Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

Locals have noted that a great many important sites also have been mined in Donetsk and Lugansk. In recently liberated Slvyansk and Kramatorsk all the schools and means of subsistence were mined. According to Ukrainian sappers, everything was wired to be detonated by a single phone call. Thus, occupied Donbas is literally held hostage by terrorists who threaten to erase it from the face of the earth.

Vance Johnson took a second to admire the steaming cup of ink-black coffee in the white Navy mug in his hand. It was his personal Sumatra blend, supplied by a coffee shop in Alexandria, Virgina, and the aroma was worth the slight delay before tasting. In fact, it would be his third cup of the morning, having ground the beans and consumed the first two cups at home in the townhouse he and his wife occupied behind the high brick wall along Konyukovska Ulitsa . The townhouses were all on the Embassy compound. The Russian “White House” stood kitty-corner to the Embassy on the other side of the street.

Johnson was somewhat of a novelty in the new Central Intelligence Agency. At 47, in the CIA since the early 90’s, straight out of the military and with a degree in Russian history and literature. The fact that he was still with the Agency was in itself an anomaly at a time when the average “career” there lasted only seven years. Long gone were the days of the 30-year man.

No, these days Langley was much more concerned with ensuring employee “diversity” than sticking to the business of developing professionals for the collection and analysis of intelligence. But then that was just him. Many of today’s crop just went along with the flow because they could resign after a few years and flaunt their credentials as an “intelligence operative.” In the old days, even before Johnson joined up, seven years was barely enough time to be permitted to walk across the street unattended in the world of espionage.

Some bright thinkers who occupied desks at Langley also thought it was a good idea that officers should not specialize in any one area or culture. Now a tour in Kuwait might be followed by a posting to Japan. There were still days when Johnson, a fluent Russian speaker, was surprised to have been named Chief of Station, Moscow. Obviously, someone in Human Resources had made a mistake.

As he raised the steaming cup expectantly to his lips, the office door swung open, and Derick Williams rushed in waving a piece of paper.

“Did you see this?”

With considerable regret, Johnson set the cup on his desk. The coffee would never see 197 degrees again. He glanced at his watch. “Christ, Derrick, it’s only 7:30, and you’re interrupting an important morning ritual.”

“You’ve got to see this.” Williams thrust the print-out across the desk still waving it like it was burning his fingers.

Johnson took the paper. It was a print-out of a story from the day before on a Kharkov newspaper’s website.

“Look at the by-line,” said Williams.

“Vladislav Illarionov,” breathed Johnson. “So he made it out, after all.”

“He sure did, and he’s already in print in Ukraine. He could publish the Ryazan story any day now.”

Johnson made a sour face. “I sure as hell hope not. That would be a big mistake.”

Williams was as astonished as if Johnson had risen from behind the desk and mooned him. “I don’t understand. That information is very important. And the kid has hard evidence. He left the country so he could get it published.”

“And because some FSB skinheads wanted to kill him.”

“That too,” agreed Williams, “but I still don’t understand your attitude.”

Johnson raised his arm and waved a finger around in the air. “I think we should go to the S.C.I.F. again.”

Once they were safely ensconced in the plastic “bubble,” Johnson sighed because he was going to have to explain Russian cynicism to someone who should already know all about it. He belatedly remembered the cup of coffee still on his desk.

“Derrick, you know as well as anyone that the Kremlin’s strategy is to block the ability of the general public to think critically. Their propaganda exploits and promotes emotion, not thinking. This is especially true of official ‘reporting’ from and about Ukraine. They call it ‘укроСМИ’ (ukroSMI), [8] УкроСМИ: “Ukrainian mass media.” In Russian, “СМИ” stands for “Средства массовой информации,” i.e. “mass media.” ‘Ukrainian mass media,’ and they don’t mean it as a compliment. The image of the enemy in Russian propaganda is not distinguished by its originality, and has taken form with varying degrees of intensity over the past few years. Of course, it’s the USA, and those the propagandists call ‘American puppets,’ beginning with the Ukrainian authorities and ending with the whole of Western and Eastern Europe.”

He hoped his words were sinking in. “So, if young Illarionov is successful in publishing his accusations in the Ukrainian press, what do you think the reaction here would be? Do you think it would have an impact?”

Williams’ face sank as the import of the CIA Chief’s words sank in. “They would denounce it as a fabrication, and no one in Russia would disagree.”

“Right. And the reaction would probably be little different in the West. What kind of credibility would an article from a small Ukrainian newspaper on the front lines of a war possess?”

A crestfallen Williams nodded. “None.”

“Zip. Zero. Nada ,” said Johnson. “But getting the information out through a respected, major Western publication would find some resonance. The Russians would react no differently, but it might keep American and EU eyes on the ball.”

“So what can we do?”

Johnson chewed his lower lip. He experienced an intense need for a cup of coffee. He did not doubt the importance of the information Illarionov possessed. The problem was what, if anything, to do about it. Williams was placing his hopes in the hands of the CIA, but he was probably betting on the wrong horse. No, Vance wouldn’t pass this hot potato to Langley, where it would in all likelihood be dropped. There were still too many people in Washington who actually believed they could coax the Kremlin into the international fold if only they treated the Russians as if they were normal people.

“I think this is one for your guys, Derrick.”

Williams was surprised. He didn’t especially care for the CIA, but he thought they could get things done. “I don’t understand.”

Johnson leaned forward with elbows on the table. “Illarionov is no longer in Russia. For all intents and purposes, he’s already in the West. There are no restrictions on travel out of Ukraine. All he lacks is a visa. Maybe your guys could arrange a study grant or something…”

Williams was immediately enthusiastic. “That might just be possible. But we’d have to find Illarionov first.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Johnson. “I’m sure your press attaché in Kiev would have no trouble contacting the editor of the Kharkov newspaper. That’s a pretty good starting point.”

Vance’s coffee was stone cold by the time he returned to his office.

Olga met Gleb Solntsev at the Sretenka office. With September fading into October, the weather had turned chilly, and she wore her best coat with fur trim over a simple, but elegant dark green dress with a modest hemline. Her calves were encased in fashionable black leather boots.

Solntsev greeted her with an avuncular hug and then held her at arm’s length to look her over as though he were the judge at a livestock contest. “Perfect,” he pronounced his verdict. “You’ll make a fine impression.