by Tal Bauer
“What kind of jobs?”
“Jobs where I was hired muscle.”
“A mercenary?”
“Yes.”
“You were considered a very good mercenary?”
“Yes.” Desheriyev smiled. “I had many jobs. Many kills.”
Tom’s stomach clenched. A cold-blooded killer sat feet from him. He spotted Mike edging closer to him on the bench.
“You were known as a man to hire if there was an assassination someone wanted.”
“Yes.”
“Walk me through how you became involved in the plan to assassinate Russian President Dimitry Vasiliev.”
“I was asked if I would take a job targeting the Russian president. It would be a long operation, and would be challenging. Much coordination necessary.”
“Did you accept?”
“Da. Yes. I do not like President Vasiliev.”
“You agreed to take a job to assassinate the president of Russia.”
“Da. Yes.”
“You understood that this was going to be an ongoing operation, with further information coming from the individual who hired you?”
“Yes.”
“Who were you contacted by?”
“He did not say his name on the phone.”
“How were you able to coordinate operations with someone you did not know by name?”
“I was given information on how I would be contacted.”
“And that was?”
“I would receive text messages, phone calls from different cell phone numbers, to avoid spies and eavesdropping. If text was authentic, it would contain the code six-two-one after the message. If we were to speak on the phone, I would receive text before with same code.”
“How much of your actions were guided by this voice on the phone?”
“Mmm, nearly everything.”
“He instructed you on how to get the United States, and where to go once you got here?”
“Yes.”
“He provided you with the funds to establish yourself here in DC?”
“Yes.”
“He provided you with a safehouse where you could practice with your rifle, to keep your skills honed?”
“Yes.”
“He provided details on the Russian president’s travel schedule, including when he would be meeting at the U.S. Capitol, through dead drops, phone calls, and text messages?”
“Yes.”
“What is it that you did in this conspiracy?”
“I pull the trigger.”
Silence.
“If you were never told the identity of the man who hired you, how did you come to know his identity?”
“I recognized voice. Vadim Kryukov is very famous dissident in Russia. His hatred for Russian regime, and Russian president—Putin before, Vasiliev now—is well known. I suspected it was him. I looked up videos online. Many, many speeches he has made, in Russia, and here. It was him. It was obvious.”
“And, did we ask you to listen to voice samples and identify the one that matched the voice you heard on the phone?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the identity of the voice you said matched the voice on the phone?”
Desheriyev pointed to Kryukov. “I know his voice. Again, I know it immediately.”
Ballard nodded. He turned back to the prosecution table and came back with a blown-up photo on a poster board. “Entering into evidence Exhibit fifty-three. Photo of the cocaine baggie found in Mr. Desheriyev’s apartment.”
Tom nodded. “So entered.” Ballard passed the oversized photo to the bailiff, who handed it to the jury.
“Mr. Desheriyev, do you recognize the item in the picture?”
“Yes. Is empty cocaine bag from dead drop.”
“Did you ask for the cocaine?”
“No. I complained. I was very frustrated with how long operation is taking. I was unhappy being here. I do not like America. I wanted to leave. He said he give me something that make me feel better. That I should go to dead drop at the Union Station. The lockers by train platform. Something would be waiting for me.”
“And you went there, and picked up the cocaine?”
“Yes.”
“What else was in the locker?”
“Maps of U.S. Capitol. Schedule for Russian president at the Capitol. Road closures. A march permit, showing where the march was allowed to and not go, based on the president’s movement.”
“A march permit. The same march that Mr. Kryukov was seen at, and was demonstrating at on the National Mall on the day of the shooting?”
“It was a pidor thing. Gay thing. Lots of rainbows.”
The courtroom murmured, scowls and whispers and glares all mixing together. Tom’s heart clenched, and his breath shorted out. His lips moved, soundlessly, before he found his voice and called the court back to order. A part of his soul felt singed, though. Casual indifference to something so meaningful, so deeply fundamental to Tom’s identity. He felt like his entire existence had been swatted like a fly, an irritation.
