Mention of the Chechens brought back the horrors of her kidnapping and the terror of the night before. She could not prevent the fat tears that rolled down her cheeks. But she still said nothing.
Krystal turned to their host. “Do you know how to make a hot toddy? I think it would be a good thing.”
The old man busied himself with honey, lemon, hot water, and a generous slug of whiskey. Olga accepted the steaming mug in both hands and sipped the sweet contents that began immediately to spread warmth throughout her body. Finally she was able to speak in a barely audible voice. “You’re going to arrest me, aren’t you?”
Given what Strachey’s account of the girl’s story, Krystal understood her fear. “No one is here to arrest you,” she said. “You must believe me. If anything, you are a victim, and our only intention is to help you in any way possible. But we have to understand everything that happened. It’s the only way we can protect you.”
They expected her to say something. She had to say something, but what could she say without incriminating herself?
“Why don’t we start with how you came to be here?” asked the policewoman. Did those men kidnap you?”
Yes, she had been taken by force. That was no crime. She could safely talk about that.
“Yes.” The words in English came slowly. “They came to my apartment at night saying they were from the Embassy. When I opened the door they grabbed me. They tied my hands and gagged and blindfolded me, and carried me to their truck. When they removed the blindfold, I was in a dark room in that old house. When they left me alone, I managed to free myself and crawl out the window. I didn’t know where I was or which way to go, so I just set off blindly toward the forest. After a while I saw a light and followed it here.”
“Where is your apartment?” asked the policewoman.
“In Arlington, near the Clarendon Metro station.” She immediately regretted mentioning the Metro.
Krystal and Ferguson locked eyes. The conversation was moving in the right direction.
“Why do you think these men kidnapped you?” It was Ferguson who asked the question.
“I… I don’t know.” How could she tell them that this was the way the FSB handled unreliable people?
“That’s not what you told our host last night, is it?” There was an edge to Ferguson’s voice now, and Krystal gave him a warning glance.
“Well,” said Krystal, “whatever the reason, they’re no longer a threat. Your apartment is in Arlington, and I work for the Arlington Police. You were kidnapped, and that makes it also a matter for Special Agent Ferguson here. We mean you no harm. We’re only here to help.”
When Olga said nothing, Krystal continued, “Last night you told our friend here that you work at the Russian-American Study Group in Washington. Would you like us to call them now?”
Call Zaretskiy? He undoubtedly would notify Karpov at the embassy. Her heart sank as the realization hit her that she could not go back. She could never go back. Karpov was FSB, and so was Gleb Solntsev. She no longer had friends in the FSB. Something broke inside, and like a piece of jetsam in a raging sea she was swept under alternating hot and cold waves until she drowned in blackness.
“She’s fainted,” said Krystal.
Ferguson carried Olga to the bedroom, and Krystal made sure she was comfortable before leaving her to rest.
“She’s finally realized she has nothing to go back to in Russia,” said the old man. “I’ve seen it before. She couldn’t cope with it, so she just shut down.”
“But she told you the whole story last night,” objected Ferguson.
“She was in shock and wasn’t thinking about what she was saying. Eventually, she’ll make peace with the situation, but right now it’s like she’s being dragged over hot coals and the pain is too much to bear.” The old man smiled crookedly at Krystal, “That was a very clever question, Lieutenant.”
“I didn’t expect her to faint,” said Krystal.
“There are two frozen dead guys outside,” said Ferguson. “And you shot ’em. Kidnappers or not, it doesn’t look like you gave ’em much of a chance.”
“That’s how you stay alive, son.”
“Nevertheless, there has to be an investigation to sort all this out. I think a good place to start is to have a forensics team go over that old farmhouse down the mountain.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Krystal. “We have to call Whitehall first.”
“What about the JTTF and Homeland?”
“Hey, Nick, you’re the FBI guy here, remember? Anything that happens from here on should be Whitehall’s decision.”
He couldn’t argue with her and wondered if anyone could.
Chapter 53
At seven AM, Gleb Solntsev was stirred out of sleep by the telephone. The caller was Assistant Administrative Director of the office of the President of Russia, Oleg Verbin. No one of that rank had ever called so early before, and it did not bode well.
“Yes, Oleg Mikhailovich, I’m listening.” Solntsev struggled to erase the sleep from his voice.
“I want to hear what you have to say.” Verbin’s voice was rough. “How do you explain all this?”
“What are you talking about?” His lungs were squeezed by a nauseating chill.
“Fuck me, but he doesn’t know!” exclaimed Verbin, loading his words with the entire weight of Solntsev’s fall from grace. “Well, now you’ll find out what it means to wake up famous. While you slept you became the main subject of conversation in the States. The Washington Post published an article devoted entirely to you.”
“The Washington Post?”
“Yes, exactly. They say it was you who organized the apartment bombings in Moscow fifteen years ago and that you’ve created a destructive cult in the guise of a youth organization that has a secret team of ‘special operatives’ for ‘wet work,’ hooliganism, beatings, and murders. They speculate that you ordered your ‘death squad’ to kill the journalist Sergey Illarionov because he planned to reveal the truth about you. Do you want to hear more?”
He didn’t reply. The premonition of a moment ago was replaced by a terrible thought, even a certainty. That damned punk! It could only be him. But how could he have made it to America and gained access to a publication of such importance? How could they have believed such a worthless youngster?
“The article concludes by asking if it is possible that the President of the country knew nothing about the actions of a member of his own administration. By morning the article was being discussed on CNN by their talking heads and politicians,” added Verbin.
Was there a hint of malevolence in his boss’s voice? But that would be only logical — if there was a scandal, Verbin would be threatened no less than he. His head was spinning. The Washington Post. CNN. A fifteen-year-old crime. Illarionov’s murder. What a nightmare.
This couldn’t just have happened. There had to be a lot of money behind such a huge maneuver — that’s the way it works in Russia. Big media information campaigns against individuals are mounted only on direct orders from “on high.” Huge sums are paid out of the federal budget, and “journalists” base everything on a Kremlin script. Solntsev couldn’t think of any other way it would work. Who in Washington would launch a campaign of persecution against a mid-level Russian official? Could it be some powerful enemy here who did business with the West? But who? Even worse, had the President made some sort of deal with the damned Yankees, and decided to sacrifice him, Solntsev, like so much small change? If it was like that, he was finished.
“There was a young man.” He had to be careful, try to dig a little deeper to discover how high up and from which quarter he should expect the most trouble. “Just a kid who should now be dead. It’s not my fault that he got away. It was up to someone else, real specialists, and it’s them you should be sorting out. The boy had a recording, the evidence of another man who accused me of the Moscow explosions. But that man was a criminal, a prisoner already in jail, and he’s no longer among the living. His word means nothing…”