The Moscow Code

by Nick Wilkshire

  “Insist on seeing his file before you leave,” she added. “They will tell you it’s not available, but you must be firm, otherwise they will delay and delay.”

  “I’ll do that,” Charlie said. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “And be careful, Charlie. The Russian system is not like in the West — they are especially hard on foreigners. I’d hate to see your client get hurt,” she added.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that the prison system has its own rules, and sometimes pushing too hard on behalf of someone in detention can have … a negative effect.” She paused and took a sip of wine as he tried to interpret the vague warning. “But you probably know this already.”

  Charlie smiled, his own glass empty and his stomach starting to growl. “Well, I appreciate the input, but I’m monopolizing your time. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ekaterina.”

  “You must call me Katya,” she said, retrieving something from her pocket and handing it to him. “My business card. Let me know how it goes tomorrow and if you’d like a referral.”

  He glanced at the elegant card showing Katya as a named partner. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  Leaving the reception, Charlie stopped by his office for his coat and then ventured out into the cold night air, debating whether to stop off at a grocery store on the way home or the pizza place a few blocks from his apartment. As he made his way south, his mind wandered to Katya’s cryptic warning about the Russian prison system and what it might mean. His pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck in response to a blast of wind that hit him as he turned a corner.

  Chapter 6

  Charlie sat in the grim, dank interview room at Butyrka Prison waiting for Steve Liepa, recalling his own incarceration just over thirty-six hours prior and wondering how he would have coped if it had been extended indefinitely, as Liepa’s seemed to have been. Despite Charlie’s best efforts, the Russian police had been willing to share very little of the details of Liepa’s case, other than the fact that he was to be detained pending formal charges. Following Dontseva’s advice, Charlie had insisted on disclosure of the full file when he had arrived at the prison. Undeterred by the initial refusals, he had managed to secure a promise that the file would be ready for him at the end of the interview, but he had a feeling he shouldn’t hold his breath. He had spent the morning doing research on the procedural aspects of the Russian legal system, and the bottom line was that things didn’t look good for Liepa. As Katya had implied, it wasn’t that there weren’t rules covering things like how long you could be held without charge; rather, they seemed to be applied arbitrarily, at best. And Liepa’s mention that he had been picked up as part of a narcotics sting was more bad news, from what Charlie could tell. In fact, the more he learned about the Russian legal system and Liepa’s particular interaction with it, the less likely it seemed that the young Canadian would see the light of day anytime soon.

  Charlie flinched at the sound of the metal latch giving way, and then the heavy steel door swung open to reveal a tired-looking Liepa, his hands and feet cuffed and chained as a surly guard prodded him forward. The guard grunted something in Russian and Liepa sat heavily opposite Charlie.

  “Good to see you, Steve.”

  “You look better than last time,” Liepa remarked with a thin smile, then gestured to the guard with his cuffed hands, earning only a scowl before the door slammed shut again and they was alone in the close air of the unventilated room.

  “How are you holding up?” Charlie noticed that the mischievous glimmer he had seen in Liepa’s eyes on the night they had first met was gone, along with a couple of pounds of body weight. Together with the several days’ growth on his chin and the sallow tone of his skin, it was as though Charlie was looking at a different person.

  “I’ve been better,” Liepa replied, turning his face to reveal a dark bruise by his left cheekbone.

  “What happened to your face?”

  “Banged into a door,” he said, his tone flat as he looked away.

  “If you’re being mistreated in any way …”

  “It wasn’t the guards. There are plenty of people in here ready to kick the shit out of me without the guards having to lift a finger. Anyway,” he said with a shrug, “I’ll survive. What did you find out about my case?”

  “I’m working on it, but it takes time,” Charlie said, preferring to keep things general, rather than confirm that his inquiries had resulted in virtually nothing useful. “They told me you have a lawyer assigned to your case.”

  “Don’t waste your time. He’s useless.”

  Charlie saw the dejection in Liepa’s features. He also noticed a pronounced facial twitch that he didn’t recall from their first meeting. “I can get you a list of lawyers that we’ve referred people to in the past, if you’re not happy with yours. I met one at a function yesterday and discussed your case informally.”

  “Yeah, what odds did he give me for getting out of here?”

  Charlie couldn’t help avoiding Liepa’s eyes by busying himself with pulling out his notepad, but the dispirited gaze that he saw when he looked back at Liepa told him that the young man had all but given up hope.

  “It’s a complicated process here,” Charlie said, beginning to scratch the date and time onto the top of the page. “Which is why it’s important to get a local lawyer involved as soon as possible.”

  Liepa shrugged again. “I’ll take one of your referrals, then. I have some money.”

  Charlie nodded. “I’ll ask him or her to make an appointment to come see you as soon as possible.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Why don’t you tell me your side of the story, starting with how you came to be in Moscow?” Charlie was determined to sound upbeat.

  “I was in Berlin doing some freelance work,” Liepa began in the same monotone, “when I saw an ad for a six-month gig in Moscow.”

  “You mentioned you write technical manuals?”

