Sakharov the Bear (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 5)

by John Ellsworth

  "They knew," he says. "They would have followed you to the green house and mounted an attack after we were gone."

  I shoot a look out the back window of the bus. The threesome can be seen coming up to the bus stop at the corner, where they stand, stamping their feet in the cold and speaking animatedly. There won't be another bus by for fourteen minutes, according to the schedules along Presbinaya Avenue. It is good. Petrov and I settle back in our seat.

  "That was stupid," I say to Samiov. They had us and they gave us up."

  "Alcohol," says our lead guard.

  "Thank you," Petrov whispers to Samiov and his crew.

  The guard smiles. I realize I have never seen him smile in all the time I have known him and been in his presence.

  "It's our job," he whispers to Petrov. "Just doing our job."

  And at that moment, I can see it in his eyes. He, too, is attracted to Petrov.

  The poor woman. Surrounded by men, men, and more men who would like to inhale her.

  And there am I, at the front of the pack, howling the loudest.

  I remove my right hand from inside my jacket for the first time since the men became belligerent. My gun remains in its holster.

  I didn't need it after all.

  Chapter 5

  Russell Xiang

  It is our second night in the green house, the second night Petrov and I have sat at opposite ends of a soft leather couch and watched Russian state TV. Hearing the broadcast, you'd think we were enjoying the comforts and offerings of the world's most robust economy with the lowest unemployment and highest wages anywhere. But to walk the streets of Russia you would quickly know otherwise. People are going without, people are hungry and cold, while the overclass is, in fact, living in that world created on state TV.

  But do I really care? Out of the corner of my eye I'm watching Anna Petrov as she shifts position, sitting more on her lower back on the cushions, one foot pressed against the coffee table with the other leg up over her knee, munching Papas corn chips and drinking a Russian Coca-Cola. She yawns and shoots me a look and a smile.

  A coded number calls the phone I was issued. I answer. Challenge and password exchanged, we can talk.

  "Moscow Station, laboratory."

  "Yes?" I ask, already knowing why the CIA lab is calling me.

  "Was the bill of lading already torn when you found it?"

  "Why do you ask?" I ask.

  Long silence. Muffled words, hand over phone.

  Then, "The paper tear is new. Did you tear the paper?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "That information on the bottom of the bill of lading is my ticket home."

  "The information ripped away was the numbers of the shipping containers, am I right?"

  "Yes."

  "Why did you tear off those numbers? They are critical to our ability to intercept these shipments."

  "Consider our position here at the green house. Our cover is blown. Knowing our government, there is at least a fifty-fifty chance it will deny us. It will deny we are connected to it. So where does that leave Petrov and me? Are you taking us home now?"

  "You know that's a question I can't answer, only your manager can."

  "Give my manager this message, then. Petrov and I have been talking. Our cover has been blown and retaliation already began last night when they killed Henshaw. We believe something is terribly wrong for the Russians to go after our station chief. We believe we caused that thing to go wrong and we believe we are targets. That being the case, we want the Company to make sure we get out of Russia safely and get home to the States safely. Only then will I give up the container numbers. Are you writing this down?"

  "I am.” He repeats my comments almost word-for-word.

  "Good night, then," I tell him. Then I hang up.

  "Was I good?" I ask Petrov.

  "Couldn't have been better."

  Then we are silent. Then, "You know we are at great risk."

  "I know," she says. "But now I need sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

  "You're off to bed?"

  She nods. "It's half-past nine. I'm off to bed after the news."

  I return her nod. Despite all the good things between my wife and I, I want nothing more right now than to slide down the couch and take Petrov's hand in mine. But how foolish would that be? Station would be angry with me; Petrov would hate me; I would hate myself for being so weak. So I remain glued in place, appearing to watch TV while secretly eating my heart out. Damn and be damned!

  Which is when we first hear it.

  Then we see a figure flash by on the porch just outside the French doors leading out back onto the deck that overlooks a city park. There is a barbecue out there, covered in snow across its domed top; four chairs drawn up around a table that is too high for them; and a chaise lounge fully extended and flat that is likewise latticed with snow. These things are there and in place, I see when I cross and open the door, but there is a new addition: footprints in the snow. Crossing right to left behind our green house. I turn to retrieve my gun from the fireplace mantle and, as I move, a bar swung from beyond the door catches me across the forehead and I go down.

  Coming to. Alone and in a dark, cold place.

  There is no light, period, and I realize my clothes are wet and I'm out-of-control with the shivers. I call out to Petrov, but there is no answer. I sit up. I have been lying on concrete. As I sit up my head bumps against a solid object and I reach up. It seems the ceiling is so low that I cannot sit up. I lean and reach out with my hand, trying to touch the floor. I cannot easily touch it, so I swing my legs over a ledge and let myself down in the dark. Down, down I go until finally, when my hips are over the edge, my feet touch a solid floor. Now I'm standing in the dark and I take inventory of my body. There is a screaming ache across the front of my head where the bar caught me at the green house. Where have I been taken? And where is Anna Petrov?

  "Hey!" I call out in Russian. "Help me!"

  There is no answer, nor did I expect one. That would have been too much, for help to come running.

