Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

It wasn’t that he distrusted his Headquarters colleagues, it was just that he knew the bureaucratic routine and the strictures they had against working with the press. He would do this solo, hope he didn’t flunk his next polygraph, and if things worked out, he would make no waves. In fact, he would remain entirely invisible. Vance liked being invisible. He had made a career of it.

Ethan Holmes was a senior reporter for the Washington Post , and his beat was the Intelligence Community. He was one of Washington’s most knowledgeable people when it came to the wheels and gears of the “wilderness of mirrors.” He knew who was who, who hated whom, and how the rank and file felt about their leaders. In order to be successful, Holmes had learned to respect the people who inhabited that obscure world, and he had won their trust. It was why he was so successful.

Holmes had known Johnson for several years, dating from the time the reporter got wind of a highly placed Russian asset. The culprit was a loose-lipped staffer on the House Intelligence Oversight Committee. When he called Langley for comment, he found Johnson on his doorstep within an hour. The soft-spoken spook had convinced him that if the story were published, the agent would surely perish, and Holmes agreed to spike the piece.

The two had seen one another on and off since then, and so Holmes wasn’t surprised to receive an invitation to lunch from Johnson. “I thought you were in Moscow,” he said.

Johnson’s chuckle reached him across the ether. “I’ll be heading back there soon, but in the meantime, I have something I think will interest you.”

Holmes’ ears perked up at that. In the past, Johnson had been willing to discuss things of which Holmes already was aware, but he had never volunteered anything.

At noon on the dot, Holmes entered the Capitol Grille and spotted Johnson beckoning him from a corner booth. They greeted one another like old friends, but friends who nurtured a rivalry. Reporters like Holmes are fond of saying their job was identical to that of intelligence officers. Johnson’s response was that intelligence officers are the guardians of secrets reporters want to reveal. In that sense, reporters were akin to enemy intelligence officers. Between Johnson and Holmes, though, the rivalry was not hostile.

Johnson observed the usual formalities at the outset by telling the reporter that everything he said today would be off the record, and he was confident that Holmes would obey the rules of the game.

“I want to tell you a story about a dissident in Moscow,” began Johnson.

Holmes interrupted, “There’s not a lot of interest in Russian dissidents like in the old days, Vance.”

“I know, and more’s the pity because most Americans don’t know and don’t care to know what’s going on over there, and your colleagues aren’t doing much to correct the situation.”

Holmes sighed and pushed his Caesar salad around with his fork. “Terrorism is front and center now,” he said.

“Yes, and the Agency has regressed into the OSS to fight that battle. But the Russians are still there, and they still have ICBMs. The current regime is as bad as anything we’ve seen since Stalin. It looks different since 1991, but behind the façade of Gucci stores on the Arbat, the same bad guys are pulling the strings. Life is getting harder since they invaded Ukraine, and that means the regime is cracking down more. And speaking of Ukraine, how much coverage of the war does the Post give its readers?”

Holmes shook his head, “Almost none, I’ll admit. It’s not what’s on peoples’ minds.”

“If it’s not on people’s minds, it’s because the American media does a shitty job of informing them.”

Johnson noticed that Holmes was cutting into his sirloin as though he had a grudge against it. He was getting off track, and his purpose was not to alienate the reporter. “Let’s start over,” he said.

The story of Vlad Illarionov, his father and mother, the escape to Ukraine and the Russian death squad held Holmes spellbound for the next half-hour. To protect his source in Moscow Johnson attributed discovery of the death squad to the diligence of the Ukrainian SBU, but he provided the facts about everything else. The story of Sergey Illarionov especially touched Holmes. Illarionov had been an investigative journalist just like him, after all, and had died for his efforts. By the end of Johnson’s recitation, Holmes was hooked, and he agreed to a meeting with Vlad.

“Ethan, I can’t emphasize enough the importance of keeping my name and any hint of Agency involvement out of this story. It would give the Kremlin the ammunition it needs to discredit everything Vlad Illarionov has to tell. And, in fact, the CIA has never been involved officially.”

Holmes nodded his understanding, and Johnson continued, “That also means that your name likewise should not be associated with the story. Your connections with the Intelligence Community are simply too well known.”

Holmes didn’t like this one bit, but he could see the logic, and Johnson pressed his point.

“Ethan, almost 200 Russian journalists have been outright murdered since 1991, including one American, and only one person has been jailed for the crimes. If there is such a thing as honor among journalists, you owe it to your colleagues to see to it that Vlad’s story sees the light of day.”

Holmes raised his hands in mock surrender. “OK, Vance, I promise that if the material this kid has is everything you say I’ll find a way to get it into print.”

“That’s all I ask. You’ll be performing a great service for both countries and for journalism, as well.”

He told the reporter how to contact Derrick Williams to set up a meeting with Vlad Illarionov.

There was nothing more Vance Johnson could do, so he made preparations to return to Moscow.

Williams took Vlad on a short driving tour of Washington before introducing him to AEI. It was nearing the end of October, and the air had acquired a chill. But as if to welcome Vlad, the alabaster monuments and buildings shone a brilliant white under a cloudless sky. Everything looked so new, and like Alexandria, there was a limit on the height of buildings that somehow imparted a sense of human proportion that emphasized that government here was subordinate to the people. Vlad was well aware that even here that concept was not universal, but for the moment he chose to ignore it.

The headquarters of the American Enterprise Institute are on 17 thStreet, just a few steps from the venerable Mayflower Hotel. It was a bit late in the year, but Vlad had been accepted into the fall internship program’s Russian Studies group under the aegis of one of the institute’s resident scholars. Unlike most interns, Vlad’s expenses would be paid while he was in the U.S.

The meeting with Ethan Holmes was more complicated because it was to be confidential. So they gathered one evening in Vlad’s hotel room.

It required several hours to tell the whole story and finally show the American reporter the report written so long ago by Zhuravlev and play Sergey Illarionov’s recording of Tretyakov’s jailhouse confession. Holmes did not understand Russian, but he had seen and heard enough to be convinced.

The next task was for Holmes to convince his editor of the value and validity of the story. Fortunately, the news cycle was nearly stagnant with most attention focused on domestic matters. Although the editor was not particularly interested in the fate of Russian dissidents, Holmes sold the idea as a human interest story. He thought there was enough material to serialize over several editions and also would appear on the Post’s web page.

In the meantime, as agreed with Holmes, Vlad began work on the article. He would write very little about himself but rather focus on his father and the man’s dedication to getting the truth into print, even at the risk of his own life. He decided to entitle the article “In the Shadow of Mordor.”