Charlie shook his head. “I’m an embassy official, not a private eye. I can’t take this.”
“Well, you have to. I can’t go to Moscow, not this week — I can’t even apply for a visa until Monday — and I need you to make sure Steve has a good lawyer, and the good ones are never cheap. Trust me, I know.”
“You don’t understand —”
“This is for a retainer. Or you cash it and give the lawyer whatever she needs, I don’t care.”
He looked at those expressive green eyes and knew he was powerless, but he tried to hold off as long as he could. “Look, Sophie —”
“The worst thing Steve’s guilty of is being naive, believe me,” she said. “And I’m sure he put on a brave face and told you he’s fine, but I know my brother. He simply won’t survive in a Russian jail for very long.” She paused and let out a sigh, adding in a lowered voice tinged with strain, “I’m begging you.”
Charlie folded the cheque and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “All right, I’ll hang on to this for the lawyer.”
“When do you think you might get in to see Steve again?”
“I’ve already got an appointment for Tuesday afternoon. I’ll try to talk to the lawyer beforehand,” he said, thinking his first day back at the embassy was already looking unpleasant, without having to cross-examine Katya Dontseva’s colleague to see if she was up to Sophie’s exacting standards. “But I can’t promise anything.”
“Of course,” she said in the confident manner of someone used to getting her way without conceding anything of substance. Charlie had already been motivated to help Steve Liepa, but meeting his sister had taken it to a different level. For any number of reasons, giving more bad news to Sophie Durant just didn’t seem like an option.
Chapter 9
Charlie returned to his office and set the fresh cup of coffee down on the corner of his desk blotter, his eyes drawn immediately to the flashing light on his phone. As he waited for the message to play, he rubbed his tired eyes. He had barely slept on Sunday’s flight, and his connection from Frankfurt had been delayed a couple of hours so that the ride in from Domodedovo International Airport had been right in the middle of rush hour. To top it all off, he had fallen asleep at nine the previous night, only to awake with a start at 4:30 a.m. Now, still only mid-morning on Tuesday, he was already exhausted. He had left a couple of messages with the lawyer that Dontseva had referred him to, but gotten no response. He listened to the message and sighed in frustration at the news that she was at a hearing all day, but willing to meet tomorrow. He had hoped to talk to her before his afternoon visit with Steve Liepa, even bring her along, but that wasn’t going to happen.
He put the handset back and stared at the phone, determined to make some progress on Liepa’s case before the afternoon meeting, and not just out of an obligation — professional or otherwise — to the young technical writer. He had been haunted by Sophie Durant’s plaintive expression and had returned to Moscow with a fire in his belly. He grabbed the phone and dialled Dontseva’s direct line.
“It’s Charlie … Hillier, from the Canadi —”
“How are you, Charlie?”
“Good, thanks. Well, actually, I was wondering if I could ask you a favour.”
“Of course.”
“It’s to do with that consular case. I called the lawyer you referred me to.”
“Valeria? Yes, I spoke to her yesterday about the case. She had some very good ideas.”
Charlie paused, his coffee cup at his lips. “Really? Like what?”
“She mentioned the possibility of a petition to seek Mr. Liepa’s release, pending formal charges. This is not the usual process, you understand,” Dontseva added. “But there have been a few cases recently where this type of petition to the court has been successful in drug cases.”
“That sounds great.”
“You shouldn’t get your hopes up, Charlie — I would hate to see you disappointed — but if anyone can achieve this, I think it’s Valeria.”
“Understood.” Charlie felt an optimistic surge despite Dontseva’s warning. “I’ll be sure to follow up with Valeria. But the reason I was calling,” he continued, glancing out the window and noticing fat flakes of snow drifting by, “is that I have a meeting at the prison this afternoon with Steve, and unfortunately Valeria’s tied up in court. I know this isn’t really your field anymore, but it might be encouraging for Steve if I could bring a lawyer, if only to explain the broad stro —”
“Of course, I would like to help if I can,” Dontseva said, her tone warm. “What time is the meeting?”
“It’s after lunch. Two o’clock.”
“In that case, I would be happy to join you. Shall I come to the embassy around one-thirty?”
“That would be great. I really appreciate this, Katya.”
He hung up the phone and swivelled around to face his monitor, a faint smile teasing the corners of his mouth, which he liked to attribute to a new hope that he might actually be able to get Steve Liepa out of jail, if only until the prosecutor’s office decided to lay charges. His smile faded as he caught sight of one of the locally engaged assistants at his door, a look of grave concern on her usually cheerful features.
“What’s wrong?”
“I received word from Butyrka Prison. Your meeting with Mr. Liepa has been cancelled.”
“Cancelled? Why?” Charlie could see the alarm in her expression, but he was still unprepared for the news.
“It’s Mr. Liepa. He’s dead.”
