CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE, MOSCOW, JANUARY 1997: THE DACHA
Running the lab at reduced speed during the Russian Orthodox Christmas week was not difficult. Neither Olivia’s staff nor the rest of Russia was motivated to work. Those who had not taken leave were on a half-schedule. Olivia insisted on a few good hours out of them in the morning, then let them go at noon. Now the afternoon was in full brightness. Olivia was in her office alone, standing with her back to the open door, contemplating a white board covered with equations and schematics, thinking hard and feeling peaceful. Borodkin had left very early that morning, taken suddenly ill, he’d said. It was nice to have him out of the lab.
She sensed motion behind her. “Ivan Ivanovich,” she said without turning, “you are a family man and once again I am keeping you from your wife and children. So we will put the lab to bed and perhaps I will find my mistake in my dreams.”
“Doctor Tolchinskaya, I am not Ivan Ivanovich.”
Be calm, she told herself quickly. No sudden moves. She turned slowly. There were men, one at the door, several behind him. They did not carry weapons openly, but they were clearly armed. Agents of the FSB always were when they made their calls. “I presume,” she said to the man before her, “that if Ivan Ivanovich admitted you, you have the proper clearances. This is a classified facility.”
“We do and we presented them to him. We now present them to you.” He began to step forward.
Still preternaturally calm, Olivia moved towards him, clearly the ranking officer and even more the leader, a tall, dark-haired man who moved with a heavy limp and a dignity of carriage that belied his swarthy face. Colonel Zhuralev realized that although their steps brought her within his reach, he was now within hers. He did not fear her, but from what he knew of her, it was prudent to be cautious. He felt the hairs prickling on the back of his neck and his hands as he handed her his credentials. She examined them carefully, handed them back, and said nothing.
Zhuralev waited for her to say something, ask anything. They often did at this moment, more as a means of controlling their panic and shock than as an attempt to say or ask anything. He’d also seen men who, unable to speak, had collapsed before him without even being told the nature of the visit. Such was the way of it. Then he realized that she would not speak. She’d been through detention and interrogation before and knew better than to volunteer anything. She had the composure of a seasoned dissident of the former world, unrepentant but aware of the protocols.
Zhuralev straightened a bit. “Doctor Olivia Lathrop Tolchinskaya, you are a person of interest to the FSB. We have some questions to ask you, although at this point, no charges have been preferred against you. My orders are to tell you that our interest is in accurate information, and in accurate information only, nothing else. So long as you do not use force or violence, no harm or insult will be done to you and you will be treated as a prisoner of status.”
“And my staff?”
He respected her for that; it bespoke both composure and care. “Your employees are also people of interest, yet at this time suspected of no wrongdoing. We will interrogate them, too, but they will be non-hostile interrogations. Likewise, so long as they do not use force or violence, no harm or insult will be done to them. However, your lab will be sealed and thoroughly inspected. This detail,” he motioned to the men behind him, “will tend to that. Another detail of a man and a woman is waiting outside. We will now take you to your home. Under my eyes and those of the matron, you will pack an overnight bag, including any medications you may need. If you wish to retain your weapon for…personal reasons…we will hold it for you until we reach our destination. You will be allowed one magazine and seven rounds of ammunition.”
Olivia did not ask the obvious question.
Zhuralev continued calmly. “After you have packed, we will seal your home. Your housekeeper will also pack a bag. She will be taken to FSB headquarters for debriefing, not interrogation, as she is one of ours. We know that General Suslov has a family dacha outside of Moscow that is not presently inhabited. You will be taken there. He will also be there, although he will probably arrive after you do. There will be an outside security detail but no one within, save the two of you. There will be no intrusions on your privacy, either human or,” he almost smiled, “electronic. Tomorrow morning, I will return to escort you to the Lubyanka.”
“May I ask,” Olivia said slowly, calmly, “why I am not being taken directly to prison?”
Zhuralev nodded. “It has been decided that you and General Suslov might wish to discuss certain matters tonight. This is not, if you will forgive me the crudity, a conjugal visit or a last night together or anything like that. It is desired that the two of you make whatever decisions you feel appropriate. The perimeter detail has orders to apprehend you if you try to leave, so please do not.”
“May I ask if General Suslov is also under arrest?”
“He is not, Doctor. Not at the moment.”
Zhuralev watched her very closely as he spoke. She was cold and composed, but he could also see that she was sick inside. Yet her dignity did not betray her. “My orders,” Zhuralev concluded, “include reminding you that if it is established that you have done nothing wrong, you will be set free. My orders are also to tell you nothing beyond this, so please ask me no questions.”
“I won’t,” Olivia murmured, now aware only of the shame cascading within her like lava from a volcano whose eruption she’d feared since leaving Vienna.
She said nothing for a long time, just watched him out of eyes that had seen combat and agony and death. He met her steady gaze, smelled the cedary violets of the perfume she was wearing, very strong with the heat of her body, and under them the glittering steel scent of the adrenaline that had flooded her system. He knew that her heightened senses meant that she would be able to smell him, perhaps hear his breathing and his pulse, so he tried to keep them normal. He did not worry that his own scent would betray fear or cruelty or anything else. He simply wanted this all to be done with dignity and respect.
After what seemed hours but had, he knew, been no more than a few seconds, she nodded and stepped back away from him and lifted her hands. “I am wearing my pistol beneath my cardigan. I will now take it out and surrender it to you.”