Conspiracy in Kiev (4 page)

SIX

A
lex returned home, picking up her mail in the lobby, giving a friendly nod to the concierge. She fumbled with two bags, flowers, and mail as she walked past.

Alex lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment in a modern building called Calvert Arms Apartments on Calvert Avenue and Twenty-fourth Street, in the Cleveland Park neighborhood in the northwest quadrant of the city. It was a comfortable quiet building built in the mid-sixties, filled with young single people—students, interns, people just starting their first job out of college, and government retirees.

She waited at the elevator. It was stopped on the fifth floor. It seemed to be permanently stopped, as if someone was saying a longwinded good-bye.

She grew impatient. The elevator began to descend slowly.

Five
,
four
,
three …

She knew everyone on her floor, at least by sight. Who was making her day longer than it had to be?

Two
,
one …

The twin doors of the elevator opened. Out stepped a young woman who could hardly have been older than her early twenties, very pretty in a heavy parka and tight jeans. A student at one of Washington’s numerous colleges, Alex figured.

Students, along with career-beginners, were the Calvert Arms’ bread and butter. They coexisted with the old women in their seventies, eighties, or even nineties who had moved into the place when it opened forty years ago. At that time they had been middle-aged empty-nesters. Time had passed. They were still empty-nesters, just twice as old. Their ex- or late husbands had been pushing up daisies for decades.

The younger girl hurried to the front door. Alex stepped into the elevator and rode to the fifth floor.

Her neighbor across the hall had started out as a friendly nodding acquaintance and ended up becoming a good friend in a fatherly kind of way. He was a scholarly sixty-year-old who had worked for the State Department for twenty-eight years. Now he was a retired diplomat who played catchy pop music from Latin America each morning as she was on her way to work. The Calvert Arms was pretty well insulated, but you could hear music in the hallway through the doors.

Alex had on occasion met him going into or coming out of his apartment and had struck up a conversation in the laundry room, commenting on his choices. She too liked Lucero and the late Rocío Dúrcal. One day she couldn’t help asking, “Do you only listen to women singers?”

“Absolutely,” he replied. “My virtual harem.”

That conversation and similar exchanges had let to a curious kind of friendship with a man who could be friendly but was self-contained, seemingly content with his virtual harem. He had few visitors. They spoke only Spanish with each other and his was easily a match for hers. She called him Don Tomás, though he was no Latin. He had invited her and Robert in for brunch one Sunday. They had been fascinated by his collection of art deco prints from the 1920s and 1930s, notably some beautifully preserved works of the French artist Tamara de Lempicka. They were all stylized pictures of beautiful women.

“Another part of your virtual harem?” she had asked.

Don Tomás had replied in the most relaxed manner imaginable, “Absolutely.”

This evening no sound from the vocal part of the virtual harem was coming through the door as she passed. She hoped nothing had happened to him.

She glanced at her mail and dumped it on the dining table. Then she stood perfectly still. Was everything exactly as she had left it? Was there something that she sensed, but could not quite put a finger on? Alex was unsure. Coupled with the appearance of the man at the bar in the Athenian, the evening had taken on a strange spin. Or was she just overanxious about a Ukraine trip that she didn’t want to make?

She sighed. She dismissed it. She placed the flowers in a vase.

She was in bed by midnight. She set the alarm for 6:00 a.m. Then, as she settled in to sleep, her eyes shot open. A realization hit her.

The man she had seen at the bar in the Athenian?

He was Fred, one of the two newcomers at the gym. Away from the gym, in a Burberry raincoat instead of basketball togs, she hadn’t recognized him. Chances were that he couldn’t figure out why he thought he knew her. Well, now she could relax. At least she knew why she recognized him and from where.

She closed her eyes. Minutes after her head hit the pillow, she was sleeping soundly.

SEVEN

T
he next morning at 7:54 a.m., Alexandra walked through the entrance to Room 6776 B at the main building of the United States State Department, a vast complex covering two city blocks. To come in out of the cold she used the Twenty-first Street entrance, which had been built in the 1930s as the War Department for the US Army.

The handsome marble-clad art deco lobby had a curious mural featuring peaceful Americans at work and prayer. They were surrounded by protective soldiers in gas masks, cannons, and then-new-fangled four engine bombers. Out of embarrassment at the martial theme, the State Department had long hidden the picture behind a curtain, but later more tolerant minds had prevailed.

Alex’s meeting was not in that part of the building but in the much larger part built onto the original structure under Eisenhower. The two components had different floor plans that Alex always found disorienting when she paid a visit.

She arrived in a small conference chamber with a circular table and six chairs.

The room tone was flat. Soundproofing. It was like being in a clinic for hearing aids. One window with double glass overlooked an inner courtyard with a statue of Atlas holding up the globe.

At the desk, a small, trim man adjusted his spectacles but did not look up. He had a mop of gray hair and a reddish face. He wore a crimson tie and a cream-colored shirt. He was flanked by a half-finished container of Starbucks, the tall one with the full day’s caffeine punch. He had a look to him that she thought she recognized, one of those surly old State Department retirees who get called back for special assignments.

