Lisitsyn cocked his head and grimaced slightly at Gleb’s enthusiasm. “You don’t think sending her to the States entails a risk?”
“Her handlers will pay careful attention to her. On the plus side, Olga already has three years’ experience with “Svoi,” speaks excellent English and works well with young people. She’s good at public speaking. It doesn’t hurt that she’s attractive, either. She’s proven she can handle the tough jobs. And she’ll get better with proper training.”
Chapter 15
Vlad stared blankly at his computer screen. The hundreds and thousands of words were beginning to run together. The web was replete with obscure rumors, heated arguments that spread like wildfire and disappeared just as suddenly. There were pictures, faces, absurd clips from movies and cartoons designed to hide the true identities of their originators. He was a patient and methodical reader, shifting from one on-line forum to another like a machine, a cold mechanism incapable of human emotion, forever trapped in a virtual universe, a search engine like Google.
He was afflicted by the unthinkable suspicion that he was responsible for his father’s death. The realization washed over his body like an icy shower. He had told one person and one person only about his father’s plans. It had been irresponsible, a childish desire to win an argument.
Could Olga Polyanskaya have informed on him, pointed the murderers to his father?
Of one thing he was certain: the murder was no coincidence. There was Tretyakov’s death, and now Zhuravlev’s suicide. Could little Olga really have been the spark that ignited this horror, just as the FSB ignited those bombs so many years ago?
Olga was deeply involved in “Svoi,” and he did not doubt that people from “Svoi” were responsible for his father’s death. It was the only thing that made sense. It was far from the first time that “Solntsev’s bully boys had beaten a journalist.
Vlad refused to spare himself the guilt. It would weigh upon him forever and perhaps eventually bring him down. But before that happened, he would have his revenge on the ravening beasts that were devouring his country.
He needed more information, more evidence, and so he began with an internet search for anything related to “Svoi.” Many considered the organization an excellent starting point for an administrative career. But Vlad paid special attention to the critics in the hope that someone knew the organization’s darker secrets.
It took several hours, but at last his efforts were rewarded. An anonymous writer using the pseudonym “Darth Vader” responded to a long, laudatory post about the Kremlin’s useful work with young people. “This guy Solntsev trains ‘socially active citizens’? In truth he turns them into banal murderers. Compared to the things that take place in this sect the Soviet Komsomol was kindergarten.”
Navigation of the Internet is a survival skill for Russian dissidents, and Vlad was no exception. Like a bloodhound on the scent, he teased out everything he could about “Darth Vader.” The representative of “the Dark Side” was 29 years-old, lived in Moscow, liked to play the electric guitar, and his old instrument was up for sale. Vlad didn’t need a guitar, but this was a way to contact “Vader.” He posted a message indicating interest in the guitar.
He was rewarded by a return post the same evening proposing to meet the next day. The movie villain’s real name was Nikolay, and he lived in the Cheremushki area in south-western Moscow.
Vlad spent a restless night disturbed by visions of a world on fire while he stood by and watched as houses, trees, and tiny human figures lost their form and color until they were shapeless mounds of ash. Then came a strong, cold wind that blew across the gray landscape to sweep away the remains of the charred universe and leave an empty black plane as the wind dispersed the brittle flakes.
The rendezvous in Cheremushki turned out to be a garage used by a rock band for rehearsals. He was met by a long-haired fellow whose indifferent manner did not promise a long conversation. As soon as Vlad asked about “Svoi,” Kolya (Nikolay) refused to talk.
“You don’t understand,” he said with a nervous glance over his shoulder, “They’re murderers. If I say even a word about them and they find out, I’m a dead man. Forget about them, and forget about me.”
“I’ll forget,” said Vlad, “but will they? You’ve already written about them on the Internet and publicly called them murderers. It’s foolish the think they didn’t see it. If it was easy for me to find you, how hard would it be for a former Chekist like Solntsev?”
“But what can I do?” Kolya was terrified.
“Hiding for the rest of your life isn’t the answer,” replied Vlad. Then he remembered Golovina’s advice. “Maybe you should go to the West, maybe to the US. Get any kind of visa you can and then ask for political asylum. Tell them all you know. Maybe after a while you’ll get into some American rock group.”
“Do they grant asylum so quickly?”
“Not right away. But tell me what you know before you leave. I’ll not publish anything until you’re safe. After that, no one will believe you could ever come back.”
He had no right to say such things to Kolya, but his father’s death drove him to extremes. He was fighting his father’s war as best he could, like a wounded wolf cub snapping at every opportunity to strike a blow against powerful and ruthless enemies. He didn’t intend to deceive Kolya, and would not, of course, publish his information so long as he was in Russia. He knew nothing about political asylum, but he was certain of one thing: he would never seek it himself so long as his father’s murderers remained unpunished.
“OK,” sighed Kolya, who was not as realistic as Vlad. “But don’t judge me too harshly. I was there myself. I was young and stupid. I wanted to serve my country, understand? I wanted to be a part of something important. You probably don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“I was very active,” continued Kolya. “I was dedicated. After a couple of years, Solntsev took an interest and invited me into what he calls his “inner circle.” He uses these people for special tasks. There were ten of us, and they used us for all sorts of dirty work: beatings, blackmail, slander — I literally picked up shit and throw it at people. Sometimes we went to opposition gatherings and broke them up. Once we even released noxious gas. Solntsev said we were defending our country. Then some young liberal managed to infiltrate our group. He found out a lot and was going to make it public. Gleb ordered us to beat him to death.”
Vlad struggled to keep his voice even. “And what did you do?”
“Me? What about them?” Kolya’s words were heated. “I didn’t sign up for ‘wet work.’ I left and didn’t go back. I never found out what happened, and I didn’t want to. It’s better not to know. You don’t just walk away from Gleb Solntsev. It makes you a traitor and a potential danger. So I hid and didn’t say anything until I wrote that bit on the Internet. I wish I hadn’t done it.”
The former “Svoi” thug lived like a rat in a hole afraid for his life and stirred a vestige of sympathy in Vlad. “OK. Thank you, Kolya, man to man, if only because you didn’t kill anyone… You should try to get out of the country. Don’t waste any time, and let me know. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” glumly replied Kolya. “I want to make music in America.”
Vlad shrugged. “Good luck.”