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The push to make Anya the face of women in the military had moved into high gear. There'd been a front-page article in Isvestia, as well as the article in Red Star.
Anya was an instant celebrity. Everywhere she went, people looked at her and whispered to each other. Some of her coworkers offered condolences on the death of her brother. Some looked at her with eyes of envy and jealousy. Rumors at the Ministry had her sleeping with everyone from General Stepanov to the president himself. How else to explain her sudden promotion, jumping ahead of others on the list? People more deserving of higher rank?
She'd worked hard to get where she was, and the rumors and innuendo made her angry. She told herself she should be used to it by now, but that didn't help. Ever since Anya joined the Army, she'd had to work twice as hard as her male counterparts. She couldn't choose assignments or superior officers, but she could do her best to accomplish whatever was required. Her family history hadn't hurt, but she'd gotten where she was on the strength of her abilities. It made her furious that people thought she'd earned promotion on her back. And now Stepanov was scheming to give them reasons to think they were right.
Earlier today he'd made his move.
She'd been summoned to his office, not knowing what to expect. As usual, Major Petrov looked at her in a way that made her skin crawl. Stepanov had been behind his massive desk, reading a thick file, when she entered.
"Have a seat, Colonel. I'll be with you in a moment."
"Sir."
After a few moments, Stepanov finished and set the file aside.
"It is my pleasure to tell you that your brother has been awarded the Gold Star for his actions in Syria. President Tarasov wishes to present the medal himself. He wants to give it to your mother. Of course, you will be standing at her side."
A fucking medal. Oh, Grigori. My beautiful brother.
She wanted to tell Stepanov what he and Tarasov could do with their medal. But she couldn't say that.
"Yes, sir."
"The ceremony will take place in the president's office tomorrow afternoon at 1400 hours. Take the rest of today and tomorrow off. Make sure your mother is prepared. These events can be stressful when one is not used to meeting the president."
"Of course, sir. I'm sure she will be grateful and thrilled."
"It's not every day the Gold Star is handed out. Your brother is a true hero. His men would have died if he had not acted as he did."
She couldn't tell Stepanov what she really thought. That Grigori was dead because of people like him. People who had started an unnecessary war because they could.
"I'm sure it is also good for morale, to have a hero."
Her voice contained a bitter undertone. Stepanov looked at her, not sure if she was being sarcastic.
"I don't quite take your meaning, Colonel."
"I only meant that our country needs heroes when we are at war."
"A war that is going well, thanks to your efficient organizational abilities."
"Thank you, sir."
"I would like to discuss some details of the operation with you," Stepanov said, his voice friendly. "Perhaps in a more relaxed atmosphere. Why don't you join me for dinner this evening?"
In the outer office, Petrov listened to the conversation.
"Thank you for the invitation, sir. But perhaps another evening might be more appropriate? My mother is not well. She needs careful preparation for tomorrow's ceremony."
"Of course, of course, I wasn't thinking. Another evening will do as well. Let's say the day after tomorrow. I'll send my car to pick you up."
"Will that be all, sir?"
"Yes, Colonel. Go home and take care of your mother."
"Yes, sir."
On her way out of the office, Petrov gave her a knowing leer.
She went back down to her office, locked her files in the safe, and left the ministry building. If felt as though everything was spiraling out of control. Stepanov had more on his mind than dinner.
That evening she told Yulia about the ceremony.
"Mother, the president is going to give Grigori the Gold Star."
"The Gold Star?"
"It's our highest military honor. The president wants you to attend the ceremony."
"I'm going to meet the president?"
"He wants to present the medal to you. There will be photographers there."
Yulia put her hand to her mouth, horrified.
"What will I wear? He's the president. I don't have anything..."
"Don't worry, mother. I'll take you shopping. We'll find something nice."
Yulia began crying. Anya put her arm around her, holding her until she'd calmed down.
"It's all right, mother."
"No, it isn't. It's all too much."
"What is?"
