It was a spur of the moment decision, his interest slightly piqued. It was not so much the fact that the couple aroused his curiosity, but rather the outline of a large caliber pistol traced through the fabric of the man’s jacket when he bent to the trolley to lift items onto the counter.
Virginia is a concealed carry State, but the combination of a Muslim couple and a large caliber weapon in a store full of shoppers flipped an interior switch which activated reflexes too much a part of his make-up for too many years to ignore. Entirely of its own accord his hand snaked inside his jacket to unsnap the safety strap that secured a Heckler & Koch .45 Tactical in a shoulder rig.
Nothing untoward happened. The couple paid for their purchases with cash and trundled toward the exit. Except that when the man spoke to the woman the language he used was Russian. This shifted the old man’s speculation geographically northward, toward the Caucasus.
The old man paid and pushed his own cart to the parking lot where he loaded his purchases into the Land Rover.
The couple was still loading their purchases into the bed of a beat up F-150 with sun-bleached red paint and a sagging rear bumper. The woman did the heavy lifting while the man stood aside lighting a cigarette. When she was finished, the woman headed back to the main building tugging both empty trolleys behind. After crushing his cigarette beneath his shoe, the man climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine, which emitted a well-tuned purr that belied the trucks appearance. He waited for the woman to return and clamber into the cab before backing out of the parking space.
The old man filled the Land Rover’s tank with cheap Costco gas and headed for an ABC store to pick up a couple of bottles of single malt.
Some days later he spotted the F-150 again on the narrow gravel road that led up to Supin Lick ridge. It was stopped in front of a gate that guarded a narrow dirt road leading to a former turkey farm. On certain hot summer days when the wind was right, the stench of the old breeding barns drifted up the mountain over his fifty acres that lay just to the west.
As the Land Rover passed, the man opening the gate stared hard, his eyes following the old man’s progress until he was out of sight. In the Land Rover’s rear view mirror, the F-150 passed through the gate.
His didn’t like his new neighbors’ profile. The location was remote. Given the extent of the old man’s property it was possible that the new occupants of the turkey farm didn’t know he was even there. But he knew about them now in the way a man knows about a splinter in his flesh that is otherwise invisible; the irritation would fester.
Chapter 34
Surveillance of Mark Shtayn was simplified by the fact that the man travelled between his home in Fairfax and his office in Arlington via an unchanging route. He left the house every morning at the same time, caught the same Metro train at the same time, rode it to Clarendon Station and walked the short distance from the station to his office with almost no variation. In the evening, he reversed the route. Those times he would elsewhere were often publicized, and so he could be found speaking at a university one night or attending a symposium at a Washington think tank on another. To make things even easier, his public appearances were punctiliously published on his website.
It didn’t take Olga long to figure this out, and she told Karpov she would not require assistance. Shtayn never once so much as looked over his shoulder. He felt completely invulnerable in America.
Curiosity drew her to one of Shtayn’s appearances at Georgetown University. She didn’t seek Karpov’s permission because he almost certainly would have denied it. But she wanted to see for herself why this man was such a successful anti-Russian agitator.
She arrived at the auditorium five minutes before the presentation and found a cozy spot in in the back row. The audience was an eclectic mix of students in jeans and hoodies, not so different from what she recalled of her own time at university in Moscow, well-dressed older men and women, and everything in between.
By the time the speaker was introduced, the place was about half-full. Shtayn’s lecture on the Russian-Ukrainian conflict was open to the public. Olga could see him clearly across the expanse of auditorium seats. As he took his place behind the dais the air seemed charged with electricity that tingled on her skin and caused her heart to beat faster. This was the enemy, her target, and her goal was to see him disgraced. She feared that her animosity was so great it would be noticed by Shtayn as though assaulted by a physical force.
Shtayn began, “The Russian incursion into Eastern Ukraine was carried out under the control of the Western Group of Forces — one of four strategic formations created in 2008 when the Russian Armed Forces were reorganized. At that time Moscow created the Western Group of Forces to counter NATO. The Eastern Group is to conduct operations against China. And the Southern Group against the Caucasus and Central Asia. The Central Group serves as a strategic reserve.”
Olga sucked in her breath. This is our military. How can he talk like this in enemy territory, and how does he know these things?
“The Western Group has two headquarters levels and was used in military operations in Ukraine, both in traditional and non-traditional ways. The non-traditional, for example, include airborne divisions and regiments, as well as special operations brigades. It was actually these forces that were used at the beginning of the war to destabilize Eastern Ukraine and gather intelligence on strategic targets in the region. These were the forces known as ‘little green men,’ and they were involved in the invasion and annexation of the Crimea. As for regular forces, as the incursion got underway they consisted of tank and motorized divisions that supported mechanized and armored brigades. These forces were reinforced by elements from the Central command.”
Images of men in camouflage with darkened faces and without identifying unit patches appeared on a large screen behind Shtayn, as well as tanks and other military equipment that Olga did not recognize. But she knew they were “ours.” The strength of Russian arms was being shown at a Washington university — could this be permitted?
There was a question period after the lecture, and several people raised their hands. One of them leapt up not waiting to be recognized and in a voice shaking with emotion began to speak.
Olga barely contained a laugh. She recognized Petrov who was doing his best to keep his voice calm.
“What you are saying is totally unconvincing. First of all, there is no proof that these are actually Russian soldiers. You yourself say that they have no unit designations. And as for military groups… Military formations exist throughout Europe, there are secret CIA prisons in other countries, and for some reason no indignation about that. Besides that, Russian troops had every right to be in the Crimea. The Russian Black Sea Fleet is there.”
This was getting good. Petrov was her man, and she was proud of his effort to spoil the traitor’s night.
“You talk about Russian saboteurs, but obviously not even the best prepared saboteurs could ignite a rebellion without the support and participation of the local population. Without massive support you can’t establish logistics or guarantee communications, or gather intelligence. And it goes without saying that you can’t ignite a civil war in a happy country where there is consensus and where the government has legitimacy — that’s just conspiracy theory. Try dropping some saboteurs into Finland. Such things are obvious to clear-thinking people, but not for you and your American sponsors.” Petrov finally lost his temper.