Chapter 10
Charlie stood in the arrivals area at Domodedovo airport, checking the monitor for the fifth time. The Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt was still showing as on schedule, which meant it had landed fifteen minutes ago. The rush of passengers from an earlier arrival had dwindled to the odd straggler, and Charlie guessed that another rush would soon follow. The new airport was a major improvement over Sheremetyevo, but the commute to and from the airport was still a nightmare. He had noticed the traffic thickening in the opposite direction on the drive out, and he was pretty sure they were looking at a good hour to get back downtown. He checked his watch and glanced over at the arrivals doors. If she made it soon, they might just beat the worst of rush hour, though he was sure that was the least of Sophie Durant’s worries.
It had been an awful week, since the shocking news of Steve Liepa’s death. Charlie had gone straight over to the prison, only to be refused a meeting with anyone in authority. But he had made enough of a nuisance of himself to at least learn that Liepa had committed suicide by hanging himself in his cell. It had taken him the rest of the day to get in touch with Sophie, and his relief at finally reaching her had soon given way to guilt when he delivered the news. Helplessness and guilt, those were his predominant emotions over the past few days — helplessness at his inability to provide any comfort to a grieving sister from a world away, and guilt at having failed Liepa. He pictured the young man coming to Charlie’s rescue on the night of his own detention, barking the deranged giant back into his corner. And what had Charlie been able to accomplish to return the favour? Precisely nothing.
As a new batch of passengers began to trickle through the sliding doors leading from the baggage area, Charlie felt a lump in his throat at the prospect of seeing Sophie again. He had been in regular contact since Tuesday and had put all his energy into trying to get her to Moscow as soon as possible. Getting her a visa in less than a week, even on an expedited basis, had begun as an impossibility. But Charlie’s dogged efforts at the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, combined with a series of well-placed phone calls to Ottawa, had yielded a seven-day visa in just over thirty-six hours. Whatever time he had left over had been spent talking to Katya Dontseva, who had agreed to handle the matter personally when she learned that Liepa had died. It was she who had arranged the meeting with the prison officials to be held in a few short hours. It
was bad enough flying all night and half the next day, but to have to get off a plane and go straight to a prison morgue to identify your dead brother was something else altogether. Charlie had insisted on meeting her at the airport and accompanying her to the prison.
The doors slid open again, and a fresh stream of passengers walked through, including Sophie Durant, with a sleek black suitcase in tow. With her height and bone structure she looked as though she was returning home, though nothing could have been further from the truth. He hurried to intercept her before she was besieged by the flock of crooked cab drivers.
“Sophie!” he called just as a trio of leather-clad men descended on her, reaching for her bag. Cutting in front of them, he grabbed the handle of her suitcase and waved them off. “Sorry,” he said, noticing her surprise. “You have to be pretty assertive here, or they’ll literally walk off with your bag. How was your flight?”
“It was fine.”
“This way.” Charlie cut a path through the crush of people toward the exit. Outside, the cool air carried a potent mix of cologne and cigarette smoke.
“I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am,” he said, noticing that her eyes were red-rimmed, whether from the long flight or from crying he didn’t know. Probably both. She seemed to sense his concern and looked away.
“Thank you.”
“We’re just over here.” Charlie pointed to the embassy van that he had managed to arrange for the trip. Seeing them coming, the driver tossed his cigarette on the ground and opened the tailgate, then deposited the suitcase in the back.
“What time is it, anyway?” Sophie fiddled with her watch.
“Just after two,” Charlie said as they settled into the middle seats in the back of the minivan and the driver exited the diplomatic parking area.
“How long does it take to get downtown?” She glanced at the endless line of cars they were soon merging with, all headed for the same highway.
“The traffic’s not too bad. It shouldn’t take more than an hour, would you say?” Charlie said in the driver’s direction.
“Is not bad,” he agreed, with an air of authority.
“We’ll make it in time, don’t worry.”
Sophie sighed and tried a thin smile. “I don’t know what I would have done without you, Charlie. When they told me it was going to take two weeks just to get a visa, I thought I was going to … Well, I just wanted to thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do, really. I’m so sorry about Steve. I hardly knew him, but …”
“He has that effect on people,” she said. “Had,” she corrected herself, looking out the window. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”
Charlie tried to think of something comforting to say, but it seemed impossible to fill the silent void in the van’s interior. As if to add to the glumness, a cold rain began to splatter the windshield. At least they were picking up speed, he thought, as the stream of traffic leaving the airport spread out over the lanes of the highway. Charlie watched as an ancient Lada sped past them, belching out a thick cloud of smoke, followed a few seconds later by a gleaming Maybach. He tried again to think of something positive to say.
“I talked to Katya Dontseva this morning,” he said. “She really is very knowledgeable. She’s going to meet us at the prison.”
“Good.” Sophie’s eyes were focused on the thickly wooded area beyond the highway’s shoulder.
“Where are you staying?” he asked, eager to avoid another awkward silence.
“The Marriott,” she replied, rummaging through her purse and pulling out the reservation slip. She passed it to him and he felt a strange relief when he noticed it was the Grand, on Tverskaya, and not the Royal Aurora, where Shawn Mercer had stayed. He handed it back to her.
“That’s a good hotel.”
