The headquarters of the American Enterprise Institute are on 17th Street, just a few steps from the venerable Mayflower Hotel. It was a bit late in the year, but Vlad had been accepted into the fall internship program’s Russian Studies group under the aegis of one of the institute’s resident scholars. Unlike most interns, Vlad’s expenses would be paid while he was in the U.S.
The meeting with Ethan Holmes was more complicated because it was to be confidential. So they gathered one evening in Vlad’s hotel room.
It required several hours to tell the whole story and finally show the American reporter the report written so long ago by Zhuravlev and play Sergey Illarionov’s recording of Tretyakov’s jailhouse confession. Holmes did not understand Russian, but he had seen and heard enough to be convinced.
The next task was for Holmes to convince his editor of the value and validity of the story. Fortunately, the news cycle was nearly stagnant with most attention focused on domestic matters. Although the editor was not particularly interested in the fate of Russian dissidents, Holmes sold the idea as a human interest story. He thought there was enough material to serialize over several editions and also would appear on the Post’s web page.
In the meantime, as agreed with Holmes, Vlad began work on the article. He would write very little about himself but rather focus on his father and the man’s dedication to getting the truth into print, even at the risk of his own life. He decided to entitle the article “In the Shadow of Mordor.”
Vlad had no choice but to write in Russian, and he was immensely grateful for Williams’ offer to stick around long enough to complete a translation. The article, complete with photos of his father that Vlad had stored on his camera was ready for publication at the end of November. But it was postponed.
That was when the Clarendon metro station exploded.
A cab dropped Vlad in front of the AEI building. The entire Metro transit system was at a halt on orders from the Department of Homeland Security. Snow had stopped falling early yesterday morning, but there was still a sharp chill in the air. He stepped carefully over the curb with his eyes down, wary of slipping on a patch of ice.
When he raised his gaze, he stopped cold and stared at the last person on earth he ever thought to see again.
Chapter 43
Salt on the sidewalks and streets produced rivulets of dirty water that washed away the remaining slush. The patchy snow remaining in parts of Arlington and the sharp bite of the frigid air somehow reminded Olga of Moscow in the autumn or spring. The thought cut through her like a knife. The faint reflections of Moscow reminded her mercilessly of the bombings of Russian apartments, of Solntsev’s bold countenance and broad smile, Vlad’s burning eyes, and Nastya’s approving look following her training in Yekaterinburg.
The memories pursued her more doggedly than any professional surveillance team. There was no escape from them. She could slip around a corner, jump onto a bus, enter a shopping mall from one side and exit from another, run as fast as she could, but not one of these maneuvers would permit her to escape.
Some recollections exuded warmth while others struck her like physical blows. It was unbearable that what had so recently been dear to her should now consume her with hatred; that which had attracted now repelled and horrified. Today the city around her no longer felt like enemy territory and became simply alien — as alien as all the rest of the world. Never in her life had she been so alone.
Nothing was as it had been before and would never be again. The black smoke of the explosion poisoned the present as well as the past, Moscow and Washington, reason and emotion. She still had Karpov’s envelope in her purse, and she feared it too might burst into flame. When she touched it her skin seemed to burn as though the paper itself were impregnated with poison. Mechanically reminding herself of the task she must perform, Olga covertly scanned the street to see if she was being observed. She started when she realized she was searching for Shtayn. But unlike her triumph in Kharitonovskiy Park, she would never find him again. Shtayn was no more, and the thought was unbearable. But still she searched for him in the dim November evening.
She somehow carried out Karpov’s instructions. There had been no video cameras near-by and no one in sight. She performed the task perfectly and hated herself all the more for having done so. The streets were filled with ghosts, as if the victims at the Metro station had risen and mingled with the living.
The following morning she arrived at the office building on 17th Street somewhat earlier than usual, having been unable to sleep the night before. She did her best to concentrate on the day ahead and the all-important meeting with Sandberg. Her habitual confidence had deserted her.
She froze in mid-stride when she recognized the figure approaching her. She fleetingly thought this must be another ghost, but the man was clearly flesh and blood. It can’t be. Vladislav Illarionov was walking straight toward her.
Her thoughts a tumult of joy and fear, Olga started backward. There was no explaining the sudden onset of joy. Maybe it was because in this world turned upside down, Vlad remained unchanged, not only reproach incarnate, but also the embodiment of childhood’s innocence — their common childhood and the naïve dreams of the 1990’s.
Too late, Olga realized that Vlad should not discover her presence here. But he already had spotted her, no less amazed than she. She didn’t know what to say to him and struggled to conceal her distress.
“Vlad! I never expected to see you here. What are you doing here?”
What happened with her ability to lie? Not long ago there was no role she was incapable of playing. Now she could feign neither nonchalance nor affability under his wrathful gaze.
“I think I should be the one asking what you are doing here. Just last summer you were telling me how much you hated America. So now you’ve forgotten all that?”
Realization crossed his face even as he spoke. It was a look with which she was familiar since childhood — the sudden spark of insight that lit his eyes as he grasped the truth. The years had not changed him. So why had she changed so much? He knew why she was here. He knew everything about her. Strangely, this no longer frightened her. It made no difference, at all.
“I’m working in a research organization…” she began.
His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Of course.”
“I’m happy you’re here.” At least this was the truth — the only true words she had uttered in this conversation. But he was having none of it.
“Do you know what?” Vlad said, an undertone of menace in his voice. “In Moscow you and your thugs could do anything you wanted. You’re the reason my parents are dead. But you and Solntsev got away with it because there you’re the lords of the world. It’s my fault, too. Only a complete fool would have entrusted such a secret to a creature like you. I acted like a naïve child trying to convince you. But I’ve given up on that. I won’t lecture you; I’ll just warn you that it’s better to leave this place. This isn’t Russia, and you won’t get away with murder here. If you try the slightest foolishness in this country, I’ll do all I can to make sure they put you away for as long as possible. You love Russia and Putin? Well, go back to them. You won’t be able to poison our lives here.”