Dead Man's Rule

by Rick Acker

  Khalid’s mind whirled. Could these posters be right? When it came to Muslims, the American government had adopted an “arrest first and ask questions later” policy, or at least that’s how it seemed to many people at his mosque. Could he call the FBI, knowing that he might be sending innocent men to prison or deportation? On the other hand, could he not call the FBI, knowing that these men might be dangerous criminals who could strike again? He prayed for guidance.

  The phone rang in Sergei Spassky’s empty office, disturbing the silence that had reigned for most of the past twenty-four hours. The FBI and police had been there earlier in the day looking for clues, but otherwise it had been as still and dark as a tomb. It was a spacious but windowless room in a half-empty office building that Sergei had found quiet or lonely, depending on his mood and the time of day. Stacks of documents and file folders nearly covered the wide desk and matching round table. The phone sat atop one pillar of paper, jangling loudly.

  After four rings, voice mail picked up. “You have reached Sergei Spassky of the Spassky Detective Agency. I’m not here right now, but if you leave your name and phone number at the tone, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  “Hi, Sergei, it’s James Washington. Listen, I need to talk to you about that file request you gave me a couple of weeks ago. It’s important, so give me a call as soon as you get this message. Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Seven hundred miles away, James hung up the phone and debated what to do next. Should he have someone from the Chicago office try to track down Sergei today, or should he wait to see if Sergei called back tomorrow morning? It was after six in Langley, so it would be past five in Chicago. Getting an agent to give up his or her evening based solely on a request from the CIA would be tough and unpleasant. And it would be ten times worse if had to give an “I’m sorry but this is classified and I can’t tell you why we need to find him” bureaucratic stiff-arm. James didn’t feel like going through that hassle, particularly since the Agency had sat on this for two weeks before suddenly making it his emergency half an hour ago. Besides, Sergei was pretty good about returning phone messages. So James decided to let the matter rest.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JUDGMENT DAY

  For the first time in a month, it was the sunrise that woke Ben. He had planned on the trial running longer than it had, so his calendar was clear for the day except for his meeting with Dr. Ivanovsky. That wasn’t until ten, though, so he had decided to turn off his alarm clock and sleep in for a change.

  He felt around in the thick down comforter and determined that he was alone in bed. He was about to call Noelle’s name when he noticed the smell of coffee and burning eggs. Smiling, he got out of bed and headed down to the kitchen.

  Noelle’s back was to him as she set the table, her long brown hair tumbling loose down her flannel nightgown.

  “Good morning,” he said, announcing his presence.

  “Hello,” she said, turning around and giving him a hug. “I thought I’d surprise you with some breakfast. The scrambled eggs got a little overdone, though. Want me to go out and get some muffins?”

  Ben shook his head. He poked a fork into the skillet of partially blackened eggs and speared a chunk. “These aren’t overdone, they’re Cajun-style.”

  He picked up a bottle of Tabasco Sauce, sprinkled it liberally on the clump of carbonized egg on the end of his fork, and took a bite. “Perfect,” he announced. He meant it too, more or less. Ben liked to cover most food with large doses of powerful condiments, so Noelle’s troubled relationship with frying pans and woks rarely bothered him.

  The Corbins spent a relaxing hour eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and chatting. Thanksgiving was two weeks away, and they hadn’t yet decided what to do because Ben’s schedule had been up in the air. By the time he finished his eggs, they had resolved to spend Thanksgiving Day with his parents in nearby Downers Grove. They would make the picturesque drive to Noelle’s family home in Rochester, Minnesota, on Friday, spend the weekend there, and drive back on Monday. And neither of them would take any work.

  They left home at nine o’clock and arrived in the office at nine thirty, which would give Ben plenty of time to walk over to the Daley Center, pick up Judge Harris’s order, and be back in the office before Dr. Ivanovsky came.

