In the Shadow of Mordor

Chapter 27

The Russian Embassy sits high up on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington’s exclusive Georgetown, more precisely on Mount Alto, the third highest point in the District of Columbia. The Embassy’s web page boasts “a view of the Capitol, the White House, the Pentagon and the State Department,” a veiled boast about the ideal line of sight for communications intercepts. They were keeping an eye on the Americans.

The architecture of the buildings on the compound is modern and functional, and the chancery is finished in white stone, as is the sumptuous “ceremonial building” with its lavish interiors of Russian white marble. They were constructed exclusively of materials of Russian origin, proving yet again the superior common sense of the Russian Foreign Ministry over the feckless bureaucrats of the U.S. Department of State. Early on, the FBI attempted to tunnel under the grounds in order to tap into communications lines, but the operation was discovered, resulting in snickers throughout the halls and drawing rooms of Washington.

The chancery with its slit windows glistened like alabaster in the early afternoon sunlight. It reminded Olga of a fortress, a white, shining fortress high on a hill overlooking enemy terrain. She stepped out of the taxi and presented her passport to the uniformed guard in the enclosed checkpoint at the entrance.

After scrutinizing the document and checking it against a list of approved visitors, the guard instructed her to take a seat while he arranged for an escort. She found a place in a row of straight-backed chairs along one wall and glanced nervously at her watch. She didn’t want to be late to the first meeting with her FSB case officer and arrived with twenty minutes to spare. As the minutes ticked away, she became more and more nervous.

On the top floor of the chancery, a middle-aged woman knocked on his office door and announced to Valeriy Eduardovich Karpov “The Polyanskaya girl is waiting at the gate.”

“I’d almost forgotten about her,” was his sour response. “Go fetch her up here.”

Karpov slumped behind his desk and reached for a pack of Marlboros.

Why had the Center saddled him with this inexperienced young girl? What could she possibly know about his work? On his desk lay the mottled green cardboard folder containing her dossier, and he flipped through it again. She’s just a little propaganda bitch that works the Kremlin parties. All she’s good for is shrieking slogans and waving placards. What the hell am I, a nanny? Do they think I have nothing better to do than mess around with an empty-headed kid from Moscow? He could only conclude that some powerful friend in Moscow was rewarding her with a “vacation” in the U.S. Or perhaps she was the mistress of some silovik who just wanted to get rid of her.

But the orders were clear. Use her as efficiently as possible, and keep an eye on her. How was he to interpret that?

There was a light knock at the door. “Come,” he said, closing the file folder.

The girl entered the office and stood uncertainly before his desk while he gave her a frankly appraising once over.

She was of medium height with jet black hair and large green eyes, what the Russians would call a real krasavitsa, a beauty. Karpov settled on his mistress theory as the most likely explanation for her assignment.

Olga would not have called the man behind the desk handsome. He was dark-haired, around forty with high cheek bones on a sallow face currently arranged into a sardonic expression. He possessed none of Solntsev’s masculine charm or the refined courtesy of Stash. In fact, she found something repulsive about him. He was more like a former soldier than a successful diplomat. She was disappointed.

“My name is Valeriy Fedorovich.” He shot her an irritated glance. “You’re three minutes late,” he said, as though no better was expected from her.

He stood and walked around the desk, gesturing for her to follow him out the door. “Come on, we’re going to talk somewhere else.”

Without uttering a word she followed in his wake. He led her down a flight of stairs to the floor below and to the end of a corridor. He used a key to unlock a featureless door, and they entered a small, windowless room. It contained a small table surrounded by four chairs. He took a place across from her.

“Well, Olga Vladimirovna, tell me what you did in Moscow.”

She was confused by the question, although it was not unexpected. This man’s unconcealed displeasure erased the words she’d planned to say.

Looking down at her hands, she said, “Officially, I worked as a press secretary, meeting with media and the public. I prepared presentations and made speeches, supervised student meetings and social and charity events.”

He cut her off. “And unofficially?”

She swallowed uncomfortably. “Unofficially we followed opposition activities, especially those traitors who were in touch with Americans. We organized counter-demonstrations, interrupted their gatherings, we explained patriotic values and the danger of revolution to young people.”

“So you persecuted dissidents.” She couldn’t tell from his voice whether he approved or disapproved.

