by Ethan Jones
Maxim nodded and offered a small smile at the sitting man. He didn’t get up, or offer to shake Maxim’s hand. Izhutin didn’t even look up, but lowered his silver-framed spectacles to the tip of his nose. He studied the black folder in front of him for a long moment, then sighed and glanced at Maxim. The man was probably in his sixties, with salt-and-pepper receding hair that he had cut very short, in almost a military buzz cut. His small gray eyes seemed to carry a tinge of despair mixed with regret.
Or maybe that’s what Maxim wanted to see.
Izhutin said, “Mr. Thornichinovich, thanks for meeting with us, and I wish it was under different circumstances.” His steady voice rang with genuine concern. “I will not take a lot of your time, as I know you’re as busy as we all are.”
Maxim said nothing and did nothing, but kept his eyes glued to Izhutin’s face.
Izhutin looked at Yezhov, then at the folder, then at Maxim. “It was a difficult decision, but we had no choice. The commission unanimously decided on a written reprimand.”
A brief, tense pause followed.
Maxim held his breath. If this was it, then it wasn’t bad. A reprimand on his file would slow down his career advancement, but he would return to doing what he loved. He might not be receiving promotions or pay raises, but they mattered little compared to the joy Maxim attained from serving his country.
Izhutin said, “Moreover, the commission recommended a demotion from your current position…”
Maxim closed his eyes and tuned out the director. The rest of his words held no meaning. If Maxim lost his job as a transporter, then it didn’t matter much where the agency reassigned him. Yezhov would more than likely uphold the disciplinary action. He had already severely rebuked Maxim about what he had deemed “a serious error in judgment.” Maxim felt the air leave his lungs, as if someone had dealt a heavy blow to his gut.
Izhutin held Maxim’s gaze for a moment, then said, “Do you have any questions, Mr. Thornichinovich?”
Maxim shook his head.
“There is an appeal period of five days from the date of the notice, if you choose to go that route,” Izhutin said.
Maxim nodded. “Are we finished here?”
Izhutin shrugged. “Sure, if you have no questions.” He looked at Yezhov, who shook his head.
Maxim stood up and turned around. Before he had left the conference room, Yezhov called out at him, “Tomorrow morning, we’ll discuss steps forward with regard to your future work assignments.”
Maxim nodded and stepped outside the conference room. He loosened the knot and unbuttoned the first couple of buttons of his shirt. He still couldn’t believe what had just happened and how he had lost everything. He shook his head and cursed Yezhov and Izhutin.
When he reached the elevator, he changed his mind and decided to take the stairs. He ran down the narrow staircase, yearning to leave “The Dead Wing” as soon as he could. When he came to the third floor, he stopped. It didn’t matter. The inquiry’s decision had sucked out his soul.
Maxim made his way to the parking lot and found his battered 2014 Lada. When he was reassigned, he didn’t receive an agency-issued vehicle, so he had to rely on the Lada—or the bus, when the car refused to start during subpolar mornings. Maxim had also lost his office with the window overlooking Lubyanka Square. And he had also lost all hopes that Helena would give him a second glance. Why would she want to go out with a loser?
He stumbled into the driver’s seat and rethought his plan about visiting Sasha. In this mood, I can’t be of any help to him, or myself for that matter. But Maxim had made a promise. I have to go. If I don’t, Sasha will call, and that will be worse. In this way, we can commiserate.
He drove to the Central Clinical Hospital on the west outskirts of Moscow and found Sasha at the Physiotherapy Rehabilitation Clinic. He had just finished an exercise session and was sitting on a bench inside an area that looked like a small gym. It was filled with treadmills, elliptical machines, and all sorts of training equipment. Sasha looked like he had been run over by a train, twice, but he tried to smile when he saw Maxim. “Hello, my friend, how’s life treating you?”
Maxim gave Sasha a tight embrace. “I shouldn’t complain too much. How are you doing?”
