In the Shadow of Mordor Read online

  For the next ten years she worked as a janitor, living in a small set of rooms on the same street in Maliy Karetniy Pereulok, in the heart of old Moscow, not far from the Hermitage Gardens. When Perestroika began she devoted her life to the collection of information on victims of repression she hoped might be rehabilitated. She converted her old janitor's quarters into a sort of registry of victims of political repression and soon received the first foreign grants from an educational society with vague human rights inclinations. Despite this, Marya Fedorovna remained eccentric, like someone released from prison only yesterday.

  Golovina's dramatic history didn’t impress Olga. She didn't obsess about Stalinist repression. What bothered Olga was the way this old, overdressed hen drew parallels between Soviet totalitarianism and life in today's Russia. For that matter, Olga had nothing in particular against Stalin, but the subject was controversial, and comparisons with the current president could not be tolerated. As far as she was concerned the president had transformed a country devastated and impoverished during the Yeltsin years into a strong and prosperous state.

  Golovina simply could not be appeased. She went from one institute or university after another spreading her poisonous opinions. Even worse, she did this for American money. It was as if the old lady was offended by the entire world and truly hated Russia. She wanted only one thing – to destroy her country and grind it to dust just like she and others like her destroyed the Soviet Union. And so, when the chief told her there would be a meeting today between Golovina and a representative of the American Embassy, Olga happily volunteered to participate in a provocation.

  And now here was Golovina right in front of her staring at the report in Olga's hand. The old lady took a step toward her with a shriek. "Put that down immediately, and get out of here, all of you."

  Olga was at once amused and frightened. What might a crazy old woman do?

  "Where is Pasha?" she asked, "Let's see how much money you spent on anti-Russian activities last month." She began turning the pages of the report. "So, showing a film about the political prisoner Sergey Litvinov at the Colosseum Theater. Well! Seven hundred dollars. Was that to rent the hall, or was it that Litvinov wouldn't take less?"

  An amused voice sounded from behind the old woman. "And since when was Litvinov a political prisoner?"

  Olga breathed a sigh of relief. It was Pasha.

  He sauntered into the office, unceremoniously shoved Golovina aside and stuck the video recorder in her face.

  "And how do you explain Litvinov's theft of ten million dollars when he worked for an oil company? The court confirmed this. And his speeches calling for revolution in Russia? Do you really think someone calling for the violent overthrow of the legally elected authorities is a political prisoner? Or did the guy in the next room from the American Embassy teach you to talk like that?"

  Pasha was a big man and could be overpowering. The old lady reddened before turning on him with unexpected fury.

  "You're just children, nothing but children. Someday you'll be ashamed of what you're doing here. You think your little camera gives you the right to interrupt a private meeting? Have you learned nothing from life, from suffering and loss? You're not worth even the little finger of the people you bully."

  Olga felt a fleeting vestige of shame and pity. But the hysterical notes in the rights activist's voice had no such effect on Pasha. He took a determined step to Olga's side, snatched the report from her hands, and laid it out on the desk. He began photographing the document all the while cursing under his breath. With a yelp, Golovina threw herself at him and tried to grab the papers. With a guffaw, Pasha easily shoved her away and resumed taking pictures while the old lady circled him, trying to retrieve the report from behind his broad back.

  Despite herself, Olga was embarrassed. "Pasha …"

  But the big man was ranting as he read parts of the document. "This is best of all. The organization and training of election observers. Elections! Just tell me where there is any repression. Now we can show how so-called human rights activists plan to interfere in politics with foreign money."

  "It's nothing like that." Golovina's voice was thin and shrill as she continued to hop around Pasha like an animated scarecrow. "We don't participate in elections. Observers only monitor the integrity of the procedure."

  "To hell with you and your Americans. Go to America and observe elections there."

  He was interrupted by Vovchik's voice from the corridor. "Guys, let's get out of here. One of her friends arrived and called for reinforcements. They'll arrive any minute."

  Pavel froze for a beat to assess the situation. He shot a hard look at Olga who was staring at the old woman. "What's the matter with you?"

