Some had photographs wrapped in cellophane and nailed or pasted above the men’s names. Some pictures had faded so much they were unrecognizable. All, it seemed, were of military men, many young, posing in their pressed Soviet uniforms, never realizing that these portraits would so soon decorate their graves. Those poor young men, their faces reminding Jonathan how far he was from where he should otherwise be. It surely was a place no Westerner had ever set foot.
Most of the headstones were unostentatious cement blocks, with only the minimal information engraved, though he strolled by a couple that were marble. A dozen more were simple wood planks sticking out of the earth, weathered and cracked in places.
Many of the soldiers had died in the 1950s and 1960s, but the wooden stumps had no visible markings to indicate when those servicemen perished. Jonathan walked to another set of gravestones; these had small wrought iron fences surrounding each plot. They too were of men, many dying in their twenties and thirties, most of them in the 1970s. But it appeared that a long time had passed since a visitor had laid flowers on any of them. They were forgotten, condemned to become a meaningless speck of history. This spot of remembrance, not worthy of even a respectful dot on the map hadn’t preserved anything sacred, but instead gave the vibe of a place that was cursed, hated, discarded by those who may somehow have known of its existence.
What had happened here, in this small wooded area, thousands of miles from acceptable civilization? What hatred lay at the root of this abyss that caused those brave faces laminated in wilted plastic, to be left abandoned, seemingly forever? There were also some more graves covered by bushes that had grown over them in time, obscuring even the most minimal symbol of a life once lived.
* * *
After examining the writing on every grave—some eighty in all—as best he could, Jonathan realized that whatever he was meant to see was not there. He had expected to find Matt’s name inscribed on one of the stones. Not so. He looked around, making certain he had not missed anything.
Jonathan headed back to the entrance and examined the sign that marked the name and address of the cemetery. With his hand he wiped the dirt off the steel plate to make sure. The number on the sign was 17, and that’s when he realized he was at the wrong place. The note said 117.
Suddenly, he heard a woman yell something. He turned around and spotted her. She was a chubby woman, dressed in a thin trench coat. “Mister Brooks,” she yelled, now walking faster and waving at Jonathan, who returned the gesture. “Mister Brooks.”
As she drew nearer, he saw her nurse’s uniform behind her open coat. But it didn’t seem to be a normal nurse’s uniform, but rather that of a military nurse, he guessed. She reached Jonathan and was out of breath. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, breathing deeply through her reserved smile. “I’m Ivaniya. I’ve been expecting you. You come with me, okay?” Her English was okay.
Jonathan nodded. “Where are you taking me?”
“To that building over there.”
The two walked a couple hundred yards around a cluster of trees to the five-story building Jonathan had spotted earlier when Igor had dropped him off.
As he walked through the gravel parking lot, Jonathan noticed the desolation of the place.
“It is our old clinic. Still in use today for a few patients.”
Jonathan suddenly felt lifted by those words. Can he be alive? Is it possible? He stopped on the stairs at the entrance of the building and gazed into Ivaniya’s eyes. “Is my brother here?”
“Yes,” she said somberly. “He is here, and he is dying.”
Jonathan’s heart sank. “Take me to him.” She led the way through the quiet, vacant lobby. Only one other person was in sight, manning the reception desk.
“Why has he been here so long?”
“I ask myself that same question,” she replied, walking fast ahead of Jonathan. “He’s been here since when this part of the clinic was a research area. Patients here were not expected to leave. And he was very sick, too. He didn’t speak for nearly three years.”
Jonathan had a hard time understanding how this could happen.
They took an elevator to the third floor, and he followed her down a long hallway, lined by empty, dilapidated rooms. “Why did no one contact the American embassy or the nearest consulate?”
“We didn’t know who he was. Just before his caretaker—Doctor Vadenko—died, he destroyed most of the files on his research, including files about his patients. We only knew your brother as patient number twelve.” She then raised her hand. “Shh. Let’s be quiet now. Please, things are very bad now.”
