You never appreciated the Motherland; you can't imagine living for her, fighting for her. You're ready to drag it all out in the open: the foreign stuff, the hostile stuff, just like the kind of newspaper trash you dragged to school. You would betray the very best of what we are for a pack of chewing gum because you never cared for anything that's worthwhile to a normal Russian. You're ready to sell our history and culture for a pair of phony smiles from people who want to destroy us."
Her anger spread to him like fire in a forest. "History and culture? Don't tell me you didn't know that your 'Hitler Youth' ransacked Golovina's office. She's our history, our living history, the real thing with all its cruelty and its heroes. Our science – Sakharov exiled to Gorkiy, our culture – Tsvetaeva committing suicide in exile from hunger and isolation or tormented like Zoshchenko and Akhmatova. Russia has always destroyed her best people. But I hoped that in our time it all would be done with. "
"'Svoi' had nothing to do with that." Had she not only recently decided that she would lie to anyone for the sake of the cause? She was a woman and could not serve in the military. Unlike Gleb she had no experience working with the FSB. She had never held a weapon in her hands. But she was fighting here and now by word and deed. This corrupt populist didn't deserve to know the truth. He would never understand.
"You really don't know the truth?" His voice was filled with doubt. "They made a video and it's become a regular propaganda feature on NTV. The guy in the video was immediately identified. He's spoken at meetings of your organization. There can be no mistake. The whole country knows who did it. There's no way you don’t know. Did that murderer Solntsev teach you to lie so well?"
Olga choked with anger and resentment. "Murderer? Do you know where he worked and with whom? He served in the FSB, fought terrorism, risked his life so that people like you can sleep peacefully. He defended everybody, Vlad. All people, all beliefs, including you. You hate the people in his profession, but they keep you safe. And you say this isn't honorable? Do you know anything about honor, about dangerous professions and real achievements?"
"Olga," Vlad spoke as though to a small child. "The FSB organized the bombing of apartment buildings in our city and others fifteen years ago. And it was Solntsev himself who was in charge of the bombings in Moscow - personally in charge. His subordinate from Ryazan has already confessed. Just wait a few days – my father will publish a lot of material about this with proof, eyewitness accounts, quotes. Your idol cold-bloodedly murdered people while they slept peacefully in their own beds. You or I might have been in one of those buildings. He might have killed us with no thought, not
even knowing that we exist. How old were we then? Ten? Would you have wanted to die as a 10-year-old child at his hands?"
"This is nonsense!" Was he insane? "Do you even understand what you're saying? You've picked up rumors, gossip, slander … You don't dare spread such abominations. You don't know Gleb. You don't know him, at all. He could never have done that. You can't even imagine the kind of man he is, the soul he has, his qualities, the way he relates to people. You just can't … Vlad, promise me that you and your father will not spread such slander."
"You can't be convinced because you don't want to know the truth. But in the real world not everything is the way you wish it to be. Other people, the ones who lost loved ones in those bombings, deserve to know the truth. Everything will soon be out in the open. Get used to it. And think about who it is you're defending. I don't think you knew about the bombings, or even Golovina."
"Yes, I knew everything about Golovina." She hadn't expected to feel such all-encompassing hatred for Vlad. This impudent boy had spoiled the happiest moment of her life and now threatened all she believed in, defended and loved more than anything on earth.
"I was there. Do you understand? With my own eyes I spotted the American funding report. That's what it costs to buy people like her. Forty thousand dollars a quarter. And for that kind of money she and others like her invent hundreds of falsehoods like the one you just told me. I held that report in my own hands, and she was jumping about like a chicken at the trough trying to keep us from seeing it. And I knocked over her shelves, and I don't regret anything. If it were possible I would have burned it all down because it blackens the history of our country. And you … you're no better."
She turned on her heel and walked quickly to the escalator casting a final glance at the dark, indifferent contour of the double-headed bird that fell across the window. Surely what Vlad said was untrue.
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