NationStates Jolt Archive

Nistrian Separatists Demand International Recognition
by Brandon Sterken (AP)

Odessa, Ukraine - The breakaway Democratic Republic of Nistria issued a plea for international support in its independence movement, reported the Associated Press Monday, bringing to a head the decade-long cry for political self-determination. The statement, issued to members of the international press, called upon the United Nations to grant Nistria formal recognition of its independent status.

Nistria, situated between the Dniester and Bug Rivers in western Ukraine and Moldova, has long been a hotbed and source of political unrest for the region’s governments. Following the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991, the Nistrian or Transnistrian independence movement which had been gaining momentum during the late 1980’s, began an outright revolt against the Ukrainian and Moldovan authorities. These rebels were financed in large part by Russia, who sought to bring political pressure against Ukrainian attempts to develop ties with the west.

On July 21, 1992, Nistrian rebels signed a ceasefire agreement with Moldova and since then a tentative peace has existed between separatists and Moldovan troops, enforced principally by Russia which, until just two weeks ago, had maintained enough troop strength in the region to prevent its annexation by Moldova. This tentative peace agreement was strengthened by several talks in Moldova focused on reuniting the Republic under a federal system of rule. The third and final installment of these talks which took place in Kiev late last year broke down when Nistrian officials issued a thinly-veiled threat against the Moldovan and Ukrainian administrations, one official going so far as to say, “Transnistria and her people will not suffer political isolation and domination far longer, that fact is apparent. Now, the [Ukrainian] government, as well as their Moldovan counterparts must make the decision, will they see Nistrian political independence heralded by signs or shells?”

This aggressive stance led to the removal of Russian support two weeks ago, when Moscow issued a declaration that the 14th Army would withdraw from Moldova within a month. The phased withdraw was concluded rapidly, with the last Russian personnel leaving Tiraspol airport three days ago. Since then, Moldovan incursions into the Transnistrian region have been met with sporadic resistance. While little solid information about the situation in Moldovan Transnistria is available, rumors of the violence, including accounts of genocide against Romanian settlers in Râbniţa, have circulated as far as Odessa, bringing protesters out in droves.

The returning bloodshed has been blamed alternatively on the Moldovan government and on Transnistrian militia, neither of which ill take responsibility for beginning hostilities. The general sentiment here in Odessa, however, is one of urgency for both Ukrainian and Nistrian authorities, as both try to secure their position in a rapidly collapsing political environment. On Sunday Kiev threatened military intervention in Moldovan Transnistria if violence spread to Ukrainian cities, fearing the worst from this round of unrest. This prompted today’s plea for international recognition by the local Nistrian government, which has said it fears the Ukraine will use the Moldovan situation as warrant for reprisals against Nistrian political institutions. Kiev, however, has denied this claim as mere speculation.

Here in Odessa, the situation remains precariously balanced, the people nervous, on the edge of violence for, and against, a free Nistria. However, while neither side can truly claim to understand the unfolding situation, neither can deny the sound of gunfire echoing across the border, bringing past questions into an all-too-real light. “Signs, or shells?” What each side will chose remains to bee seen.

The Aequatian government would be willing to grant recognition to the new Democratic Republic of Nistria and aid in the protection of its sovereignty by deploying our own nation's armed forces to act as an active deterrent against Moldovan movements within your borders. The Aequatian 41st Infantry Division (Light) could be deployed to your nation within 72 hours and prepare for immediate operations.

General Arnold Saltzman,
Aequatian Head of State

The Republic of Kanami is willing to lend you aid, in gaining your independence

“Good evening, this is BBC reporter William Hamilton reporting to you from the city of Odessa in southern Ukraine.” The camera shook and were it not for the microphone, none of the viewers in their plush living rooms would have been able to hear the reporters voice. Rain beat down around the man, though he was blissfully dry, and the great rushing sound it made swallowed up all other noises the camera may have picked up. It made it impossible for the viewers or the crew to hear the shouts of demonstrators and armed men just blocks away.

