The night train to L’viv departed at 11:00 PM. With no leads to follow, she decided to take a few days to research her family history. It gave her a reason to stay in Ukraine, plus L’viv was the birthplace of her father. It was as good a place as any to start looking into his past.
She purchased the last first-class ticket and found she was sharing the sleeping wagon with an elderly woman who snored. Jordan climbed into the top bunk and now lay in the dark, letting her mind churn over the details of the past week. With the rhythm of the wheels on the track lulling her toward sleep, she found herself grasping for the thread she knew still dangled somewhere out there.
One of the first things she’d done after leaving the lab was to call her RSO in Tel Aviv. Daugherty confirmed that she could take a few days. She considered calling Davis to confront him but figured his response would never blunt the edge of his betrayal. It was better to walk away.
In L’viv, she disembarked with her overnight bag and headed straight for the Hotel Leopolis. After unpacking, she pulled on a loose cotton shirt to cover her shoulder holster and gun and headed out to get something to eat.
The contrast between Kyiv and L’viv was like the difference between sunset and dawn. In Kyiv, a shroud had fallen over the city. The people were edgy, worried about the war, and stressed for money. She’d been told L’viv was called “the little Paris of Ukraine,” the lover’s city, and the number of wedding parties and brides hurrying along the streets lent a festive atmosphere. Here the people seemed carefree, happy, and the mood was contagious. The aromas of chocolate and coffee prompted her to stop at a small café. Sipping the dark roast and munching on a bowl of buckwheat groats and kovbasa, she felt the knot in her stomach relax for the first time in days.
Jordan had made an appointment to meet Professor Fedorov at 2:00 PM. He lived in the Jewish quarter, an older section of town. Here, the buildings were painted in shades of yellow and tan, with cobblestone streets in need of repair. The driver seemed genuinely alarmed to be dropping her off here. She assured him she would be fine.
Professor Fedorov lived in a second-floor walk-up. A stooped man in his seventies, he had a shock of white hair and piercing eyes from which nothing could hide. He ushered her in to a large sitting room off the entryway filled with books on built-in bookshelves along every wall. In the middle of the room, two chairs sat on a rug flanking a small round table where a pot of tea graced a tray along with two cups and saucers, a creamer, and a small bowl of sugar cubes.
“May I offer you some tea?” he said in English, gesturing to the spread. “My wife is making rugelach. You know this?”
A Jewish pastry filled with chocolate, cinnamon, or fruit preserves. Jordan’s grandmother had made it. “Of course. Thank you.”
Jordan found herself happy to fuss with her tea. She didn’t really know what to say to this man, though she had more questions than she had time to ask.
“You look like your father,” he said.
She glanced up, surprised. “Most people tell me I look like my mother.”
Fedorov tapped his spoon on the rim of his cup and shrugged. “She was beautiful, but you have your father’s eyes. As Jesus said, the eye is the lamp of the body. Translated, the eyes are the windows to the soul.”
As a Jew, his pull from the Bible caught her off guard. “You know the New Testament?”
“I am an educated man.”
She rested her own spoon in the saucer. “What can you tell me about my father?”
“What is it you want to know?”
Jordan swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat. “Alena Petrenko said he was Jew, a teacher who later became a Russian spy.”
“If it were only that simple.” Fedorov sipped his tea and looked up when a woman about his age came in with a small plate of pastries. He introduced her to Jordan and waited for her to leave before he continued. “Olek Ivanova was one of the most gifted men I ever knew. He had the power to heal and the power to know what was in a man’s mind. It was that power that brought the attention of Ilya Kravchenko.”
Dyadya Ilya? “I’ve never heard the name Kravchenko.” An image of the man she knew as Ilya Brodsky flashed in her mind.
Fedorov offered a sad smile. “Yes, I believe you called him dyadya. He was a Russian KGB agent, a major general in the army. He resided over the PSI program. You know of it?”
Jordan nodded. The program he referred to was Russia’s “psychic faculty” program. Started back in the 1920s, the studies were quickly banned by Stalin. Then in the 1950s, the taboo was lifted, and the KGB got involved. It was hard for her to believe anyone took it seriously. But spurred on by Cold War articles alluding to the U.S. Navy’s telepathic tests on atomic submarines, the Soviets launched a full-scale scientific exploration into the weapons potential of psychic energy. Terrified by reports that the Soviets were developing a psychotronic-warfare platform, the United States countered by creating its own, Star Gate. The difference in scope was substantial. The U.S. program was small and met with lots of skepticism. But the Soviets had gone with the adage go big or go home.
The knot in her stomach that she’d lost at lunch had returned. “It was a spy program specializing in remote viewing.”
“Among other things.” Fedorov picked up a rugelach and pointed to the plate for her to help herself. “Back then a person didn’t have a choice in matters of state. Your father was selected by the major general to participate. Ironic considering his mother was Jewish.”
Jordan snapped her head up.
“You didn’t know.” It was a statement, not a question.
“You must be mistaken,” she said. Knowing what she did about the area, she found it hard to believe. During World War II, the Jews living in L’viv were murdered and the Poles forced out by Stalin, leaving only the Ukrainian nationalists here. Her father had been born here after the war.
