Red Sky

by Chris Goff

  She purchased the last first-class ticket and found she was sharing the sleeping wagon with an elderly woman who snored. Jordan climbed into the top bunk and now lay in the dark, letting her mind churn over the details of the past week. With the rhythm of the wheels on the track lulling her toward sleep, she found herself grasping for the thread she knew still dangled somewhere out there.

  One of the first things she’d done after leaving the lab was to call her RSO in Tel Aviv. Daugherty confirmed that she could take a few days. She considered calling Davis to confront him but figured his response would never blunt the edge of his betrayal. It was better to walk away.

  In L’viv, she disembarked with her overnight bag and headed straight for the Hotel Leopolis. After unpacking, she pulled on a loose cotton shirt to cover her shoulder holster and gun and headed out to get something to eat.

  The contrast between Kyiv and L’viv was like the difference between sunset and dawn. In Kyiv, a shroud had fallen over the city. The people were edgy, worried about the war, and stressed for money. She’d been told L’viv was called “the little Paris of Ukraine,” the lover’s city, and the number of wedding parties and brides hurrying along the streets lent a festive atmosphere. Here the people seemed carefree, happy, and the mood was contagious. The aromas of chocolate and coffee prompted her to stop at a small café. Sipping the dark roast and munching on a bowl of buckwheat groats and kovbasa, she felt the knot in her stomach relax for the first time in days.

  Jordan had made an appointment to meet Professor Fedorov at 2:00 PM. He lived in the Jewish quarter, an older section of town. Here, the buildings were painted in shades of yellow and tan, with cobblestone streets in need of repair. The driver seemed genuinely alarmed to be dropping her off here. She assured him she would be fine.

  Professor Fedorov lived in a second-floor walk-up. A stooped man in his seventies, he had a shock of white hair and piercing eyes from which nothing could hide. He ushered her in to a large sitting room off the entryway filled with books on built-in bookshelves along every wall. In the middle of the room, two chairs sat on a rug flanking a small round table where a pot of tea graced a tray along with two cups and saucers, a creamer, and a small bowl of sugar cubes.

  “May I offer you some tea?” he said in English, gesturing to the spread. “My wife is making rugelach. You know this?”

  A Jewish pastry filled with chocolate, cinnamon, or fruit preserves. Jordan’s grandmother had made it. “Of course. Thank you.”

  Jordan found herself happy to fuss with her tea. She didn’t really know what to say to this man, though she had more questions than she had time to ask.

  “You look like your father,” he said.

  She glanced up, surprised. “Most people tell me I look like my mother.”

  Fedorov tapped his spoon on the rim of his cup and shrugged. “She was beautiful, but you have your father’s eyes. As Jesus said, the eye is the lamp of the body. Translated, the eyes are the windows to the soul.”

  As a Jew, his pull from the Bible caught her off guard. “You know the New Testament?”

  “I am an educated man.”

  She rested her own spoon in the saucer. “What can you tell me about my father?”

  “What is it you want to know?”

  Jordan swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat. “Alena Petrenko said he was Jew, a teacher who later became a Russian spy.”

  “If it were only that simple.” Fedorov sipped his tea and looked up when a woman about his age came in with a small plate of pastries. He introduced her to Jordan and waited for her to leave before he continued. “Olek Ivanova was one of the most gifted men I ever knew. He had the power to heal and the power to know what was in a man’s mind. It was that power that brought the attention of Ilya Kravchenko.”

  Dyadya Ilya? “I’ve never heard the name Kravchenko.” An image of the man she knew as Ilya Brodsky flashed in her mind.

  Fedorov offered a sad smile. “Yes, I believe you called him dyadya. He was a Russian KGB agent, a major general in the army. He resided over the PSI program. You know of it?”

  Jordan nodded. The program he referred to was Russia’s “psychic faculty” program. Started back in the 1920s, the studies were quickly banned by Stalin. Then in the 1950s, the taboo was lifted, and the KGB got involved. It was hard for her to believe anyone took it seriously. But spurred on by Cold War articles alluding to the U.S. Navy’s telepathic tests on atomic submarines, the Soviets launched a full-scale scientific exploration into the weapons potential of psychic energy. Terrified by reports that the Soviets were developing a psychotronic-warfare platform, the United States countered by creating its own, Star Gate. The difference in scope was substantial. The U.S. program was small and met with lots of skepticism. But the Soviets had gone with the adage go big or go home.

  The knot in her stomach that she’d lost at lunch had returned. “It was a spy program specializing in remote viewing.”

  “Among other things.” Fedorov picked up a rugelach and pointed to the plate for her to help herself. “Back then a person didn’t have a choice in matters of state. Your father was selected by the major general to participate. Ironic considering his mother was Jewish.”

  Jordan snapped her head up.

  “You didn’t know.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “You must be mistaken,” she said. Knowing what she did about the area, she found it hard to believe. During World War II, the Jews living in L’viv were murdered and the Poles forced out by Stalin, leaving only the Ukrainian nationalists here. Her father had been born here after the war.

  He smiled sadly. “I’m sorry I was the one to tell you. Your grandmother chose to hide it. Your father only learned of it the year before he died.”

