Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

There was no question of sleeping. He was much too wound up for that. There’s something about being under threat of imminent death that bans drowsiness. His room faced the street, and he kept the curtains closed, a thin barrier against the danger he imagined lurked outside.

He had no idea when the American Embassy opened, or even if anyone there would know who he was. Nine AM seemed a reasonable hour, and he dialed the number Williams had given to Golovina. It was answered by a female voice, “U.S. Embassy, Press and Culture. This is Janet.”

In his best English, he said, “Is Mr. Williams there, Mr. Derrick Williams?”

“Who may I say is calling?”

Such a simple request, and yet Vlad was afraid to pronounce his own name on the phone. “Erm, just tell him a friend of Marya Fedorovna, please.”

There was a pause before Janet replied. “Hold, please,” and one of Kenny G’s tunes poured into his ear.

“Hello. This is Derrick Williams. Is this Vlad?”

He immediately recognized the voice. “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Kiev.”

“Are you safe?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me where you are, and I’ll come pick you up in an Embassy car. Be ready to leave immediately. I should be there within a half-hour.”

Derrick had arrived in Kiev the day before and went directly to the embassy where he met with his Kiev counterpart in the Press and Culture Section, Brad Peters.

“I don’t see a way to get him paroled into the States any time soon. There’s really no hard evidence that he would qualify for political asylum.”

Derrick started to protest, but realized that Peters was right. There was nothing besides Johnson’s unofficial and unauthorized warning. “I know, but I don’t doubt that he’s in danger. We have to find a way to get him out of here, preferably to the States. We might help him get a tourist visa, and he could ask for asylum after he gets there. Or how about a study grant of some sort? Do you have anything pending?”

Peters was doubtful. “The guy is Russian, not Ukrainian.”

“Well, he did write a big article in a Ukrainian newspaper, and there’s no way I can help him in Moscow because he can’t go back there.” He cast in his memory for possibilities. “What about that AEI grant? They’re willing to sponsor a six-month internship in Washington. I think they’d jump at the chance to get a real Russian dissident journalist.”

“Yeah, well…” Peters’ attitude softened. “Let’s work on that. But you’ve got to find him first.”

That problem solved itself.

They were going through the paperwork next morning when Vlad called in to the Embassy. He was on his way to check out a car from the motor pool when he ran into a tall man with a friendly, Irish face and shockingly red hair.

“Are you Derrick Williams from Moscow?”

“Erm, yes.”

The redhead thrust out a large, freckled hand. “I’m Jack Kelly. I have the same job here that Vance Johnson has in Moscow.”

CIA guys, thought Derrick, have such an elliptical manner of speaking. I have the same job here that Vance Johnson has in Moscow . Why couldn’t he just say he was the Chief of Station?

“He said I should lend you a hand… if you want, of course,” Kelly finished.

“I’m on my way to pick up Illarionov right now. He’s in a hotel not far from the train station.”

“Good. Why don’t you let me take you in my car?”

Any port in a storm. Derrick agreed without hesitation. It wouldn’t hurt to have a friend along when picking up a guy on the FSB’s assassination list. He gave Kelly the name of Vlad’s hotel.

“Great,” said the CIA man. “Let me just make a quick phone call first.”

Kelly was back in ten minutes and led him to a parking lot at one end of the Embassy compound where he directed him to a late model BMW 5 series. Not an Aston-Martin, but nifty, nonetheless.

Less than 30 minutes later, they pulled up in front of Vlad’s hotel on Zhylyanska which turned out to be an unremarkable one-way street. The hotel was large and equally unremarkable. Kelly pulled up in front and turned on his blinkers. As he stepped out of the car, Derrick caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster under the CIA man’s jacket.

“You’re carrying a gun?”

Kelly grinned. “I’ll probably never use it, but I wouldn’t want to need it and not have it on me.”

Derrick also noticed that Kelly was scrutinizing their surroundings as he closed the car door. He was doing it casually, but it was a complete 360-degree scan.

They called Vlad from the front desk, and he appeared within a few moments dressed in jeans, a leather jacket, and with a backpack over one shoulder. The young man was obviously relieved to see a familiar face and shook Derrick’s hand heartily as he cast a curious glance at the big redhead at his side.

“Vlad, this is Jack Kelly. He, erm, works at the Embassy here and gave me a lift.”

“Ochen’ rad poznakomitsya,” (Glad to meet you). Kelly’s Russian was good.

They headed for the exit, and Kelly waved them to stay behind him. He stepped outside and again scanned the vicinity. When he turned back toward them, that big grin was on his face again. “We’re good to go.”

Outside, a large, black Mercedes sedan sat with its engine idling right behind the BMW. It contained four men with their faces turned toward them.

Derrick skidded to a halt and grabbed Vlad by the elbow. “What’s going on?”

“That’s our escort,” said Kelly. “I called some friends in the SBU for back-up before we left the embassy.”

“SBU?” Derrick was unfamiliar with the term.

“The Ukrainian Security Service. We’ll be perfectly safe. Now, hurry up and get in the car.” He continued toward the BMW with a nonchalant wave at the men in the Mercedes.

“I wish he’d said something,” grumbled Derrick. He and Vlad slid into the back seat.

The peculiar warble alerted Vance Johnson of an incoming call on the secure line. Jack Kelly’s distorted voice greeted him when he answered. “I just wanted to let you know that your fugitive dissident is safely inside the embassy here.”

“So, you met Williams?”

Kelly chuckled. “Yeah. Rather a nervous type, isn’t he?”

“Maybe he has a good reason to be nervous. Putin’s Nazis haven’t made his life pleasant here.”

“Is that a fact? They’ve caused some problems for the Ukrainians, too.”

“So I’ve heard. Are they going to get Illarionov to the States?”

“I think so. Williams was talking about some sort of internship in Washington.”

“That’ll work, if he can get out of Ukraine alive.”

“About that: I called in some markers from the SBU, and guess what. This afternoon the editor of that Kharkov newspaper started getting calls asking about Illarionov. The SBU boys were sitting with the editor at the time. To make a long story short, the editor invited the caller to his office to collect the information, and a couple of very interesting Serbians turned up. They’re being interrogated as we speak. The SBU is very grateful.”

“That’s good news, but it won’t slow them down long. Can you guarantee Illarionov gets out of the country safely?”

“He’ll be behind a cordon of SBU tough guys. Nobody will get to him in Ukraine before he gets away.”

“Let me know when he’s on the way.”

Johnson replaced the receiver and closed his eyes. He needed to think, and he needed to get back to Washington for a few days.

There was one building in Washington where Olga could be assured of finding likeminded friends. The offices of the Russian-American Study Group were near the intersection of 17 thand ‘M’ streets in the heart of the business district within easy walking distance of The White House. The exterior reminded her of the Russian Embassy, and she looked upon it as a sort of outpost on the front line.