“Whatever his word means, you’ll have to explain it.” Verbin delivered his message with calculated brutality. “They’ll be waiting for you today at eleven AM at Ilinka.[13] We’ll listen to your explanations and suggestions about how to cope with the situation. And don’t dare be late — immediately after the meeting I’ll be sending a report to the Kremlin.”
“I understand.”
Verbin closed the connection.
What time was it? A quarter to eight. There was still time to drop by the Lubyanka. It was only a short distance from there to Ilinka. Lisitsyn habitually arrived early, sometimes at dawn, but just in case he made a call.
“Nikolay Davydovich? It’s Gleb.”
“Yes?” There was nothing that could be read in the general’s voice. He knows everything already. “May I come see you right now?”
“Come ahead.”
Solntsev lived in a pre-revolutionary house at the intersection of Petrovka Street and Kuznetskiy Most. The windows overlooked a pedestrian street that was lined on both sides in summer with café tables adorned with umbrellas. Down the center was a line of old-fashioned street lamps and orderly beds of flowers. But in the gray pre-dawn the familiar street offered no comfort. He decided to walk to the Lubyanka. He turned up the collar of his winter coat and nearly ran to the intersection with Petrovka before entering the wider Kuznetskiy Most.
He had always loved old Moscow. The city was as much a part of him as he of it. He loved the columns and stucco cornices of her low-rise buildings — squat and massive, with strong walls and high ceilings. He loved her dark, twisting alleys that opened suddenly into broad avenues. His entire life, and his work, too, had been like that: twisting, shadowy, hidden from prying eyes by the massive masonry of thick walls that finally opened to reveal the spacious and brightly lit thoroughfare leading to Olympian glory. Although, truth be told, the sort of fame that visited him now he wouldn’t wish on anybody.
He turned into Neglinnaya, a wider and more heavily inhabited street than Kuznetskiy Most, and hurried past GUM. There was much that was unclear. How had Vlad Illarionov succeeded without connections, money, influential protectors? Solntsev didn’t doubt that someone else was behind it, but he had no idea who it might be.
Panic was unnatural to him. Fear had the power to paralyze the mind and will, to confuse. He’d been trained never to lose the capacity to think clearly and logically in high stress situations. He should be able to find a way out of any situation. But now his very ignorance of what was really happening interfered with his analytical ability, and despite everything such powerlessness gave birth to irrational fear.
He entered Teatralniy Proyezd, a broad, majestic avenue that gave onto Lubyanka Square. FSB Headquarters was already visible ahead, but this time, the yellow façade promised no surcease.
Lisitsyn was waiting for him, and when Gleb entered his office, the old man’s face did not radiate its accustomed welcome, not in the slightest. The general was absolutely opaque. He simply rose from his desk with an unblinking stare.
There was no invitation to sit. Gleb returned his mentor’s gaze. “How could this have happened?”
Instead of answering, Lisitsyn asked, “You’ve already seen it?”
“No. Not yet. There was no time. I came here immediately. I’m to report to the Administration in a couple of hours.”
“I’m aware.” Lisitsyn’s voice was quiet, and he extended a newspaper clipping. “Here, read it.”
Gleb took a seat and read quickly through the clipping, his mood turning darker with every word. “How could this have happened?” he repeated. “I mean, how did he get away from your people alive? How did he get to the States? Who the hell helped him? Why me? Why now?”
Lisitsyn drummed his fingers on the polished surface of the desk before speaking. “Do you think it’s a political plot of some kind? I don’t think so. Over the past few years you’ve been too distracted by politics. You thought only about power. You forgot what we taught you and everything to which you intended to devote your life. In the real world not everything is determined by backstage intrigues. This,” he pointed at the clipping, “may be the work of an intelligence organization. You didn’t even think of that, did you? You may have forgotten about its existence, but that doesn’t make it go away. Your little ‘punk’ may well have contacted the CIA — that would be typical of money-hungry traitors like him. He associated with trash his entire life. If the Americans are behind this, it would explain everything.”
“Maybe.” Gleb didn’t hide his relief. The worst danger, that he had been betrayed by his own people, faded in the face of the dread CIA. There was likely no Kremlin plot against him. “So that means it’s not my fault. Your people were supposed to take care of Illarionov’s kid. They let him get away. I did my part.”
“It’s not a matter of guilt.” Lisitsyn said in a tone that made Gleb raise his head in alarm.
“Gleb,” began the general forcefully, “you were always my favorite student, and you know how much I value you. I always thought you learned your lessons well. When you joined our service, when you took your oath, even while you were still in the Academy you knew the rules. Our work demands complete selflessness for the good of the Motherland, including readiness to sacrifice your life for her sake. There is no place for pointing fingers or speculating on guilt. We taught you from the beginning that in espionage work and counter-espionage anything can happen.”
He went silent again as Gleb grimaced with irritation. What was the use of all this pompous flummery?
Lisitsyn continued, “Once, the GRU had a wonderful illegal officer, Captain Marya Dobrova, pseudonym Maisie. Her case officer was one of the worst traitors in our history, Dmitriy Polyakov. One of his first treasonous acts was to betray Maisie to the Americans. FBI agents visited her at her hotel and tried to recruit her. And what do you think she did? She leapt from a window and killed herself. She didn’t ask who was guilty, although she was in no way responsible for the compromise.”
“Nikolay Davydovich, drop the pathos. What’s your point?”
“The point, my dear Gleb, is that if necessary you must accept all the guilt. Admit it was on your own initiative to organize the apartment bombings. You did it to strengthen the role of the FSB inside the Russian system. You must say the Kremlin knew absolutely nothing about your actions then and nothing about your “Svoi” death squad now. You must be prepared to be arrested, be subject to a public trial followed by one of the penal colonies. But don’t be alarmed — of course, no one will demand that you sit out your entire sentence. After a few years, when things have calmed down, you’ll be quietly set free to live out your life in peace and prosperity. We’ll give you a new name and appearance. We’ll never forget your sacrifice.”
Gleb was on his feet, shouting. “Arrest? A penal colony? Public opprobrium?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Nikolay Davydovich, I’m no longer a junior lieutenant ready to dive under a tank with a grenade. I’m… an official of the Presidential Administration. I’m responsible for youth work and must be an example for them. What you propose would sink not only me but everything I’ve created.”
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