“Alexandra LaDuca,” he said, finally glancing up.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she said. “Yes. I’m Alex.”

He stood. He was a smaller man than she had initially thought, not much more than five foot four. Over the years, she had learned to be wary of tiny people who might harbor king-sized complexes.

“I’m Michael Cerny. State Department. Please sit,” he said. He indicated that she could take any seat at the table.

“I’m afraid I don’t even know what this is about,” she said. She sat, choosing a seat that allowed several empty chairs between them.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “This is the government. We’re soldiers, aren’t we? We march forward. Orders.”

“Sometimes,” she said.

“Sometimes,” he agreed.

“I suppose you better bring me up to date,” she said. “Explain where I’ll be marching. You talk and I’ll listen.”

“Quite,” he said. “Excellent. Tell me. Water? Coffee? Tea?” he asked. There was a service on a side table, which held all three.

“Just some water,” she said.

He fetched it. She glanced around the room. One reading chair. Reading lamps. Prints from second-rate paintings. Landscapes meant to offend no one. Bookcases without a single book. Michael Cerny sat down again.

He related that he was actually retired from the State Department after thirty-five years but had returned for a special ten-week assignment. She was off to a good start, assuming he could be believed. She had called that one perfectly.

“Well,” he said at length. “You have an overseas mission coming up. The president is going to Ukraine,” he said. “Official state visit. Arriving February fifteenth.”

She glanced at a calendar. It was January seventh. The trip was five weeks and two days away.

Cerny kept talking. He was, he explained immodestly, an expert on Ukraine, having done two tours in the capital, Kiev, and one in Washington on the Kiev desk, the office that handled Ukraine.

“I’m not an expert on that part of the world,” she said. “The Ukraine.”

“I suppose then, that’s where we should start,” he said, “with terminology. They don’t call it that with the definite article any more,” he said, his tone almost professorial. “Let’s backtrack a little. In English, the country was formerly usually referred to with the definite article.
The
Ukraine, as in
the
Netherlands or
the
Congo or
the
Sudan. However, usage without the article is more frequent since the country’s independence.”

“Thanks for the tip,” she said.

“Don’t mention it. The modern name of the country is derived from the term
ukraina
in the sense of ‘borderland, frontier region, or marches,’ ” he said. “Not that you care, but these meanings can be derived from the Proto-Slavic root
kraj
-, meaning ‘edge, border.’ In Russian, a modern parallel for this might be—”

“The Russian word
okraina
,” she said. “Meaning ‘outskirts’ and
kraj
meaning ‘border district.’ I speak Russian fluently.”

“Your language skills are the major reason you’re here,” he said.

She sipped some water.

“But why do I make the point?” he asked. “Because Ukraine has always been exactly that. A border district. A frontier. A dangerous unruly place. Europe ends there and Asia begins. Asia begins there and Europe ends. One could put forth the theory that civilization sometimes ends there and chaos begins.”

Alex smiled. Cerny was coming across as a windbag, but at least he was an entertaining and knowledgeable windbag.

“Now,” he continued, “I’m not so dumb as to think that you don’t pick up rumors within the government, same as everyone else,” he said. “Particularly with a fiancé who is employed by the Secret Service. So you probably knew already about the visit.”

“I’d heard a few rumors,” she admitted.

“Of course you have,” he said. “In any event, the intent of the trip is to bolster the pro-Western regime elected in the
pomaranchevya revolutsia
, the ‘Orange Revolution’ of 2004 and 2005. A secondary intent is for the president to look good here at home. We should get a good reception there.” He switched gears again. “I also note in your c.v. that you’re a member of a Christian church.”

“That’s a private matter, but yes, I am.”

“Then this should appeal to you. The Orange Revolution was widely supported by the Christian churches of the region.”

“Fine, but it’s not just a Christian thing,” she said. “Anything that threw off the old-style Soviet way of doing things would have its appeal to any fair-minded people, wouldn’t it? Religious freedom is for everyone, or did I misread the Constitution?”

“Point well taken,” he allowed. “You’re rather a live wire, aren’t you?”

“I like to believe in what I’m doing, particularly if I’m doing it for my country. I might be a little strange in that respect.”

“I can respect that,” he said. “So let me refresh your memory on events from southeastern Europe from the past few years. The Orange Revolution.”

Cerny spoke without notes. Alex listened intently, matching Cerny’s official account of events with what she remembered from the news.

The Orange Revolution was a series of protests and political events in Ukraine from November 2004 to January 2005, in the immediate aftermath of the run-off vote of the 2004 Ukrainian presidential election.

The 2004 presidential election in Ukraine had featured two main candidates. One was sitting Prime Minister Viktor Yanukovych, supported by Leonid Kuchma, the outgoing president. The opposition candidate was Viktor Yushchenko, leader of the Our Ukraine faction in the Ukrainian parliament, also a former prime minister.

The election, which Cerny had observed personally, was held in a highly charged atmosphere, with Yanukovych and the outgoing president’s administration using their control of the government for intimidation of Yushchenko and his supporters. In September 2004 Yushchenko suffered dioxin poisoning under mysterious circumstances. While he survived and returned to the campaign trail, the poisoning undermined his health and altered his appearance dramatically.

