Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

“She’s late.” Valentin Zaretskiy said irritably. He laid some papers on the table and shot a glance out the window at the street below. Only a few patches of yesterday’s snow remained. How could she have forgotten how important today was to be?

Stash was nervous, too. “There’s barely enough time left.” He wasn’t sure which bothered him the most: the task itself, or the possibility that he might have to go to the important meeting without his prize subordinate. A pretty, attentive young woman could do wonders to motivate an older man like Sandberg.

“Women,” growled Zaretskiy. “They specialize in being late, and here I have all this material prepared — the dollar rises and there is a serious crisis brewing in Russia. There’s trouble again in Chechnya. We’re in trouble even if the sanctions are lifted. I have all of her talking pointed prepared: documents, ideas about how Russia could be an effective ally in the fight against terrorism. It’s very convincing stuff, and all she has to do is make a nice presentation. And now she can’t even make it here on time.”

“She was very enthusiastic about meeting Sandberg,” said Stash, “and she’s never been late before. Maybe something happened to her, an accident. Or maybe something came up there.”

He pronounced the word in an almost conspiratorial manner with a vague glance at the ceiling. This tradition — to refer only in a roundabout way to the special services , was ingrained in officials of all levels during Soviet times, and Stash adhered to the old nomenklatura habit now.

“They must know over there that we have an important meeting today with our best man in the States,” was Zaretskiy’s dry response. “They normally would tell us if she were, erm, otherwise occupied. We’ll wait another half-hour.”

Zaretskiy made several calls to Olga’s apartment while they waited, but there was no answer.

When Olga still did not appear, Zaretskiy made his decision. “Stash, you’ll have to handle the meeting alone.”

He stood and grabbed his coat and hat off the rack by the door. “I’m going to the Embassy.”

It took longer than he would have liked to traverse the distance from 17 thStreet to Georgtown and up Wisconsin Avenue, and he arrived at Karpov’s office red-faced and sweating despite the cold outside.

“Valeriy Eduardovich. Something may have happened to Olga Polyanskaya. We waited for her at the office all morning, and I’ve been unable to contact her. She had an extremely important meeting this morning, and it’s very unlike her to be late. “

Karpov furrowed his brow and was silent for a few beats as he considered the possibilities from the most innocent to the worst. Had she overslept? Had she been in an accident? Had the FBI arrested her? Or, worst of all, had she become unreliable?

“Thank you, Valentin Gyorgievich,” he said. “I’ll try to get to the bottom of it and let you know.”

The tears left her empty and exhausted. She wouldn’t be going to work, and it mattered hardly at all that today was to have been important. She simply could not face anyone in this condition. What difference did it make anyway? Did all these meetings, gatherings, plans, phony smiles, and empty words mean anything? Did they make it easier to commit murder? Vlad’s words struck her like hammer blows. “ I can’t imagine how much blood you have on your hands.”

How much, then? Vlad’s mother and father, hundreds of innocent people at the Metro station — and this was what she had only just discovered. How much more had she not guessed? How could she go on? How can a murderer continue living under such a burden? How was it possible that she was guilty of the deaths of hundreds? She had never in her life held a weapon in her hands.

She tried not to think of the families, the terror when they saw the news on television and didn’t know the fate of their loved ones but could think only the worst. Olga could only imagine the horrible premonition that must have swept over the relatives of the victims, how they hoped it wasn’t true, how they would have tried to contact their loved ones but heard only the empty ring of a cellphone that would never again be answered.

She barely contained a desire to run headlong as far away as she could get. But there was nowhere to run, and she walked aimlessly until she arrived at a small park. When she took in her surroundings, she realized she was facing the White House, and a wave of panic engulfed her. She turned on her heel and rushed away with no idea where she was going.

After what seemed hours, fatigue caught up with her. She ducked into a small coffee shop and collapsed at a table. The place was small with only a dozen or so tables and a lunch bar guarded by a rank of round, backless stools. The flat-screen TV on the wall behind the bar was tuned to a sports channel, and Olga was grateful to be spared more news coverage of yesterday’s tragedy.

A middle-aged black woman wearing an apron approached the table and asked what she would like. At first, Olga didn’t hear what the woman was saying. The waitress, seeing her despondency, put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Are you OK, darlin’? Can I bring you something, a glass of water?”

The touch on her shoulder startled her, and she looked up with frightened eyes. The kindness and concern on the waitress’s face only fed her guilt. Would she look at me this way if she knew…?”

She fled the coffee-shop, leaving the waitress shaking her head.

Valeriy Karpov was seriously concerned by Zaretskiy’s news. At least the civilian was clever enough not to have used the telephone thus alerting the FBI. Any mention of Olga’s name in connection with his own would have unfortunate consequences.

He had no idea where the girl could be, and the possibilities alarmed him. Their most recent conversation had left a bad taste in his mouth. The girl’s shock and confusion were troubling. She was, after all, not a seasoned professional. It might have been best to leave her in the dark regarding the explosion, but the vodka had loosened his tongue, and now she was missing. Could it be that his initial suspicions about her had been correct despite the glowing reports from the Center? The blood froze in his veins as he considered the implications and possible repercussions. The feel of the axe on his neck was palpable.

He pulled a burner cellphone from the pile in his desk drawer and dialed Olga’s cellphone. There was no answer. Repeated tries yielded the same result.

Deciding he could wait no longer, Karpov grabbed his coat and left the embassy. What if the girl had become disillusioned and gone to the FBI? Or had she simply forgotten her cellphone at home? Perhaps she had fallen seriously ill or been in an accident. He could not avoid the hope that it had been the latter, and she was dead. From the beginning I knew that such a pampered little girl from Moscow should not be involved in serious matters . The bitterness of his recollection spurred him to move faster. Whatever was going on, it had to be controlled before a disaster occurred.

The only thing he could do was go directly to her apartment, and that would take precious time as he had to be certain he was not followed.

It would be risky to enter the apartment. If the worst came to pass, he could walk into a trap. He decided to wait on the street and found a comfortable spot by the window in a café across opposite the entrance to Olga’s building. After what seemed an eternity he saw her approaching unsteadily along the sidewalk. He hurried out of the café to intercept her, scanning carefully in all directions for signs of danger.