She slowly walked to a large metal door. She pushed on it hard and then nodded for Jonathan to follow her.
They passed two empty rooms before she turned into the next one. And there was Matt, sitting in a wheelchair in the corner of the room, his eyes closed and his body covered by a thick wool blanket. Jonathan took a deep breath. He couldn’t speak for a second. He slowly moved closer, and closer yet, as the nurse stepped back outside the room. “Can he hear?” Jonathan whispered to Ivaniya.
She nodded.
“Matt,” Jonathan said softly, taking his brother’s hand in his. Matt’s face and arms were emaciated, his skin pale. “It’s me.”
Matt turned his head and began to awaken, but barely. His sunken eyes opened just a bit, and then a bit more. They stared at each other. Matt’s eyes began to water and a surprised smile emerged. Jonathan heard Matt whisper his name, but his voice was weak and scratchy.
Jonathan glanced at the nurse. “Thank you,” he whispered. He had a million questions, but for now, he just wanted to gaze into the eyes of his brother and hold him. The outside world no longer existed. Nothing else mattered at that moment.
26
Washington, D.C.—Seven weeks later
The bailiff walked briskly behind the last row of chairs and approached the heavy double doors.
“Please lock’em,” a voice echoed through the speakers above the audience.
“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” the man answered as he opened the doors and quickly closed them behind him as he stepped out. A buzzing sound followed and a small green light above the door flashed twice and then turned red.
“Are all attendees registered and verified?”
“Yes, sir,” a man near the panelists responded, his voice muted since he didn’t have a microphone.
“Very well, let’s proceed,” said the chairman, Senator Harris, nodding at his fellow panelists, who flanked him on both sides.
Jonathan gazed at the eight men in front of him. He had center stage, a unique opportunity to be heard. But despite his outward lawyerly composure and his firm grasp of the facts he’d gathered through his ordeal, Jonathan was nervous, terrified and sad.
Gary covered the microphone with his hand and leaned into Jonathan. “Now, be kind to Senator Labenne,” he whispered. “He’s your only ally up there.”
Jonathan looked at the senator from Louisiana. Gary’s fine work over the past two weeks had won Jonathan the privilege of addressing the distinguished group that made up the U.S. Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Jonathan was also impressed that Gary had obtained all the senator’s questions ahead of time.
Half of the twenty or so seats behind Jonathan were filled with men, some in Navy and Army uniforms—and all the faces he didn’t know, except one: Vice-Admiral Scarborough, who sat with a hawkish stare aimed at Jonathan. This was the man who’d tried to kill Linda, Jonathan reminded himself. A man whose authority remained intact, his rogue powers still unchecked. He and Gary hoped this hearing would change that.
“Ladies and gentleman, I call this session into order,” the chairman announced. “This is, of course, a closed-door session, and I need not remind the audience that all discussions held in this hearing are strictly confidential.”
“Mr. Chairman, if I may,” Senator Fischer from North Carolina interrupted. He was the committee’s vice-chairman, and, from what Gary had uncovered, a for
mer Navy SEAL. “For the record, I believe that some of the information that will be discussed this morning is considered compartmentalized, and may require Secret or Top Secret clearances. I believe all here, with the exception of the witnesses, have such clearance, but just to be absolutely clear, if anyone here does not, you are kindly asked to leave this session.
“As for our principal witnesses, attorneys Gary Green and Jonathan Brooks, neither have the appropriate security clearances. However, I understand they have signed—I believe last week—the standard non-disclosure agreement provided by this committee.” Senator Fischer turned to his colleagues. “But just to reiterate, the witnesses do not have the proper clearances to hear all the information in the folders in front of you, so I urge caution with your statements and questions during this session. I’d feel more comfortable if you’d allow me, Mr. Chairman, to interrupt the proceedings if and when the information discussed here today strays into restricted territory.”
