U.S. 66 and 81 were mostly clear of snow, and there was little traffic other than trucks as they barreled west and then south into the Shenandoah Valley. Once they got off the Interstate at Woodstock, it was a different story. Much more snow had fallen over the Appalachians. Conditions were worse on the unpaved road that brought them eventually to the cabin. Without the Humvee, the drive would have been impossible.
The entrance to the property was barely visible and barred by a metal gate. Neither Krystal nor Ferguson had boots fit for two-foot deep drifts, but he managed to get the gate open and drive through. Having been a farm girl, Krystal insisted he get out again and close the gate behind them. His face told her he was unenthusiastic about the task, but he obeyed nonetheless. Clearly, the Special Agent was not adjusting well to a subordinate role.
The cabin lay about three-quarters of a mile beyond the gate, around a sharp curve and up a steep grade. Heedful of Strachey’s precautions, Ferguson sounded the Humvee’s horn long before they reached the cabin.
A tall figure in a parka and a fur hat emerged from around the corner of the cabin with an ugly, military-style weapon aimed directly at them. “Don’t make any sudden moves,” Krystal said to Ferguson who was taking male umbrage at having a weapon pointed in his direction and reaching for his own.
She opened the door and stepped out into the snow with her hands away from her sides. “Bob Strachey sent us,” she said.
The old man’s stance did not change. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Lieutenant Murphy of the Arlington County Police, and that’s FBI Special Agent Ferguson behind the wheel.”
“Tell your friend to get out of the car and keep his hands where I can see them. Then you can show me your credentials.” The old man approached the Humvee carefully, taking slow steps in the deep snow.
Gritting his teeth, Ferguson stepped out of the Humvee and said, “Pointing a weapon at an FBI agent is a federal offense.”
“Fuck the FBI,” was the old man’s prompt response. “I never had much use for Hoover’s attack dogs. Now, move in front of the car to stand beside the young lady.” He couldn’t cover both of them from up close if they were on opposite sides of the wide Humvee.
They laid the documents on the hood and stood back. When he finished examining them, his voice turned to a low growl as he said, “А сейчас, подонки, я вас убью.”
Krystal and Ferguson looked at one another. “What did he say?” asked the latter.
“I don’t know, but it didn’t sound friendly,” she answered.
For the first time, the old man gave them a crooked grin and lowered his weapon. “Good,” he said, “you don’t speak Russian. I guess you’re who you say you are.” He eyed Krystal for a moment. “Young Strachey said you were a good-looking redhead. He didn’t lie. Come on inside and let me introduce you to my guest.”
But at the front door he paused and said, “I’d better show you something else first. Follow me.”
He led them between the cabin and the garage to a pile of snow which he gave a good kick. When the snow fell away, they saw the face of a man whose departure from this life had been precipitated by a large hole in his head.
“There’re two of ’em in there,” said the old man. “It took two shots to take the other one down.”
When Strachey told her about the two dead men it had seemed farfetched, yet here they were, dead as doornails. The weapon in the old man’s hands was more than just a threat.
He kicked some snow back over the Chechen’s face and led them again to the front door. The interior of the cabin was warm and inviting, definitely masculine with a lot of wood and leather and the scent of cigar smoke hovering in the air. A fire crackled in the fireplace and a yellow Lab stood in the middle of the room wagging her tail.
Divested of parka and hat, their host was tall and thin with long white hair and a short, scraggly beard. His eyes were sharp and intelligent. He wore jeans and a heavy turtleneck sweater. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the stove if you’d like some. Take those coats off and make yourselves comfortable while I get the girl. She’s scared out of her wits and very nervous, which is understandable after what she’s been through. She’s telling the truth to judge from the two assholes in the snow outside, and there are going to be several sleepless nights in Washington while the morons who run this country try to figure out what to do.”
Olga was shaky. This was partly a natural reaction to shock and partly because running lightly clothed through the snow had left her with a bad cold and a fever. The uncontrollable shivering had diminished since the horrific events of the night before, but was giving way to despair. The two thugs who had taken her forcibly from her apartment were dead. The strange old man at least believed her story. In her hysteria she had at first feared that the Chechens would somehow rise again and break down the door, but now the fear was replaced by alarm of another sort.
There was nothing left of her life. She had no doubt that her captors acted on Karpov’s orders and doubtless would have killed her had it not been for their drunken carelessness. Not a trace remained of the inspirational ideal of “the Motherland”; it had collapsed and died in the Metro explosion along with the other victims, and lay buried under the ruins of all her former convictions. Her friends and companions, members of a closely knit team had become her worst enemies, murderers, and she was in the hands of her former foes.
Exhausted, frightened to death, she had absolute faith in the strange, dark old man to whom through wracking sobs she had poured out everything: “Svoi,” Solntsev, her American mission, Karpov and Shtayn, and even for some reason Vlad Illarionov and his father, and the apartment bombings in Moscow. She needed to confess, to somehow lift the weight of her guilt. The old man provided the outlet she needed.
The more she talked the more the pain and horror faded to be replaced by uncertainty. What would happen to her now? The old man had been patient and even sympathetic, at times asking perceptive questions. Afterwards, he went into another room where he remained for a long time.
When he returned she asked directly what would happen to her now. He took her by the shoulders. His face was kindly, but his voice was firm. “You must tell everything to the FBI.”
The FBI? Her terror returned and she shook out of his grasp as though he had suddenly turned into a monster. The idea of the FBI aroused an instinct other than fear, an instinct born of her training in Russia, all the talks with Solntsev, and even with Karpov — the entirety of her experience over the past several years. This combination of letters pushed a button that launched a sense of uncompromising animosity. She couldn’t tell such things to an enemy special service. It would be a kind of suicide.
“But they’ll imprison me for espionage and taking part in a terrorist act! I can’t… Please…” She stared at the old man in unfeigned anguish, but he remained adamant. The wheels were already in motion, and the authorities would arrive soon. She finally understood that she could do nothing and sank onto the sofa with no idea what might happen to her next.
Her revelation to the American of what she had done in his country left little hope for clemency. To escape from this godforsaken house was impossible, and she had nowhere to go in any event. Sooner or later Karpov would realize the Chechens had failed and send someone else to kill her. That was to be her fate. She had no friends in this country, and she was convinced that everyone she knew would gladly hand her back to Karpov if she asked for help. She could imagine how sleek Stash or slimy Petrov would run to the embassy to betray her in exactly the same way they had reported on Shtayn and other dissidents.