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Lunch in the ministry canteen was forgettable. Anya bought a chocolate pudding to take home to her mother. She'd been back at her desk for an hour, studying recent production figures for the Sukhoi SU-57, still the Federation's premier front line fighter. There were issues that needed to be addressed at the Komsomolsk-on-Amur Plant, where the aircraft was manufactured.
Her phone signaled a call on one of the internal lines.
"Lieutenant Colonel Volkova speaking."
"Colonel, this is Major Petrov. General Stepanov wants to see you in his office."
Stepanov was the First Deputy Minister of Defense, in charge of Combat Support Services. Petrov was his aide.
"Now?"
"Yes, Colonel. Immediately."
"I'm on my way."
What does he want? I'd better watch my step.
Anya could count on one hand the number of times she had been in Stepanov's presence. She'd never been summoned to his office. There were eleven deputy ministers in the Ministry of Defense, each responsible for some specific facet of Federation forces.
The role of the military in Russia was fundamentally different from the way it was in the West, where military commanders were subordinate to civilian leadership. In Russia, the lines were blurred. Military and civilian authority were inextricably mixed. Nothing was done without consideration of the military. As the man responsible for combat readiness, First Deputy Minister General Yuri Stepanov was one of the most powerful men in Russia. He was part of a core group of senior officers led by the Chief of Staff, General Kerensky.
Anya had plenty of experience dealing with powerful men, starting with her father. She'd learned early on to keep her mouth shut, pay attention, and follow orders. She'd joined the army to get away from her father, not realizing she'd still have to keep her mouth shut and follow orders. That had been years ago. At least now she was in a position where she gave some of those orders.
Stepanov's office was on the top floor. Major Petrov was waiting to escort her to Stepanov's office when she stepped from the elevator. Petrov had fair hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, and an arrogant expression. His round face reminded Anya of a sour apple. Anya felt his eyes crawl over her body. She met his stare.
"Yes, Major? You wish to say something?"
The look in Petrov's eyes faded.
Cold bitch.
"This way, Colonel."
She followed him to a tall set of wooden doors. A desk to the side was unoccupied. She assumed it was Petrov's. He knocked. A deep voice boomed from within.
"Come."
Petrov opened the door. "Lieutenant Colonel Volkova is here, sir."
"Send her in."
Petrov stood to the side and indicated she should enter. She went in. The door closed behind her.
Stepanov sat behind a polished wooden desk. He was a heavyset man, with a broad face. Dark hair receded on either side of his forehead, leaving a widow's peak. The shoulder boards on his crisp uniform bore the large gold star of a full general in the Army. Rows of ribbons decorated his chest. He was studying a document.
She came to attention in front of the desk. A thick manila folder lay in front of him. She saw her name on it.
There were files on every Russian. For someone like her, there were extensive background checks, countless invasions of her privacy. It was one of the things she resented about life in Russia. The fat file on his desk probably contained every detail of her life.
"Lieutenant Colonel Volkova reporting, sir."
Stepanov looked up. "At ease, Volkova. Take a seat. I'll be with you in a moment."
"Sir."
A chair with carved arms and a brown leather seat was placed to one side of the desk. Anya sat down at attention, her back straight. Stepanov scribbled something on the paper he was reading, capped his pen, and set it down.
He turned toward Anya and studied her for a long moment. His eyes were dark, flat, unreadable, as if he'd pulled an inner shield over them. Her father had used the same technique. She was damned if she was going to let herself be intimidated, but it wasn't easy. Stepanov radiated a powerful presence. He tapped the folder on his desk with her name on it.
"I've been reviewing your record, Colonel. It's exemplary. Your unit has consistently met or exceeded the goals required of you. That is a reflection of your organizational skills and leadership."
"Thank you, sir."
"You come from a family with a history of service to the Rodina. Tell me, Colonel. Why didn't you enter the security services, like your father and the men in your family before him?"
The question caught her off guard. What was he getting at? She decided to tell the truth, at least part of it. Stepanov didn't need to know how much she'd hated her drunken father and the thugs he called friends.
"To be frank, sir, I did not feel comfortable with that kind of work. I felt I could be more useful serving in the Army."
"You have a judgment on the work of the security services?"
Careful.
"It is necessary work for our country," Anya said. "The security services are a bulwark against our enemies."