  She turned to him and thought she detected a hint of suspicion in his eyes. The very idea that her friends might suspect her of sympathizing with the enemy was unacceptable.

  "You old witch," she yelled as she ran after Pasha to the exit. She almost tripped over the dog and stretched out a hand to one of the metal racks to regain her balance. The fragile structure swayed, but she didn't notice. She turned in the doorway in time to see the entire row of racks topple, bringing others down with it in a flurry of paper and crumbling cardboard.

  The room was instantly obscured by a cloud of dust as yellowed photos and death sentences performed a macabre ballet in the air. Olga raced down the corridor and up the stairs, out of the dark basement back into the warm embrace of a late summer day in Moscow.

  CHAPTER 2

  Gleb Solntsev beamed at the small group gathered around him. Olga held her breath in anticipation. Even after three years she still reacted to his every utterance and gesture like a schoolgirl who wished for his approval more than anything in the world.

  "This is wonderful," said Solntsev. "I offer praise rarely, but this time you outdid yourselves. The State Department report is especially significant. The day after tomorrow it will be the subject of an NTV exposé, and a fire will be lit under the old viper."

  Everyone laughed, and Olga laughed with them, not because she shared the schadenfreude of her boss; she was simply thrilled to be included. An almost physical warmth united them in the camaraderie of their special mission.

  The main office of the Kremlin youth organization known as "Svoi" («Свои» - "ours") in contrast to the cellar at Maliy Karetniy Pereulok was spacious and well lighted. Through the window, the sun lit a space on the wall where, in a place of honor under the bright stripes of the Russian flag hung a portrait of the president, on his face the steely gaze of the Chekist, the condescending irony of the eternal winner. Olga had been as close to the man as she now was from his portrait. Three years ago when he visited her youth camp he sat on a folding chair right next to her tent as he talked about the country and the vast prospects open to her youth.

  Three years ago while still a high-school senior she accepted a classmate's invitation to her first "Svoi" meeting. The huge auditorium was filled with young people of all sorts, from schoolchildren to young adults, even some families. She was captivated.

  On that occasion Gleb Solntsev entered her life – the creator and founder of the organization. He was still in his mid-40's, decisive and charming, and Olga thought he was incredibly handsome. He treated everyone informally but radiated such authority that no one thought of disobeying him.

  He was passionate, and this helped him organize and inspire. He was like a magnet to young hearts, subduing them through strength of character and dedication. He could be tactless and rude, but no one held it against him because they all knew how much he cared about them. Olga was entranced by this mixture of fervor and cold calculation.

  He was accessible to one and all but still inscrutable, and every personal conversation with him left her with vain worries about what Gleb really thought when he answered her naïve questions and heard her suggestions. She was still too distant from him, a newcomer to his exciting world. Gleb was a veteran of the FSB where he had distinguished himself
in some secret operation. He was invited to join the presidential administration where he became involved in youth policy.

  There was always somebody around him, beginning with recruits to the movement with whom Solnstev always spoke a long time one-on-one, and ending with officials and even the president. She learned not to be jealous of the crowds and to be satisfied to be on the edge of his immeasurably busy life.

  They often talked on the run, during noisy meetings, or quick telephone conversations. For a long time Gleb did not include her among his most trusted people, those who undertook the most delicate tasks, such as the disruption of Golovina's meeting with the American diplomat. Solntsev discussed such operations with them privately, without witnesses. And now Olga was part of this privileged group.

  "And I didn't get into the picture," she said in mock offense at the praise. "Even though it was I who found the report and began to read it, too. Pasha came in later. I was afraid that that crazy old woman would kill me on the spot."

  "You did everything just right," said Gleb. "Don't worry about not being in the video. It may be for the best. We may reserve your charming little face for more peaceful appearances."

  Turning to Pasha, he said, "In the future you must never allow anyone to be alone, not even for a short while. You saw that Olga was working alone and you should have backed her up immediately. You're a team. There is no place for solos. Work smoothly, but always together – that's our strength. Olga's idea to knock down the old lady's shelves is beyond praise. An excellent ad lib."