“That would be the same march. Pride in DC, in June.” Ballard’s voice was cold. He headed back to the prosecution table and grabbed another evidence board. “Entering into evidence exhibit fifty-four through fifty-six. A cell phone, cellular phone records, and photos.”
“So entered.” Tom caught Mike’s gaze, and spared a tiny, hidden smile.
Ballard kept going. “Mr. Desheriyev, can you identify the cell phone pictured here?”
“Is my own.”
“And you communicated with Mr. Kryukov on this phone?”
“Yes.”
“He would text and phone you from multiple different numbers, each authenticated with the code six-two-one?”
“Yes.”
“Is this a common practice in your line of work? Using burner cell phones, constantly rotating the numbers being used, authentication codes to verify the messages?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t think this was unusual?”
“No.”
“Did you get a message from Mr. Kryukov on the Thursday morning before the shooting?”
“Da. Yes. It contained information on the march and Vasiliev’s schedule on that day. It also had final instructions.”
Ballard reached for yet another photo board. “Entering into evidence exhibits fifty-five and fifty-six. Transcript of text message sent from Mr. Kryukov’s phone to Mr. Desheriyev’s phone.”
“So entered.”
“What were those instructions that you received in this text message?”
The jury listened to Desheriyev as they each received a copy of the transcript, the exact message sent that Thursday morning. “It said to be in position, ready to shoot the president when he walked down Capitol steps the afternoon of the march. I was to shoot him before he got into his motorcade. To shoot him in the chest.”
Renner rocketed forward, scribbling on his legal pad. Kryukov glared into space, scowling. He refused to look at Desheriyev.
“Was there anything else discussed?”
“He wanted to know where I shoot from. Where my sniper’s nest was. I told him.”
“Did you recognize the number that the text was sent from?”
“I did not. It was new one.”
“You did not know that was the defendant’s personal cell phone number?”
“No.”
“But it had the verification code, six-two-one?”
“Yes.”
“So you knew it was from your handler, Mr. Kryukov?”
“Yes.”
“Will you walk us through what happened on the day of the shooting, Mr. Desheriyev?”
The courtroom went deathly silent, still as a tomb. Tom watched motes of dust dance beneath the fluorescent lights. Most people held their breath. Reporters leaned forward. The jury watched with the sick fascination of watching a car crash before their eyes, a blooming horror show simply too terrible to turn away from. Even Tom breathed fast, quiet,
quick pants through his parted lips. His memories pushed against the back of his eyes, clamoring for attention. His heart raced. His palms went slick.
Swallowing, he forced himself to listen to Desheriyev and locked down his mind.
Mike shuffled closer. Tom could see him out of the corner of his eye, feel the bubble of his presence pressing on him. Thank God. He sent a silent thanks, wishing he could turn and grasp Mike’s hand, tug him close. He’d been strong for twenty-five years. He was strong still, would be strong through this and everything else.
But he didn’t have to be alone, not anymore.
It killed him that he had to pretend to be.
Desheriyev seemed to grow, becoming more than the DC Sniper, a multi-national murderer, a professional killer for hire, as casually arrogant as he was violent. A man entirely without a conscience, plainly reciting the horrors of what he’d done like he was relaying a day spent with friends. Almost relaxed, he described each step of his murderous terrorist act. Behind Ballard, Agent Payne and others from the Secret Service and FBI watched from the gallery, their eyes ablaze, fury pouring from their rigid bodies and their stern, purposefully-blank expressions. Nothing could erase the wrath, the anguish, from their gazes.
“I set up my sniper’s nest in the cupola on the tower of the building at Pennsylvania Avenue and Sixth Street. I arrived early, before the morning traffic, before the march, before the rainbows. I watch everything. The crowds form. The traffic. The people gather. I could see the west end of the Mall and the Capitol steps.
