Michael Davidson - In the Shadow of Mordor

Still consumed by these thoughts, she did not hear the arrival of the Humvee. But she was called back to the present by the old man’s gruff challenge to the new arrivals. She couldn’t make out the details of the verbal skirmish. Horrified, she rushed to the bedroom window but could see nothing.

She fell back onto the bed and curled up like a hunted animal. She was ashamed of her weakness and hysterics, for her excessive openness, her tears and her demeaning and useless pleas. How could she explain to the Americans what had happened without admitting her own guilt? How could she trust people who had so recently been her enemy?

Vlad Illarionov was angry and impatient. His article on the Moscow apartment bombings was complete, the editorial board had approved its publication, but the Metro outrage knocked everything else out of the news. Several days passed with little or no official progress. There was a claim of responsibility that may well be specious. Homeland Security and the FBI were still studying the evidence, so press speculation ran the full spectrum.

Most of the stories by now concerned the victims and the families left behind. America was a strange place where mourning, sympathy, and pleas for unity came before rage and vows of revenge. Aside from a few publicity-seeking hotheads, no one was demanding the invasion of another country or “turning the desert to glass.” The public debate was all about determining the truth before leaping to conclusions.

The Kremlin immediately offered condolences and solidarity in the face of international Islamist terrorism and issued a statement about its own struggle with terrorism. Given what Vlad knew, he could only scoff at such cynical opportunism. Every emanation from the Kremlin was aimed at advancing only the Kremlin’s agenda.

The chance meeting with Olga Polyanskaya was a shock. His childhood fondness for her had curdled into sour loathing. He could not imagine what that lickspittle of Gleb Solntsev was doing in Washington. He was certain it was nothing good, and he vowed to look into it after his article was published.

Right now he hurried along the wet sidewalk toward the Washington Post building on ‘K’ Street for a meeting with Ethan Holmes. The reporter’s phone call a half’-hour earlier was the first contact with Vlad since his article had been postponed. Maybe the day had come.

Holmes greeted him with a hearty handshake and a slap on the back. “We’re going to publish your story in Sunday’s paper on the op-ed page with a photo of your father. We’ll have to compose a shorter version because of space allotments, but it’ll cover all the main points. The full version will appear on our webpage, and we’ll include excerpts from the recording of Tretyakov’s confession along with translation.”

He expected Vlad to be pleased.

“It will be published as an opinion piece rather than factual reporting?” Vlad didn’t hide his disappointment. In his mind, the piece should be on the front page with a screaming headline — GLEB SOLNTSEV IS A MASS MURDERER.

“Calm down, Vlad. This is a very influential newspaper. It’s read all over the world, and it’ll be picked up by other news outlets. Believe me, it’ll be big. I just hope you’re prepared for the blow-back. There’ll be a lot of that, even from Putin apologists here in the States.”

“At least no one here will beat me to death and throw me in a ditch,” replied Vlad, his voice embittered by the memory of discovering his father’s body in Bittevskiy Park. The horror of that night seemed at once long ago and only yesterday.

Holmes grasped the significance of Vlad’s rejoinder. It was almost physically painful to see such a young man so consumed by hatred. As gently as he could, he said, “No, Vlad. That’s not likely to happen here.

Vlad controlled the anger that scorched and darkened his soul. The inescapable guilt for betraying his father’s secret to Olga Polyanskaya was a cilice that pricked his conscience daily. It filled his thoughts with an oppressive blackness that colored even his joy at the impending revelation of one of the Kremlin’s darkest secrets. Maybe he was no longer capable of happiness.

The old man led an unsteady Olga, clutching one of his heavy terrycloth robes around her, into the living room where two strangers studied her with unconcealed curiosity. The man was barrel-chested and sturdy with black hair and piercing blue eyes. There was the shadow of a beard on his face. He was not dressed for the mountains, and his trouser legs and shoes were wet from the snow.

The woman was taller and older than Olga, with auburn hair and hazel eyes, wearing jeans and a sweater. She was quite attractive, but her demeanor was businesslike, and she wore a badge and pistol on her belt. Under the woman’s steady gaze Olga was acutely aware of her own disheveled appearance. She must be the very image of guilt.

After an uncomfortable silence, the old man performed introductions. Olga’s discomfort increased now that she actually faced the man from the FBI and the woman identified as a police officer. Why a police officer? Surely they meant to arrest her.

“Why don’t you all take a seat by the fire,” said the old man. With a meaningful look at Krystal and Ferguson, he added, “You need to get acquainted and explain why you’re here.” The first order of business was to build rapport with the subject of the interrogation.

He led Olga to the sofa, and the policewoman sat next to her. The old man and the FBI agent pulled up some chairs. Olga pulled to robe closer and sank her chin onto her chest.

Krystal had a plethora of experience dealing with crime victims, and if she had ever seen a victim, this young woman was one. In the gentlest voice she could muster, she took Olga’s hand in her own and said, “Olga, may I call you Olga? We’re here to help you. We understand that you’ve been through a terrible experience, and all we want to do now is hear your story.”

The policewoman’s hand was warm on her own, and Olga resisted the urge to pull away. In her experience the police assumed a person was guilty and all their questions were intended only to prove that guilt. There was no threat in this woman’s voice, but it could be a trick.

“Do you understand English?” Krystal asked.

Olga nodded mutely.

“Good. Can you tell us what happened, how and why you turned up here? We’d like to know about the two men, as well.”

Mention of the Chechens brought back the horrors of her kidnapping and the terror of the night before. She could not prevent the fat tears that rolled down her cheeks. But she still said nothing.

Krystal turned to their host. “Do you know how to make a hot toddy? I think it would be a good thing.”

The old man busied himself with honey, lemon, hot water, and a generous slug of whiskey. Olga accepted the steaming mug in both hands and sipped the sweet contents that began immediately to spread warmth throughout her body. Finally she was able to speak in a barely audible voice. “You’re going to arrest me, aren’t you?”

Given what Strachey’s account of the girl’s story, Krystal understood her fear. “No one is here to arrest you,” she said. “You must believe me. If anything, you are a victim, and our only intention is to help you in any way possible. But we have to understand everything that happened. It’s the only way we can protect you.”

They expected her to say something. She had to say something, but what could she say without incriminating herself?

“Why don’t we start with how you came to be here?” asked the policewoman. Did those men kidnap you?”

Yes, she had been taken by force. That was no crime. She could safely talk about that.