Morgan Stone - The Russian Factor

“And now your mother is harassing you to go home. So you say she doesn’t know where you are?”

“Not just my mother, Mikhail too. He is calling now and saying he is lost without me and tells me to come back or he’ll tell Mama that I refuse to marry him.”

“Does she know where you are?” I repeated more forcefully.

“Where I am? No. I didn’t tell them, otherwise I am sure one of them would be on the way here. They would just grab me and take me back home.”

“You’re twenty-seven. Someone can’t just snatch you off the street.”

“Of course they can! And it’s even worse because I’m a woman. Nobody here would say a word if they grabbed me. It’s Russia!”

“Actually this is Ukraine.” I said, looking over the rim of my cup for signs of Ukrainians offended by Anna’s assertion.

“It’s all the same. The same people, the same mentality. People pretend they don’t see if someone is dying on the sidewalk, you may not know that, and do you really believe anyone would stand up to a parent kidnapping their own daughter?”

Speechless, I thought about the dead man on the subway, the atrocities I’d seen ignored in the former Soviet Union because the victim was a wife, a girlfriend, a child, a dependent, a minority. I shivered, knowing that, for Anna and even for me, the danger was very real and compounded by a deeply fearful, angry and distrusting society.

The day everything went to hell started with an organized demonstration by supporters of the ousted Orange Revolutionary prime-minister, Yuliya Tymoshenko. The young, exuberant Block Yuliya supporters can be counted on for a great show. I grabbed the Leicaflex, called Anna, and we headed out to follow the chanting, singing crowd with the trademark white and Valentine’s heart flags. The first sign of trouble was that Anna’s tiny digital camera stayed in her pocket. She dragged, resisting my efforts to catch up with the crowd marching toward the Central Election Commission’s square.

“Come on, let’s go. What’s the problem?” I was a little ticked off.

“Oh Jess, I simply can not. My back is hurting so much.”

“Your back? You’re a fit twenty-seven year old.” I turned back. “Well, how about trying to stretch it out or something.”

She halfheartedly stretched up, raised her arms, then reached for the small of her back. “Jess, it really hurts.”

“Damn it!” Riot police had deployed around the Central Election Commission. I was missing the action.

Her eyes watered. “Please, Jess. I think there is something wrong. It hurts so much and it’s so cold. I want to go back to the apartment.”

The last demonstrators rounded the corner onto Kutuzova Boulevard. “But we’re half way there.” The grocery circus was behind us, its own parking lot the scene of a protest by Pora! — About Time! “Can you return on your own? I’ll take a few pictures and get back as fast as I can.”

Anna stared at me with puppy dog eyes.

I blew her off and turned to sprint — more like lurch — toward the demonstration near the Pecherska subway station. I hated myself for leaving, but I didn’t turn back. I wish I had, though. Things might not have gone all to hell quite so quickly.

A couple of hours later, I was barely in the door and Anna came at me shrieking. She shoved the Nizhny Novgorod eight-by-ten of her family into my face, “Shto eta! — What is this?”

She stomped to the living room.

I followed in muddy boots, leaving the stairwell doors wide open.

“What is all this?” She pounded on the table where she’d spread the contents of Galina’s folders. “My God! Who are you?”

I was uncharacteristically speechless.

My laptop was screen-locked, waiting for a password. She’d tried to get in. At least it was still recording. “Listen, Anna. It’s not what it looks like. I think we’re on your side. Maybe you can help us. Or we can help you.”

“Side? We? What side? Help me do what?”

“There are many people working toward free and fair elections here. Fighting corruption. Working for democracy. That’s what we are doing.”

“I do not believe you!” Anna rifled through the photos, tossing pictures of her mother, Sergei, her father, her uncle toward me. “A journalist would not have these pictures! Who are you? What do you want? Why are you following my family? Who are all these other people?” She threw a handful of papers toward the ceiling.

“Don’t you know? You must have some idea.”

“Know what?” Anna swept another folder off the table. “That you are spying?”

“Well, sort of.” I started.

“What sort of? ” Her face was red, her back pain long forgotten.

“Not spying really. More like observing. We gather information.”

“That is spying! And, we . You are all part of this? Galina and Luda are spies too? Okay, you tell me who you all are working for!”

I stood, still in my coat and boots. “I can’t tell you that. I don’t even know for sure. There are agencies that need to know about criminals who threaten freedom and peace. They pay for information when we can get it. We aren’t spies, though. Galina and Luda, work for a different agency than me, maybe someone in the Ukrainian government.”

“Ah hah, you are agents . Government agents, but you do not know for sure.” Anna mocked. “You have pictures of my mother, father, uncle, even me! I’m no criminal. I have done nothing wrong. I trusted you.” Anna threw herself on the sofa and banged the arm with her fist.

I put the camera bag down, unbuttoned my coat and walked toward her. Crouching beside the sofa, I racked my brains for a way to untangle the mess that wouldn’t put her or any of us in danger. The thought of losing Anna in a fit of tears and betrayal hollowed me out, but I wasn’t going to stop her if she wanted to go. I would, however, make sure she got out in one piece and any ramifications in Russia were minimized or avoided.

Watching Anna’s world collapse around her, brought tears to my own eyes. I knew from far too much personal experience how hurt and confused she was feeling. I analyzed her situation. At least she’d stopped posting things on the Internet once she had the attention of a westerner. As long as her network activity from the construction firm hadn’t been noticed, and nothing had happened to indicate it had been, she was in the clear. She told me she’d kept me and her Kiev plans a secret, especially when she started getting flack from her mother about phone calls with another woman. If she slipped back to Nizhny Novgorod, quietly and without letting on what she’d done or where she’d been, life might go on and she wouldn’t be in danger. Sure, she’d lose everything she discovered in Kiev. The intangibles, like joy, trust, innocence, freedom and love, but she wouldn’t lose her life.

Anna had little idea how deeply connected her mother and probably the rest of her family was to the syndicate. I leveled with her about what I knew, why I was interested in her family, her mother in particular, and what was at stake for her. She had to know.

It didn’t go well. Anna wasn’t ready to face the facts head on. I was confused. She must have known at least some of what had been going on around her at home. She’d resorted to subterfuge to leave Russia. She was in Kiev hiding from her mother. Obviously, she knew her mother wouldn’t approve in the least, and could possibly be dangerous if disobeyed. Nonetheless, she took offense at my suggesting her family had any criminal syndicate ties.

We went through some of the evidence she’d scattered on the table, and I pointed out a few of the syndicate brass in photos with her family members. As gently as I could, I told Anna about how some of those bosses she saw, mostly with her mother, were responsible for horrible crimes and operated completely without conscience. Eventually she gathered some of the photos of people she recognized and pointed them out to me: a boss, a bystander, even a cousin. I guess she had been in denial about her family’s involvement in this thing she had sort of known about.