"You would agree that we have many enemies?"
"Yes, sir. If I didn't think so, I wouldn't be wearing this uniform."
He nodded to himself. Her answer seemed to satisfy him.
"I have an important assignment for you. You are to maintain the strictest security for this. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
Stepanov opened a drawer and took out a blue folder. It was marked STATE SECRET in bold letters. Few documents earned the Federation's highest security rating. He slid it over to her. She took it and held it in her lap.
"As of today, your security clearance is increased. Your orders are to make certain everything is prepared for the success of the operation outlined in this folder. You are to give this your full attention. The requirements of this mission supersede all others. If anyone argues with you about priorities, refer them to me. You may only tell the people working for you what they need to know to complete their assigned tasks. Is that clear?"
"Very clear, sir."
"Begin immediately. I want regular updates from you. Give them to Major Petrov."
"Sir."
"That's all, Colonel. Dismissed."
"Sir."
She stood, saluted, pivoted on her heel and left the room. Stepanov watched her walk away.
A beautiful woman. She's unattached. I think I will do something about that.
Outside the office, Petrov was at his desk. His face closed down as she passed.
Back in her office, Anya shut the door and drew the blinds over her window, a signal she was not to be disturbed.
She sat down and placed the blue folder on her desk.
State Secret.
She had never been given a document marked with that classification. Whatever it was, it meant trouble. And what was that all about, that conversation with Stepanov, if you could call it a conversation?
She'd been careful not to tell Stepanov what she really thought about the SVR, the successor to the KGB. What she'd said about the security services being necessary was true, in the sense that someone had to do the dirty work of counterintelligence and rooting out spies and enemies. She loved her country, in spite of the fact that it had come to resemble the USSR her mother so fondly remembered. A country of increasing surveillance, where you had to be careful about what you said in public
Stepanov had been probing her. Assessing her loyalty, her commitment. Bringing up her family history. Reminding her of her father. The breakup of the Soviet Union had turned Colonel Arkady Volkov into a bitter and angry man. In the end, his anger had killed him. Anya had had been ten years old when he died.
The memory came, unbidden.
It was August. The apartment was stifling hot, even with all the windows open. Her brother Grigori sat next to her at the dinner table, pushing his food around on his plate. Mikhail was in his high chair, next to Yulia. She was feeding a mashed vegetable to him, something with a sickly orange color. That color had always stuck in her mind.
Her father sat at the head of the table in his chair. Anya wasn't allowed to sit in his chair. Nobody was, except her father. She was careful not to look at him. She could tell he was angry about something. When father was angry he might hurt her or her mother or Grigori. She kept her eyes on her plate.
"Those traitors," he said. "Do you know what they have done? Do you?"
Anya watched the spoon with the orange food pause in her mother's hand.
"No, Arkady. Who are you talking about?"
"Those bastard priests, that's who. Traitors, all of them."
Anya glanced at her father. His face was red. The water glass by his plate was filled with vodka. He picked it up and drank half of it.
"What have they done?" her mother said, her voice submissive.
"I'll tell you what they've done."
He slammed the table. The dishes rattled. Mikhail began to cry. Her father's voice was loud.
"They've made saints out of the fucking Czar and his family. Exploiters, murderers, made into saints. Those bastard priests should be pulled out of their fucking churches and shot. If we still had a real government..."
He looked over at Mikhail.
"Stop his screaming or I will."
"He's only a baby!"
Her father stood, his features ugly with anger. Yulia got up, shielding Mikhail with her body. Mikhail screamed louder.
"If you won't do it, I will."
"You leave him alone!" Anya said.
He turned toward her, dark and terrible.
"Ah. The mouse squeaks."
Anya wanted to run but her feet were frozen to the ground. Her father pulled the heavy belt from his pants and took a step toward her.
"Arkady, no!" Yulia said.
"I'll teach you not to squeak, little mouse. You..."
Suddenly he stumbled. His face turned a deep purple. He began wheezing, horrible, choking sounds, trying to draw breath. He dropped the belt and grasped at the back of his chair. Then he toppled to the floor.
Anya felt like she was standing outside of herself, looking at the man on the floor as if he were a stranger.
Arkady Volkov's eyes rolled back and he died.
For years, Anya had thought it was her fault that her father died. She pushed the memory back into the dark place where it lived and opened the blue folder.