He smiled sadly. “I’m sorry I was the one to tell you. Your grandmother chose to hide it. Your father only learned of it the year before he died.”
“My mother knew?” If so, why had she never been told?
“Don’t be too quick to judge decisions made in the past. People do the best they can. Sometimes their choices are misguided, but seldom are they made with malice.” He reached over and patted her hand. “Anyway, your father grew up a Soviet, and as such, he did what he was ordered to do. They sent him to college, where he worked for me to make extra money, and he played hockey.”
Her mouth felt dry. She sipped her tea and shoved aside thoughts of her hidden heritage. There would be time to explore those later. Now was the opportunity for her to gather details of her father’s past. “How did he meet Ilya?”
“As I said, your father was a man of many talents. Some of which I think you share.”
“What talents?”
“For one, he could read anybody. He had an inner voice that spoke to him. It was usually right, and he learned to listen well. For another, he had a knack for protecting the goal. They sent him to play for the Soviet hockey team. His athletic prowess along with his subsequent marriage to your mother afforded him access to the international community, and his psychic abilities made him an invaluable asset. Then shortly before your mother became pregnant with your brother, something changed. Your father grew angry, more distant. He claimed his inner voice had lost some of its luster. Then after your brother was born, your father started speaking of emigrating to America. The reins of the Communist Party were loosening, and your mother wanted to go home.”
“Because she didn’t like it here?” The question popped out. Her mother had rarely spoken of Russia, or her father, for that matter.
“I think she didn’t like the direction things were going in her marriage. Over the years, Ilya had showered her with unwanted attention, and Olek had grown more distant. She had told your father how unhappy it made her, but he told her she was reading too much into the situation. By going home, she would kill two hares with one shot, removing Ilya from their lives and perhaps rekindling her marriage. But Ilya wasn’t about to let your father go.”
Here was the moment of truth. The information she’d been seeking. “Are you saying he killed my father?”
“More likely, had him killed.” Fedorov looked down at his cup. “Rumor was Ilya Kravchenko asked your mother to stay after your father was buried. She was gone in less than a month.”
“But why murder him?”
Fedorov set down his cup. “One must presume to protect the secret.”
Jordan frowned. “What secret?”
“After World War II, the Soviets had constructed a massive research facility in Siberia.”
Jordan had read about the facility. Known as “Science City,” it was made up of approximately forty scientific centers and housed tens of thousands of scientists.
“The PSI program operated there, out of the Center of Automation and Electrometry, Special Department Number Eight. It was an exciting time. As many as sixty scientists working to uncover the secrets of PSI particles, the elusive elements thought to be essential to psychic techniques, such as biocommunications and bioenergy.”
Fedorov sipped his tea. “But when Ilya was promoted to major general, he had other ideas. He formed a splinter group, hand-picking a few of the greatest scientists and researchers to work out of the Basmanny District in Moscow. It was a small bunch but well-connected. They called themselves the Futuristy, the Futurists.”
“How do you know all this?” Jordan asked, reaching for a rugelach heavily laced with cinnamon. Maybe it would settle her stomach.
“I learned it from Olek. He came to me. He felt things were progressing out of hand. He refused to elaborate, perhaps fearing for my safety. All he would say is the Futuristy had very big plans, global plans. He was meeting with the U.S. ambassador that night to discuss his defection to America, but he never made it to the embassy.”
They sat in silence, Jordan holding the untouched rugelach between her fingers. After a few moments, Professor Fedorov pushed himself out of his chair.
“You know, I have a book that you might find interesting. It lists many of the names of the international scientists recruited to come to the Soviet Union. Your grandfather was one of those men.” He walked to the bookcase and searched the spines of the books. “It was a Soviet operation following World War II, one very similar to your U.S. Operation Paperclip, called Operation Osoaviakhim.”
Jordan watched him struggle to see on the top shelf. “Can I help you find it?”
“No, it’s here somewhere. The book was written by a member of the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, the NKVD. It tells how The NKVD and the Soviet Army units recruited more than two thousand specialists for employment following the fighting.”
“How did they even get that many people to come out of the West?”
“That was the easy part. Many of the men, like your grandfather, had ties to the Soviet Union. His family and your grandmother’s family were from Ukraine. They wanted to come. No, it was crossing the borders with the specialized equipment they needed to do their jobs that presented the biggest challenge. The Soviets had to specially modify ninety-two train cars with secret compartments in order to accommodate the families and all their belongings.”
Jordan tried to imagine her grandma and grandpa packed onto the trains. Then when his words finally sank in, she surged into action. Jumping to her feet, she bumped the table, causing the cups and saucers to rattle. “Professor Fedorov, I have to go.”
“But you haven’t eaten your pastry.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, setting the rugelach down. “You’ve been a huge help. I really do appreciate the time you’ve taken, and the insights into my father and my family.” She walked over and shook the man’s hand. “I hope you’ll have me back sometime, but right now there’s something I have to do.”
“Please, take this with you.” He pressed a thin leather-bound volume into her hands. “If you like, you can bring it back next time you come for a visit.”
“I will.” She smiled, then clutching the small book moved swiftly for the door. She waved as she made her exit, and then midway down the stairs, she started to run. She needed to call Lory. She knew how the Russians were moving the gun.