The Moscow Code

by Nick Wilkshire

  “By the way,” Gardiner said, “I bumped into Michael Stewart last week. “He had nothing but good things to say about you. Apparently the new embassy project’s well underway in Havana.”

  Charlie nodded. “Yeah, it’s still about eighteen months out, but it will be nice when it’s done.”

  “He tried to get you extended, you know,” Gardiner said. “He got overruled by the Assistant Deputy Minister in the end, but he pushed hard, so he obviously thought highly of you.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Charlie said. He wasn’t surprised as much as grateful, as it was looking more and more like Stewart’s chat with his new boss was the only thing that had saved Charlie’s ass with Martineau on Monday. “It seems I owe several favours now,” he said as their drinks arrived and they raised their glasses in a toast.

  “To a brave new world,” Gardiner said.

  “Seriously, though,” Charlie said, after they had each taken a sip. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did for me. I don’t know what I would have done if —”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Charlie. All I did was give you a push in the right direction.” Gardiner turned his glass on the coaster for a moment. “So, no regrets, then?”

  Charlie laughed. “About leaving Ottawa? God, no. And it’s not just the change of scenery, either. If the new HOM’s telling the truth, I’ll get a chance to do a lot more consular work in Moscow.”

  “You like consular, then?”

  “Yeah. I like helping people. Trying to, anyway.” He thought of Steve Liepa sitting in a stinking cell in Moscow. “Who knows, maybe after some work in the field, I’ll come back to one of the new HQ positions they’re talking about creating. It’s one of the few areas that seems to be expanding.”

  Gardiner sipped his drink and nodded, playing with the menu.

  “What?”

  “Hmm? Nothing, I was just —”

  “Come on, Winston. I know that face.”

  “Have you been in touch with Sharon lately?”

  Charlie froze at the sound of his ex-wife’s name. “No,” he said after he had gulped some beer.

  “She’s rising fast in the Department and she’s rumoured to be the front-runner for the new Assistant Deputy Minister position.”

  “Which new ADM position?” Charlie asked, though he sensed the answer before the words left his lips.

  “Consular.”

  Fuck.

  In the silence that followed, Charlie felt the presence of a black cloud looming directly over his side of the table.

  “Great, so she’ll be my new boss,” he said. All the possible ramifications ran through his brain and triggered a reach for his glass, from which the golden liquid was quickly disappearing. He imagined putting in his request to extend his Moscow posting in a couple of years’ time and getting the refusal, accompanied by notice of his immediate cross-posting to Bishkek or Conakry. As his alarm spiralled into despair, Charlie had forgotten about Gardiner, whom he now realized was looking at him like a witness to a particularly gruesome wreck.

  “Sorry, did you say something?” Charlie drained his beer and looked around for the server.

  “I was just saying nothing’s official yet.”

  “Maybe I should try to reconcile,” Charlie said with a feigned laugh, but Gardiner’s reaction was pure pity. “I was joking, obviously.”

  “Look, Charlie … I wasn’t sure if you already knew, but Sharon’s engaged … to Lewis McDermott.”

  Charlie’s mouth went dry as he fumbled for the words to respond. “M-McDermott?” he stammered. “You mean the Deputy Minister?”

  “I guess they’ve been seeing each other for a while on the q.t.,” Gardiner said. “Everyone was surprised by the news.”

  “I’ll take another Old Flame, please, but bigger.” Charlie tapped his glass as the server appeared at the table. She turned to Gardiner, who waved her off, his glass half-full.

  “I’m sure it’s difficult to hear, but you’ve got your own life now, right?” Gardiner said quietly, leaning across the table. “You can stay out at post for a few more years and not have to worry about what happens around here.”

  Easy for you to say, Charlie thought, as the black cloud intensified. Gardiner had the type of rock-solid marriage that anyone would envy, whether because he and his wife of twenty years always seemed so happy, or because their two perfect kids seemed destined for greatness. What did Charlie have? Fifteen years of a sham that only he had believed was a marriage, and now his ex was headed to the upper echelons of the Department, well placed to rain shit down on his futile attempts at advancement for the rest of his doomed career. In a nutshell, he was fucked.

  “Are you listening to me, Charlie?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got to forget about Sharon, move on. Make a name for yourself with Brigitte Martineau, for starters. You’re already off to a good start, right?”

  Charlie winced, then closed his eyes altogether for a long moment. When he opened them again, a large beer was sitting there. “Yeah,” he said, picking up the frosted glass and tapping it off Gardiner’s. “I’m off to a great start.”

  Chapter 8

  Charlie sat at the rear of the conference room, nursing his second cup of coffee and wishing he hadn’t drunk quite so much the night before. He and Gardiner had left the restaurant at around nine-thirty and if Charlie had gone back to the hotel then, he would have been fine. But they’d bumped into a mutual friend outside the restaurant and while Gardiner had been smart enough to call it a night, Charlie had accepted the offer to go the Heart and Crown for a quick pint. He had lost count of the number of “last” beers he consumed before stumbling back to the hotel at 2 a.m., but it was enough to make for a ghastly morning. He was getting too old for this, he thought, as the speaker launched into a PowerPoint presentation on the Department’s four-year plan for increasing the complement of consular officers abroad. He was sipping his coffee and trying to square the ambitious plan with the rumours he had heard since returning to Canada of the deep funding cuts that were on the horizon when his phone went off. He jumped up from his seat and slipped out through the double doors at the back before answering.