  “Yeah, it’s not the most exciting work, but the pay’s not bad. Anyway, I was just doing odd jobs in Berlin. So this was the chance to do something full-time, you know?”

  “Sure.” Charlie began to take notes. “What’s the name of the company?”

  “Technion. They helped out getting me a work visa and everything else I needed.” Liepa brightened for a moment. “They got me this great apartment near the Arbat for a good price, and I was set. I started work about four months ago.”

  “And things went well, on the work front, I mean?”

  “Yeah, sure. It wasn’t like the work was really hard or anything. I guess there’s a shortage of people with experience writing and translating instructions on how to put a bookcase together or whatever. Strange as it sounds, it does take a certain expertise. Technion does some more complicated stuff, too, like manuals for building systems.”

  “So you’re in Moscow for a few months, you’re working at Technion, and …”

  “And boom — I’m in here,” Liepa said grimly.

  Charlie put down his pen. “What happened on the night you were arrested?”

  “I went to a friend’s house for dinner, and he was going on about this party where a bunch of Ukrainian girls from his office were going. Do I have to say more?”

  Charlie smiled. He had heard enough about Ukrainian women that he was looking forward to his first visit to Kiev, slated for early in the New Year. His smile faded, conscious of Liepa’s slumped posture across the table — a shell of the confident and outgoing person he had met in the holding cell a couple of nights ago. He picked up his pen and started scribbling. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “I don’t want to drag him into this.” Liepa was shaking his head.

  “But he wasn’t arrested with you?”

  “Nobody was. Just me.”

  “Okay.” Charlie looked up from his notes. “Go on.”r />
  “There were a couple of joints going around at the party, maybe some hash. Nothing serious. Next thing we know, the place is swarming with cops. They threw a dozen of us into the back of a paddy wagon, but then they let most of us go before we even left. They let the rest go when we got here.”

  “Except you.”

  “I was the only foreigner.”

  “So you think they arrested you because you weren’t Russian?”

  “Yeah,” Liepa replied, fixing Charlie with a stare as he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. Silence reigned as an unspoken communication was made. When Charlie spoke, it was in little more than a whisper.

  “You think there was another reason?”

  “The walls have ears,” was all Liepa said in reply, and Charlie noticed his leg was jerking under the table, and the twitch on the left side of his face had returned.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Steve?”

  “I’ll be all right, as long as I can get the hell out of here.”

  “It would be helpful if you could give me your friend’s name. I promise not to get him into any trouble.”

  Liepa sighed. “It’s Sergei. Sergei Yermolov. He’s a sales rep with United Pharma.… Shit! They took my phone and I can’t remember his number. Wait, I think I remember his email.” Liepa closed his eyes for a moment, then smiled slightly and gave the email address to Charlie.

  Charlie wrote it down, then looked up from his notepad. “Is that UPI, the American pharmaceutical company?”

  “Yeah, he’s in sales, some kind of junior executive. Makes a lot of coin, but he’s a nice guy.”

  “I’ll find him,” Charlie said.

  “So you’ll talk to him and then what?”

  “I’ve got to find out more about what they intend to charge you with. I’ve told them I’m not leaving here without a copy of your file. Then I have to talk to your new lawyer,” he added, knowing that neither activity would likely result in an early release. He looked at Liepa, his eyes lingering on the bruising on his face.

  “I’m fine, really,” Liepa said with apparent sincerity.

  “I’ll make some inquiries as soon as I leave here, but unfortunately I’m going to be out of town for a few days after tomorrow.”

  “Where you off to?”

  “Back to Ottawa for some training.”

  Liepa perked up at the mention of Ottawa and seemed about to say something, then hesitated.

  “Is there something I can bring you back?”

  “There is someone you could contact for me. She’s in Toronto. Her name’s Sophie Durant. I’d prefer you spoke to her instead of sending her an email.”

  Charlie scribbled the name on his pad. “Sure. Your girlfriend?”

  Liepa shook his head. “My older sister. I’d really appreciate it if you could let her know I’m in here. I don’t want to worry her, but I might be here for a while and she’d be really pissed if I didn’t get a message to her. Can you try and break it to her gently, though? She’s a little … high-strung, I guess you’d say. A surgeon — need I say more?”

  “Any other family I can get in touch with for you? Or anyone else you’d like me to contact?”

  “She’s all I have.” Liepa stared off to the side. Charlie took down the sister’s phone number and email address, asked a few more routine questions, and then they talked until their time was up. As he tucked away his notepad, Charlie looked across the table, struck again by the contrast in Liepa’s overall appearance and demeanour since the night they had first met.

  “Is there anything else I can do, Steve? I mean it — anything.”

  Liepa leaned slightly forward and paused, as though considering his answer before he spoke. “Just get me out of here.”

  As he left the prison and stepped out into a cool, grey Moscow day, Charlie had the same sensation as when he had first left Liepa behind. This time, even the fleeting relief of being clear of the place was absent, leaving just a growing unease.