The reporter adjusted his coat slightly, and the tugged a wide-brimmed cloth hat down on his forehead, giving him a compacted, brooding look. He hated the rain. Time to get this over with and go back into the hotel. “The weather is awful tonight, though I’m told it’s surprisingly warm for the season. The rain, however, has not stopped people from coming out in droves in support of what seems to be a popular movement for Nistrian independence.” The camera panned across the street to reveal the back of a crowd of perhaps three hundred rain-soaked protesters waving banners. “The movement has been longstanding, starting back when this territory was part of the Urkanian Soviet Socialist Republic, part of the old Soviet Union. The spark that ignited this new series of protests took place just a few days ago, when Russian troops completed their withdraw from the Moldovan section of Transnistria. That withdraw as followed by Moldovan occupation of the region, and the violence directed against the Moldovan government has spread to neighboring Ukraine.”

“The rain now seems to be the only thing keeping Odessa from switching over to mob rule, keeping enough protesters inside to allow the Ukrainian police to contain the demonstrations. With clear skies forecasted sometime in the next three days, those police officers have called upon the Ukrainian military to intervene and help contain the demonstrations.”

“While there has been some speculation that this incident may just blow over, it seems doubtful and the Nistrian independence movement has recently been invigorated by the first formal recognition of the Nistrian state on Tuesday, by the Aequatian (sp?) Government. This recognition also came with an offer of Aequatian aid to Nistrian resisters in Moldova, but the offer, I am told, has been declined by Mychajlo Turchenko, a member of the Transnistrian Governing Council. More information is likely to come so-”

The reported ducked. A gunshot sounded, even louder than the rain and the muffled shouts of protestors. The camera wavered, glancing towards the crowd and back at the frightened man it had been filming. Another gunshot. Someone dropped the umbrella that had been covering the reporter and bolted towards the hotel.

“Good god! This has been William Hamilton reporting, and I’m leaving now.”

The camera switched off.

General Krist Von Mann had been walking through one of the many hallways at Aequatio's Central Military Command Centre when he had been given reports of the decline for aid offered and of the small arms fire during the demonstration, he had read both before he entered the tactics room and addressed the room, "What are our options, people?"

A younger brigadier-general walked over from a group of officers working as Von Mann sat down at the table which sat at the center of the room, "Sir, with the potential for this situation to become particularly violent, it would be our best course of action to deploy the 41st Infantry to maintain security within the country."

"If we send troops, it could potentially make the situation worse since those in power could see it as a threat and turn their attentions against the people as punishment for our involvement," said the general, "I want our forces deployed to the most nearby nation so that we may send troops in should the situation become worse."

"We should at least do something, Sir," replied the brigadier, "Perhaps if we had an EC-130J PSYOP aircraft deployed to the area and 'remind' the Nistrians that they have a friend who's willing to help them."

"All right, deploy our forces from Constanta, then we can fly the aircraft over the Black Sea and transmit into Southern Ukraine and if need be, land troops into Odessa, have our quick deployment vessels sent to the Black Sea so that they are prepared to mobilize," ordered Von Mann.

OOC:

Operation Vigil, Order of Battle

41st Infantry Division [Light]
23,096 Personnel
72 155mm Field Howitzers
72 AH-16 Black Cobra Helicopter Gunships
45 UH-60L Black Hawk Helicopters
20 MH-46A Black Knight Helicopters
2nd Close Air Support Squadron
24 AV-8D Harrier II Aircraft
2nd Air Reconnaissance Squadron
24 OA-37 Dragonfly Aircraft

1-17th Fighter Squadron
24 F-62 "Black Sparrow" Strike Fighters
12 F-62E "Electric Sparrow" Electronic Warfare Aircraft
2 EC-130J PSYOP Aircraft

The Nomadic Peoples of Luchamos hereby recognize the Democratic Republic of Nistria. Prudence dictates we deploy our 2nd Naval Task Force. We will stake necessary action when the time comes