“Not at all.” Olga didn’t bother to conceal her indignation. “We worked to prevent a revolution, so that people can live normally. I took no personal pleasure in ‘persecuting’ anyone. I just did not want blood and chaos in my country.”

She wondered if Valery Eduardovich might be somehow testing her. But it was impossible to penetrate his opacity, and it was driving her crazy.

“Is that all?”

“We recruited volunteers to send to the Donbas.”

“Why?” His tone was sharp.

This was a provocative question. She wanted to talk about the terrible Ukrainians, the fascists, about protecting the Russian-speaking population, how New Russia was a historic possession of Russia, but instead she answered, “Because Ukraine is of strategic importance to Russia.” She was doing her best to appear professional and cynical.

He gave her another hard stare, and said, “More than anything else, Russia itself is strategically significant to Russia.”

She couldn’t take much more of this. “The boss gave me the Donbas assignment, and I don’t argue with orders.”

For just an instant she thought she detected a hint of approval in Karpov’s eyes.

“What kind of training did they give you before coming here?” he asked.

“Solo and team surveillance, counter-surveillance…”

“And do you understand what you’ll be doing here?”

“Only in general.”

Karpov leaned back in his chair and lit a Marlboro despite the closeness of the room. “Olenka, our situation is complicated. Our country made a strategic mistake. Possibly, in the course of events, there was no other choice. The invisible Cold War had gone on too long, and at some point it was bound to turn hot. The Yankees grabbed Ukraine by organizing an armed coup, and Russia was forced to act. Those at the top, of course, had a clearer view as to whether there was another way…” He was silent for a few beats before continuing, “But now it’s clear that the States wanted to draw us into a destructive war, and they succeeded. And now they’ll do everything possible to extract maximum gain and destroy us in the end.”

As his words soaked in, she experienced fear for the first time and to such an extent that it erased her indignation.

Karpov continued as though he were talking to himself. “And they have every resource and possibility. Many organizations serve this American goal, and not only the CIA. There’s the State Department, various government commissions, many funds that provide grants to Russian traitors, several research institutes — every one of them working for American intelligence. Our traitors and liberals who’ve come to the States work with these organizations. And you must sort it all out: their programs, actions, specializations, goals and methods. You should have learned all of this before coming here. Your cover work will place you in contact with all of this, but first you must realize what they are actually doing and what they’re after. This can be a dangerous game.”

“I’ll sort it out,” she said with some heat. “Believe me. I’ll do it.”

“OK.” She detected condescension in his voice and eyes. “I’ll explain it simply. They may be divided into ‘doves,’ or ‘hawks’ — neocons. It’s even easier to deal with the latter: they are clearly enemies, and they don’t hide the fact that they want to destroy our country. They dream of our collapse. They don’t hide their goals from anyone. But the ‘doves’ are more complicated. They pretend to be the ‘party of peace,’ but it’s far from the truth. They’re just more refined and delicate: they pretend to be weak and create the illusion that they’re easy to trick. But they actually want to entrap you. At first glance, it seems that these two tendencies work against one another, but it’s really nothing more than a banal lust for power. Both hate Russia.”

“What kind of traps do these ‘doves’ have?” she asked, quite taken aback by Karpov’s exposition.

“That’s what we have to find out, Olenka. That’s the task set before us all. Sometimes they can create the illusion that there is no trap, but there is. It cannot be otherwise. If we don’t find them, it just means we aren’t looking hard enough. The very survival of our country depends on our success here. This is a war of destruction, and it’s us or them. You know what will happen if the liberals and national traitors come to power in Russia. They’ll demand to get rid of people and to put anyone associated with the present government on trial, and that means you and me. If we lose, we’ll lose not only Russia, but our freedom and maybe our lives. There is nowhere we can go; the time for compromise is past. Our real enemies are the Americans — not the ragged bunch of sell-outs you were after in Russia. Our real goal is to save Russia and not to go on some quest in the Donbas. Do you understand?”

“Understood.” Olga gulped and then blurted, “Valeriy Eduardovich, I understand that you don’t think I’m a professional, that I know nothing and can’t do anything. But I was able to fool a lot of people in Russia. They believed me; I could convince them of anything. If I have to, I can lie and pretend to get along with anyone. I love Russia, and I’ll do whatever is necessary. You’ll see.”