"Everything. First Grigori is killed. Now you're an important person. I'm going to meet the president. I don't know why everything is changing so fast."
"You've always wished you could meet him."
"Yes, but not like this."
"We have to make the best of it," Anya said. "Come on, I'll make some tea."
"I don't want any tea. I want to lie down."
Anya helped into her bedroom and onto the bed.
"I'll be in the other room if you need me," Anya said.
Yulia turned on her side and muttered something in reply.
Anya closed the door to the room and went into the kitchen. She put a kettle on for tea and sat down at the kitchen table. While she waited for the water to boil, she thought about Stepanov.
He was a bullish man, not particularly handsome, old enough to be her father. She imagined what it would be like to have sex with him. The images weren't pleasant.
Everything she'd worked for was in jeopardy because this man was attracted to her. It wasn't fair, but she'd never bought into the idea that life was supposed to be fair. Her father had taught her that. Not by words, but by his actions.
Anya was under no illusions. Stepanov wasn't inviting her to dinner to talk about logistics. If she refused him, he'd flush her career down the toilet. Anya wasn't sure what she'd do when he propositioned her. She wasn't a prude, but she preferred to choose who she let into her bed. Would she have sex with him to protect her career? If she did, did that make her any better than a whore? She didn't know the answer to that question. It disturbed her, that she didn't know.
The kettle whistled on the stove. Anya got up and spooned tea into a strainer. She took a cup from the shelf and made the tea. She went back to the table and sat down again.
She'd been in the Army for seventeen years.
She remembered what it had been like that first week of advanced training.
The Vystrel course for officers was a one-year program for candidates selected for future high command. It was held on a base outside the town of Solnechnogorsk, about sixty kilometers from Moscow. She thought she'd been prepared for what she was getting into. The reality turned out to be a lot different.
The first day of training was an assault on personal privacy and boundaries. Vystrel candidates were treated harshly. As soon as she stepped off the bus she'd been forced to run everywhere, with people shouting at her. The day was a blur in her memory, but some things stood out. They'd cut her hair. She'd been rushed from one place to another. All the time people had yelled at her. At the end of the day they'd stood her up in her shapeless green fatigues against a measured background and had a picture taken for her ID. When she was finally allowed to sleep, she fell exhausted onto the lumpy mattress of her bunk and passed out.
It seemed as though she'd been asleep for only a few moments, when a sergeant began banging the lid of a large trashcan to roust them from bed.
No particular exceptions were made for women candidates, except for segregation from the men. After they'd been rousted from their bunks, the women were given ten minutes to prepare for the day before being marched to the mess hall. The bathroom consisted of a long row of open toilets. The sounds of fifty women voiding their bowels at the same time was something she would never forget.
After those first months of harassment, the ranks of the candidates were considerably thinner. At the end of the year, she'd finished fourth in the class.
She'd paid her dues and learned her job. She was good at it. Now it was all threatened by this powerful man.
She sipped at the tea and considered what to do. All that fine talk about becoming the image of women in the modern military boiled down to a reality no different than it had been in the time of the Czars. Spread your legs, or suffer the consequences.
She thought about her little brother, Mikhail. The officer responsible for his death should have been court-martialed. Instead, he'd been shuffled to a different post and allowed to continue his career. He'd even been promoted.
She thought about Grigori, dead in a war created to satisfy the lust for power of her country's leaders. A war that might trigger something worse. She knew how Stepanov thought. He was typical of the Russian high command. There would be no meaningful negotiation with the United States.
Rulers came and went, but the Motherland endured. It was Russia that was important, not the politicians and generals who ruled her.
Anya truly loved her country. She'd dedicated her life to protecting it, but the Russia she loved was in the control of madmen. They'd killed her brothers. Now they were driving the country toward the abyss. If war came, millions would die.
Someone had to do something.
A small voice whispered in the back of her mind, something she didn't want to acknowledge.
A thought she couldn't dismiss.
A thought of treason.