Supreme Chief Oliver Peterson

Admiral Vasquez Commanding from the NPLS- Jefe Command Ship:
The NPLS EL Vaquero, Yorktown CVN:
13 AF-X11 "Interceptor" air superiority fighter
17 AF-X1B "Comet" multi-role fighters
14 AF-Z53 Crazy Penguin
2 AF-S12 Peregrine
12 AF-Z2 "Eraser" ground support fighter
9 AF-Y7 Tsunami
7 X-35As JSF
4 EM-1 Vigilante AWACs
1 CM-1 Vigilante Resupply
NPLS El Halcón, La Águila Class Amphibious Assault Ship:
42 Chinok transport Choppers
NPLS El Buitre, La Águila Class Amphibious Assault Ship:
8 X-35A JSF
8 Comanches


1 Trotsky Class Battleship
1 Lenningrad GMB
12 Monk Class Corvettes
6 Biggles class AGEIS Frigates
2 Surtidor Class Supply Ships

Mychajlo Turchenko drew a heavy black coat over his shoulders and scurried out the door of his apartment, grabbing a tattered leather briefcase from the table as he moved to the door. The flat was nothing special, not by Western standards or Ukrainian. Turchenko had found that Westerners had impossibly high standards, and that they were almost never content with the accommodations provided. Living like a common citizen, Turchenko had chosen to overcome his desire for such niceties, and at any rate couldn’t afford them on a salary of only a thousand U.S. dollars. He closed the door quietly, locking it behind him and depositing the key in his breast pocket. Then, grumbling about one particular or another, he began a four-story descent to the street.

Stepping out onto the street, he pushed a black bowler down on his head and began to walk quickly away. The apartment building had old doors, made during soviet times, and they creaked as he let them slide shut. Two men who had been standing one on either side of the doorway followed him out into the rain.

Turchenko paid little heed to the pair, which moved in behind him, mirroring his steps some ten feet back. They were both dressed as he was, with thick black overcoats concealing their lumpy figures. The rearmost of the two had a cigarette in his mouth and seemed to gnaw on the filter nervously as they scurried along.

The roads were empty tonight, and of the thousands of windows overlooking this street, only a handful were lit. It had been a busy day, and Odessa was on the streets still demonstrating. While the people were out in force, though, the Transnistrian movement had its political masters split into two different camps, those who supported armed intervention and those who did not. With Turchenko in the pacified faction was a long list of old Nistrian leaders and organizers. Opposing them were relative newcomers to the movement, youthful hotheads with strange names. Drabczak, Shevchuk, and the Pole Makarovskyi. Shevchuk had called a nighttime meeting to discuss what the best course of action would be, and so Shevchuk’s apartment in the market district was Turchenko’s destination tonight.

Two blocks from Shevchuk’s apartment, the men who had been following Turchenko caught up to him. Turchenko continued walking, watching them from the corner of his eye ad they flanked him, one on each side. No words were exchanged, not even a glance. The men kept walking, mirroring Turchenko’s pace. A block farther, and a third figure appeared on the road, stepping out from the shadows to block his path. Turchenko’s heart began to flutter. It was situations like this that immediately preceded a shooting. He cursed. Why had he never chosen to carry a gun?

The figure stopped in front of him. Whoever it was, they stood a head shorter than Truchenko, and, he noticed, the figure had a feminine form. Still, the light was poor and it was still raining, though not nearly as hard as it had that evening. A female gunman, Turchenko wondered, or perhaps he had this all wrong.

“Pereproshuyu, vybachte. Yak vy nazyvayetesya?” The voice left no doubt. Whoever this was, she was a woman, and apparently educated Turchenko observed. Her voice had the perfectly flat labials and rhythmic tone of one who had attended finishing school. Still, that didn’t give Turchenko the slightest idea of what their business was. It could be the police, it could be members of a rival faction, or it could just be a coincidence that the two men following him had stopped when she had appeared. Turchenko decided to play it safe, safe and dumb.