“I waited for the Russian president to arrive. I saw him park and go up the steps and into the Capitol. I saw the march come down the grass and head for the Capitol.”
“Why did you not shoot President Vasiliev when he arrived?”
“Instructions said to shoot when he left.” Ballard motioned for Desheriyev to continue. “I watched him come down the steps. I had to calibrate my shot. Test my range. I fired first at the march. Took out their puppet President Vasiliev.” Desheriyev grinned. “Then I moved back to the steps. I breathed out, and brought the trigger back. Straight back. No hesitation. I fired. Fired again. And again. I got him in the upper chest with the first shot, but I wanted to hit him again. Vasiliev was surrounded by then by the Secret Service. I had to shoot them to get to him.” He shrugged.
Muted gasps of horror whispered through the courtroom. Tom clenched his hands together. Desheriyev was a monster. There was a glint in his eyes as he spoke, retelling his actions, his murders. He was getting off on the spectacle. All attention on him, and him able to retell the horrors of that morning. Nausea tumbled in Tom’s belly.
“A Dragunov fired in a city sounds like a cannon. I fired my shots within six seconds. That is the time in which a person freezes. They do not know what to do for six seconds. I broke down my rifle, made my escape.”
“There was a problem with your escape, wasn’t there?” Ballard’s voice was hard.
“Yes,” Desheriyev growled. “My exit plan was cut off. I was supposed to drop down and cross the roof, go down over the fire escape, and disappear into crowds on Indiana Plaza. Then into the Metro station. I had rehearsed. I knew how to escape perfectly. But that day, the doors were locked. The fire escape was blocked. I was trapped.”
“Why did this occur? Do you have any idea how it happened?
“I was set up,” Desheriyev growled again. His voice dropped, growing harder, his accent thicker. Anger colored his vowels, crashed on the harshness of his consonants. “The only person who knew where I was that day was him.” He pointed at Kryukov. “Mu’dak! He set me up to take the fall.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He did not think I would turn on him.”
“But you did. You’re helping the government prosecute him.”
Desheriyev snorted. He looked away.
“Aren’t you, Mr. Desheriyev?”
“Da. Yes. In exchange for a lot.”
Ballard quickly changed topics, stepping away from the statuesque pose he’d been frozen in through most of Desheriyev’s testimony. “Mr. Desheriyev, do you have any idea what the verification code meant? Six-two-one?”
“Nyet. No. It was chosen by Kryukov. I do not care.”
“Would you be surprised to learn that the code six-two-one is the number of the law passed in Russia that deals with LGBT propaganda? The so-called ‘anti-LGBT propaganda’ law?”
Desheriyev shrugged. “He is well-known pidor. It make sense his vendetta against Vasiliev would be tied to that.”
“Pidor?”
“Homosexual.”
Ballard nodded once to Desheriyev, and then to the jury. “Pass the witness.”
Renner rose, taking time to button his suit jacket. He appraised Desheriyev, who stared back calmly, serenely.
“Mr. Desheriyev, how many murders have you committed?”
Ballard was on his feet immediately. “Objection! That is inflammatory and clearly designed to prejudice my witness in the eyes of the jury.”
“I’m exploring the character of the witness, Your Honor. Mr. Desheriyev’s character is directly related to the veracity of his testimony. How trustworthy an individual is this man?”
“The witness is not on trial!”
“No, because he has already pled guilty to these murders.”
“Counselors.” Tom held up his hand, a silent call for calm. “Mr. Renner, your approach is more prejudicial and inflammatory than probative. Find another way to pursue your line of questioning.”
Renner wasn’t happy, but he nodded. Ballard sat back down, his scowl a permanent fixture. He still refused to acknowledge Tom.
“Mr. Desheriyev,” Renner tried again. “You have pled guilty to the shootings at the Capitol?”
“Yes.”
“And these are not the first murders you have committed?”
