Page 68 of Emerald

I do agree, at least, with his choice of theNovoya Gazetaas 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.

TheNovoya Gazetais 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 ofNovoya 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.

TheGazetaoffices are far from luxurious. Independent journalism is no lucrative affair, despite all the awards theGazetahas 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.

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