“Ahh…” He began, doing his best to mimic the American accents so prevalent on television. “N-ni… Ah… Chy vy hovoryte po anhliy’s’ky?”

“Perhaps that would be better, Gospodin Turchenko.” The woman stepped into the moonlight, flashing a brilliant smile. Even in the darkness, he could tell she was an attractive woman, looking almost Russian with high cheekbones and slightly mongoloid eyes and color.

He frowned. “Who are you, and what do you want with me?”

“Please, relax.” The woman smiled again. “My name is Anya Shevchuka. I believe you were walking to my apartment, so please, continue on. I simply wish to talk.”

Turchenko was surprised, but his face remained impassive, only a glint in his eye letting on what was in his mind. “I expected someone… different. You write under the name Aleksandr Shevchuk… I didn’t realize…”

She gave a forgiving look, just the faintest hint of her smile remaining in the corners of her lips. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, that’s why I wanted to speak to you before the conference. I wanted to tell you what is happening…”

-----

The information she had given him was fantastic. Not only was the Ukrainian military coming to Odessa, but the government was negotiating with Moldovan officials in secret over what should be done about Nistria. They had been too hasty, she had admitted, calling for war before diplomacy. But if this news was correct, than violence may be the only course left to them. Was the information accurate, he had asked? Of course. The informant had been involved with President Yushchenko’s election campaign, was close enough to the man for their information to be reliable, and completely trustworthy, she told him. Nothing to worry about.

Well, there was always something to worry about, Turchenko knew. If this information was wrong, than he and the others would be forcing a conflict upon the Ukrainians. And if they were right, well the Nistrian fighters were lacking in almost everything but courage. Plus, either way people would die.

Still, Turchenko had been swayed and, when the conference concluded in the early morning, various proposals had been put to vote. For now, the movement’s leaders in Odessa would continue to appeal for diplomatic support, but if Ukrainian troops entered the city, it would mean war. Protests for tomorrow were already planned, and it was hoped that they would be the only tool needed. Still, some of the Nistrian’s scant funds had been spent on procuring weapons, not banners. Just in case, Turchenko was told.

-----

Turchenko left Shevchuka’s apartment just before dawn, when the sky was beginning to turn grey. The rain had stopped , and the clouds were beginning to blow away with a light wind coming off of the sea. Outside the apartment, Turchenko spotted the same two men who had followed him here, standing under a lamppost.

They made no effort to conceal themselves, Turchenko noted, puzzled. Still, even if they didn’t behave like police, it couldn’t hurt to be safe. With the rumors he had just heard, it seemed the Ukrainians could be doing anything. He decided to keep an eye on them and began to walk quickly past, briefcase clutched to his chest as he scampered by.

The taller of the two men grabbed Turchenko’s shoulder as he passed. Not roughly, but enough to stop him and get his attention. Behind, the shorter one leant against the lamppost, gnawing on the filter of his cigarette just like before. Both men kept one hand in their pocket, he noticed.

“Excuse me. Mr. Turchenko?”

“Yes…” Turchenko opened his mouth to say more but was interrupted.

“Mychajlo Turchenko?”

“Yes, what do you wha-“ The man again cut him off.

“Police, Investigative Bureau. What were you doing at,” the man pulled a manila folder from his breast pocket and glanced over its contents, “Mrs. Shevchuka’s apartment?”

“We were discussing.” Turchenko stumbled for words, thinking feverishly. “Just discussing matters important to us.” That’s right, Mychajlo, give them nothing.

“You, and Makarovskyi and Kartashova and Godunov and Mrs. Shevchuka.”

“Yes…” He fumbled again. How did they know who all had been there? They followed you, of course, Mychajlo! Calm down, answer them. “They are… associates of mine.”