“Objection.” Ballard was on his feet again. “The witness’s background was established in his testimony.”
“Counselor, move it along.” Tom let steel into his voice, a hardening of the usual calm he liked to project from the bench.
“There are multiple arrest warrants for you, Mr. Desheriyev, in multiple countries, correct?”
“Da. There are now.” Desheriyev seemed proud. “No one know who I was before this. I was ghost.”
His rifle ballistics had matched a dozen unsolved murders across Europe. As soon as the FBI identified him as the owner of the rifle, Interpol came forward with a flood of warrants and requests for extradition following his trial.
“And these warrants are for murders you are suspected of carrying out?”
Ballard gritted his teeth, but stayed seated.
“Yes.” Again, Desheriyev seemed proud. He smiled.
“Is it fair to say that you lived one step ahead of the law? Covering your tracks? Hiding?”
“Yes, yes. I fool the police all the time.”
“And, you knew that if you were caught, the gig would be up?”
Desheriyev frowned.
“You knew if you were caught, it would all come out, right?” Renner pressed again. “I mean, how long could you run from everything?”
Ballard tensed, ready to rise. Desheriyev answered, his eyes narrowing. “I was never suppose to be caught.”
“But you were.”
“Da,” Desheriyev growled. He turned a murderous glare on Kryukov, who refused to look back at him.
“What did you think would happen to you if you were captured one day?”
Desheriyev shrugged. “Depends which country I get caught in. In Russia, torture. Probably die in prison. In Europe, I would be given private apartment and they call it a jail.” He grinned widely.
“But, Europe would also speedily extradite you to Russia, would they not?”
He glowered. “Is possible.”
“How fortunate then that you were captured here.” Renner spread his hands, smiling. “We don’t like to extradite to Russia, for exactly those reasons, unless someo
ne isn’t being very helpful or cooperative. We don’t believe in torturing people. But, we do have the death penalty.” He stared at Desheriyev. “You seem like a guy who likes to survive. Did you cooperate with the prosecution in order to avoid both the death penalty and the possibility of extradition to Russia?”
Desheriyev, for the first time, shifted uncomfortably. He glanced to Ballard, as if hoping for escape via an objection. None came. “Da,” he growled.
“And your deal, like all deals, was contingent on providing the state with information to further their case, was it not?”
“Yes.”
“So you were powerfully motivated to provide information that the prosecution could use to arrest another individual and charge them with this crime?”
“Da. Yes.”
Ballard tensed again. Tom watched his jaw clench, his temple throb.
“Motivated enough to lie?”
“Objection!” Ballard, jumping up. “This question is abusive in its insinuations.”
“‘Your Honor’.” Tom stared hard at Ballard. “You seem to be forgetting something, counselor. More than once.”
Ballard just stared. Tom arched his eyebrows. The courtroom shifted, whispers passing from lips to ears.
“Your Honor,” Renner said smoothly. “I am probing the witness’s veracity and honesty which gets to the heart of the case against my client. Mr. Desheriyev’s cooperation with the prosecution is the basis of the prosecution’s case. The court has an obligation to uncover whether Mr. Desheriyev told the truth.”
“His statements were backed up by the evidence, which Special Agent Barnes has already testified to.” Ballard again left off the honorific, refusing to address Tom directly. Tom saw several of the jurors’ eyebrows slowly rise. “The witness’s veracity, in this instance, has been established.”
Again, fair points raised by both Ballard and Renner. Tom wanted to overrule Ballard’s objection because of his attitude, his seething rage that was so poorly covered. His obvious ire at Tom that was infecting the courtroom, and had already poisoned the prosecution.
Bulat Desheriyev, by all measures, was a terrible human being. A murderer. Possibly a liar?
The evidence had backed up his testimony.
“I’m overruling the objection.” Ballard’s glare spat daggers toward the bench. “I believe the evidence stands on its own merits,” he finished. “Truth is found in evidence, counselors. Not razor-sharp repartee.”