  Chapter 7

  Charlie yawned and stretched his arms overhead as the cabin crew moved down the aisles picking up newspapers and coffee cups and the pilot announced the start of their final approach into Ottawa. He had slept for a record three hours on the flight from Frankfurt, and he actually felt pretty rested. Looking out the window as the plane pierced the cloud cover, he couldn’t help smiling at the canvas of red and gold that appeared below. He had always loved fall in Ottawa, and his planned trip across the river to take in the colours of Gatineau Park would be well worth it. He followed the progress of a couple of dinky-size cars along a rural road southeast of the city, then checked his watch. By the time he cleared security and checked into his hotel downtown, it would almost be time for dinner, probably somewhere in the Byward Market. It would be better if he just grabbed something quick, on his own, in case jet lag set in later. It had nothing to do, he told himself, with the fact that he hadn’t bothered to contact anyone in advance of his return to Ottawa for the first time in almost two years.

  Charlie glanced around the plane again, just to make sure he hadn’t missed a familiar face. When he showed up at the gate in Frankfurt for the direct flight to Ottawa, he had been expecting to encounter a former colleague or acquaintance of his — or, worse, his ex-wife. The fact was, with very few exceptions, his friends had really been hers, and he planned to avoid dredging up unpleasant memories as much as possible on his brief visit. He had every reason to be glad for the chance to go home after a considerable time away, but an unmistakable dread had hung over him since learning of the trip. There was a reason he had left, after all. He had never really considered Ottawa home, but it seemed that in the last couple of years, he was officially homeless.

  His thoughts turned to the more pressing issue of his survival as the plane lurched through an air pocket, and his heart jumped like a startled mouse as his grasp on the armrest tightened. Charlie disliked landings even more than takeoffs. As had become his coping strategy, he reminded himself of the favourable odds of surviving most flights as the jet’s powerful engines accelerated to bring it back on course and the barbed wire of the airfield perimeter came into view, followed shortly by the tarmac of the runway. He looked out the window as the sound of the engines faded, and the plane rolled slightly from side to side as the pilot levelled it off, then deposited it onto the runway with a gentle bump.

  Safe again, Charlie could turn his thoughts to the upcoming conference — two days of consular training during which he would do his best to keep his head down and hopefully learn something in the process. At least it was being held at a hotel across the river in Aylmer, as opposed to the headquarters building, where a multitude of awkward encounters were a certainty. He planned to arrange for a lunch with a couple of former colleagues, including his old friend Winston Gardiner, whose directorship in HR had led to Charlie’s first posting in Havana. Other than that, though, he planned to stay the hell away from anywhere and anyone that might bring him into contact with his former spouse.

  As the plane pulled up to the gate and the seat belt signs went off, Charlie stayed in his seat, refusing to join in the pointless frenzy to reach the overhead bins — he had never understood it, since no one was going anywhere for a few minutes, at least. He pulled out his brand-new BlackBerry and switched it on as an overweight man in a suit elbowed an old lady out of the way to get to his carry-on. As the email folder updated, he watched the numbers climb until it hit twenty new messages, then clicked on the only one of interest — from Winston Gardiner, suggesting dinner tonight. Charlie rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. If he made good time downtown, he would have time to shower and relax a bit first. He sent the reply suggesting they meet at his hotel at seven. It looked nice outside, maybe even warm enough for an outdoor patio. It would be fun.

  “So, how’s Moscow?” Gardiner asked after they were seated on the balcony overlooking Dalhousie Street.
For a Monday night, the Byward Market was booming, perhaps because everyone knew the nights of eating outside were coming to an end, much as they were in Moscow. Gardiner had gained a bit of weight and lost a little hair since Charlie had last seen him, but he seemed in good spirits. In part, no doubt, to his continued ascension up the management ranks, despite the rumblings about cutbacks and general austerity.

  “Can’t complain,” Charlie said. He decided not to mention his recent incarceration to the man who had gone out on a limb for him a couple of years back — placing him in a consular stream for which he was probably unqualified. To say that Charlie’s first posting had been a rocky start was to describe a hurricane as a stiff breeze, and the fallout must have caused Gardiner some initial grief before the dust settled. But things had turned out all right in the end … sort of. In any event, Charlie was keen on proving that Gardiner’s faith in him was warranted. He knew that word of his arrest might make it back to Ottawa eventually, but he certainly wasn’t going to facilitate the process.

  “The new HOM in yet?” Gardiner asked, using the departmental slang for head of mission.

  “Arrived this week. She seems very nice.”

  Gardiner nodded. “I worked with her when I first joined the Department, in the Americas branch. She’s had a couple of postings since then and done very well for herself. I think she’s a rising star.”

  “You’re not doing so bad yourself,” Charlie said with a smile as a server arrived to take their drinks order. “I noticed your title’s changed again.”

  “It’s only an Acting, for now.”

  “Still, Acting Director General sounds pretty good.”

  Gardiner shrugged. “More headaches, not much more pay, but I’m not complaining. They’re axing people left, right, and centre in other departments.”

  They ordered a couple of beers and spent a few minutes on the rumoured changes at HQ that seemed to be on everyone’s mind lately, and concluded that their respective jobs were intact, for the foreseeable future at least.