“Yes, we know.” The short one piped up this time. “All members of the Nistrian Governing Council of Odessa, or at least affiliated with the group. You happen to be the oldest living member, Mychajlo.” He smiled as Turchenko’s expression. Then, after a moment, he brought his hand up to lightly brush his forehead, as though remembering to explain himself. He still smiled, a grin almost sickening to Turchenko. “We’ve been following you and your group for a long time.”

“Then you must know that I am a peaceful writer and activist.” Come one. “You must understand I had nothing to do with the protests.”

“No, of course not.” The tall one spoke again, this time with a far lighter, more jovial tone. He was almost laughing. Then, serious once more. “You honestly don’t believe we just followed you and nothing more. I have on tape your entire meeting tonight.”

“Yes?” Play dumb, Mychajlo. It’s you last option. “And…”

“And you’re not involved in organizing the protests which you suggested should include a full strike at the dockyard in order to force foreign business owners to take notice of what is happening. You’re a peaceful activist. You know nothing about the five crates of rifles in the abandoned housing complex two kilometers west of here. You know nothing about the bomb factory young Godunov wants to establish. You’re an innocent.”

Turchenko said nothing.

“Please, Mychajlo. Don’t tell us you didn’t see this coming.”

Turchenko took a deep breath. Just keep looking at them. Keep talking, Mychajlo. You’ll get through this. “I did everything I have for my people.”

The short one removed his hand from his pocket, a tiny object glinting under the lamp as it swung through the air. Makarov, Turchenko thought. The Russians peacekeepers had carried those same weapons.

You’re going to die. The short one grinned horribly at him. This is it.

“Frightened?”

Turchenko shook his head. “No. I did what I did for my people.”

“Fair enough. They can read about this in the papers tomorrow.”

A single shot, and Turchenko fell into the wet street beneath a streetlight which cast an orange glow all about him so you could hardly see the blood. His briefcase clattered when it hit the ground. No rain, nothing to muffle the noise.

He smiled when he fell, the short officer noticed. Smiled like it was some kind of consolation, what he was thinking. And the man knew exactly what Turchenko was thinking his last moment on earth. ‘At least we were right.’

Office of the Prime Minister
The Citadel, Imperium, New Britain

Under fair and crisp blue skies, dotted with the occasional white fluff of clouds, Alistair Tetley meandered through the various gardens maintained within the Citadel. Since his return to his office he had withdrawn himself into a private life of seclusion that included numerous such walks amongst the potted palms, the ferns, and the brightly coloured native flowers. The high brick walls drowned out most of the bustle from the massive city that surrounded him, that choked him – but even still he could hear the clack of expensive, polished leather shoes on the cobblestones.

He turned to find his personal aide walking in his direction, waving quietly with his hand for the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom to return to his office. With an internalized sigh and shrug of his soldiers he ran his fingers delicately over the frond of a young palm before turning back to the office and residence complex. The day was only just beginning.

Carlton Tower
82 Gay Street, Philadelphia, Oceania

Soaring eighty-two stories into the clear blue skies of the subtropics, the Carlton Tower was sheathed in a deep ultramarine glass that reflected the sunlight coming from the south and keeping the offices facing the Pacific relatively cool. On the 66th floor, Jeffrey Tabor drummed his fingers upon the hardwood desk that commanded his corner office, the office of the chief executive of the Milton Industrial Group, one of the few industrial manufacturers that maintained most of its plants within the United Kingdom – albeit in the far more destitute northwest of the country.

In the southeast, in the areas near Philadelphia and Breningrad, it had become too expensive to operate massive machining plants. From the soaring price of property evidenced by the Pireto Tower, the new 160 story office tower planned for the commercial district of the city, to the high costs of living and high wage demand there was little left in this post-industrial country to keep companies like Milton Industrial in business – except overseas investment.