“We’ll see. Now, let’s go over some of your first tasks here.”

Her first marching orders against the enemy.

“It may seem obvious, but you must learn your way around, streets, public transportation, etc. This will be very important when you are given surveillance assignments, and there will be such assignments as soon as I am convinced you are ready. In your cover work you must be alert not only against enemy provocations, but also for people who may be sympathetic to Russia, people who may one day be co-opted or recruited as agents. You will, of course, prepare your reports in writing. We will meet here at the Embassy once a week to gauge your progress.”

So it was to be the same in Washington as in Yekaterinburg — endless walking, riding buses, the subway, studying maps. The second part of Karpov’s instructions was more interesting.

After dismissing the girl, Valeriy Eduardovich made his way to the top floor of the Embassy to the office of Dmitry Nikolayevich Olesnikov, the SVR Rezident in Washington. It was not his purpose to brief Olesnikov on Olga’s visit. It was time for their regular afternoon chat.

The relationship between the two was tenuous. Officially the SVR was responsible for foreign intelligence and counter-intelligence, and the Washington rezidentura was large and capable. But the President of the Russian Federation was the former head of the FSB, and the FSB was more genuinely “Chekist” than the “modernized” former First Chief Directorate that was the SVR. The foreign intelligence service suffered from numerous failures, including having its illegals operations wrapped up in the United States. That was why the President entrusted certain sensitive tasks to the FSB.

Formally, Karpov was to coordinate all of his operations with Olesnikov because, technically, he was on SVR “turf.” The rezident nevertheless suspected that Karpov did not share everything with him. And the rezident was correct. He resented Karpov, but managed to remain philosophical about it.

It was nearing embassy closing time, and Olesnikov was pouring his customary afternoon vodka when Karpov walked into his office without knocking.

Olesnikov downed the vodka in a single swallow and said, “What the fuck do you want?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me to drink?”

“Why not?” Olesnikov pulled another shot glass from his desk drawer and filled it after re-filling his own.

Karpov sat without an invitation and picked up his glass. “Ura!” he said, and downed it.

“Do you have anything important to share?”

Karpov knew it was not a serious question. “No,” he replied, “just business as usual.”

“You had a visitor this afternoon, a very pretty little visitor.” He leered at Valeriy Eduardovich over his glass.

Of course, the rezident would have a list of all visitors and who their contacts at the embassy. “Just a new staffer at the Russian-American Study Group. I gave her the standard security briefing.”

“So she’s not here to bump anyone off?”

Karpov laughed to cover his embarrassment. “Of course, not, Dmitry Nikolayevich. That joke’s getting a little stale.”

It was not yet three P.M. when Olga stepped back out the Embassy gate onto Wisconsin Avenue. With nothing more on her schedule now was as good a time as ever to begin her reconnaissance of the District of Columbia. She set off toward ‘M’ Street with a determined stride, but after several blocks decided it would be too far to walk.

She raised her arm at a passing yellow taxicab, and to her delight it pulled over immediately. The driver was large and black, and this led to second thoughts as she hovered indecisively between getting in and remaining on the street. Finally, she slid into the car, safely separated from the driver by a Plexiglas partition. On a whim, she instructed him to take her to the Capitol building. What better place to start than the heart of the enemy camp?

The cab stopped on Capitol South in front of the Library of Congress, and she carefully counted out the fare before placing it in the slot in the partition. She was taken aback by the fierce glare of disgust from the driver and then recalled the American custom of tipping. Apparently, working people were so poorly paid they depended on the charity of others to make ends meet. This cabbie was a member of an oppressed group. She reached back into her purse and placed an additional dollar bill in the slot. The driver shook his head philosophically and pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires.

Across the wide street the Capitol Building at first seemed quite unremarkable — a building with some columns surmounted by a dense network of scaffolding. But as she walked around it, she appreciated it more as the afternoon sun splashed off its columns and broad steps in contrast to the bright, autumnal colors of the trees. Stash’s warning came to mind: “Even if you really like something, even if it’s beautiful, always remember that it’s all built on the blood and bones of millions of destroyed lives.”

This place is the center of evil, she said to herself.