  The wide plaza in front of the courthouse was empty—a windswept expanse of cold gray stone and concrete presided over by Picasso’s foreboding guardian. Ben hurried across it and into the lobby.

  Judge Harris was on the bench, so Ben went around back to the judges’ chambers, a row of office suites along the outer wall of the Daley Center. Fortunately, the judge’s assistant hadn’t decided to slip out for a break while the judge, clerk, and bailiff were all in the courtroom.

  “Hi, Marge, I’m here to pick up the judge’s order in the Ivanovsky case.”

  “Oh,” she said, seeming a little surprised. “Just a moment, Mr. Corbin. I didn’t realize you’d need another copy.” She disappeared for a minute, and Ben could hear a copy machine running in the next room. She returned and handed him the still-warm copy. “There you go.”

  Ben quickly read the order, which covered less than a page:

  This matter having come before the Court for trial, both parties appearing and presenting evidence and argument, and the Court being duly advised in the premises,

  IT IS HEREBY ORDERED:

  That judgment is entered in favor of the Plaintiff, Mikhail Ivanovsky, and against the Defendant, the Estate of Nikolai Zinoviev;

  That title to the contents of safe-deposit box #4613 of the LaSalle Street branch of the American Union Bank is hereby vested in the Plaintiff; and

  That this is a final and appealable order.

  Honorable Alfred S. Harris

  Circuit Judge

  “Congratulations, Mr. Corbin,” she said when Ben looked up. “We were talking about it this morning, and no one could remember the last time someone beat Mr. Simeon.”

  “Tony Simeon is a great lawyer.”

  “You must be very excited. I know your client is—he was all smiles when he saw the judge’s order.”

  Ben looked at her in confusion. “My client already saw the order?”

  “Yes, he was waiting outside the door at eight thirty. He left as soon as I gave him the order, but I could tell he was thrilled.”

  He stared at her open-mouthed. His stomach twisted in knots as he recalled Dr. Ivanovsky’s comment that there was a “thing I must do” before their meeting that morning. And, like an idiot, Ben hadn’t pressed his client on what “thing” could be more important than the judgment in this case.

  The secretary looked up, startled by the expression on Ben’s face. “Is everything all right, Mr. Corbin?”

  “I hope so.”

  He turned and walked out into the hallway. As soon as he found a quiet spot, he called American Union Bank. As the phone rang, he sent up a quick prayer that Dr. Ivanovsky hadn’t done anything spectacularly stupid.

  “Hello, American Union legal department, Sophie speaking.”

  “This is Ben Corbin. Could you connect me to Chris Reid?” Reid was the in-house attorney responsible for handling safe-deposit-box legal issues. He had been Ben’s contact at the bank throughout the Ivanovsky case.

  “One moment.”

  Ben wiped the sweat from his hands as he waited to be put through. A few seconds later, a man’s voice came on the line. “Hi, Ben. Congratulations on your win.”

  Ben’s throat tightened. “How did you know?”

  “Dr. Ivanovsky was in here almost an hour ago with a certified copy of the judgment.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. He emptied that safe-deposit box and took off.” Reid paused. “Is that a problem?”

  A knock on the conference-room door interrupted Elena’s witness interview.
“Come in,” she called.

  Frank Hernandez, an agent with whom she had worked on several cases, stuck his head in. “There’s a phone call for you.”

  She was about to object that she was busy, but Frank obviously knew that already. If this could wait, he wouldn’t have broken in on her interview. She excused herself and left with him.

  “What is it?” she asked as they walked down the hall.

  “There’s a guy on the phone who says he’s spotted the suspects in Sergei’s case and knows where they are. He sounds credible, but he won’t give us any details until he talks to the agent in charge of the investigation. We’re tracing the call in case he won’t cooperate over the phone.”

  Her heart raced. “Put him through to my line.”

  She half walked, half ran to her office, picked up her phone, and pressed the blinking red button. “Hello, Special Agent Elena Kamenev speaking.”