Upon his desk sat a regular piece of paper, standard document size with his company’s logo and letterhead at the top, filling the margin. The body, however, was quite small, and had a paperclip laid across the left margin, holding a piece of glossy photo paper. Finally taking the memo in his hands, he slid the clip off the paper and placed the photo sharply on the table while he breezed through the document. When he finished he took a closer inspection of the photograph and the tiny captions beneath. One assembly of letters appeared as “GDP/capita” and next to it was typed a number. A number far, far smaller than would appear next to a similar category describing the population of the UK.

A slight smile grew on Tabor’s face as he picked up the phone and then pressed the speakerphone button, connecting to him his secretary who sat painting her fingernails outside his office. Helen, he called out, could you please get me the Chancellor?

Certainly, sir, one moment.

Tabor waited the prescribed minute as his secretary dialed a classmate of his from the Blethley Business School, someone whose career had taken a slightly different path – though one of some importance. Swiveling on his leather chair he stared out to the turquoise shipping channel below, cluttered with freighters of all sizes while mega-large crude carriers and LNG carriers offloaded their cargo on the horizon through pipelines. Finally he heard the familiar beep, signaling to him that his secretary was paging him.

Yes, Helen?

Sir, I have the Chancellor of the Exchequer on Line One.

Tabor quickly toggled the line, Mr. Chancellor,

Ahh, Jeffrey, old boy, how are you?

Quite well, sir, and yourself?

Quite well indeed. Now what can I do for you, although we’ll have to make this quick, I have a meeting with an ambassador in an hour.

Well, Stephen, I wanted to talk to you about a little country called Nistria…

Lieutenant-Colonel Jean Tulley was one of the PSYOP officers onboard the EC-130J Commando Solo aircraft which took off from the temporary base in Constanta to fly its course over the Black Sea to transmit into Southern Ukraine. Many of the messages would be broadcast over AM and FM radio frequencies although there would be a few general television transmissions that would be sent explaining of the support that would be provided to the Nistrians by Aequatian forces if they decided to enforce their sovereignty against Ukrainian and Moldovan oppression. Alongside the aircraft hung two the Air Force's new F-62 Black Sparrow fighters for protection against enemy aircraft along with two F-62E Electric Sparrow electronic warfare aircraft to provide protection against enemy RADAR and surface-to-air missiles.

While the Air Force performed its duties, the 41st Infantry Division bean arriving and were themselves preparing for an immediate call to launch operations into Nistria. High speed transport vessels with landing craft had been arriving as well should it be required to mobilize from the Black Sea. Sergeant Evan Maddox led a squad of infantry and was waiting along with his company in a makeshift barracks for the call to arms to be sounded.

Admiral Vasquez had his two AF-S12 Peregrines spy planes flying over the Nistrian landscape giving him the intel he needed. He had assigned his Lenningrad Class GMB priority targets incase they decided to use force to ensure Nistrian Independence.
"Call the Aequatian military force, tell them if they want they can use our carrier or amphibious assault ships. Also, tell them the Supreme Chief of our nation has command me to report to their current head. In other words, they are in charge of coordinating strikes" Vasquez ordered
"Yes Sir!" His aide responded.
He then prepared to call General Horatio of the 3rd Marine Division, the NPLS El Halcón was prepared to land them, he wanted to make sure the 3rd was prepared.

To: Lachamos Central Command
From: General Krist Von Mann, Aequatian Central command

We thank you for the offer of support to our forces deployed to the region and should the need arise, we would be most thankful for the opportunity to deploy from your vessels. At this moment, however, we do not wish to send forces into the area unless they are called upon by the Nistrians directly, as to avoid an unnecessary conflict.

To: General Krist Von Mann, Aequatian Central command
From: Admiral Vasquez, 2nd Task Force Command, NPLS Jefe

We could not agree more. We were wondering what your plans were for if it comes to war. The situation appears to be worsening, we wish to be prepared.

To: Admiral Vasquez, 2nd Task Force Command, NPLS Jefe
From: General Krist Von Mann, Aequatian Central Command

We believe that the proper time to act is once Ukrainian forces cross over into Nistria, once this occurs, we will deploy the 41st Division to act as a shield between their forces and the people of Nistria. As well, we wish to secure an airfield or airport for the purposes to landing heavy forces should our forces on the ground become overwhelmed.

