“Understood.” Olga gulped and then blurted, “Valeriy Eduardovich, I understand that you don’t think I’m a professional, that I know nothing and can’t do anything. But I was able to fool a lot of people in Russia. They believed me; I could convince them of anything. If I have to, I can lie and pretend to get along with anyone. I love Russia, and I’ll do whatever is necessary. You’ll see.”
“We’ll see. Now, let’s go over some of your first tasks here.”
Her first marching orders against the enemy.
“It may seem obvious, but you must learn your way around, streets, public transportation, etc. This will be very important when you are given surveillance assignments, and there will be such assignments as soon as I am convinced you are ready. In your cover work you must be alert not only against enemy provocations, but also for people who may be sympathetic to Russia, people who may one day be co-opted or recruited as agents. You will, of course, prepare your reports in writing. We will meet here at the Embassy once a week to gauge your progress.”
So it was to be the same in Washington as in Yekaterinburg — endless walking, riding buses, the subway, studying maps. The second part of Karpov’s instructions was more interesting.
After dismissing the girl, Valeriy Eduardovich made his way to the top floor of the Embassy to the office of Dmitry Nikolayevich Olesnikov, the SVR Rezident in Washington. It was not his purpose to brief Olesnikov on Olga’s visit. It was time for their regular afternoon chat.
The relationship between the two was tenuous. Officially the SVR was responsible for foreign intelligence and counter-intelligence, and the Washington rezidentura was large and capable. But the President of the Russian Federation was the former head of the FSB, and the FSB was more genuinely “Chekist” than the “modernized” former First Chief Directorate that was the SVR. The foreign intelligence service suffered from numerous failures, including having its illegals operations wrapped up in the United States. That was why the President entrusted certain sensitive tasks to the FSB.
Formally, Karpov was to coordinate all of his operations with Olesnikov because, technically, he was on SVR “turf.” The rezident nevertheless suspected that Karpov did not share everything with him. And the rezident was correct. He resented Karpov, but managed to remain philosophical about it.
It was nearing embassy closing time, and Olesnikov was pouring his customary afternoon vodka when Karpov walked into his office without knocking.
Olesnikov downed the vodka in a single swallow and said, “What the fuck do you want?”
“Aren’t you going to invite me to drink?”
“Why not?” Olesnikov pulled another shot glass from his desk drawer and filled it after re-filling his own.
Karpov sat without an invitation and picked up his glass. “Ura!” he said, and downed it.
“Do you have anything important to share?”
Karpov knew it was not a serious question. “No,” he replied, “just business as usual.”
“You had a visitor this afternoon, a very pretty little visitor.” He leered at Valeriy Eduardovich over his glass.
Of course, the rezident would have a list of all visitors and who their contacts at the embassy. “Just a new staffer at the Russian-American Study Group. I gave her the standard security briefing.”
“So she’s not here to bump anyone off?”
Karpov laughed to cover his embarrassment. “Of course, not, Dmitry Nikolayevich. That joke’s getting a little stale.”
It was not yet three P.M. when Olga stepped back out the Embassy gate onto Wisconsin Avenue. With nothing more on her schedule now was as good a time as ever to begin her reconnaissance of the District of Columbia. She set off toward ‘M’ Street with a determined stride, but after several blocks decided it would be too far to walk.
She raised her arm at a passing yellow taxicab, and to her delight it pulled over immediately. The driver was large and black, and this led to second thoughts as she hovered indecisively between getting in and remaining on the street. Finally, she slid into the car, safely separated from the driver by a Plexiglas partition. On a whim, she instructed him to take her to the Capitol building. What better place to start than the heart of the enemy camp?
The cab stopped on Capitol South in front of the Library of Congress, and she carefully counted out the fare before placing it in the slot in the partition. She was taken aback by the fierce glare of disgust from the driver and then recalled the American custom of tipping. Apparently, working people were so poorly paid they depended on the charity of others to make ends meet. This cabbie was a member of an oppressed group. She reached back into her purse and placed an additional dollar bill in the slot. The driver shook his head philosophically and pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires.
Across the wide street the Capitol Building at first seemed quite unremarkable — a building with some columns surmounted by a dense network of scaffolding. But as she walked around it, she appreciated it more as the afternoon sun splashed off its columns and broad steps in contrast to the bright, autumnal colors of the trees. Stash’s warning came to mind: “Even if you really like something, even if it’s beautiful, always remember that it’s all built on the blood and bones of millions of destroyed lives.”
This place is the center of evil, she said to herself.
Chapter 28
Vlad stared blankly into the darkened countryside rushing past the window. Four hours earlier he had boarded the train at Kharkov’s twin towered station, and in two more hours he would arrive in Kiev. The departure from Kharkov was precipitous, triggered by the urgent message transmitted along Golovina’s ratline to Mitya in Belgorod and across the border to Bogdan Kosti in Kharkov.
Bogdan’s friendly manner was instantly replaced by marshal determination as he rushed Vlad out of the apartment to the train station.
On the platform, Bogdan pressed a wad of bills and a page torn from a notepad into Vlad’s hand. “This is all I have right now,” he said, “but it’s enough to pay for a hotel in Kiev for a couple of nights. I’m giving you the number of a reliable contact there, but I advise you to contact the Americans as soon as possible.” Golovina’s warning message included the embassy number provided by Williams.
Escape into Ukraine was not the last step in Vlad’s flight, but he hadn’t expected FSB wolves to be on his trail so quickly. Maybe he shouldn’t have published that article in Yevropeyskiy Kharkov. It was a foolish gesture of gratitude to Bogdan, but it revealed his location to enemies who might already be in Ukraine. Maybe they were waiting in the Kiev train station scanning the faces of arriving passengers.
By the time he arrived it was after ten P.M., and an icicle of anxiety pierced his chest as the train pulled to a stop. He remained in his seat for a long time as he surveyed the platform through the window in a vain attempt to spot any FSB operatives lurking in the shadows. Finally, he realized he would never be able to spot them. He lacked the necessary training and knowledge. His only choice was to step out of the train and hope to luck that an assassin’s bullet would not cut him down.