Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

“Are you from around here,” Vasiliy asked carefully.

Mihailo shrugged.

Vasiliy continued speaking with such vehemence that Mihailo feared he would lose control of the car. “What else can we do? Himself ordered this, understand? A direct order from the Kremlin. And he’s right. It’s unacceptable that Kiev’s fascists retake the city. During the Great Patriotic War they permitted the Germans to occupy Kiev, and what happened? The khokly and Banderites loved working for the occupiers so much that even after all these years they are returning to Nazism. All these concentration camps, genocide, torchlight parades with portraits of Bandera, all of it… If it comes to it, it’s better to destroy the city than surrender it… There would be nothing to it. This fascist plague should be burnt to the roots. At any cost!” Vasiliy finished, and turned the wheel so hard that the car nearly careened off the pockmarked road.

Mihailo didn’t reply. This wasn’t his first experience with fanatics reciting Russian propaganda. Still, every time it happened the words shook his soul. What concentration camps? What genocide? This was all lies from the first to the last word. And thanks to these lies a bunch of dimwitted fanatics wanted to erase a city from the face of the earth. It was impossible to come to terms with this.

“Are you sure all that is true? That they’ve already laid the mines?” he asked, hoping for a negative response.

“I’m sure,” growled Vasiliy. I planted the explosives myself.”

Maybe his trip to Kharkov and the meeting with the battalion command should be postponed. He couldn’t leave Gorlovka without discovering the precise locations of the explosives.

Moscow, Russia

“Like I said, this is all I have.” Vitaliy Tolmachev repeated himself in a dry voice. “Just the recording of the conversation with Tretyakov that your father copied onto the editorial computer. I don’t know who he met with before his death.”

“But you said it was the man who wrote the report on what was in the sacks they found in Ryazan. According to my father, the report was prepared by the research center at the Headquarters for Civil Defense and Emergency Situations of Ryazan Oblast. Someone has to know who wrote it.”

Vlad wasn’t backing down from the chief editor of his father’s newspaper. He had to follow the Sergey’s trail.

“There’s no way you’ll find it. The report was classified, and the names of the authors will never be made public. No one will give you this information. It was fifteen years ago, and most of those people are by now retired and long gone. Whoever it is you’re looking for must have moved to Moscow. This is a big city, and you have no idea where he might be.”

“My father was returning from somewhere in Yasenevo.”

“What of it? You’re still looking for a nameless person.”

“Wait a minute,” said Vlad, “Did you listen to the recording of father’s conversation with Tretyakov? If he named this second witness it must be in the recording.”

“Listen to me,” said Tolmachev. “I already said I’d give you the recording, and you can do with it whatever you like. But don’t count on us for help. With due respect to your father, don’t come here again. It’ll be better for you and for us.”

“But I hoped that if I can find the rest of the evidence, we would still publish the material. He died for this.” Vlad was almost shouting. “We have to at least finish what he was working on so that his death wasn’t in vain!”

“You’re such an idealist.” Tolmachev heaved a sigh. “Vlad, my boy, we can’t print this stuff. Do you want to know the truth? Good. We got a call from a very influential organization that told us that under no circumstances may we write anything on this subject. Otherwise… well, you can guess. Otherwise, we’ll end up like your father. I have a family.” He had the grace to hang his head before saying, “I understand that you have a family, too, but… Everyone chooses his own poison, my boy. I have no right to demand this of others.”

The editor was right. After all that had happened, he could demand nothing from these people.

“But if the material is published there would be no reason to kill anyone.” This was his last hope. “Their goal is to prevent publication. If we tell the readers everything we know we would no longer represent a danger.”

Tolmachev greeted this with a short, bitter laugh. “And you don’t think they would put an end to us out of spite? You don’t understand the kind of people your father tangled with. And you don’t seem to understand what it is to be a journalist in Russia — if you’re talking about real, honest journalism.”

“Then why do you even try if all you can do is compromise. Just for the money?”

“No,” Tolmachev was not in the least insulted. “Money is a problem for us, yes, but I persist so that I can provide the people with just a small piece of the truth, a tiny bit. And in order to do this, you’re right — we make compromises. So take your recording if you want it so badly, but take my advice, too — it’s not worth your life. They’re much more powerful than we, and you’ll never get the better of them.”

In the depths of his soul he understood the truth of Tomachev’s words. But he could not give up, not just for the sake of his father, but for his own self-respect. It was time for perseverance. He could not hesitate, not even for a moment, or he would have no meaning, and would be alone with the horror of his loss and the bitter realization that death had triumphed.

He feared despair and emptiness even more than death. The investigation gave his life some meaning, a way to resist, even if he was alone.

Arriving home to an apartment even emptier than his soul, Vlad went to his computer to listen to the conversation that had cost his father’s life. An unfamiliar voice filled the room, cold and cynical, speaking of how the murder of hundreds of people had been prepared, as usual, carefully and professionally. When Tretyakov came to the moment when an alert resident discovered the sacks of explosive in the basement, his voice even now betrayed irritation.

Evidently, Sergey Illarionov noticed this, as well, and asked sharply, “And who was in charge of this operation in Moscow? What is his name?”

“Gleb Solntsev.”

The words crackled in the air, dry and hot, as if they would scorch Tretyakov’s lungs.

This is how hatred enters the world: the heart pounds against the ribs as though trying to escape while blood hot as lava surges through every capillary and permeates vessels. This name, pronounced clearly in a stranger’s voice was the essence of universal evil — if one excluded the main evil-doer, the one behind Solntsev without whose direct order neither the innocent residents of Moscow apartments nor Vlad’s father would have perished. The murderer was the person who ran the country — a hardened and bloodless killer.

Vlad listened to the end of the recording with the alertness of a hunter, and he finally came to what he had been waiting for.

“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.”

Vlad could imagine his father hearing the same words just a few days ago. He continued listening.

“ He’s retired now and lives in Moscow. He wrote the report on the powder found in the sacks and concluded that it was RDX. He knows what happened to that report — and I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept a copy in spite of orders.”

Vladislav Illarionov collapsed against the back of his chair. It shouldn’t be hard to find an Aleksandr Zhuravlev who lived in Yasenevo. He could use the hacker’s directory of Moscow telephones and addresses that a friend had given him years ago — illegal, but very useful. And he must do it now, before it was too late.