Sasha shrugged and wiped some of the sweat from his forehead with a towel placed next to his crutches. “I should get better, and better, but I can’t seem to get used to these stupid things.” He gestured at the crutches, then turned and pointed to the bump on the right side of his head.
“What happened?”
“I slipped and fell. Landed on my face, thankfully, instead of my leg.”
Maxim smiled. “Yes, you were lucky. When can you go home?”
“Eh, they don’t know about that. Between you and me, I don’t think doctors know much. These things are unpredictable, they say.”
“They are.”
“Yes, so all I can do for now is the exercises and hope for the best.” He used one of the crutches to tap against the cast. “The fracture was mid-shaft, so they had to fix it with a long rod, nail, and bolts.”
Maxim nodded. My worries are so small, they can’t even start to compare to his. And he’s in such good spirits.
Sasha said, “It will be a long, painful road to recovery, but I’m hopeful I can start to walk on my own soon. The therapy is working.”
“That’s very good.”
“But enough of me. How’s the inquiry coming along?”
Maxim wondered whether he should tell Sasha about the results of the inquiry. He didn’t want to lie to his best friend, but also didn’t want to wreck his mood. Maxim hesitated for a brief moment and decided to do the right thing. “The inquiry is over—”
“And, what are the results?”
“Not good. Not good at all. They’re holding us, well, mostly me, responsible for what happened—”
“But you, we, we were just doing our job.”
Maxim shook his head. “They don’t see it that way. I got reprimanded, and demoted.”
“What? They can’t do that.”
“They did.”
“Now what? You’ve got to appeal.”
“Do you think that will change anything?”
“It might not, but it will get their attention. You can’t just accept this lying down. You’ve got to make a ruckus.”
“I think I’ve already done a lot of that.”
Sasha gave him a measured glance. “You sound resigned to your fate…”
“I’m tired of fighting, Sasha. This is a lost battle.”
“If you want it to be, Maxim. This could be just the beginning. You’ve got to show them that this isn’t over. They can’t get rid of you that easily.”
Maxim shrugged. “I wish I could believe all that. But I’m all alone. The people I thought were my friends, they don’t even answer my calls. Once I was reassigned, everyone knew I was spiraling down to the bottom, so they avoided me like I was a leper. And now, I’ve hit that bottom.”
Sasha shook his head. “No, this isn’t over. You’ve got me, man. We’ll fight this. We, well, you mostly, have got to hope. That will keep you going.”
Maxim sighed. “At this moment, I don’t know. One part of me tells me to lower my head, and bide my time, wait for a better opportunity. I mean, they haven’t thrown me out. Just a demotion, which is temporary.”
“And what does the other part tell you?”
“To fight like it’s the last thing I do. To find allies and to show Yezhov and all the other lackeys that they can’t blame me for what is their fault. It’s still not clear how we were discovered along the highway, or how the AP operatives knew exactly when Rabinovich was going to land and where.”
“Yes, that’s why you can’t give up, Maxim. Not now, and not ever.”
Maxim sighed. Easier said than done, he thought, but didn’t share it with his friend. Instead, he said, “I will think about it. Now, I have to go back to the office.”
“I share your pai
n.” Sasha tried to climb to his feet.
Maxim stopped him. “Take it easy, easy.”
“I’ve got to get up and get going.”
“Not right away. Sit down and relax. Someone will come to get you.”
“I don’t want someone—”
“But you need them. If you tell me that I need people, you need them too.”
Sasha nodded, but his eyes revealed the truth: He was going to try to get up as soon as Maxim left. So Maxim said, “Promise me you’ll wait here for one of the nurses.”
“They take forever—”
“Promise me, Sasha. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m already hurt.”
“More than you already are. Promise.”
“All right, fine. I’ll wait for the nurse. But, on your way out, remind them I’m still here.”
“I’ll do that.”
“And be strong now. Stay in the fight.”
“Always.”