  Pasha's large face clouded at the rebuke, and Olga started to protest that knocking over the shelves was an accident, but she could almost believe she'd done it on purpose, and she remained silent.

  Only a few years ago Olga Polyanskaya could not have imagined ransacking the belongings of an old gulag survivor. But the organization taught her that some situations demand one to choose the lesser of two evils. After all, Golovina would not be shot or even fined. Olga and her companions only uncovered the truth – the very real fact of a meeting between the "rights" activist and an American. The unanticipated acquisition of the report justified everything. Golovina was a willing traitor to the Motherland. Any suffering and shame would be fitting payback.

  "Can you just imagine what would happen if there were to be a revolution?" Gleb would say. "People like Golovina could cause the collapse of everything – heat, electricity, children playing in the yard, the carousels in the parks, peace, and the tranquility of hundreds of thousands of people. You can see, for example, what happened with the Libyans and Syrians. Ruin, bombing cities, chaos, packs of looters in the streets, poverty, destruction, and death. People don't think about this because they can't imagine how possible it is if traitors like Golovina come to power or raise the zombie liberals to revolution. Yesterday you saw that she and others like her are getting money from our main enemies like Williams who want to destroy our lives."

  He locked eyes with each of them in turn, judging their reaction.

  "And our task is to demonstrate the horror of this western plague, to reveal all its rottenness, all the corruption, all the danger for our country. There should be no mercy for enemies and traitors."

  The organization recruited volunteers for the Donbas and inspired them to mercilessly exterminate "unholy evil." He didn't speak of the Americans in this regard. But what did it matter as she was with people dedicated to the defense of their country and the lives of hundreds and thousands of their fellow citizens? What could compare with this?

  Gleb continued, "I reward good work. Next week there is a meeting in the Kremlin Palace for the President and patriotic youth organizations. It will be a big deal with a lot of media, including foreign journalists. You are to conduct yourselves well. Remain polite with no radicalism, no mention of our secret actions, nothing about what we discuss here. Do you understand? There's an invitation for each of you."

  Olga was outrageously pleased, but she wouldn't allow emotions to show. She'd learned to hide exultation behind mock coldness.

  Mention of "the Motherland," "secret actions," or "meetings in the Kremlin" no longer elicited head-spinning passion or silly girlish delight. With each passing day the amorphous concept of "Motherland" coalesced within her. Only Gleb and his closest advisors understood such realities while ordinary people saw only what was in front of their noses.

  The world was blind and existed in a flat, two-dimensional space. Olga sometimes imagined she was some sort of super human, aware of another reality. Without their organization quite a different reality might impose itself. She existed on a plane denied to ordinary Russians.

  CHAPTER 3

  Komsomolskaya Ploshchad', commonly known as the square of three train stations, grimy as usual and submerged in the clamor and unchanging rhythm of Moscow, was in sharp contrast to the quiet of the provincial streets of Ryazan. Streams of impatient people jostled one another as they rushed to the Metro resigned to spending an hour or so in the hustle and bustle with transfers to lines serving the outskirts of the great city. During these hours the transportation network is packed tight with grumpy passengers shoving one another and banging on the train doors. Yet, even amidst such chaos some of them managed to pull out a book to read while resting it on someone's back. This was Moscow.

  Impervious to the evening bustle Sergey Illarionov squeezed into a car at Komsomolskaya Station. He was just back from a trip, on the trail of the most serious journalistic investigation of his career. The Dictaphone recording in his breast pocket contained danger as well as opportunity.

  Illarionov didn't doubt that that the testimony of former FSB Colonel Viktor Tretyakov was true. The numerous stratagems employed by the regional administration and the management of the detention facility to prevent the meeting confirmed his suspicions. Sergey was grateful for the resourceful human rights activists of the Public Oversight Commission that monitored the condition of prisoners. They overcame many obstacles to secure his meeting. Alarmed by the prospect of publicity and complaints to the regional procurator, the prison authorities reluctantly allowed him to see Tretyakov. They confiscated his video-recorder and Dictaphone. But Tretyakov's lawyer had slipped him his own pocket recorder.

  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 tas
ks. 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?"