Vlad barked a humorless laugh. “You’re the third person in the past two days who’s told me I don’t know what I’m mixed up in. I know what you’re talking about. But if all of us run away, hide, give up without a fight, these maniacs will slit our throats one by one. I can’t just surrender the country to them because I’m scared. My father was no coward.” His throat constricted as he forced out the last words.
“Your father was a great man, and someday he’ll be honored as a hero in Russia, but leaving doesn’t mean giving up the fight. Your greatest weapon is the truth, but here no one is allowed to speak it. Sometimes from abroad it’s possible to do much more than you can here.”
No, my father will never be thought of as a hero in this country, no more than you are considered a hero. Even now, after so many years, after all the truth that was revealed about Soviet times, they smear you with mud. Russia has always destroyed her best people.
“I must identify the people who killed my father. I can’t leave without doing that. And my mother is all alone now. May I leave these papers in your files? And I’ll be grateful if you could ask Williams about getting them published.”
“Of course,” said the old dissident, resigned to the young man’s stubbornness. She’d seen it before in others, had been in their place as her friends disappeared one by one into the Gulag. “You may leave whatever you wish. I’ll contact Williams today. And don’t worry about me. They’ll never take me alive.”
Vlad couldn’t contain a smile at Golovina’s stab at black humor. “Take care of yourself, Marya Fedorovna. If any of those bastards show up here again, call me.”
She surrendered a haggard smile and a final warning. “Agreed. But please think about getting out. If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for the sake of your father’s legacy. There are too many people who need you to stay alive.”
Vlad returned home full of gratitude for this sturdy old lady who had endured so much.
Chapter 11
Derrick Williams was the cultural attaché at the American Embassy in Moscow and was frequently in contact with Russian citizens who had beefs with their government. His favorite was Marya Fedorovna Golovina, whom he considered a woman of great courage. He’d learned to trust the iron-willed old lady and respect her opinion. Thus, when one of her people delivered a sealed envelope to him at the Embassy, a rare occurrence, he took it seriously.
Five minutes after reading the note, Williams entered the office of Vance Johnson.
“Erm, Van. Could we have a word in the S.C.I.F.?”[4] He referred to the Plexiglas “room within a room” that was impervious to eavesdropping. This was a standard precaution for sensitive conversations.
Construction on the new embassy building on Bol’shoy Devyatinskiy Pereulok began in 1979 at the height of the Cold War with some of its structural components built by the Soviets. Six years later, American inspectors discovered that the building was literally riddled with listening devices and strange apparatuses for which no purpose could be determined, and the site could not be occupied for years.
In retaliation, the State Department refused to permit the Soviets to occupy their new embassy high up on Washington’s Wisconsin Avenue. Too late, the feckless State Department realized they had given the Russians a site ideal for the collection of signals intelligence. In the meantime, of course, the FBI tunneled under the Soviet structure in order to tap into phone and telecommunications lines. In due time, this was discovered by Soviet technicians.
Finally, in 1991 following the fall of the USSR, KGB Chairman Bakatin supplied the Americans with diagrams showing all the listening device emplacements. Nevertheless, the Americans took the structure apart and re-built it at enormous expense.
The recidivism demonstrated by the current Russian government dictated that security precautions still be taken seriously.
Vance Johnson was the CIA Chief of Station. His friendship with Derrick Williams might seem odd to many, but the two shared a common love of Russian poetry and single malt whiskey, as well as growing horror at the kleptocratic Russian regime. They seldom were seen together outside the Embassy for the very good reason that it would do Williams no good to be associated in even the most innocent way with anyone from the CIA.
Johnson looked up from his desk with raised eyebrows. Williams, whose tall gangly figure and wire rimmed glasses reminded Johnson of Ichabod Crane, was a good source of information on what was happening in this increasingly Machiavellian country.
The two found the S.C.I.F. unoccupied and settled at a corner of the conference table that took up most of the space inside.
“What’s up, Derrick?”
Williams handed him the note from Golovina. “I just received this, and I think it’s dynamite.” He could not conceal the excitement in his voice.
Johnson read the handwritten note, then read it again before speaking. “I know about Illarionov’s death. It’s the latest in a series. The siloviki have a knack for getting rid of troublesome journalists like Anna Politkovskaya. We suspect they even killed an American, Paul Klebnikov, some years ago. Unfortunately, there’s little we can do about it.”
“Did you see what she says Illarionov’s son has — a recording naming Gleb Solntsev as the mastermind of those apartment bombings fifteen years ago? And maybe something even more important — the original investigation report from Ryazan, the one they suppressed.”
“I’m not surprised about Solntsev. He’s former KGB and then FSB, and he’s a real bastard. I call him Putin’s Goebbels. But it’s just an accusation from a man convicted of crimes and now in prison in Ryazan. Written reports can be forged. The Kremlin will just dismiss it.”
“The Kremlin might, but outside of Russia it will be taken seriously. It could do real harm to Solntsev and that means harm to his bosses in the Kremlin. Why else would they resort to murder?”
“That may be, but it won’t matter much what western journalists say. The Russians will just dismiss it as propaganda.”
“What if we could get Illarionov’s son to the West? What if he published the material there? He has the actual recording.”
“That might work.” Johnson chewed his lower lip. “What are you getting at?”
“Couldn’t you guys help him out of the country?”
Johnson’s lopsided smile was bitter. “Derrick, as much as we might like to, exfiltrations are complicated and risky. We don’t undertake such things lightly, and then only for our most valuable sources when they get in trouble.”
“I’d say that Vlad Illarionov is in pretty deep trouble.”
“Maybe, but he’s not one of ours. And there’s another consideration. You know our policy is to remain at arms’ length from the dissident movement. It’s bad enough that the Kremlin claims to see our hand behind everything they don’t like. If we start actually getting involved with dissidents and the Russians were able to confirm it, it could well destroy the legitimacy of the opposition. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that.”
“So you won’t help?” Williams’ disappointment was palpable.
“Not ‘won’t;’ can’t. And you’ll agree once you think about it.”
Williams slumped in the chair. “They’ll kill this kid next, you know.”
“I wish I could do something, Derrick, I really do, but my hands are tied. You know that everyone at the Embassy is under surveillance by our friends at the FSB. It’s back to Cold War days here, except the new bosses in the Kremlin are fascists rather than communists.”