by Noel Hynd
“Would you like a gun when you’re in Ukraine?”
“Why would someone from Commerce be carrying a gun?” she asked.
“Because it’s Ukraine,” he answered. “Don’t ask logical questions about an illogical place.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Have it your way,” he said. “If you want one when you get there, talk to Richard Friedman. He’s with the State Department there. He’ll also be meeting you at the airplane. He’ll know you as Anna, by the way. Don’t confuse anyone with the truth. The truth never does anyone any good for trips like this. Truth is confusing.”
“I know.”
He paused. “I’m told that you’ve been putting in your time at the firing range. Good scores too, from what I’ve seen.”
“Are you watching everything I do?”
“Just enough. You should be happy that we keep an eye on you. Think of us as guardian angels, all right? Anyway, congratulations on the good shooting. It’s a shame to have a fine skill and not use it. Are you sure you don’t want a gun in Ukraine? We can get you a Glock.”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“Okay. Any more questions for now?”
She looked at everything that had been given to her.
“No,” she said.
“Good.”
“Why? You got something more for me?” she asked.
“Don’t I always?”
“Then let’s have it,” she said.
“Ever heard of a man named Georgiy Gongadze?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Someone else I’m going to meet?”
“Not if you’re lucky,” he said. “Gongadze was a Ukrainian journalist. In April 2000, he founded a news website, Ukrayinska Pravda. Ukrainian Truth, it meant, but unlike the old Soviet-style Pravda it really was the truth. The website specialized in political news and commentary, focusing particularly on President Kuchma, the country’s wealthy ‘oligarchs,’ and the official media.”
“Sounds like he went looking for trouble,” she said.
“He did. And in a place like Ukraine, trouble isn’t hard to find.”
In June 2000, Cerny continued, Gongadze complained that he had been forced into hiding because of harassment from the secret police. He said he and his family were being followed, that his staff were being harassed, and that the SBU, the successor of the KGB, was spreading a rumor that he was wanted on a murder charge.
“Gongadze disappeared in September of 2000,” Cerny said. “Opposition politicians reported that the disappearance had coincided with Gongadze receiving documents on corruption within the president’s own entourage. The Ukrainian parliament set up an inquiry run by a special commission. Neither investigation produced any results.
“Two months later,” Cerny continued, “a body was found in a forest in the Taraschanskyi Raion district, forty miles outside Kiev. The corpse had been decapitated and doused in acid to make identification more difficult.”
Alex cringed. She could never get over man’s limitless cruelty. “The corpse was Gongadze, I assume,” she said.
“Oh, yes,” Cerny said. “A group of journalists identified the remains. His wife confirmed the same a few weeks later. But the government didn’t officially acknowledge that the body was that of Gon-gadze until the following February and did not definitively confirm it until as late as March 2003.
“The affair became an international crisis for the Ukrainian government during 2001. There were rumors of Ukrainian suspension from the Council of Europe. Mass demonstrations erupted in Kiev. The protests were forcibly broken up by the police.
“In May 2001, Interior Minister Yuri Smirnov announced that the murder had been solved. Conveniently, both of the alleged killers were now dead. The claim was so outrageous that it was dismissed by the government’s own prosecutor-general. Mass protests again broke out in Kiev and other Ukrainian cities in September 2002 to mark the second anniversary of Gongadze’s death. The demonstrators again called for Kuchma’s resignation, but the protests again failed to achieve their goal, with police breaking up the protesters’ camp.
“The prosecutor of the Tarascha district, where Gongadze’s body was found, was convicted in May 2003 for abuse of office and falsification of evidence,” Cerny said. “He was found guilty of forging documents and negligence in the investigation and was sentenced to two-and-a-half years in prison. However, he was immediately released due to a provision of Ukraine’s amnesty laws.
“In June 2004, the government claimed that a gangster identified only as ‘K’ had confessed to Gongadze’s murder, although there was no independent confirmation of the claim. Then a key witness died of spinal injuries sustained while in police custody.
“Gongadze’s death became a major issue in the 2004 Ukrainian presidential election,” said Cerny. “The opposition candidate, Viktor Yushchenko, pledged to solve the case if he became president. Yushchenko did become president following the subsequent Orange Revolution and immediately launched a new investigation.”
“Are you trying to scare me off this trip?” Alex asked.
“Not at all. I’m reminding you what you’re getting into. Ukraine is a dangerous, wide-open place. Exciting and endlessly interesting, but dangerous and wide open. ‘Frontier,’ remember?”
“Well, at least they’re paying lip service to democracy,” she said.
“Ukraine’s a plutocracy. No matter which side is in power, many things continue the same way they’ve gone on since before the time of the Cossacks. The corruption, the gangsterism never changes.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said.
He paused for a second. “I skipped one detail,” he said.
She waited.
“The Ukrainian underworld plays very dirty and they play for keeps. The acid bath and the decapitation that Gongadze received?”Cerny said. “They did it to him while he was still alive.”
