Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

Vlad had no choice but to write in Russian, and he was immensely grateful for Williams’ offer to stick around long enough to complete a translation. The article, complete with photos of his father that Vlad had stored on his camera was ready for publication at the end of November. But it was postponed.

That was when the Clarendon metro station exploded.

A cab dropped Vlad in front of the AEI building. The entire Metro transit system was at a halt on orders from the Department of Homeland Security. Snow had stopped falling early yesterday morning, but there was still a sharp chill in the air. He stepped carefully over the curb with his eyes down, wary of slipping on a patch of ice.

When he raised his gaze, he stopped cold and stared at the last person on earth he ever thought to see again.

Salt on the sidewalks and streets produced rivulets of dirty water that washed away the remaining slush. The patchy snow remaining in parts of Arlington and the sharp bite of the frigid air somehow reminded Olga of Moscow in the autumn or spring. The thought cut through her like a knife. The faint reflections of Moscow reminded her mercilessly of the bombings of Russian apartments, of Solntsev’s bold countenance and broad smile, Vlad’s burning eyes, and Nastya’s approving look following her training in Yekaterinburg.

The memories pursued her more doggedly than any professional surveillance team. There was no escape from them. She could slip around a corner, jump onto a bus, enter a shopping mall from one side and exit from another, run as fast as she could, but not one of these maneuvers would permit her to escape.

Some recollections exuded warmth while others struck her like physical blows. It was unbearable that what had so recently been dear to her should now consume her with hatred; that which had attracted now repelled and horrified. Today the city around her no longer felt like enemy territory and became simply alien — as alien as all the rest of the world. Never in her life had she been so alone.

Nothing was as it had been before and would never be again. The black smoke of the explosion poisoned the present as well as the past, Moscow and Washington, reason and emotion. She still had Karpov’s envelope in her purse, and she feared it too might burst into flame. When she touched it her skin seemed to burn as though the paper itself were impregnated with poison. Mechanically reminding herself of the task she must perform, Olga covertly scanned the street to see if she was being observed. She started when she realized she was searching for Shtayn. But unlike her triumph in Kharitonovskiy Park, she would never find him again. Shtayn was no more, and the thought was unbearable. But still she searched for him in the dim November evening.

She somehow carried out Karpov’s instructions. There had been no video cameras near-by and no one in sight. She performed the task perfectly and hated herself all the more for having done so. The streets were filled with ghosts, as if the victims at the Metro station had risen and mingled with the living.

The following morning she arrived at the office building on 17 thStreet somewhat earlier than usual, having been unable to sleep the night before. She did her best to concentrate on the day ahead and the all-important meeting with Sandberg. Her habitual confidence had deserted her.

She froze in mid-stride when she recognized the figure approaching her. She fleetingly thought this must be another ghost, but the man was clearly flesh and blood. It can’t be. Vladislav Illarionov was walking straight toward her .

Her thoughts a tumult of joy and fear, Olga started backward. There was no explaining the sudden onset of joy. Maybe it was because in this world turned upside down, Vlad remained unchanged, not only reproach incarnate, but also the embodiment of childhood’s innocence — their common childhood and the naïve dreams of the 1990’s.

Too late, Olga realized that Vlad should not discover her presence here. But he already had spotted her, no less amazed than she. She didn’t know what to say to him and struggled to conceal her distress.

“Vlad! I never expected to see you here. What are you doing here?”

What happened with her ability to lie? Not long ago there was no role she was incapable of playing. Now she could feign neither nonchalance nor affability under his wrathful gaze.

“I think I should be the one asking what you are doing here. Just last summer you were telling me how much you hated America. So now you’ve forgotten all that?”

Realization crossed his face even as he spoke. It was a look with which she was familiar since childhood — the sudden spark of insight that lit his eyes as he grasped the truth. The years had not changed him. So why had she changed so much? He knew why she was here. He knew everything about her. Strangely, this no longer frightened her. It made no difference, at all.

“I’m working in a research organization…” she began.

His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Of course.”

“I’m happy you’re here.” At least this was the truth — the only true words she had uttered in this conversation. But he was having none of it.

“Do you know what?” Vlad said, an undertone of menace in his voice. “In Moscow you and your thugs could do anything you wanted. You’re the reason my parents are dead. But you and Solntsev got away with it because there you’re the lords of the world. It’s my fault, too. Only a complete fool would have entrusted such a secret to a creature like you. I acted like a naïve child trying to convince you. But I’ve given up on that. I won’t lecture you; I’ll just warn you that it’s better to leave this place. This isn’t Russia, and you won’t get away with murder here. If you try the slightest foolishness in this country, I’ll do all I can to make sure they put you away for as long as possible. You love Russia and Putin? Well, go back to them. You won’t be able to poison our lives here.”

Her first instinct was to beg for forgiveness, to let him know that she had not desired his father’s death, had not realized that things would turn out that way. But the words died before passing her lips. He would not believe her. All her pain, the hellish fire that consumed her conscience — all of this could never penetrate the steely wall of his distrust.

Vlad reminded her of herself during that conversation in the Kremlin. But he was defending a new country while she had defended their old one.

She now understood why he could not defend his homeland .

Vlad had devoted much to his country but received only hostility in return. Too late Olga understood that Shtayn’s life was quite similar to Vlad’s, but now she could never ask the clever Jew how this had come about.

To Vlad she was an enemy, and he was prepared to stand in her way just as she once stood in his. A remnant of pride spurred by despair lent heat to her response. “Don’t you dare threaten me. I have every right to be here. I’m not breaking any law. If you’re such a defender of human rights, tolerance and all that other crap, act like it. “

She feared she might cry out in pain so unbearable was his contempt.

“You’re a spying whore,” he gritted, “an accomplice to murder. I can’t imagine how much blood you have on your hands.”

He turned away and entered the building, the same building where Olga worked. What was he doing there? But this was already unimportant. She turned into a side street and leaned against a wall, bursting into tears and hoping no one noticed. There was nothing left in her life, past or present, not in Russia or America. And she lacked the courage or even the right to beg Vlad’s forgiveness.