Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

Like Olga, Vlad Illarionov walked into the reception area of Dulles International Airport clutching his backpack, unsure of what awaited him. He was surprised and relieved to spot the familiar, loose-jointed figure of Derrick Williams striding toward him, a broad grin on his face.

“Derrick. I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew.”

The two embraced in Russian fashion in a reunion more emotional than expected. After the violent deaths of his parents, Vlad had been through a lot since his abrupt departure from Moscow. The tense border crossing into Ukraine, a Russian death squad, and temporary asylum in the American Embassy in Kiev combined to tell him his fate was no longer his own.

Williams and Peters had accompanied him to Boryspil International Airport under the watchful eye of Jack Kelly and a bevy of SBU men who followed them in a black Mercedes. The last time he had seen Williams was the departure area of the Kiev airport.

From Kiev, Vlad flew to Amsterdam where a man from the American Consulate General who introduced himself only as “John” escorted him to a small hotel not far from the Waterfeitsen Canal. He remained there for several days while his visa and documentation for the United States were prepared. And now, he was in America.

“We seem destined to see one another in airports,” said Williams. “But this is an arrival, not a departure. I rented a car, and I’ll drive you into town. We’ll get you settled in your hotel. You can rest up from the flight, and I’ll pick you up for dinner later, if that’s OK with you.”

“That would be great,” said Vlad. He switched from Russian to English. “I’d like to speak English now. I guess I should get used to it as soon as possible.”

“That’s a good idea,” grinned Williams.

Vlad had no luggage other than the backpack which contained a few changes of clothing and his father’s precious papers and the recording.

Williams checked him into a Best Western called the Old Colony Inn in Alexandria, just off the George Washington Parkway. “It’s an old place, but it’s comfortable.” He handed Vlad a wad of American money “for expenses” before leaving.

At seven that evening Williams picked him up and drove the short distance to Alexandria’s Old Town, turning into a busy street that led several blocks down to the Potomac River. Vlad was fascinated by the red brick architecture and the people crowding the sidewalks of the brightly lit streets.

He didn’t consider himself to be particularly impressionable. There had not been sufficient time to sort everything out, but the unfamiliar, peaceful scene was balm for his scorched soul. He was not so arrogant as to believe that his heretofore feeble efforts might somehow topple the brutal Russian regime, but at least he could light a warning fire on the shores of America. The idea that he was on the same side as these carefree people gave him the moral right to rejoice in their innocence.

Williams gave him a brief history of “George Washington’s town” as they searched for a place to park. Alexandria is an old city by American standards, but a blink of the eye compared to the millennium and more of Russia’s existence. After a thousand years, might America too fall victim to despotism?

On-street parking was hopeless, so they left the car in a public garage and walked through the crowds on the sidewalk almost to the end of King Street, finally stopping in front of a restaurant called Landini Brothers. But rather than entering the restaurant, Williams led him to a discrete door a few steps farther, which led up a flight of stairs to a sleek, multi-level space that Williams explained was a private club devoted to the enjoyment of fine cigars.

They climbed narrow stairs to an upper level and through a door into a dining area where Williams led Vlad to a table occupied by a man of about fifty with brown hair graying at the temples. When he stood, Vlad saw that he was of average height, trim, with intelligent blue eyes. He held a lighted cigar in his left hand.

“Vlad, this is Vance Johnson. He works at the Embassy in Moscow like me, and he was instrumental in seeing that you made it to the States safely.

Vlad accepted Johnson’s firm handshake, and the three took seats around the table.

“I’m very happy to meet you at long last, Vlad. I hope you don’t mind cigars,” said Johnson raising he one he was smoking to shoulder level and waving it in a little circle.

“I’m totally unfamiliar with them,” replied Vlad. “In Moscow, only the big shots smoke them.” He used the Russian term “ bol’shiye shishki.”

Johnson gave him an easy smile. “Well, Vlad, here in the States you don’t have to be a big shot to enjoy yourself.”

Vlad was uncertain how to respond and said only, “Thank you.”

A white-jacketed waiter bustled up to take their orders. At a loss, Vlad deferred to Williams and Johnson, and the latter selected items from the menu. “Would you care for something to drink?” asked Johnson.

Vlad shook his head. “Just water, please. I’m a little jet-lagged.”

Williams ordered water, as well, but Johnson asked for a martini with olives. When the drinks came, Vlad was fascinated by the conical, stemmed glass placed in front of Johnson. He had seen this only in movies, specifically James Bond films.

After taking an appreciative sip of his drink, Johnson said, “I understand you have some important materials concerning certain past events in Russia. Did you bring them with you?” He plucked a large olive on a toothpick from his drink and popped it into his mouth.

Vlad cast a questioning glance at Williams, who nodded and gave him a reassuring smile.

“Erm, yes, of course. I have them with me here.” He held up the flat leather folder he had carried in his backpack. He never allowed the folder out of his sight.”

“And you’re convinced they’re genuine?”

Vlad flushed with anger. “Genuine enough for my father and mother to be murdered.”

Williams placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t be upset. This is an important question if the material is ever to see the light of day.”

Johnson took another sip of his martini while Vlad cooled down, then said, “Vlad, I’m on your side. Derrick here has told me a lot about you, and I may be in a position to offer some discreet assistance in getting your story published. You shouldn’t be thinking of putting such material out in some insignificant blog on the Internet. The Kremlin can too easily discredit such things, and next thing you know, you’ll become the target of a horde of Russian trolls from St. Petersburg. The material should be published in a reputable medium.”

Vlad had been worried about the same thing, but he had no idea how to overcome the obvious obstacles. “I’d hoped that Derrick might have some contacts at VOA…” he began, but Johnson cut him off.

“That’s possible, of course, but don’t you think it would be better to find an outlet that has nothing to do with the U.S Government? For some reason, there is a lot of distrust of the government these days, even here in the States. You need a more independent publisher.”

Williams grimaced, but nodded his agreement.

“What do you have in mind?” asked Vlad.

“I’d rather not say right now. I just got into town yesterday, and I need a few days to check some things out.”

“In the meantime,” said Williams, “I’ll get you introduced to the folks at AEI and see what they have in mind about your internship.

Vance Johnson was in Washington on a ruse, claiming that his elderly father was ailing. He’d reported briefly into Langley to touch base with the Russia House, but they had been sympathetic and set him free to see to his personal business.