Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

In the reception area outside Customs, she spotted a well-groomed young man in a dark suit holding up a cardboard placard with her name. Perhaps unconsciously, Olga was accustomed to the rough and tumble boys in “ Svoi ,” quite unlike this avatar of the “golden youth.”

“How was the flight?” he asked. “I’m Stash Dobrovolskiy, the Deputy Director of the Russian-American Study Group. And I understand you’re to be my assistant.”

She was being greeted by the number two person of the Group, which made her feel even more responsible for carrying out her mission.

“The flight was OK, but I’m tired,” she said. In reality, she was bursting with countless quite illogical, even childish questions, the most important of which was, what is America like? But she didn’t want them to think she was a silly, impressionable girl.

“It wears us out every time,” he agreed. “We have an apartment for you in Arlington that is convenient to a subway station. You should get some rest, but try not to sleep. If you stay awake you’ll get accustomed to the time difference lots faster. Tomorrow morning, you have to be in the office.” He shot her a sympathetic glance.

Outside the terminal the fresh air revived her. Unlike Moscow which already was sinking into the Autumn blues, mid-October here was more like Russian September — the same bright Fall foliage, a still warm sun, and an overarching blue sky. The road from the airport was little different from Russia, only a bit smoother, cleaner, and wider. Olga leaned back against the car seat and sighed heavily. Nothing was impossible for her now.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing to a high wall that stretched along the Dulles Access Road. “Do all the roads have walls? Are they afraid of being robbed?”

Stash laughed. “This isn’t the most picturesque area. It’s nicer farther ahead. But don’t let it fool you, Olga Vladimirovna. Always keep in mind that all of this was created on the corpses of millions of ruined lives and dead children. Libya, Syria, Yugoslavia, Iraq, Ukraine. American wealth is created at the expense of the poverty of other countries. They don’t even deserve the land that was taken from the Indians…”

She didn’t need any schooling in the cant she already knew by heart, and did not reply.

Mistaking her silence for disappointment, Stash gave her a mischievous grin. “Would you like to see something interesting? Let’s make a little detour along the George Washington Memorial Parkway past the Headquarters of the CIA.”

“The CIA?” She experienced a variety of sensations. Excitement, fear, joy, shock — all at once, that erased the fatigue. “Let’s go!”

Traffic clogged the Beltway, and Olga wondered if there was an accident ahead.

“No,” said Stash, “this is the way it always is. There’s a perpetual rush hour all around Washington.”

The Parkway heading toward Washington was less crowded and unexpectedly scenic. It was like being in a forest similar in all its aspects to the forest just outside Moscow. Large trees leaned over the road, shimmering in the slanted late afternoon sunlight in shades of gold, pale green, and burgundy in a joyful confusion of solar sparks. She peered through the trees and caught a glimpse of a large river far below. She suddenly caught sight of thick white tree trunks with broad, black stripes.

“ Beryozi!” she exclaimed. “Russian birches under the nose of the CIA.”

They laughed, and it seemed to her that the forest laughed with them in all its sun-intoxicated transparency.

A few moments later she spotted a sign: George Bush Center for Intelligence — the CIA.

“Look up to the right.” Stash pointed to an exit from the main road. “Just a short distance up there are the main gates. Unfortunately, they won’t let us in,” he smirked.

Olga silently peered in the direction he indicated, the direction of the Main Enemy, but little could be seen.

They exited at Key Bridge and Stash pointed back over his shoulder. “That’s Georgetown across the river. It’s full of bars, restaurants, and rich people. Maybe I’ll take you there sometime.”

She didn’t know how to interpret this. Was he talking about business or pleasure?

He finally stopped in front of an attractive high-rise on a narrow side street. As promised, the subway station was only a block away.

“Your apartment is on the third floor facing the street,” said Stash. “I think you’ll like it.”

He retrieved her bags from the trunk and escorted her to the apartment door where he handed her the keys. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at seven o’clock. The fridge is stocked, so you can fix something to eat and get a little rest. But try not to sleep right away,” he reminded her.

The place was furnished, if not sumptuously, certainly more luxuriously than the place in Yekaterinburg. There was even a flat screen television.

She busied herself for a while putting away her clothes and then stepped out onto the balcony. The sky was beginning to darken. The evening air was cool on her skin, and she breathed deeply, taking in the essence of the enemy hidden beneath the appealing surface.

Derrick Williams poked his head into Johnson’s office. “You summoned me, oh Prince of Darkness?”

The Chief of Station acknowledged the sobriquet with a wry smile. “Ah, Derrick, if you only knew the half of it I’d have to kill you.”

It was an old joke, but it always elicited a laugh, sometimes a nervous laugh.

Johnson stood and walked around his desk. “Guess where we’re going.”

Williams groaned and trudged after the COS to the S.C.I.F.

“Derrick,” began Johnson, “I’m going to share something with you that I shouldn’t. In fact, I’m breaking a cardinal rule. And if you’re not careful with the information, I really will shoot you.”

Williams’ eyebrows shot to his hairline. Like most of the uninitiated, he harbored a secret envy of the spooks. “Oh, yeah?”

A long, tired sigh escaped Johnson before he spoke. “I have it on reliable authority that the FSB is sending an assassination team after Vladislav Illarionov in Ukraine, and I want you to do something about it.”

Williams features froze in shock. He might secretly envy the spooks, but he certainly had no yearning to be involved in their business. “Me?” he squeaked.

“Now, don’t go all girlyman on me. I don’t expect you to charge in with guns blazing. It should actually be quite simple. How soon can you travel to Kiev?”

“Kiev?”

“Stop giving me monosyllabic answers. I just want you to go to the Embassy in Kiev and talk to your counterpart there. The rest will be up to him if you’re convincing enough.”

That didn’t sound too daunting, but Williams was leery. “Why don’t you go to Kiev and talk to your counterpart?”

Johnson ignored him. “This is simple, not in the least risky, and I’m not suggesting you do anything out of the ordinary. We talked about this before — your guy needs to find Illarionov pronto and help him get out of Ukraine. I thought you were on board with this.”

Williams was immediately abashed as he recalled their previous conversation. Johnson’s idea might just work. “You’re sure they’re going to try to kill him?”

“Scouts’ honor.” Johnson held up three fingers.

“Maybe we could set up a study grant in the States for him.”

“That’s the spirit. Now get some travel orders and get your ass on a plane. I don’t know how much time we have.”

Back in his office, Johnson brewed a fresh pot of coffee as he considered his options. Half-way through the first cup, he made his decision. He lifted the handset of his secure telephone and dialed the number for his counterpart in Kiev.