  “Hello,” said a man’s voice with a Middle Eastern accent. “As I told Mr. Hernandez, I have information about the two suspects, but there is something I need to know first: What evidence do you have that these men are criminals?”

  “I can’t tell you our whole case against them, of course,” Elena said as she pulled out Sergei’s file to see exactly what had already been disclosed publicly, “but I can tell you that we have fingerprint and eyewitness evidence linking them to a home invasion and attempted murder a week ago. The evidence is very solid.”

  The line was silent for several seconds. “You swear before God that all this is true?”

  “Sure,” replied Elena, who was agnostic.

  “All right. My name is Khalid Mohammed. Here is what I know . . .”

  “Allah has blessed us, and the operation has entered the second phase sooner than we expected,” Elbek said to Shamil. “The database is no longer necessary. Shut it down and join us by noon.” The “database” was the Vainakh Guard’s code name for the Russian detective. The phone connection should’ve been secure, but one could never be too careful.

  “That is wonderful news,” replied Shamil. We will take care of it and join you shortly.”

  “I’m headed for 436 Ryan Avenue,” Elena called to Frank Hernandez as she ran out the door. “Call the city police—I’ll need backup.”

  “I’m on it,” he replied.

  Elena went to her weapons locker and grabbed her standard-issue Glock pistol. She hesitated for an instant, then took her sniper rifle too. She doubted she would fire it, but the scope might be useful for surveillance.

  She jogged to her car and drove quickly through the light midmorning traffic. Her cell phone rang when she was about halfway there. “Hello?”

  “Hi. It’s Frank. I just got off the phone with the police. They’ll have a black-and-white there in twenty minutes.”

  “A black-and-white? I need a SWAT team!”

  “I know. That’s what I told them, but they’re short staffed today. They said that they’ll pull a team off another assignment—and this is a direct quote—‘If this turns out to be something more serious than a couple of pot farmers.’”

  Elena switched lanes, nearly hitting a car that was in her blind spot. She waved apologetically as the other driver blared his horn. If a single squad car was all they would give her, then she would have to swallow her irritation and make do with that.

  “Well, I hope they know what they’re doing. Ask them to meet me at the corner of Edgar and Ryan so we can coordinate before we go in.”

  She drove past 436 Ryan slowly—but not slowly enough to attract attention—before heading to the rendezvous. It was a single-story brick-and-concrete building with the words “Advanced Gear” painted in large, fading letters over the weathered wooden door, which was the only entrance or exit she could see. Small, chicken-wire-covered windows stared blankly from the walls on either side of the door. There were no vehicles parked along the curb in front, but a cracked concrete driveway led back out of view. There must have been a rear entrance out of view from the street.

  She turned the corner and drove back to the rendezvous. The squad car was waiting for her. She parked behind it and walked around to the passenger-side window. The officer inside, the younger of the two, rolled it down and said, “So what’ve we got?”

  “A couple of kidnapping-and-assault suspects, and they may not be alone.” She handed copies of the sketches in through the window. “They’re armed and dangerous.”

  “We’ve got our body armor on,” said the driver, knocking on his chest. Elena heard a muffled clank from the steel plate that sat over his heart inside the Kevlar vest. He was a burly, grizzled man of about fifty who had the look of a longtime veteran. “We’ll be fine.”

  Elena wasn’t so sure. “I’ve got a sniper certification and I brought my rifle. I can cover you while you go around back, break in the rear door, and—”

  “This isn’t a commando raid, young lady,” interrupted the older policeman. “I’ll go up to the front door and knock. Officer Fitzpatrick here”—he gestured to the younger man—“will be stationed behind the building in case we have any runners.”

  “Actually, this is a commando raid,” Elena replied testily. “At least one of the suspects is a former Soviet commando.”

