Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

“Olga Vladimirovna, tomorrow you’ll return to Moscow, and we’ll meet at an office in the Lubyanka.” He handed her a slip of paper on which an office number was written and then left without another word.

She could barely contain herself and ran to embrace Nastya. “Nastya, I did it! Will you be going with me?”

“Where? Moscow or America?” she smiled. “I’m in Moscow a lot, but I live and work here. But America? We don’t leave, Olga. Many colleagues and I cannot leave the country because we know a lot of secrets. So I’ll wait for you to visit me here sometime.”

“I’ll be back,” promised Olga, “It’ll all go fine with me, and sooner or later I’ll come back. Just keep believing in me.”

Nastya displayed her Hollywood smile.

Belgorod, Russia — Kharkov, Ukraine

Compared to the rest of Russia, Vlad found Belgorod to be a rather pleasant city — well laid out, clean, with new buildings and swept streets, green parks and a variety of unusual statues of things like an old lady knitting or a happy family. It was as if the city were enveloped in a sort of pre-war bubble, and the noise of war that spread over the rest of Russia had not yet seeped into its quiet streets.

The train station was not especially noteworthy, but it was relatively new and absent the smell and filth characteristic of older stations, especially those along Russian rails.

Vlad’s trip took eleven hours thanks to the innumerable stops and engine changes along the way. It was late into the evening by the time he arrived. He took a taxi to the address provided by Golovina. His contact lived in a new 12-story building. Unlike the older, Soviet style structures, it was spacious with clean entrances and a new children’s’ playground under the windows.

A tall, gangly fellow with an unruly mop of long hair and a cheerful expression opened the apartment door.

“I’m Dima,” he said, “or you can call me Mitya, if you prefer. Want a beer? Don’t worry, I have plenty. And I have a free sofa. You’ll spend the night here while we figure out how to get you across to Kharkov tomorrow.”

“And what does that depend on?” asked Vlad as he entered the large, one-room apartment in typical bachelor disarray.

“Depends on what you’re up to,” serenely replied Mitya.

“What does that mean?” Vlad was not prepared to share with this stranger the details of the case against Solntsev, not even if he was Golovina’s best friend in the world. He couldn’t condemn yet another innocent person to certain death.

“It means articles or blogs,” he said breezily, “extremism, or illegal meetings, or regime change. Regime change is the most difficult. With extremism, they usually push people into exile. Meetings are more difficult here, but they don’t follow them too closely. But when it comes to treason they apparently have to fill out a lot of papers listing the evidence.” Mitya said all this with an air of authority as he opened two bottles of beer.

“But…” Vlad finally understood. “No, they’ve not opened an investigation on me.” Then he added, “I hope. No, with me it’s something else, a journalistic investigation. They want to kill me. They’ve already tried.”

He accepted the cold bottle of beer and dropped onto the sofa, suddenly aware of his fatigue. But he would conceal from this imperturbable young man the sort of danger that came of contact with him.

“Well, that’s complicated,” muttered Mitya. “It’s the first time, to tell the truth, that I’ve come up against one like this. Here’s how things work. The train to Kharkov takes just over an hour. Get on here; get off in Kharkov. There are no stops along the way. That’s why you go through Russian Customs at the station before boarding. If they let you board the train, it’s all good, and you’re on the way to the free world. Then you have to pass Ukrainian Customs in Kharkov before you get off the train. If they let you through, get off the train, walk out of the station, and go wherever you like. These days, with the war, the Ukrainians require that any Russian man of military age have an invitation from a Ukrainian citizen. They won’t let you through without it. But if someone meets you there and vouches for you, the problem is solved. This is the first and easiest variant.”

“What’s the second?”

“If there is a warrant out for your arrest and you can’t legally board a train, then you go by car. There’s a chance of getting across the Russian border illegally, but not the Ukrainian border. The possibilities are practically nil. They’re very vigilant about fighters and subversives. In this case, you have to ask for political asylum right at the border. Except that with this variant they normally hold the car at the Ukrainian checkpoint for five to seven hours, so you are still stuck in Russia. During this time they may well search you and then kill you. Well, you said they already tried once…” Mitya seemed a little abashed.

“Let’s try the train.” That was an easy decision. He was tired of playing games with killers, so tired he was almost indifferent. If all this ended sooner than he thought, so be it. He was dealing with professional, well-trained killers. If they already knew he was here, they’d be waiting for him at the station and all along the border. On the other hand, he had still been in Moscow only that morning, and Solntsev’s people were unlikely to find out so soon that he would be at the Belgorod train station. He didn’t thing there was an arrest warrant out on him, and that meant there was a chance that his name wasn’t on any watchlist. Time was on his side for the moment, and the thought that he should spend more long hours in Russia was insupportable.

“OK,” sighed Mitya, the train it is. If there’s nothing more, we need to get a move on. So, you’ll leave tomorrow morning?”

Vlad shook his head. “No. I’ll go right now. Check the Internet, will you? There should be a train schedule.”

“It’ll be very late by the time you get there, and you’ll have no time to rest up…” Despite his reticence, Mitya concluded, “Maybe you’re right. In your place, I wouldn’t waste any time.”

Within an hour, they made their way through the night to the station. The city with its night lights and illuminated fountains seemed incompatible with someone passing through its well-tended streets to escape certain death.

Vlad bought a ticket at the counter, not having wished to alert anyone with an Internet purchase. Ticket purchases were computerized, but he wanted to keep risk to a minimum. The station Customs official gave his passport a thorough examination, squinted at him, but finally let him pass.

Through the window he could see the people still standing on the platform, among them Mitya smiling up at him. There, outside the window was Russia, the homeland he had never thought to abandon. He was certain he would never see it again.

Beyond the thick glass of the train window in the chill September night, he was leaving behind twenty-five years of his life — his entire life: the school years, university, friends, work, his first adolescent love about whom he least wished to think at this moment. There also was the hell of the recent past, his father’s corpse stretched on the cold, wet ground, the destroyed ash of his apartment and his deceased mother. He could not bring himself even to bid farewell to the familiar places as he gazed at the lights of another, unfamiliar but still Russian city… With a slight lurch, the train started to move, and the platform slipped away. Ahead was a different world. A free world .

Bogdan Kosti did not disappoint — he met Vlad in Kharkov wearing a camouflage uniform and a prepared invitation. He handed the document to the Customs official, and Vlad passed without delay through the checkpoint.