I find myself traveling to Moscow after all, via the Sapsan train. It only takes about four hours, but I book a sleeper compartment so I can get a little rest on the journey. It’s twenty-five hundred rubles for first class—less than forty dollars American.
I lie in the bunk, too keyed up to actually sleep despite the soothing rocking motion of the train.
I don’t disagree with Ivan’s plan. But I’m suspicious of his insistence that I have to deliver the flash drive by hand. I’m wondering if he’s just trying to get me out of St. Petersburg.
He knows the release of this information will be explosive. I think he’s afraid that I’ll be caught up in the wave of retaliation that follows.
I don’t want to be treated as fragile. I like Ivan because he sees me as an equal. A partner. I don’t want him to try to manipulate me, to send me away for my own safety.
I do agree, at least, with his choice of the Novoya Gazeta as the best place to hand over the flash drive.
It’s not easy to find independent journalists in Russia. The government has taken control of most major newspapers and radio stations, as well as all national television channels. Most media is pure propaganda.
But that doesn’t mean there are no critical voices left. Some real journalists remain. And they pay dearly for speaking the truth. Fifty-eight have been murdered in the last thirty years. The investigation into their deaths is a joke.
The very few independent papers dig into the corruption of politicians, business, and banks in Russia, and publish the results.
The Novoya Gazeta is one such paper. They themselves have lost six journalists after publishing stories on money laundering, embezzlement, and fraud amongst Russia’s elite. Their journalists have been poisoned, shot, and beaten to death with a hammer on the doorstep of their own apartment building. And still, they recently published a story about the kidnapping and murder of immigrant women by Russian police.
So this is where Ivan has sent me. To the offices of Novoya Gazeta, to speak with Editor-in-Chief Alya Morozova.
I arrive before their office opens, purchasing a coffee from a little cafe across the street while I wait for Alya to arrive.
I’ve already looked up her picture online, so I’ll know how to recognize her.
Old habits die hard. I can’t help researching people before I meet them. I know, for instance, that Alya’s sister was one of the six journalists killed, after writing a story about the lynching of Chechens by Russian military. I know that Alya has since published several more stories about the persecution of gay men in Chechnya. She’s stubborn. Vengeful. Unbreakable.
She’s a tall, slim woman, about forty-five, with iron-gray hair and horn-rimmed glasses. She’s wearing an elegant coat and high-heeled boots when she strides up the sidewalk toward her office.
I make sure to approach her head-on—I’m sure she’s wary of people sneaking up behind her.
“Dobroye utro,” I greet her. Good morning.
She takes one look at me and says, “You’re not Russian. Do you prefer to speak in English?”
I’m a little taken aback. It’s uncomfortable to be sized up so easily. But I always appreciate bluntness.
“Sure,” I say. “That works.”
“What do you want?” Alya asks, peering at me through her glasses.
Russians also like bluntness. They treat everything as if it costs money, including the number of words in their sentences.
“I have some information for you,” I tell her. “Can we go up to your office?”
She looks suspicious, but since that’s where she was headed anyway, she makes no objection. She unlocks the front door of the building, and I follow her inside.
The Gazeta offices are far from luxurious. Independent journalism is no lucrative affair, despite all the awards the Gazeta has won. I know they’ve been sued multiple times, and often lost. The courts are no fairer than any other institution in Russia.
Alya’s desk is just one of many on an open floor plan, not separated in any way. She heads over to the little kitchenette to make her own coffee, and then meets me back at her desk. She takes a tin of shortbread cookies out of her desk, not offering me any.
“So what do you have for me?” she says.
I hand over the flash drive, free for anyone to read now, thanks to Zima.
Alya plugs it into her laptop and begins scrolling. I see her face grow increasingly amazed, the farther down she reads.
She takes off her glasses and presses her thumb and index fingers into the inner corners of her eyes.
She looks more pained than excited.
“Where did you get this?” she asks me.
“I stole it off a politician in a strip club,” I tell her.
There’s no reason to lie. I’m guessing that Alya is probably as good at sussing out bullshit as Ivan himself.
“Do you have additional sources?” she says.
“No. Most of the evidence speaks for itself, though.”
She’s watching me through narrowed eyes. Her gaze is no less intimidating without the glasses. I suspect they’re just for show, because she seems to see just fine without them.
“Why did you bring this to me?” she snaps. “What are you trying to get out of it?”
“Well, I don’t like some of the stuff in there,” I tell her.
That’s true enough. Some of it turns my stomach. I hate the idea of keeping it secret, using it for leverage myself. I was relieved when Ivan came up with this idea instead.
But Alya knows there’s more to it than that.
“Who are you trying to get into trouble?” she persists. “Which of these people?”
“None of them,” I tell her. “I don’t even know them.”
That’s sort of true. I don’t personally know anybody mentioned on the flash drive.
Alya is folding and unfolding her glasses, debating with herself. She knows all of this is highly suspicious. But of course, she wants the drive.
“Who are you?” she says. “What are you doing in Russia?”
“Amanda Wallace,” I say, giving her my name from the strip club. “I was working at a club called Raketa. That’s where I got the drive.”
She purses her lips. She doesn’t believe I’m a stripper.
“What do you want in exchange for the drive?” she asks.
It’ll look even sketchier if I don’t ask for anything. So I say, “Five hundred dollars.”
“I’ll give you two hundred.”
“Three fifty. I had to take the train from St. Petersburg.”
“Two fifty,” she says.
“Fine,” I say. “But I want those cookies, too.”
I nod toward the little tin of shortbread cookies.
Alya snorts and shoves the tin toward me.
“My grandmother made those,” she tells me. “They’re shit.”
I take one out of the tin anyway and dunk it in my coffee while Alya counts the money out of petty cash. She gives it to me partly in American bills, partly in Rubles, because that’s what she’s got on hand.
I don’t make a fuss about it. I just fold up the bills and shove them in my pocket.
“You going to tell me what your real angle is on this?” Alya says, looking up at me while I stand up from my seat.
“It’s not relevant,” I tell her.
She purses her lips and scowls, putting her glasses back on her face once more. She starts typing on her laptop, dismissing me.
She hasn’t thanked me for the flash drive, but I know she’s going to use it, nonetheless.
As I’m about to leave she says, without looking up, “You going to take those cookies?”
“No,” I say. “You’re right—they’re shit.”
She snorts and puts the tin back in her drawer.