He exchanged a hug with his friend and left the clinic. At the reception desk, he asked the nurse on duty to send someone to assist one of the patients in the clinic.
Chapter Eleven
FSB Headquarters, Lubyanka Building
Downtown Moscow, Russia
When he returned to the office, Maxim spent the rest of the day working on a plan of action to fight back. He was going to combine the two options he had discussed with Sasha. On the one hand, Maxim was going to accept the demotion and give his best at any assignment he’d receive. He’d give Yezhov and his superiors no reason for complaints or other disciplinary measures against him. While at the same time, Maxim was going to amass as much intelligence as he could against Yezhov. No man was without sin, but Yezhov was an expert at hiding his wrongdoings. Maxim had to outsmart his boss and find anything he could use against him, so that he’d be reinstated to his old position.
And if everything else fails, there’s always compromising material, Maxim thought. He could try to stage a set-up and take pictures or video of Yezhov in a compromising situation. A woman, drugs, unscrupulous people… The possibilities were endless. Yezhov, you’ll curse the day you decided to make me your fall guy.
Immersed in his vengeful plans, Maxim didn’t realize it was evening until he went to the office kitchen for a cup of coffee. He finished reviewing a couple of intelligence reports and drafted up his findings. He glanced at his wristwatch before sending the document to Yezhov. 6:25. Yes, time to end the day.
He walked to his Lada through the dark and the thin haze that had enveloped the parking lot, giving the vehicles and the entire area an eerie feeling. A couple of cars followed behind Maxim as he drove down Novaya Ploshchad, heading south, but he didn’t think much of it. The street always had a lot of traffic, no matter the time of day or night.
However, when he continued on Staraya Ploshchad, one of the cars, a gray Hyundai, passed a few vehicles and drove right behind Maxim. The Hyundai followed Maxim’s Lada as he turned left onto Ulitsa Varvarka. He readjusted the rearview mirror, but did not recognize the face of the driver, the only one in the Hyundai. Maxim glanced over his shoulder, but that didn’t help. Who is he, and what does he want?
Maxim pulled out his pistol and cocked it. He didn’t think this was one of the FSB pranksters trying to settle the score: payback for the embarrassment he had caused them by having them detained by the police. No, the FSB were discreet, slithering like snakes. The man—whoever he was—was too careless. It was very obvious he was following Maxim.
Let’s see what he wants.
When he came to a small roundabout, Maxim slowed down and drove near the sidewalk as if he were going to stop. Then he quickly jerked the wheel and turned the car. The Lada blocked the path of the Hyundai, which came to a screeching halt.
Pistol drawn, Maxim bolted out of the car and ran toward the Hyundai. “Show me your hands! Your hands,” he shouted at the driver.
The man raised his hands. He was in his late thirties, maybe early forties, wearing a black beret and black-rimmed square glasses. He was clean-shaven and didn’t seem a bit alarmed by the gun pointed at his face. If anything, he looked annoyed.
Maxim reached the door and placed the muzzle of the gun against the window glass. “Roll it down,” he shouted at the driver and made a hand gesture.
The driver obeyed the order. When the glass was halfway down, he said in English, “I’m sorry I startled you, Mr. Thorn—”
“You didn’t startle me,” Maxim replied in English, a language he spoke fluently with barely a hint of an accent. “I saw you since you turned onto Staraya. Who are you, and what do you want?”
“Can we talk somewhere private, and without that gun pointed at my face? It’s making me nervous.”
“Not until you tell me who you are…”
The man shrugged. “Stubborn. I like that. My name is Myron King.”
“Who do you work for, Mr. King?”
“I’m a senior policy advisor on cultural matters at the US Embassy.”
Maxim grinned. “Cultural advisor … That means you work for the CIA?”
King shrugged. “If that’s what you want to—”
“No, it’s what you want, CIA man…”
“A few minutes of your time. Brief chat. If you don’t like what I have to say, we part ways…”
“Why shouldn’t I just take you in, have you accused of espionage and trying to recruit an FSB agent?”