  “Charlie Hillier,” he said, his throat still raw from his late night.

  “This is Sophie Durant, returning your call. I apologize for not getting back to you yesterday.”

  “That’s okay,” Charlie replied, trying to recall how much information he had left on her voice mail. “I’m with the Canadian Embassy in Moscow.”

  “Is this about Steve?” Her voice had already risen an octave and he hadn’t even had the chance to tell her anything yet.

  “Yes. He asked me to get in touch with you on his behalf.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine, but …”

  “But what?”

  Charlie sighed, remembering Liepa’s request to break the news gently. It had seemed simple enough at the time. Sophie picked up on the pause, and the urgency in her voice kicked up a notch. “If there’s something you need to tell me about my brother, I need you to spit it out.”

  “When was the last time you were in touch with Steve, Dr. Durant?”

  “I got a postcard from him about a month ago, I guess. And please call me Sophie.” It was clear from her tone that it was not a request.

  “All right, Sophie. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Steve’s in jail.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line as she digested the information. “What … what for?”

  “It’s not entirely clear yet. He was just detained a few days ago and formal charges have not been laid, but it appears to be drug-related.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” she said, pausing to let out a sigh. “How do I get him out? I mean, there must be bail or something.”

  “Ther
e’s really not much that can be done until formal charges are —”

  “You said you were with the embassy in Moscow, but this is an Ottawa number.”

  “I’m in Ottawa for a few days. I’m heading back to Moscow on Sunday.”

  “I want to meet with you. I can come over …” There was static on the line for a moment and the rustle of papers before her voice returned. “I’ve got a surgery I can’t move tomorrow morning, but I could fly over after that.”

  “There’s really no need for you to —”

  “No, I have to meet with you. Steve can’t be in jail. You don’t understand. I have to meet with you, please.”

  Charlie closed his eyes. He’d been planning to take advantage of the brilliant sunshine forecast for Saturday by spending the day in Gatineau Park, not being bossed around by a high-strung surgeon. But Liepa’s forlorn figure appeared in his mind’s eye, still confined to his grubby Russian jail cell, and Charlie’s decision was made. “I could meet with you tomorrow afternoon, if you like.”

  “That’s fine. Give me your email address and we’ll firm up a time when I have my flight details.” They traded contact information and agreed to meet the next day, and as Charlie returned to his conference, he had a feeling Sophie Durant was going to be a real pain in the ass.

  Charlie watched the last of the afternoon sun fade as he waited for Sophie Durant in the lobby of the Lord Elgin Hotel. He had been up early, after a quiet night and a good sleep, to beat the rush he knew he could expect on such a brilliant fall day in Gatineau Park. He had gone at a leisurely pace on the two-kilometre trail around Pink Lake, stopping frequently to take in the sparkling blue-green waters against an endless backdrop of every shade of gold, red, and brown, a recent cold spell having sharpened the fall colours just in time for his visit. After a light lunch in a Chelsea tea house, he spent the early afternoon strolling around the Byward Market before making his way to the hotel.

  “Mr. Hillier?”

  Charlie looked up to see a woman looming over him, clad in jeans and a sweater, her auburn hair tied back in a neat ponytail. The casual attire did nothing to downplay her beauty, as he suspected was the intent, and as he stood to greet her he noticed they were about equal in height.

  “Dr. Durant.”

  “Please call me Sophie,” she said again, and he recognized the same terseness that he had heard on the phone.

  “Sure, as long as you call me Charlie.”

  She gave a tired smile and he pointed toward the coffee shop on the ground floor of the hotel. “Would you like to get a coffee? We can talk there.”

  She nodded. “I could really use some caffeine.”

  They went in and ordered and took a seat at a corner table.

  “Good flight?” he asked, as she sipped her latte. He didn’t see any immediate similarity between Sophie and her brother, other than their both being tall and thin. Sophie had high cheekbones, full lips, and emerald-green eyes that peered back at him from behind black-rimmed glasses. Whereas Steve Liepa gave off a crunchy vibe that had him most at ease lounging in a coffee shop or crashing in a hostel, his sister looked more suited to a Chamonix après-ski, if not a Milan catwalk.

  “Not bad. A lot shorter than yours,” she said, before putting her cup down to indicate the end of chit-chat. “I want you to be straight with me. How much trouble is Steve in?”

  Charlie considered the question and the information that was missing in order for him to provide an accurate answer. He wanted very much to be the bearer of good news, but those eyes demanded honesty.

  “He’s in trouble, but I honestly don’t know how much. Not yet. I’ll know more when they actually charge him.”

  “How long can they hold him without charging him?”

