Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

An early autumn crept into Moscow, wrapping her in gold and crimson, almost stealthily replacing outgoing summer, but preserving its warmth and adding its own special tints. The temperature remained pleasant, in no hurry to give way to rain-induced depression. But this time of year that inspired Russian poets had little effect on Olga.

She was aware of Sergey Illarionov’s death. According to the official reports, the dissident writer was attacked and robbed while walking through Bittsevskiy Park at night. He had been unfortunate, perhaps even foolish in his choice of routes.

Vlad would be shattered by his father’s untimely end in so violent a manner, but Olga could not bring herself to go to her old school friend’s apartment to offer condolences. The unpleasant conversation at the Kremlin Palace, especially his disparaging remarks about Gleb Solntsev terminated their friendship so far as she was concerned.

In fact, she had to admit to herself, the sudden absence of Sergey Illarionov meant that the odious man’s lies about Gleb were now silenced forever.

That gave her comfort even though Gleb would easily have weathered such obvious slanders. Hadn’t he told her not to worry about it? “ We have a powerful weapon on our side — the truth, and we have to spread it. Sooner or later the slanderers’ house of cards will collapse on itself.”

His words were those of a man absolutely certain of his own verity.

The world was unambiguous, clear-cut, black and white — divided between true friends and obvious enemies. There could be no middle ground in the struggle for the Motherland’s soul.

Pasha, Kostya, and Volodya (whom they simply called “Vovchik”) were recent acquaintances. She had rarely seen them at meetings and was surprised when she when Gleb took her into his “inner circle” that these previously barely noticed men were there.

Her first serious act with them was the provocation at Golovina’s office when she won her spurs and Gleb Solntsev’s respect, perhaps even admiration. She would be making more speeches at public rallies, and she had even appeared on television, standing on the stage next to Solntsev. She could imagine no higher honor.

Aleksandr Zhuravlev opened the door without a word, as if he had been expecting the visit. He was no longer young, but nevertheless physically imposing with a full head of iron gray hair and wildly tangled eyebrows that lent him a stern appearance.

Vlad introduced himself, offering his I.D. for Zhuravlev’s inspection. “My father came to see you a few days ago.”

The old man gave the document a cursory examination and smiled thinly. “That’s not necessary. Such things are meaningless. But you resemble your father a great deal. I thought you would be coming to see me. And… I’m very sorry for your loss,” the last words spoken in an undertone.

Vlad expected to be invited inside, but Zhuravlev stood in the doorway a few beats longer before saying, “I have the document ready for you, the one your father asked about. I didn’t have it here when he came because I don’t keep such things in the house. Given what happened, maybe it was fate. Wait here.”

He disappeared into the apartment leaving Vlad standing awkwardly at the door, his entire being tingling with anticipation. It was happening so fast — too easily, too fast, and this did not fill him with joy but with worry and a sense of desolation. He was moving from one task to another, losing himself in work to escape his pain. He had no idea what to do next.

Even his father’s old newspaper refused to print the material. What would happen if the website on which he worked did the same? He could publish the revelations on his blog, but that would be a waste of the information and get him bogged down in the back and forth of social networks and ever present internet trolls. The material must be used in a way that did not permit the criminals to escape punishment. Should he hand everything over to the Western media? This was probably best, but he had to find the right contacts. This would take time, and Vlad didn’t have much of that.

Zhuravlev reappeared at the door with a timeworn file folder. “Perhaps it’s best that you have this now. It can bring nothing but trouble to me. Use it as you wish, but forget where you got it, understand? Forget my name, my address. Forget that I even exist.”

“I understand. That’s why I didn’t call before coming. The last thing I want is to bring you trouble.”

“I know.” Zhuravlev for the first time looked like a tired old man. “Your father did the same, and that’s the only reason I gave him the time of day. I’ll give you one bit of advice — leave the country. I don’t think you realize who you’re dealing with, and by the time you do, it’ll be too late. Under no circumstances can you leave this document in your apartment. Find a safe place for it.”

He sat for a long time behind the wheel of his father’s car before the idea struck him. There was only one place in the city where he was always welcome, where he would find a reliable and brave person, and where he could easily conceal a document among hundreds of identical dog-eared folders — the modest basement apartment in Maliy Karetniy .

As soon as he crossed the threshold and stepped onto the steep stairs leading to the basement, Marya Fedorovna Golovina rushed to meet him.

“Vlad, my dear, dear boy,” she cried. “Please come on in. I know. I know everything… My God! You poor boy.”

Vlad was normally irritated when women made over him as though he were a little boy, but it was impossible to resent Golovina.

“I’ll make tea,” she said.

This was no time for tea, but he accepted the invitation.

She conducted him to the room that served as an office, the same office that the tough guys from “ Svoi ” had invaded. There was a small electric burner on a counter along one wall, and she busied herself with the kettle.

“I can’t stay long, Marya Fedorovna. I have work to do.” He was now feeling guilty for what he was about to ask her. “I want to leave something with you for safekeeping, if it’s OK,” he said as Golovina poured the tea and set a plate of waffles on the table.

His words tumbled over one another, sounding jumbled and confused to his own ears, “It’s the recording my father made with the former FSBnik , the one who directly accused Solntsev of having managed the bombings in Moscow on orders from the Kremlin. This was why they killed him. And I have the official report on explosives in Ryazan, the original, and it confirms that the sacks contained RDX — hexogen.”

Golovina’s face turned hard.

Vlad realized at that moment how much he and other Russians owed to this old woman who had been beaten but not broken by the Soviets and now was persecuted by their successors. It was remarkable to see how this fragile old lady transformed suddenly into the fearless dissident of the past, molded by decades of caution.

“And what are your plans?” She transfixed him with a stare.

“I don’t know. Even father’s old editor refuses to print it. I’m thinking of giving it to someone in the West.”

“Correct,” nodded Golovina. “But it’s not enough simply to hand the proof over to western journalists. You have to go to the West yourself, as soon as possible, preferably to America. Get any kind of visa you can, even a tourist visa. Tourist visas can be valid for a long time. You might be able to take advantage of some sort of study grant. I’ll get word to Williams at the American Embassy to see if he can do anything. And as soon as you get to the States, ask for political asylum. Only then should you take this material to a serious media outlet.”