“Very well, thank you for clarifying this for us.” Chairman Harris opened the folder in front of him and wrote something down.
Another senator at the far end of the panel leaned into his microphone and said, “Mr. Chairman, I’d like to reserve some time after the witnesses leave to discuss the issues amongst ourselves, and with the subpoenaed military officers that are here today.
“Your statement is noted, Senator Derringer. I’ll save thirty minutes at the end of the proceedings for this purpose.”
“So, for the record, I’m Senator Harris, Chairman of the Select Committee on Intelligence.” He read off the names of the other members present.
After his staffer whispered into his ear, Senator Bradford added, “Our Committee has issued three subpoenas for this hearing, and let the record show that all the witnesses are in attendance, with the exception of counselor Tillerman.”
“The Committee has reviewed the documentation you’ve submitted. I understand that you have a statement prepared for this hearing?”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Jonathan said solemnly. “And one exhibit as well. I’ll be happy to answer questions upon concluding my statement.”
A clerk came to him and administered the oath.
Jonathan glanced at the first line of his typed notes, sighed and began reading. “Mr. Chairman, members of this distinguished panel, I am testifying here today because a terrible injustice was done to an American family—to my family. Our home was set on fire. My wife is in a hospital recovering from third- and second-degree burns. Countless others have also suffered through a trail of destruction across two continents. Why did all this happen? To cover up an incident, to perpetuate the lie, and ultimately to protect a clan of rogue military elites who have no tolerance for the rule of law.”
Jonathan gazed at the senators, and then continued to read. “My brother, Lieutenant Matthew Henry Brooks, wasn’t a player in this game of lies and treason, but rather simply a Pentagon translator, nothing more. He was only twenty-four and a mere speck of dust in the grand scheme that these people had concocted, and in the end, they took his life. To them, my brother was an insignificant loss to a superpower. Their initial attempt to kill him was perfectly acceptable to these men. His disappearance was no problem either. Nor was his captivity in Russia. They couldn’t have cared less as they covered their tracks in Operation Tranquility, all in the name of security, for God and country, for liberty, for freedom, for our shared values—whichever they’d pick and choose. But this insignificant member of their arsenal was a precious part of my life. They have no conscience. They have no shame. They must be brought to account.
“These deranged masterminds are no heroes. I wouldn’t even call them bright. Their delusional plan had been to covertly obtain the Soviet Union’s most secretive biological weapons and to do so by arranging the defection of select Soviet officers and resettling them in Canada or elsewhere under new identities. All this with a complete disregard of the hazards of transporting such deadly materials through our airspace and those of our allies. They never thought their sinister plan would go wrong. Well, it did. One of their prized would-be defectors, Major-General Yakovlev, was a double-agent. As part of the Soviet counterpunch, the aircraft was rigged to explode over U.S. territory. It is only by sheer luck that it did not. An informant alerted his American handlers in Moscow about the planned sabotage. Consequently, our military was called to shoot down our own aircraft. The plane was taken down, either by a Stinger missile or by the Russian’s rigged explosives. We’ll probably never know. What we do know is that one man survived the crash: my brother. From that moment on, he began a harsh six-year survival, which we have documented. After reading the materials we’ve submitted, I trust you will agree that there must be boundaries to Cold War gamesmanship. Without such boundaries, the men behind these crimes will continue to act with impunity.”
Jonathan took a sip of his water. He was momentarily overcome with grief.
“You have never met my brother. You did not hear his amazing humor, nor experience the wisdom of his young, powerful mind, nor sensed the straightforwardness of his loyalty. Despite the efforts of these rogue persons, his will to survive was remarkable, even with the experimental drugs pumped through his veins and the solitary existence in the middle of Russia, betrayed by his own country.
