They checked his mouth with a penlight and a dental pick for false fillings or other implants. Strelnikov offered no resistance. These men had specialized tools for wrenching open the jaws of anyone who stupidly thought they could keep their mouths shut as far as the rope allowed. Finding nothing, they finally removed the cord, cleaned up their kit, and evacuated the barren room. Strelnikov watched them go, waiting for the door to close before turning to the interrogator he knew was still inside.
“Good evening, Stepan Illarionovich.” General-Major Arkady Lavrov, director of the Main Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation (GRU), sat in a cheap wooden chair by the corner of the door.
Strelnikov said nothing for several seconds, his mind pondering the surprise, and then he spoke. “Good evening, Arkady Vladimirovich.” He made his way to the lone wooden stool in the room. It looked like it was original to the building and he hoped it wouldn’t crumble under his weight.
“It looks so very different, does it not, the old base?” Lavrov asked.
Strelnikov exhaled long and slow. “It’s hard to say. Time is cruel to memories,” he said, making no effort to hide the sarcasm. What he’d said was true in so many ways. To admit that this country was a better place now than when the Soviet empire had controlled its eastern end would have been to admit that he had spent his life in the service of a mistake.
Lavrov waited for the other man to say something else, then finally spoke when the silence grew too painful. “It has changed, very much. A testament to our failures.” He pressed his lips together. “We were in Berlin that night. Do you remember, on the embassy roof? We watched the people dancing on the Wall.”
“I do,” Strelnikov said. “That was an unhappy night.”
“Yes, it was. I question, sometimes, how we did not foresee what happened that evening,” Lavrov admitted.
“We did not see it,” Strelnikov advised him, “because we lacked the great virtue that would have let us predict it.”
“And that would be?”
“Honesty. The Kremlin would not hear of failure, so we would not let ourselves consider the possibility.”
Lavrov let out a quiet laugh after a moment. “Yes, you are right, but not all of us were so blind.”
Strelnikov sighed. He’d pushed away his memories on the walk here and he was in no mood to let his old friend indulge in them now. “You were the one who left the instructions at the dead drop in Moscow for me to come here. I must congratulate you on your penetration of the CIA. I was told that my case files and reports were being held in a very secure compartment.”
“They are,” Lavrov agreed. “And our new asset is impressive. It is regrettable that he cannot be allowed to remain in place, but your betrayal has forced me to exfiltrate him. He doesn’t know it yet, but he will very soon.”
“How long have you known?” Strelnikov asked.
“Not long,” Lavrov admitted. “Your knowledge of my operations left us little choice but to act quickly. But you are my old friend, Stepan, and I had to be convinced beyond any doubt that you truly were guilty. There was no question once you left for Berlin. Your fellow GRU officers dismantled your dacha. I’m told they found the smartphone and software the Americans gave you to use, among other toys. It doesn’t matter where you’ve hidden whatever money they have paid you, you will not see it.”
“There was no money,” Strelnikov told him. “I asked for none. I did not do this for money.”
“I had hoped not.” Lavrov looked to his comrade, a painful sadness twisting his face. “More than forty years we have been friends. So, please, tell me why you turned to treason,” Lavrov demanded.
“Do you truly want an answer?”
“Of course. It will not change what comes after, but I prefer knowledge to ignorance.” His desire to know was genuine, Strelnikov knew. Lavrov needed no confession to condemn him at a tribunal. An answer to the question could not hurt him more and perhaps might do some good.
“My grandfather was a Jew, Arkady. I never talked about him, of course. There were so many Jew-haters among the chekists. Still today too, though not so many. You are not one of them, I know, but still you and your foundation threaten my grandfather’s people… my people.”
“Ah,” Lavrov said. “The assistance I gave to the Iranians.”
“Yes,” Strelnikov said. “You should not have sold them nuclear technology. And now the new device you want to sell them—”
“We must help our allies,” Lavrov said, as though that simple fact alone was justification enough.
“Our allies are butchers, Arkady.”
“And we are not?”
“We have been, but we could be better men. We can restore the Rodina Mat in other ways than this.”
Lavrov sighed, feigning a loss of energy. “I will have your clothes returned after they are inspected. I will give you that dignity. But you already were a better man, Stepan Illarionovich. I know you were.”
“It was not my head but my heart that made my choices, Arkady,” Strelnikov said, defiance in his voice. “As it always has.”
“In honorable men, true men, the head and the heart speak with the same voice,” Lavrov told him. “I regret that you forgot that. Remember it now and you might find some peace.” The senior Russian official stood to leave.
“Arkady… a question for you,” Strelnikov pleaded.
“Yes?”
“Why this place? Why bring me back here?”
Lavrov smiled, rueful. “Death and resurrection, old friend. This is the place for it.” He turned away from Strelnikov and walked outside.
Aqid (Colonel) Issam Ghazal of the Syrian Army had learned, of necessity, to be a patient man. With no familial connections to advance his career, his promotions had come through careful maneuvers and waiting for those more ambitious and less careful than himself to make mistakes that could not be dismissed. Such steps created enemies and each rise in the ranks forced him to be ever more deliberate. Greater heights put him under more scrutiny, and ever-smaller mistakes could be his undoing. Still, his self-control was rigid now and he enjoyed the thought that his enemies were going slowly mad waiting for him to make mistakes that never came.
But patience did not mean he could not be mindful of the time. Ghazal checked his watch, a Suunto Core digital that he’d picked up in a highbrow Berlin shop the day before. He wished he could afford one of those finer Swiss watches, one of the TAG Heuers that he’d seen under the glass, but those would stay beyond his means until he could secure a promotion to flag rank.
The Russian general, Lavrov, had been inside the decrepit mansion for a half hour before emerging. “Colonel Ghazal,” he said. “It is my great pleasure to meet you again.”
“General Lavrov,” Ghazal replied, bowing slightly.
“If you will walk with me, I will escort you to the test site,” Lavrov requested.
“You don’t want to drive?” Ghazal asked.
Lavrov shook his head. “I would like my car to be in working order after the weapons test.” He extended an arm and Ghazal began to trudge across the cold ground with the Russian, their boots crunching in the hardening mud.
“That was a spectacle that your men put on a few minutes ago,” Ghazal noted. “Who was the man they detained?”
“Regrettably, an old friend,” Lavrov said. “But one who could not find it in himself to remain loyal.”
“Ah,” Ghazal said, his manner sympathetic, “that is always regrettable. The foundation of any friendship is always loyalty.”