To: General Krist Von Mann, Aequatian Central command
From: Admiral Vasquez, 2nd Task Force Command, NPLS Jefe

Very well, a sound plan. Part of our 3rd Marine Division can secure the airfield. I think we should try to contact whoever is incharge of the Nistrians to see what they want of us.

Pananab cannot give recognition to Nistria until they have fully achieved independence from their motehr nation, with borders and a written constitution. Only then will Pananab recognize Nistria as an independent nation.

[OOC: Okay, sorry about being gone. I got kicked out of my house, so posting's been a bit tough.]

“What the hell happened?” Shevchuka shook her head in wonder. The sun had hardly passed midday, and already the word of Turchenko’s death had spread across Odessa. Officially, the obituaries listed it as ‘possible homicide.’ No information given about the deceased other than name and age, no cause of death, no speculation. Well, no one had any more than speculation yet. Even Pravda, a pseudo-Marxist paper, and one decidedly pro-Nistria had refused to comment on the death.

Still, it wasn’t the lack of information that worried her. In fact, disconcerting as it was, the very presence of an obituary in the morning news brought up a different set of concerns. Turchenko had died sometime between 3:00 and 4:00 am. The presses were already running at that time. Someone had known.

She picked up the phone in her apartment, but hesitated. Bugged? She didn’t know. Did it even matter? Again, she was unsure. She decided to call anyway.

Makarovskyi, the machine answered on the second ring. She was about to hang up when a voice came on.

Cześč? The voice was Polish, as was the greeting. Who is this?

Aleksandr Shevchuk’s assistant calling on his behalf. That was her usual guise on the telephone. Not nearly enough of to save her from the police, but it gave her a comfortable degree of separation from other revolutionaries. Is Mr. Makarovskyi there?

I am sorry to inform you, but Mr. Makarovskyi was involved in a motor accident early this morning. His condition is unlisted, but the injuries he sustained were severe.

She hung up.

Try again, Anya, keep trying. It could be coincidence, she told herself. Another number another name. Godunov.

A few moments later, a similar response. We’re sorry. Mr. Godunov hasn’t been seen or heard from all morning. I can hold a message for him when he returns.

That’s quite alright, she told the secretary before hanging up again.

She was about to try another number when there was a pounding on the door. Shevchuka let the telephone drop and darted across the room. Unlike Turchenko, she had a pistol hidden in a the drawer of her dark pine dresser.

“Anya, it’s Katrina. Open the damn door; Gudonov’s been arrested!”

Shevchuka quickly checked to see if the pistol was loaded. It was.

“Come in, the door’s unlocked.” Was it? She suddenly wondered. Ekaterina Kartashova burst into the room, wrapped in a bland sweater of Flemish wool. What a fool! Turchenko was dead, Godunov under arrest, and she still left the door to her home unlocked.

Kartashova was exasperated, almost frantic. Tears streaked her cheeks under her eyes where the scarf covering her hair didn’t cover. “Anya, something’s happening.”

Shevchuka couldn’t agree more. “I know. Turchenko was found dead this morning, and Marakovskyi is in the hospital. I’ve been trying to reach someone all morning.”

“No, it’s worse than that. There are soldiers in the municipal building. They broke into my apartment. I had to run the whole way here.” The tears came again, streaming down the rough Slavic face. Shevchuka reached out and grabbed the sobbing woman, holding her for a moment before stepping away.

Kartashova stopped, slowly calming herself. She untied the scarf from underneath her chin and tossed it on a bare wooden stool. “So what do we do?”

“Take this,” Shevchuka said, pressing the pistol into her fellow revolutionary’s hands. Katya gave a puzzled look at her. “No, nevermind. I’ll watch the door. You get on the phone.”

“And do what?”

“Call the embassies in Kiev. Let them know what’s happening.”