“All this would have remained hidden if I had continued to believe the words of the letter I received from the Navy, which told me my brother died, when in fact he was still alive, as a prisoner in Russia. Operation Tranquility had nothing tranquil about it. It wreaked havoc in the lives of ordinary people, none of whom ever suspected that some in our government would deceive them with such ruthlessness and also in such a way that endangered the lives of thousands of civilians both here and abroad.
“Mr. Chairman, I’m not bitter nor enraged. Those volatile feelings faded some time ago, replaced by a far more valuable feeling—that I am finally at peace knowing that my efforts have led to this hearing, to this prestigious audience with the power to remedy this mess. Before I conclude, I have a short video to show you.”
Jonathan nodded at the clerk standing beside the oversized monitor. The screen lit up, at first with static, and then torn wallpaper came into view. The image panned right to Matt, who sat in his chair, his back propped somewhat upright, and an IV bag hanging from a stand next to him. Jonathan’s eyes closed as he began hearing his brother’s faint voice.
“I’m Lieutenant Matthew Brooks,” his brother said into the camera, his voice barely audible. “Our C-130 went down...over the Baltic...close to Soviet airspace.” He had tried to say more, but only air existed his lips. Jonathan had zoomed in closer. Matt was worn, his bloodshot eyes barely open. He’d spent six years in captivity, but he looked fifty. He breathed hard. “We were...supposed to...” His words ended with a mumble. The video panned left, exposing the dreary room Matt had lived in for so many years. The tape ended.
“Mr. Chairman,” Jonathan said, reopening his eyes. “My brother died at Russian Army Clinic Number 241 at nine-twenty in the morning the next day. He never returned to his country alive. Instead, for over two years his body was used for scientific experimentation by a small group of Soviet researchers. Their goal: to study how Matt’s physiology had resisted their mutant strain of tularemia. They continued their research, using Matt as their guinea pig, until the Soviet Union collapsed. The scientists disappeared along with their documents, and Matt was left severely ill and abandoned—a patient without a name, without a trace, without any hope.”
The room was silent. A few senators were visibly moved by what they’d just witnessed.
“Thank you, Mr. Brooks, for sharing this with us. As you can imagine, my colleagues and I have many questions.”
For the next half-hour, Jonathan testified about all he knew, beginning with the exposed lies in the Victory Lines litigation, to his confrontation with Scarborough in Washington, D.C. and his discovery on Gotland. He told them of the house fire and Linda’s struggle. He explained
his journey to Moscow, the multiple attempts on his life, the scenes of carnage in the bowels of the Kremlin. He told them everything he’d uncovered. Through all if it, he was happy to have Gary by his side whispering advice, but more importantly, standing by as his ally in a roomful of powerful men he wasn’t sure he could trust.
When he finished answering the last question, Jonathan stood up and walked along the center aisle of the room, with Gary a few steps behind him. Nearing the back door, Jonathan glanced at Scarborough, who was seated next to a suited man, probably his attorney. The vice-admiral didn’t meet his gaze.
“Your day has come,” Jonathan calmly said to Scarborough on his way out the door.
* * *
New Orleans, Louisiana
Mozart’s Concerto Number 21, second movement, filled the air from the CD player on Linda’s nightstand. She was crying, but she smiled at Jonathan as he squeezed her hand. He had just told her about the Senate hearing and the burial of Matt’s remains.
“I’m happy that you went,” she said, her voice still weak, “and that you found out the truth, and mostly, that you saw Matt, even for such a short time. I wish I could have been there with you.”
She was not yet out of danger. Jonathan had spoken to her doctors. They had outlined the challenges that lay ahead. The burnt tissue on her right leg was infected and had not yet adequately responded to treatment. She also had ligament damage in one arm and severe tissue damage in her nose and upper trachea.
“How is your shoulder?” Linda asked.
Jonathan smiled. Even with all her injuries, she was thinking about his health. He gazed at her and felt a rush of love.
Gary arrived. He’d come to pick up Jonathan for a court hearing on a new case. Gary gave Linda a kiss on the cheek. “I see you’re getting back to normal.”
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