  “My mother knew?” If so, why had she never been told?

  “Don’t be too quick to judge decisions made in the past. People do the best they can. Sometimes their choices are misguided, but seldom are they made with malice.” He reached over and patted her hand. “Anyway, your father grew up a Soviet, and as such, he did what he was ordered to do. They sent him to college, where he worked for me to make extra money, and he played hockey.”

  Her mouth felt dry. She sipped her tea and shoved aside thoughts of her hidden heritage. There would be time to explore those later. Now was the opportunity for her to gather details of her father’s past. “How did he meet Ilya?”

  “As I said, your father was a man of many talents. Some of which I think you share.”

  “What talents?”

  “For one, he could read anybody. He had an inner voice that spoke to him. It was usually right, and he learned to listen well. For another, he had a knack for protecting the goal. They sent him to play for the Soviet hockey team. His athletic prowess along with his subsequent marriage to your mother afforded him access to the international community, and his psychic abilities made him an invaluable asset. Then shortly before your mother became pregnant with your brother, something changed. Your father grew angry, more distant. He claimed his inner voice had lost some of its luster. Then after your brother was born, your father started speaking of emigrating to America. The reins of the Communist Party were loosening, and your mother wanted to go home.”

  “Because she didn’t like it here?” The question popped out. Her mother had rarely spoken of Russia, or her father, for that matter.

  “I think she didn’t like the direction things were going in her marriage. Over the years, Ilya had showered her with unwanted attention, and Olek had grown more distant. She had told your father how unhappy it made her, but he told her she was reading too much into the situation. By going home, she would kill two hares with one shot, removing Ilya from their lives and perhaps rekindling her marriage. But Ilya wasn’t about to let your father go.”

  Here was the moment of truth. The information she’d been seeking. “Are you saying he killed my father?”

  “More likely, had him killed.” Fedorov looked down at his cu
p. “Rumor was Ilya Kravchenko asked your mother to stay after your father was buried. She was gone in less than a month.”

  “But why murder him?”

  Fedorov set down his cup. “One must presume to protect the secret.”

  Jordan frowned. “What secret?”

  “After World War II, the Soviets had constructed a massive research facility in Siberia.”

  Jordan had read about the facility. Known as “Science City,” it was made up of approximately forty scientific centers and housed tens of thousands of scientists.

  “The PSI program operated there, out of the Center of Automation and Electrometry, Special Department Number Eight. It was an exciting time. As many as sixty scientists working to uncover the secrets of PSI particles, the elusive elements thought to be essential to psychic techniques, such as biocommunications and bioenergy.”

  Fedorov sipped his tea. “But when Ilya was promoted to major general, he had other ideas. He formed a splinter group, hand-picking a few of the greatest scientists and researchers to work out of the Basmanny District in Moscow. It was a small bunch but well-connected. They called themselves the Futuristy, the Futurists.”

  “How do you know all this?” Jordan asked, reaching for a rugelach heavily laced with cinnamon. Maybe it would settle her stomach.

  “I learned it from Olek. He came to me. He felt things were progressing out of hand. He refused to elaborate, perhaps fearing for my safety. All he would say is the Futuristy had very big plans, global plans. He was meeting with the U.S. ambassador that night to discuss his defection to America, but he never made it to the embassy.”

  They sat in silence, Jordan holding the untouched rugelach between her fingers. After a few moments, Professor Fedorov pushed himself out of his chair.

  “You know, I have a book that you might find interesting. It lists many of the names of the international scientists recruited to come to the Soviet Union. Your grandfather was one of those men.” He walked to the bookcase and searched the spines of the books. “It was a Soviet operation following World War II, one very similar to your U.S. Operation Paperclip, called Operation Osoaviakhim.”

  Jordan watched him struggle to see on the top shelf. “Can I help you find it?”

  “No, it’s here somewhere. The book was written by a member of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, the NKVD. It tells how The NKVD and the Soviet Army units recruited more than two thousand specialists for employment following the fighting.”

  “How did they even get that many people to come out of the West?”

  “That was the easy part. Many of the men, like your grandfather, had ties to the Soviet Union. His family and your grandmother’s family were from Ukraine. They wanted to come. No, it was crossing the borders with the specialized equipment they needed to do their jobs that presented the biggest challenge. The Soviets had to specially modify ninety-two train cars with secret compartments in order to accommodate the families and all their belongings.”

  Jordan tried to imagine her grandma and grandpa packed onto the trains. Then when his words finally sank in, she surged into action. Jumping to her feet, she bumped the table, causing the cups and saucers to rattle. “Professor Fedorov, I have to go.”

  “But you haven’t eaten your pastry.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, setting the rugelach down. “You’ve been a huge help. I really do appreciate the time you’ve taken, and the insights into my father and my family.” She walked over and shook the man’s hand. “I hope you’ll have me back sometime, but right now there’s something I have to do.”

  “Please, take this with you.” He pressed a thin leather-bound volume into her hands. “If you like, you can bring it back next time you come for a visit.”