She let it sink in for a moment, then, “If you want me to participate in a CIA operation,” she asked, “why didn’t you just tell me that? And why don’t you tell me what you really want to know about Yuri Federov instead of putting me through all this crap?”
“Everything will make sense eventually,” he said. “Any scrap of information you get out of him could prove very useful, particularly on the range of his businesses and foreign trade partners. And if everything goes well, you’ll never see me again afterward.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you disappeared right now for the rest of this evening,” she said. It was almost 6:00 p.m. She was beat.
“I’m about to,” he answered.
“You mean I can go home now?”
He laughed. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “The night is young.”
He stood and went to the door. He knocked.
A moment later, Olga entered with all the delicacy of a Panzer division. She had a one-liter bottle of Classic Coke in one hand and a large bag of pork rinds in the other, ready to continue well into the evening.
“Now,” Olga said. “You tell me personal stuff. Why you go to Ukraine. Who you are. Personal stuff. In Ukrainian, hey?”
“In Ukrainian?”
“Yes,” Olga said, sitting back. “Pork rind?” she offered. “They very good.”
Alex sighed and began.
TWENTY-ONE
O n the first day of February, four evenings before her departure, Alex opted to go to the gym. She fell into her usual game of pick-up basketball. Robert went to the same gym to lift weights. As was his habit, as he cooled down, he watched Alex’s game.
Alex was the playmaker for her team, the point guard who handled the ball and set the tone. He liked to watch her compete, her body strong but feminine, quick and agile, with solid strategy behind each move.
This evening, the other team had added yet another new player, a young man with a University of Kentucky T-shirt. He had been a varsity reserve forward for a successful team in the SEC. The new kid was very good. The game
was a struggle. Alex’s team kept fighting from behind. Ben and the Kentucky kid constantly battling under the hoop. Alex’s team stayed within three or four points the whole time.
With thirty seconds to go, Alex had scored a dozen points. Ben had twenty-six. But their team remained down by three. Alex sank a short jump shot with twelve seconds to go on the clock. Then, as the other side prepared to kill the clock, Alex faked going back down court, turned quickly and cut directly in front of the new player, figuring the in-bounds pass would be to him.
She had a clear shot from the outside, about ten feet from the basket, but she threw Ben a laserlike eye-high pass. Ben followed with a short jump shot, getting as high as he could on his one good leg, over the reach of the off-balance backpedaling Kentucky kid. Their team had its first lead of the night, 34-33. Three seconds later the opponents threw up a desperation shot that went off the offensive backboard, as time ran out.
The winning players mobbed each other in celebration. Ben, with big powerful arms, looked to Alex who had stolen the ball and fed him the great pass. He hoisted Alex up in jubilation, hugged her tightly, bussed her cheek, and swung her around before setting her down again and passing along hugs to other hot sweaty survivors of the game: Laura, Fred, Juan.
When Alex met Robert a few minutes later, he seemed distant. When they met in the gym’s lobby after showers, she asked what was bothering him and he explained.
“I didn’t care much for the way that big guy with the missing leg picked you up and swung you around,” he said.
“Who? Ben?”
“If that’s his name.”
“That’s his name, and he doesn’t have a missing leg. He has a prosthesis.”
“You know what I mean.”
There was silence as they walked out of the gym to their cars.
At first she was miffed. Then she tried to explain it away.
“It wasn’t anything,” Alex said to him. “Ben is an Iraq war vet and he’s just getting his head straight again. He didn’t mean anything by it. After what he went through in that insane war, I’m happy to have him as a teammate. I’m happy to see he can still play basketball.”
“I just didn’t like it,” Robert repeated. “Him grabbing you like that. He doesn’t own you.”
“Do you?”
“That’s not my point.”
They stopped just outside the door. The night was sharply cold, but dry.
“Then what is your point? Jealousy?” she asked. “Be honest.”
“Maybe. Yes.”
She thought about it. As was their habit, even if she didn’t agree with him, she wanted to see his side of things. His feelings.
“All right,” she said. “Look, when I see Ben next, I’ll tell him that my fiance saw the touchy stuff and didn’t like it.”
“Why don’t you tell him that you didn’t like it, either?”
She felt herself start to grow angry again, one of the first times there had ever been any contention between them.
“The truth is,” she said, “I didn’t mind. I didn’t think anything of it. Laura Chapman was in the game too. She hugged me afterwards too, and Ben hugged her and Laura has a boyfriend, too. It’s not like Laura and I are taking showers together with Ben handing us the soap.”
“It’s okay if Laura gives you a hug. It’s not okay if a guy does it.”
“You’re being crazy.” She turned and walked toward her car.
“I’m telling you about something that bothers me,” he said, following. “I would think that would be important to you.”
She thought about it. They arrived at her car. Now she just wanted to defuse the issue.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “When I see Ben I’ll tell him you didn’t like what you saw, and I didn’t like it either, and he should never do it again.”
“Thank you. You tell him that.”
“I promise,” she said. A pause. “Okay?”
A longer pause. “Okay,” he finally said.
He kissed her good night. They left separately.