“To this day, Yushchenko’s face remains disfigured,” Cerny added without emotion. Orange, he continued, was originally adopted by the Viktor Yushchenko’s insurgent camp as the signifying color of his election campaign. “Later the color gave name to an entire series of political terms, such as
the Oranges
for his supporters. When the mass protests grew, and especially when they brought about political change in the country, the term
Orange Revolution
came to represent the entire series of events.”

Protests began on the eve of the second round of voting, Cerny remembered, as the official count differed markedly from exit-poll results. The latter gave Viktor Yushchenko an eleven percent lead, while official results gave the election win to Yanukovych by three percent.

Yanukovych’s supporters claimed that Yushchenko’s connections to the anti-incumbent Ukrainian media explained this disparity. But the Yushchenko team publicized evidence of many incidents of electoral fraud in favor of the government-backed Yanukovych, events witnessed by many local and foreign observers.

The Yushchenko campaign publicly called for protest on the dawn of election day, November 21, 2004, when allegations of fraud began to spread. Beginning on November 22, 2004, massive protests started in cities across Ukraine. The largest, in Kiev’s Maidan Nezalezhnosti, Independence Square, attracted a half million participants, who on November 23, 2004, peacefully marched in front of the headquarters of the Verkhovna Rada, the Ukrainian parliament, many wearing orange or carrying orange flags, the color of Yushchenko’s campaign coalition.

“I remember them chanting, hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians filling Kiev’s Independence Square on the evening of November 22. ‘
Razom nas bahato! Nas ne podolaty!
’ ‘Together we are many. We cannot be defeated.’ ”

Emerging from a sea of orange, the mantra signaled the rise of a skilled political opposition group and a determined middle class that had come together to stop the ruling elite from falsifying an election and hijacking Ukraine’s presidency.

The Ukrainian capital, Kiev, was the focal point with thousands of protesters demonstrating daily. Nationwide, the democratic revolution was highlighted by a series of acts of civil disobedience, sit-ins, and general strikes organized by the opposition movement.

Over the next seventeen days, through harsh cold and sleet, millions of Ukrainians staged nationwide nonviolent protests. The entire world watched, riveted by this outpouring of the people’s will in a country whose international image had been warped by its corrupt rulers. The nationwide protests succeeded when the results of the original run-off were annulled, and a revote was ordered by Ukraine’s Supreme Court.

Under intense scrutiny by domestic and international observers, the second run-off was declared to be “fair and free.” The final results showed a clear victory for Yushchenko. Yushchenko was declared the official winner and with his inauguration on January 23, 2005, in Kiev, the Orange Revolution had peacefully reached its successful conclusion. Similarly, by the time Yushchenko’s victory was announced, the Orange Revolution had set a major new landmark in the post-communist history of Eastern Europe, a seismic shift westward in the geopolitics of the region.

“Now, in terms of an impending presidential visit, particularly with a new president in office, normally we have a bigger planning stage. But the president is adamant. Political statement, diplomatic statement. All the usual bull. It means we have the normal three months of preparation and only one month to do it.”

“How do I fit in?” she asked.

“Rather perfectly,” he answered. “Your c.v. is very impressive,” he said. “You should see some of the people I’ve had to prep. Dumb as doorknobs would be both an understatement, as well as an insult to the world of doorknobs.” He paused. “So. Would you be willing to accept a temporary assignment to Ukraine?”

She sighed. “Only if you talk me into it,” she said.

“Well, the Ukrainians are wonderful people, warm and much deserving of any help we can bring them. They’ve been oppressed for centuries, most recently by Soviet Russian Communism. Fascinating place, rich in history and culture.”

“Keep going,” she said.

He paused, taking a glance down at her c.v. again. His tone changed.

“Look,” he said. “The assignment will call on your previous experience in undercover work. It presupposes an ability to learn functional Ukrainian in one month and have the pre-existing knowledge of Russian. So this, right here, is your opportunity to get out of jail free.”

“How?”

“You can avoid the assignment by being unable to pass the basic language requirement in Russian. Follow what I’m saying?”

“Yes. But I’m fluent in Russian and everyone who knows me knows that.”

“We have two other agents we can interview. They’re not as qualified as you, but it’s an imperfect world. We can talk to them.”

She pondered it for a moment.

“I came here this morning with the intent of declining this assignment,” she said. “But it’s also not in my nature to back away from challenges.”

He let a moment pass. “That’s in your c.v. too,” he said.

“So tell me more about the assignment,” she said. “I’ll listen.”

He smiled in response. “Let’s talk about you. It’s one thing to read a c.v., quite another to learn personally about someone who might take an important job.”

“What are you asking for?” she asked.

“Tell me about yourself,” Cerny said. “How you came to be here. How you’re so good as an investigator, with a firearm, and in so many languages. I’m fascinated.”

She opened her mouth to answer. Before she could speak a word, he added one more request. “Explain it to me in Russian,” he said. “I’d like to hear you speak.”

Alex fumbled at first. Not withstanding that souvenir poster in her living room, she hadn’t spoken Russian in years.

But she began.

Her Russian kicked in quickly.