  “I will.” She smiled, then clutching the small book moved swiftly for the door. She waved as she made her exit, and then midway down the stairs, she started to run. She needed to call Lory. She knew how the Russians were moving the gun.

  Chapter 32

  Jordan caught up to Lory when he was on his way out the door to play golf.

  “I thought I told you to leave it alone,” he said.

  “I did. I came to L’viv to take some time off and research my family connections. That’s how I learned about Operation Osoaviakhim. It doesn’t hurt us to check it out. What if the Russians are using one from their own playbook?”

  “I hear your concerns. Believe me, the Ukrainians haven’t concluded their investigation yet. Until they do, all we can do is monitor the situation. The belief is that the Russians have pulled back behind the lines into separatist territory. If we uncover actionable intel or perceive an imminent threat, we’ll take action. Until then, we can do nothing but wait.”

  “Is there a chance we missed something in the police report regarding the contact outside of Shyshaky?”

  “Hold on, let me pull up a copy.” She heard Lory typing and then mumbling, spitting out an occasional word. “Okay, it says here the vehicles split up near Yares’ky. The reporting officer followed the last vehicle when it headed south. Several officers converged on the other two from the west. Then the vehicles vanished.”

  “What’s in Yares’ky?”

  “Not much. It’s a very small village with a grain silo or two.”

  “And a train yard?”

  “The officers claim to have searched the area and concluded they’d turned around.”

  Jordan drew a deep breath. Her gut was telling her they were wrong. “Is there any reason I can’t revisit the satellite images on my own?”

  “We’ve gone over them ad nauseam.”

  “Maybe, but did you look at the train?” She heard Lory sigh.

  “You really are a pain in the ass.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Look, if it’ll get you off my back, I’ll forward you copies of the satellite images.”

  “And maybe some that are current.”

  “There’s a limit to what I can pull. We’re keeping most of our eyes on the Middle East. To achieve complete coverage in other areas, we have to rely on other countries to share their images. Obviously, in this case, we have to be cautious about asking.” He cut away, speaking to someone behind him. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something. Meanwhile, will you do me a favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Try to enjoy your vacation.”

  He wasn’t giving her much choice. It was late Sunday afternoon, and without the satellite photos, all she had was speculation.

  When her phone rang a few minutes later, she reacted quickly, only to be disappointed. She’d hoped it was Lory calling back. Instead the number showing belonged to Davis.

  Dumping the call, Jordan hailed a cab and told the driver to drop her at the gates of the Lychakiv Cemetery, officially a state history and culture preserve. She hadn’t been there since she was six years old.

  The main gate looked like she remembered—a neo-Gothic, grand, white triple-arch with a wrought iron gate. Inside, the mausoleums, statuary, and ornate grave markers stood as a testament to those who were buried there. Among them were some of Ukraine’s most famous writers, artists, scientists, and community leaders. There were also Austrians, Poles, Armenians, and Russians. There were fields of soldiers who had died in battle. And there was her father.

  If what Professor Fedorov had told her was true, her family didn’t belong here. Lychakiv was for Christians only. The Jews had their own burial grounds at Yanivs’ke Cemetery.

  Jordan needed a map to find the graves. They were interred in an older section of the cemetery where the foliage grew thick and the birch trees tall. The wind rustled the leaves overhead, diffusing the sounds of the crowds. She liked the peacefulness.

  She found her grandparents’ simple markers first and stood staring down for a moment, trying to remember. The last she saw of them was when she left Russia, and her memory was dim. Near to them, her father’s grave looked almost gauche. The marker wa
s a towering sculpture of a winged Adonis, his head resting against a granite slab that bore the name Olek Ivanova. Tears flooded her eyes at memories of her dad, and she found herself sniffling.

  “Here.” It was Davis’s voice. He held out a tissue.

  She was surprised to see him. What was he doing there? Instead of asking, she took the tissue and said nothing.

  “Look, I’m sorry.” He touched her back, a gesture she would have appreciated a few days ago. Now his touch scalded, and she moved away.

  “Why are you here?” It didn’t escape her that this was a question she’d asked him before.

  “I get it. You’re angry. I should have warned you about the broadcast. I thought Lory would have told you.”

  “Told me what? Are you saying he knew?”

  “I just assumed. When I got back to Guangzhou, the PO asked me to go live with the piece on Eddie. I was happy to oblige. I’m a staff reporter, and Reuters doesn’t pay me to sit on a story. Besides, Claire Vance of the BBC was about to go live with a report on Kia Zhen, and it gave me a chance to scoop her.”

  Jordan dabbed at her eyes with the tissue and wiped her nose. “Claire Vance. Is she the leggy blonde who’s always reporting from exotic locales?”

  “Yes.”

  She clutched the tissue in her hands, hating her display of weakness, particularly at this moment. “You broke your promise.”

  “At the request of my government. Claire was all set to bring up the espionage charges and speculate about a weapons deal. I’m not sure where she was getting her information, but she had more right than wrong.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve got good sources. If it’s any consolation, besting her wasn’t as much fun as I thought it would be, especially when you refused to answer my calls.” He stepped closer, and she caught the familiar scent of mint. “Jordan, you have to believe me.”