The next morning her cell phone rang on the way to work. She was driving on Connecticut Avenue, a few blocks from Treasury.
She looked at the phone’s screen and recognized Robert’s number. She answered.
“Hello,” he said. “Me.”
“Hello, you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You don’t have to say anything to Ben.”
“I don’t mind,” she said as she drove. “I’ll do it if you want me to.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t want you to. It’s okay. It’s done. It never happened.”
“If you say so,” she said.
She was pulling into Treasury parking, normally only available to the most senior employees, but Cerny had arranged a spot for her. She showed her government pass. It opened the gate. A guard waved her through.
“I say so,” he said. “I’m fine with everything. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
“Let’s go to the Athenian tonight, okay?”
“Looking forward to it,” she answered.
Her fiance could get a little testy, a bit territorial, a bit overprotective at times. She already knew that. But sound reason would always prevail. There was never any reason for him to get jealous. But what stayed with her was an underlying subtext. In his eyes, in his spirit, he seemed to have a premonition of some sort. A sense of danger. Maybe of potential loss. Or maybe he sensed something imperfect that was in the air and yet to come.
The worst part about it was that she shared the same feeling. There was somewhere hanging out there the notion that a third party could somehow do something that could come between them, separate them, take that perfect partner away from the other. It was a horrible sensation. But was it really there? Or were their worst fears just wandering around like sprits or phantoms, looking to settle somewhere?
TWENTY-TWO
O n her final day before departure, Alex had lunch with her boss, Mike. He wished her well and expressed the fear that she might be permanently assigned outside his department. She reassured him that if that were the case, she had heard nothing about it. Nor was she inclined to stay with this sort of assignment. She was anxious to do a one-time-only job and return to what passed for a normal life.
In the afternoon there was a final torturous Ukrainian lesson from the baroness. Then in the late afternoon, a final briefing from Michael Cerny on Ukrainian politics. “There’s been tyranny, criminal behavior, and instability for a thousand years. Probably more. No point to expect much different now,” he said.
“Thanks for the cheerful worldview,” she said.
“I’m a realist, so don’t mention it,” Cerny answered. “I’ll try to say hello before you leave tomorrow. If I miss you, don’t worry about it.”
She left the office at 6:00 p.m. and went to the gym, partly out of habit, partly because exercise released tension.
She showered, went home, and changed into some casual clothes. Robert picked her up at 9:00 p.m.
They went out to a nice place for dinner, a French place they liked in the Adams Morgan neighborhood, just a fifteen-minute walk across the Duke Ellington Bridge that spanned Rock Creek Park. La Fourchette on the Eighteenth Street Strip. Great food, but not at all formal, with a genuine French woman keeping an eagle eye on guest satisfaction.
Robert was irritated by a reassignment within the White House. His duties hadn’t changed but his partner had. The Service had brought in a ballistics expert named Reynolds Martin to accompany the president on the impending trip and join the small army of assigned agents. Robert was assigned to partner with Martin, whose behind-the-back nickname was “Jimmy Neutron.”
“The boy genius,” Robert said, as he glanced at the menu. “Or at least he thinks he is.”
Alex managed to laugh.
“Anyway, after the trip, he’s back to the Denver office, so I don’t have to deal with him for too long.”
“Single guy?” she asked.
“Family. He’s got a wife in Colorado Springs and a girl. Tina. Age eight.”
“Jimmy Neutron,” she said. “That’s funny. I like that.”
They both laughed. “To tell you the truth, he doesn’t seem like a bad guy to me. Other people have had their issues though. Here,” he said, picking up the wine list and handing it to her. “You read French and you know what I like. Pick something out.”
She picked out a Cotes du Rhone, four years old, and ordered a couple of steaks. Why not? They had a great dinner and got gently buzzed.
After dinner, they went back to his place for a dessert and some coffee.
He had a small gift for her.
He had visited one of the better-known jewelers in Washington, an extension of a big New York store. He had picked out an inauspicious but pretty bracelet for her; a strand of rolled silver threaded with gold. It came in the store’s normal blue box with a white ribbon.
She opened the box and immediately let him place it on her wrist.
“Just one more thing for me to remove on our wedding night,” he teased her. They laughed together and embraced.
“Wear it in Ukraine,” he said. “When I see you in Kiev I’m going to look for it.”
“It’s a promise,” she said.
“You also have to promise to return safely,” he said. “I don’t like the fact that you’ll be there for three days on your own.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“I don’t like Cerny either,” he said.
She was startled. “I thought he was your friend,” she said.
“No. I only know him. Met him twice. I don’t have anything against him, but he’s an acquaintance, not a friend.”
“Did you ever have a chance to-?”
“Oh, yeah I ran their names against the personnel computers,” he said. “I didn’t find anything that I didn’t already know.”
She asked directly. “Is he CIA or not? And that battle-ax who works with him. Countess von Olga. What about her?”
“No entries on her,” he said. “If he’s CIA, he’s at a high enough level so that my own access to it is blocked. I can’t find anything further than that. But that doesn’t address the ‘blue card-green card’ situation,” he said.