  “Russian law is a little unpredictable that way,” he began. “There’s a bit of a gulf between the laws and how they’re actually applied, if you know what I mean.” He tried a knowing smile, which withered under Sophie’s stony gaze. “I talked briefly with Steve’s lawyer before I left, and I understand she’s looking into a petition for his release pending charges, but it’s still early days.”

  “But you said he’s been in jail a week already.”

  “I know, but —”

  “What’s it like?” she said, her brow creasing in a worried frown. “Have you seen where they’re holding him?”

  Charlie nodded. “Yes, I have.” He sipped his coffee, avoiding her eyes but not for the reasons she likely suspected. “It’s a typical Russian jail.”

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not like a North American facility, but it’s not that bad,” he lied.

  “So what’s his story, anyway?” she said, her tone hardening. Whether it was because of her demeanour or her Nordic features, Charlie imagined Sophie Durant was an ice queen when she wanted to be. “Let me guess. He got tangled up with some Russian slut and he didn’t know it was coke she was snorting.”

  “Nothing like that,” Charlie said with a wave of his hand, though he decided to omit the Ukrainian girls from the story Steve Liepa had told him, at least for now.

  “That’s just like Steve,” she continued, when Charlie had conveyed the basic chronology of events that Liepa had laid out. “And I can’t believe he didn’t even get a hold of me,” she added, shaking her head.

  “Well, he probably didn’t have the opportunity.”

  Sophie sighed and looked out the window. “Just when he seemed to be doing so well. He had a normal job and he seemed content.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “A couple of months before he went to Moscow. I was in Berlin for a medical conference and we had dinner.”

  Charlie nodded as he put together the family dynamics from her tone. She was the successful, older sibling, whereas Steve was starting to look like the family fuck-up, and also the baby. Charlie had a successful older brother himself, and he didn’t have to try too hard to imagine what it was like growing up with Ms. Perfect — beautiful, confident, strong-willed, and accomplished — and that was what he knew about her after five minutes.

  “He was still working freelance in Berlin,” she continued. “But he was finalizing the details of the Moscow job, and he seemed really pumped.”

  “And you say Steve isn’t big into drugs, as far as you know?” Charlie asked as he took another swallow of coffee.

  “Steve smokes the odd joint, but that’s all. It’s part of his free-spirit lifestyle, I suppose,” she added, her disdain obvious.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s spent the past ten years bumming around Europe, working as little as humanly possible to sustain himself, staying in hostels like some eighteen-year-old while he dreams of the great novel he’s always talking about writing.” She sat up straight and pushed her coffee cup away. “But he’s not stupid enough to get tangled up in drugs in a big way. Especially in Moscow, of all places.”

  “Steve’s a novelist?”

  She laughed. “That’s just part of his fairy tale. How else do you explain someone with a Ph.D. from the University of Toronto writing technical manuals in Russia?” She took a deep breath and stared at her hands for a moment, until the anger began to recede and her posture and facial expression relaxed. “How did he look?”

  “He looked fine,” Charlie said, unsure whether to mention the obvious deterioration he had noticed the second time he had seen Liepa.

  “I’m not sure Steve’s cut out for a long jail stint. He’s had some issues in the past with anxiety,” she said, pulling the cup back toward her and moving her finger around the rim.

  “He did seem a little different the second time I saw him.”

  “Different, how?” Her head snapped back up and her intense gaze bore into him. Charlie instantly regretted the comment.

  “He just seemed a bit … agitated.
” He recalled the jerking leg and facial twitch and knew it was more than mere agitation, but as Sophie’s hard facade morphed into an anguished plea, his decision was made — there was no question of giving her the unvarnished version of her brother’s condition.

  “But he’s all right, isn’t he?”

  “He said he wasn’t being mistreated. I made a point of asking several times.”

  She seemed to take strength from this statement, and her intensity returned. “What about this lawyer, is he any good?”

  “It’s a she, and I don’t really know. We’ve only spoken on the phone. I was referred to her by someone I know.”

  “Well, if she’s a lightweight, I want you to tell Steve to replace her. Money’s not an issue. You can have the bills sent straight to me. I’m not having Steve rotting in jail so some newbie can learn the ropes.”

  “I’ll try to set something up as soon as I get back,” Charlie said. “Maybe I can visit Steve with the lawyer.”

  “When do you go back?”

  “I’ll be back in Moscow on Monday.”

  She nodded and began to pull something out of her purse. Charlie watched as she unzipped the rectangular case and opened what looked like a cheque book. “I’m going to give you this,” she said, scribbling an amount and her signature.

  “What’s that for?” he protested, as she tore the cheque from the pad and handed it to him.

  “Expenses. For the lawyer, or a replacement if you don’t think she’s got what it takes, and whatever else you need to get my brother the hell out of jail, fast. I’ve heard how things work in Moscow.”

  “Look, Ms. Dur … Sophie, I can’t,” he began, noticing the cheque was for ten thousand dollars, drawn on the account of Dr. S. Durant, the payee line blank. If he had ten thousand dollars in his own bank account, he wouldn’t dream of handing it over to someone he had just met. This woman was either loaded or far too trusting. He looked at her plaintive expression and considered a third option. Desperate.