“You can do that, of course. And I will say that I was just minding my own business when you came at me. Or that I was lost and was trying to find my way back. Or worse, that you reached out to me, to give me intel about your agency.” King shook his head. “Look, you don’t need all the hassle. You’re already in so much trouble…”
“What do you know about it?”
King waved his hand toward the pistol. “The gun, please.”
Maxim lowered it a couple of inches, but kept it pointed at King’s chest. “What do you know about my situation?”
“I have some information that might be of use. It comes from a friend, and it’s about Director Izhutin from Internal Investigations. You remember him?”
Maxim said nothing, and his face showed no expression.
“Can we go somewhere private?” King tipped his head to the left. An old couple had stopped and were curiously observing the scene unfolding in front of their eyes.
Maxim put the pistol back into his holster. “Follow me to the Church of the Conception, in Zaryadye Park. Do you know where that is?”
King nodded.
Maxim said, “Park as far away as you can from me, then meet me at one of the benches behind the church.”
“Got it.” King rolled up the window.
Maxim returned to his car and drove along Smolyanskiy Proyzed. He thought about what had just happened and what King was doing. Is King really a CIA agent? What am I doing even meeting with this guy? He had heard stories and had read about cases of disgruntled FSB agents lured by the CIA and other foreign intelligence services. These agencies promised money, assistance, and safety abroad for the recruits and their families. Instead, most of the time, the traitors got a bullet to the back of their head, dragging their family’s name through shame and disgrace. Am I going to become a traitor, like all those people I despise? Maxim shook his head. Never. I’ll have to report this encounter, although Yezhov might draw the wrong conclusions…
He was still curious to know about Izhutin. What information would the CIA man have? And who is this friend? Maxim sighed. So many questions were rattling through his mind.
He parked along Kitaygorodsky Proyezd and walked toward the edge of the Moskva River. The haze was stretching across the waters and the city’s skyline glowed unnervingly behind a blurred curtain of mist. Maxim turned around and glanced at King, who was walking toward the white-walled church. He stopped when he came to the nearest bench at the back and sat there.
Maxim studied the narrow pathways zigzagging around the church, the nea
rest street, and the area. He didn’t notice anyone observing the benches, and there was no one else in the park. The area was dark, without any streetlights in the vicinity. It would make it difficult for anyone to take pictures or record their meeting. But King might have a recording device on him…
When Maxim came to King, the FSB agent said, “Stand up.”
“Why?”
“Just get up. Hands up.”
King did as he was told, while Maxim gave him a thorough pat-down. King had no weapon, but Maxim retrieved two phones and his wallet. He rummaged through it and found King’s driver’s license, and other identification documents. He seemed to be who he said he was, but documents could be forged, especially by CIA agents.
Maxim turned the phones off, then handed everything back to King. “You have five minutes,” Maxim said as he sat next to King.
“It will be enough. Like I said, I have information for you about Izhutin.”
“What kind of information?”
“You’ll have to see it for yourself.”
“Just tell me…”
“I don’t know. I can venture a guess that it’s some damning intel to give you some leverage. But I haven’t seen the file. I’m sent to simply deliver it.”
“Sent by that friend … Who is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Maxim gave King a look of suspicion. “What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?”
King shook his head. “I have no idea who the friend is. My boss dispatched me to follow you and hand you the information.”
“Your boss? Who is he?”
King smiled, and his row of bright white teeth shone against the dark. “The cultural counselor, of course.”
“No, your CIA boss.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” King grinned.
Maxim decided not to push. “How did your boss—whoever that is—get this information?”
“No idea. Look, my job here is very simple. Deliver the package, just like you do...” He grinned again.
“All right. Where is the package?”
“My pocket.” King reached slowly inside his front jacket pocket and retrieved a business card. It had only a series of numbers. He held it up for Maxim to see and said, “Memorize the number.”
