“That’s good news, but it won’t slow them down long. Can you guarantee Illarionov gets out of the country safely?”
“He’ll be behind a cordon of SBU tough guys. Nobody will get to him in Ukraine before he gets away.”
“Let me know when he’s on the way.”
Johnson replaced the receiver and closed his eyes. He needed to think, and he needed to get back to Washington for a few days.
Chapter 29
There was one building in Washington where Olga could be assured of finding likeminded friends. The offices of the Russian-American Study Group were near the intersection of 17th and ‘M’ streets in the heart of the business district within easy walking distance of The White House. The exterior reminded her of the Russian Embassy, and she looked upon it as a sort of outpost on the front line.
The Group’s small suite of offices was on the third floor with a view of the National Geographic Building on the opposite side of 17th Street through a narrow window.
“So how do you like Washington, Olga Vladimirovna?” The head of the Group, Valentin Gyorgievich Zartetskiy greeted her. Olga returned his smile. In contrast to Karpov, Zaretskiy was gentle and charming. He could not, of course, compare to the charismatic Solntsev who was capable of igniting the spark of heroism in even the most mediocre of people. Nevertheless, Zaretskiy’s friendly and caring manner was reassuring.
“Bright and pretentious, but Moscow’s better,” she replied.
“True,” said Zaretskiy, still smiling, “There would be nothing to do here if it weren’t for the work. And we have a lot of it. Take a seat.”
He led her into a small conference room where they found Stash already at the table.
Zaretskiy said, “Olga has only just arrived, and already we have a very important job for her. First, you may be surprised to learn that we have friends in America, even important people. And one of our most important jobs is to help them.”
Unlike Karpov’s emphatically dismissive attitude, her “official” boss treated her with respect, although with a certain informality. She could be quite successful here.
“Do you know the name Alan Sandburg?” asked Zaretskiy.
This was a name familiar to viewers of Russian television. She recalled an image of a rather dry, no longer young man talking about the dangers of aggressive American policies that could lead to conflict with Russia. He accused his own country of unleashing a new Cold War and interfering in Ukraine.
Stash bent so close to her that she could feel his breath on her ear. “He’s an analyst.”
Embarrassed by Stash’s closeness, she leaned away and said, “Yes, I’ve seen him on RT.”
“Mr. Sandberg is one of the most senior so-called Russian specialists in the States,” Zaretskiy continued. “He understands that the security of the United States depends on maintaining good relations with Moscow, and that American interference in our sphere of influence led directly to the present crisis. He works at an influential ‘think tank’ and is considered their primary Russian specialist. I’m sure you understand how important his help is in supporting our interests. People at the highest levels pay attention to what he says.”
Olga was intrigued. Here was an American in the very heart of the enemy camp who served Russian interests. She was certain there must be more here than met the eye. Otherwise, why would Zaretskiy and Stash be talking about the man?
Her thoughts were confirmed by Zaretskiy’s next words, pronounced with a certain solemnity. “What is not evident is that he could do none of that without our help. In fact, we provide a great deal of material and guidance to him.” He paused for emphasis before saying, “And we pay him well for his efforts.”
“He’s one of ours, and frankly it’s amazing he’s gotten away with it for so long,” added Stash.
Zaretskiy said, “Yes. For years his ‘think tank’ has trusted his analyses and acted on his prognoses. His policy papers are sent to Congress, the State Department, even the Pentagon. Alan Sandburg frequently visited Russia, even in Soviet times. No one questions his competence. But he does have his detractors, and they are becoming more vocal. It is more important than ever to continue to support him in every possible way.”
Stash leaned close again. “And that will be your main job for the Group, Olga.”
Anxiety fluttered in her chest, like a bird trying to escape a cage. She was to be entrusted with such an important task? “How will I do this?” she asked. “And what do you mean by ‘one of ours?’”
Stash smiled indulgently. “I mean that he’s our creature, but he probably actually thinks he’s his own man. He’s quite egotistical, and that makes him easy to manipulate.”
Zaretskiy broke in. “Olga, you are a young girl, and this old man will be susceptible to your obvious charms. He’ll continue to do as we say, and he’ll like it. In Washington our Group is just one ‘think tank’ among many, and it will be perfectly natural for you to be in regular contact with Sandburg. No one will suspect a thing. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
This was a lot to take in at once. “So he actually does not believe what he says? He just does it for the money?”
Stash laughed out loud. “Oh, he probably believes it. But all Americans love money and will do almost anything to get it.”
“How does it work?”
Zaretskiy said, “Moscow sends talking points and guidance at least once a week. All you have to do is deliver them to Sandburg.”
Her initial anxiety now melted into something like disappointment. After all this build up, she was to be nothing more than a messenger.
Reading her thoughts, Zaretskiy sought to reassure her. “Olga, this is a very important operation, and the fact that we are entrusting it to you should make you proud.”
“And that’s not all you’ll be doing.” Stash laid an arm around her shoulders. She was uncomfortable at the familiarity but didn’t shrug him off. She was still feeling her way.
Zaretskiy smiled slyly then turned serious. “Having a person like you on our staff is really a good thing. You have a lot of practice meeting new people, and we’ll put that to good use. There is a lot of Russian garbage here who dream of profiting from the troubles of their own country. It’s just a bunch of filthy hipsters and shrieking gay activists. What they want is asylum, and so they complain about the ‘bloody Kremlin.’
“The Yankees don’t pay them much attention. Occasionally some local politician will meet with them and snap a few photos to show the voters that America is protecting human rights, and then they forget about them. Since 1991 there has not been much interest in Russia here in Washington. But our liberals often organize ugly meetings and protests at our consulates. We never took them seriously, but we still have to keep an eye on them.”
Olga was filled with resentment, and there was fire in her voice. “Filthy cosmopolitan scum. What can we do?”
“We must gather as much information as possible. And this means you must go among them, get to know them. Your task is to find out all you can about their activities and plans, who are the leaders. We must discover their weaknesses, for example, find out about their families still in Russia.”
“You think they’ll really talk to me?”
It was Stash’s turn to speak. “This isn’t simple, Olga. I’ll give you some names of reliable, pro-Russian activists in the Russian community. These are regular people, but they are still patriots. The community is not large, and they all know one another. They go to the same Russian theaters, put their kids in the same Russian kindergartens and Russian-language schools. If they’re believers, they go to the same churches. There are even Russian dentists. Be discreet. Get to know them. We’ll help you.”