  “All the more reason for us not to bust in with our guns blazing,” the officer persisted. “I’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times before, and the only times I’ve ever gotten shot at were when we pulled stunts like that. Nine times out of ten, suspects give up as soon as they see a cop at their front door and another one waiting out back. And the tenth time, they try to jump out of a window or something. Don’t worry. We know what we’re doing.”

  There was a knock at the door just as Shamil ended his conversation with General Shishani. Umar and Mamed came running up the stairs and appeared at the old desk where Shamil sat. They had been in the basement, guarding the semiconscious prisoner, but they knew their roles in defending against intruders.

  Shamil nodded and gestured for them to take their positions. Mamed ran to cover the back door, while Umar went to the lobby. He quickly crouched down behind two carefully positioned file cabinets. The drawers had all been filled with sand, making them effectively bulletproof. Umar was virtually invisible from the door, but his range of fire covered the entire room.

  A second, more forceful knock rattled the old door in its warped jambs.

  “Just a moment!” called Shamil in a friendly voice as Umar settled in and positioned himself.

  When they were ready, Shamil opened the door and saw a police officer. He was smiling and his gun was in its holster, but he had the shrewd eyes of a man who has spent decades dealing with liars. The shirt inside his open jacket had the stiff, bulky look that told Shamil he was wearing a Kevlar vest. He hoped Umar would notice as well and not waste bullets on chest shots.

  “How can I help you?” asked Shamil.

  “We’re looking for these two men,” said the policeman, holding out two sketches. “Have you seen them?”

  A tingle of apprehension ran down Shamil’s spine and settled in his stomach. One of the drawings was clearly General Shishani—it even had his name and description. The other was his bodyguard, Iljas, though the likeness was not as good. He shook his head and handed the sketches back. “No. I am sorry; I have not seen those men.”

  “Are you sure?” asked the officer, looking him in the eye. “They were seen coming out of this building.”

  “That must be a mistake. Those men have never been here.”

  “Do you mind if I come in and look around?”

  “We are very busy now. Tomorrow you can come.”

  Shamil started to close the door, but the policeman put his hand on it. “It’s an emergency.”

  “Okay. For an emergency, you can come in.”

  “Thank you,” said the officer as Shamil opened the door and stepped aside. “We
’ll try not to interfere with your operations,” he continued, scanning the dimly lit room as he crossed the threshold. His eyes caught the oddly configured file cabinets in the corner and he reached for his gun.

  Two quick gunshots flashed from between the cabinets. The first hit the policeman squarely in the forehead, jerking his head back. The second tore through his exposed neck and shattered his spine. His body collapsed backward onto the doorstep.

  Shamil signaled Mamed, and seconds later the other policeman lay dead in the alleyway behind the building.

  A hundred yards away, Elena Kamenev looked through the scope on her rifle and watched in horror as the policeman flopped down lifelessly. The man who had opened the door reached down to pull in the body. She put a bullet through the top of his head. He fell heavily on top of the officer’s body and lay still.

  Adrenaline poured into her blood, and her heart raced. Her training kicked in and she automatically slowed her breath to steady her nerves and improve her aim. She chambered the next round, watching the inside of the room carefully. She couldn’t see her target and waited for some movement before firing.

  It came a split second later—a metallic glint and then the flash of a gunshot. A car window shattered twenty yards to her right, setting off a screeching alarm. She fired at the flash.

  Nothing moved in the shadowy interior of the room. She glanced around, looking for other shooters who might be stalking her. Nothing. She took out her cell phone and called Frank Hernandez.

  “Hi, Elena,” he said. “How’d it go?”

  “There’s an officer down with a head wound and I’m taking fire,” she said quickly. “I need that SWAT team and an ambulance.”

  She paused. If Sergei was still alive, there was a good chance they would kill him now. She pictured finding him crumpled on the floor with a bullet hole in the back of his head, his skin still warm. She knew better than to go into a situation like this alone, but she couldn’t bear the thought of being too late to save him.