Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

Such a complicated subject made recording the interview doubly important, but Sergey didn’t think that only this meeting with the former Chekist would suffice. Additional evidence was vital, even if only hearsay. Rumors that the notorious bombings of apartment buildings in various Russian cities at the end of the 1990’s had been organized by the FSB weren’t new. The rumors gained credence when sacks of the explosive RDX, known as Hexogen, were discovered in the basements of several residential buildings in Ryazan. Hexogen was the same explosive used in the Buynaksk, Moscow, and Volgodonsk atrocities.

Men were discovered placing the explosives, and their arrest was underway when an order to stand down came from Moscow. Soon after, the Moscow FSB confiscated all the evidence and claimed that “training exercises” using “sacks of sugar” had been mistaken for a real terrorist act because the local Chekists had not been informed. Journalists discovered that the men on the verge of arrest were actually FSB operatives. The official investigation was quickly classified and all evidence, including the alleged RDX, disappeared into the labyrinth of Lubyanka.

Even after 15 years, individual dissidents and foreign journalists occasionally mentioned the episode, but no additional information came to light. But then word reached Illarionov that a former employee of the Ryazan FSB, now under investigation, wanted to meet him. There was no trust in Sergey’s heart for the FSB, but professional instinct told him he should not refuse this request.

The case of Viktor Tretyakov was not unusual: he was ordered to establish contacts with the radical Islamist underground in Dagestan and conclude a deal with them. The purpose was to supply the Vahabisti with money and help them travel to Syria where they could join ISIL. In return they would carry out a series of tasks for the FSB. Not even Tretyakov knew the nature of these tasks. But the plan misfired when out-of-control Islamists nearly destroyed Tretyakov’s entire operational group. There was a messy shootout in one of the most populated areas of Makhachkala, and it was impossible to avoid civilian casualties and the resulting publicity.

But this was not the entirety of Colonel Tretyakov’s misfortune. The son of a local oligarch perished in the shoot-out, and his vengeful father with the help of his private security employees, discovered that Tretyakov’s Special Services group from Ryazan knew the location of the terrorists at least a month before the shoot-out but for some reason had done nothing about it. Tretyakov chose to explain nothing. The enraged oligarch demanded retribution, and the leadership of the FSB resorted to the simplest means possible: they accused the Colonel of criminal misconduct leading to loss of life. They even raised the possibility that he had committed treason.

Unaccustomed to such betrayal, the battle hardened Tretyakov resolved not to make it easy for his former colleagues. At first, he sought justice from higher authorities but quickly realized that he should have known better. No help was forthcoming from that quarter. But if the authorities were going to take his life, it would cost them dearly.

Sergey had mixed feelings about Tretyakov. He was face to face with a man who until recently had worked avidly against people like himself. This man had defended a regime whose crimes the journalist was determined to expose. Fortunately, Tretyakov was not after sympathy. This strong man knew what he wanted and admitted his wrongdoing in terse phrases devoid of sentimentality.

His question was straightforward. “You’re the one who wrote an article about the Ryazan connection to the Moscow bombings fifteen years ago?”

Illarionov nodded. “Did it bother you at the time?”

“Not as much as it might have.” Tretyakov was emotionless. “You didn’t dig down to the most important thing — to the name of the man in charge of the bombings.”

“And you know his name?” Illarionov prayed the pocket recorder was working.

“I planned the operation in Ryazan with this person. The explosions were supposed to be synchronized, but some insignificant little fucker found the sacks.”

Sergey leaned back in his chair. The Chekist’s sangfroid struck him: the hard eyes, cynical directness, and cold recitation of the facts. Across the table from him slouching in his chair was a man who had been prepared to blow sky-high several multistory apartment buildings along with their occupants. Hundreds of lives snuffed out in a second by the spark of a detonator at the whim of a petty dictator.

Had the order from Moscow shocked Tretyakov? Or had he considered only how best to do the job and leave no trace? Was his response a banal, “Yes, sir?” Had he been proud to be one of the cogs in the wheel of a cruel system?

Illarionov forced himself into a semblance of concrete and steel incapable of terror or forgiveness. He asked only one question.

“The name?”

The arrival of his train at Dobryninskaya Station jarred him out of his reverie. He joined the stream of people headed for the connection with Serpukhovskaya on the Gray Line that would carry them south. He lived a couple of bus stops from Prague Station in a standard nine-story building. Like a gray soldier, it stood in a precise row with identical neighbors on Krasniy Mayak Street. A bit farther was the entrance to Bittsevskiy Park which stretched all the way to Yasenevo.

The long ride home provided ample time for thought. The name Tretyakov gave him was too well-known and influential to allow for mistakes. Of course, he could publish the material based on the recording, but in such form it could lose its significance, forever remaining only a rumor, the unique testimony of a lone individual rather than documented fact. There remained to Sergey only one other lead — the FSBnik had given him a telephone number.

“His name is Aleksandr Zhuravlev. Fifteen years ago he was the Chief of Staff of the Headquarters Expert Center for Civil Defense and Emergencies for Ryazan Oblast. He’s retired now and lives in Moscow. He’s the one who conducted the examination of the sacks of powder and established that it was RDX. He knows what happened, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept a copy of the official report despite orders.”

A call to Zhuravlev was first on the agenda for tomorrow. To judge from the distress of the prison staff, the FSB must already be aware of the conversation with Tretyakov, maybe even of its content. There was only one means of self-defense — make it public — that was the only thing that saved him whenever he discovered egregious cases of corruption in the FSB, torture in police stations, or official misconduct. And so, he must gather the missing information as soon as possible.

His son was already at home, and this pleased Sergey. He was proud of his only child. Vladislav Sergeyevich Illarionov had always been smart, inquisitive and impatient — the same qualities that had distinguished Sergey in his youth. Vlad was 25-years-old and a graduate of the journalism faculty. He had no desire for a “normal” life. While still a student Vlad had been asked to work at one of the big federal television channels but refused. He preferred to work at a dissident website which he moved from text-only to full-blown videos and won a fivefold increase in viewership. The authorities did all they could to block the site, which resulted in the loss of viewership and lowered salaries. These days most of Vlad’s time was taken up helping people with internet anonymization software to get around government blocks.

“So what’s new?” asked Sergey.

“Tomorrow I’m going to the Kremlin Palace to take pictures of the local Hitler Youth. They’ll be with the President, and I managed to get myself accredited. Imagine, a week ago these freaks raided the office of Marya Fedorovna. Golovina’s a classy old lady, a real human being, and these shitheels are so juvenile they can’t even understand who they’re barking at. They deny everything, of course, but I want to ask Solntsev a few questions to see how he reacts.”