She tucked the piece of paper into her coat pocket and stared out the window again. Hearing a muffled sob, Charlie realized she wasn’t interested in the scenery.
“If you’re not up to doing this right now, we might be able to reschedule to tomorrow,” he said, though he wondered how that could be achieved, given what Dontseva had been through to arrange this afternoon’s appointment — not to mention his own efforts, including begging someone in the visas section of the embassy to expedite the approvals for a group of elite Russian hockey players trying to make it to a junior camp in Toronto as a quid pro quo for co-operation from the prison officials.
“No.” She pulled a tissue out of her purse. “Waiting until tomorrow would only be worse,” she said as she composed herself and looked at him. “I know you’ve probably got other things to do, but would it be too much to ask for you to come with me?”
“Of course not.”
She blew her nose and took a deep breath, as some of her strength seemed to return. “Thanks.”
Charlie, Sophie, and Dontseva were led into a meeting room on the second floor of the prison building. The room was centred by a long table with three empty chairs on either side. The window behind the empty chairs on the opposite side overlooked a courtyard, where the sound of a jackhammer could be heard through the double-paned glass. At the far end of the room, next to a closed door, were a half dozen portraits of severe-looking men whom Charlie presumed were former directors of the prison. He was about to head down for a closer inspection when the door opened and three men entered the room. The oldest was a mountain in his fifties, his thick head topped with a white brush cut that contrasted sharply with bushy black eyebrows. He spoke in a deep baritone, prompting Dontseva to step forward and introduce Charlie and Sophie to the prison director, a legal officer, and a representative from the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The MFA man pointed to the chairs behind them and spoke in British-accented English.
“Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you,” Dontseva said, launching into an introductory statement in Russian, which she translated briefly into English for the benefit of her clients. The MFA man responded for the other side of the table.
“First of all, Director Orlov would like to express his deepest regret to Dr. Durant for this unfortunate occurrence.”
In the pause that followed, Sophie gave a nod of acknowledgement in Orlov’s direction as he sat stock-still and the lawyer at his side scratched something on his legal pad.
“And he would like to assure you of his full co-operation in answering your inquiries.”
“Perhaps we might begin with a brief explanation of the circumstances of Mr. Liepa’s death,” Dontseva said. Though Orlov’s face remained impassive as he waited for the translation, Charlie had a sense that he understood what had been said. The Russian shifted his weight on his chair and set his enormous forearms on the surface of the table as he spoke first in the direction of the MFA man, then across the table. Charlie hadn’t understood much of it, but he didn’t need to.
“He says that while they are pleased to co-operate fully,” Dontseva began, “he is bound by strict rules of procedure in cases involving the death of a … an inmate.” She began another brief exchange in Russian, before adding, “But he is pleased to provide us with the official report of the prison.”
Orlov turned and nodded at the lawyer, who pulled a thin sheaf of papers from a file and passed it across the table to Dontseva. Before she had a chance to look at it, the director began speaking again, alternating his focus between Dontseva and Sophie, and ignoring Charlie completely. Dontseva translated once he was finished.
“He says Mr. Liepa was found dead in his cell on Tuesday morning by guards, who were doing a routine check.”
Sophie was ashen-faced as she gave Dontseva a nod.
“Go on.”
Dontseva asked another question in Russian. The answer was succinct, and Charlie understood it before Dontseva turned to Sophie and translated it: “He hanged himself.”
Charlie and Dontseva
stood by the door of the examination room as Sophie approached her brother’s body laid out on the gurney and covered by a green sheet. As if the meeting with the prison officials wasn’t difficult enough, Sophie was now faced with the task of identifying her brother’s remains. Charlie wondered how she managed to maintain her composure as she stood over the body and reached for the sheet. Charlie flinched as she pulled it back and he saw Steve Liepa’s lifeless face in profile. From his vantage point by the door, Charlie thought Liepa looked at peace, and he hoped his sister had the same impression. After an initial pause, Sophie traced a finger on her brother’s forehead in a gesture of intimacy that made Charlie feel like an intruder.
“It’s him,” she said, more to herself than to the medical attendant or anyone else who stood nearby. “That’s my brother.”
As the lawyer translated her words, Charlie watched Sophie roll the sheet slowly down to the top of Liepa’s shoulders, then step around the head of the gurney. She seemed to morph from sister to physician at that point, leaning over to inspect the neck area more closely from different angles. Even from where he stood, Charlie could see the bruising around the neck, and the attendant said something as Sophie walked around to the other side of the gurney.
“He says no touching,” Dontseva relayed.
“Tell him to go fuck himself,” Sophie replied without looking up. Whether or not he understood the comment, the tone was unmistakable, and the attendant had begun to move toward the gurney before Dontseva intercepted him and began an exchange in Russian. Charlie watched as Sophie turned her back to the argument and prodded Liepa’s shoulder area while the discussion between Dontseva and the attendant heated up and the latter began yelling. Sophie touched her brother’s forehead again, then brushed past the attendant, whose ire was still focused on Dontseva.
The Moscow Code Page 6