  Doing what I do, my training is to expect the unexpected and to not over-react to anything. Which is what I'm forcing myself to do right now: remain calm, slow my pulse rate, even-out my breathing. I turn and attempt to climb back onto my ledge but cannot raise my leg high enough to swing it up onto the concrete shelf. Reaching out across the black I try to find a handhold to pull myself back up but there is none. Nothing to grab onto.

  "Hey!" I call out again, but this time in English. "Help me if you will!"

  My legs are shaking, I realize, and I let myself crumple down into a squat. Which is when I feel my tongue playing over my front teeth and I realize the two top teeth have been broken off. I inhale a gulp of air over them, testing their nerve endings and, thank God, I'm not shot full of pain by exposed nerves. I don't remember being struck across the mouth. But whoever did it thankfully didn't break off enough tooth to expose nerves. Otherwise I would be fighting more than just fear and alarm upon coming awake in this dark place.

  So I take inventory of my surroundings. Arms outstretched, I walk across—I'm guessing it's across—the room until I come to the far wall. My walk is short, only three steps. Then I trace my way from right to left until I come to the back wall of the room. It is small enough, four steps this time, that I can only refer to this place as a cell. Three steps again to my left and then back up to my concrete bed. Following beyond that further left I come back across and find there is a metal door closed tight with only the smallest seam of yellow light.

  I guess that I'm at the Moscow Jail. Also known as Lefortovo Prison. That would be the logical place for the FSB to take me. Guessing again, Petrov will be imprisoned here too. They no doubt have perceived that we are a team; they no doubt have determined that we were the shooters at Henrik's dacha tonight.

  Squatting, my legs begin to tremble and I let myself topple over onto my side. There is no other position available to me. I wrap m
y arms around my upper body and close my eyes.

  I'm not afraid. Our training exposed us to much harsher conditions at Camp Peary and the Farm than what I'm experiencing here. I will simply and quietly wait until they decide to approach me. They might torture, they might even kill me. I might become a star on the wall at Langley.

  But I'm not afraid.

  Chapter 6

  President Hubert S. Sinclair hated taking that first piss in the morning. The enlarged and boggy prostate became even more cantankerous overnight, refusing to allow a good stream of urine to flow and fill the toilet bowl in the president's private bathroom, just off his private bedroom. He was glad he no longer shared a bedroom with the First Lady; as he stood at the toilet and tried to force the urine stream to strengthen he leaned his left arm against the wall above the toilet and turn his face sideways and grunted and moaned. Dorothy—the First Lady—would have heard his toilette noises and immediately been all over him to call in the doctor without delay. And President Sinclair hated doctors almost as much as he hated his enlarged prostate. They had ordered him to give up jogging after his knee replacement and if they found out the prostate was acting up again—who could say? Who could say what they would come up with next? Prostatectomy? Wouldn't that leave him unable to perform in bed? He shuddered at the thought and shook his penis with his free hand, squeezing the last drop of production into the toilet bowl and then flushing.

  News of the Moscow arrests had hit Langley before dawn and was escalated to cabinet bureaucrats and escalated again, this time to the Oval Office. Delicate arms reduction talks were underway with the Russians. The U.S. absolutely could not allow itself to be connected to the murder of an FSB chief’s son. All connections to Xiang and Petrov would have to be disavowed.

  The President, after voiding, returned to his private office adjoining his bedroom. He took his seat while still in his pajamas and ordered coffee and toast from his steward. Then he called his contact's cell phone, avoiding the Langley switchboard where the man worked. The man's name was Anatoly Palatov. His cover was a phony Ph.D. from Stanford in Russian languages. He did, in fact, know some Russian, but that was after working two tours at Moscow Station, not from sitting in a university classroom. His duties at Langley were few and were clouded with mystery. It was known he was tight with the White House but not much else could be said about him.

  “Anatoly,” said the President as if talking to an old friend—which he wasn't—"about this Moscow arrest of your agent."

  "Russell Xiang. Anna Petrov. Good people."

  "Good or not, I can't allow this thing to be connected to us."

  "I understand, Mr. President."

  "So here's what I need you to do."

  "Sir?"

  "Deny, deny, deny! Disavow any connection between them and the United States."

  "Leave them dangling, sir?"

  "You're getting it now, Anatoly.”

  "Yes, sir."

  "Here's part two of your task. I've been briefed on the shipping containers carrying weapons to the U.S. I know all about that and the bill of lading seized by Xiang and Petrov. So here's what we're going to do.

  "Sir?"

  "I'm told that Russell Xiang's wife works as a prosecutor for the U.S. Attorney here in D.C. She has the legal smarts to hire an attorney to defend her husband in the Moscow courts."

  "Certainly agree with that, sir."

  "Good. So I want to know who this person is that she hires to defend Russell. You will determine his identity and advise him that this government will do everything it can to help free Russell Xiang and Anna Petrov."

  "How far will we go?'

  "Anything the lawyer needs, we will provide. Anything. We must get Xiang out of there if we are going to obtain shipping container numbers. That's what's been explained to me. Days like this, I hate this job, Anatoly."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Get back to me every step of the way. You have my direct line and you have my ear, Palatov."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And here's another thing. What was Xiang working on?"

  "He was leading a team at Langley. His posting to Moscow was TDY only. He wouldn't have been there another week in the normal course of things."

  "I appreciate that. So here's what I need you to do. How big is Xiang's team?"

  "Three men and one woman."

  "Are they anybodies?"

  "Sir?"

  "You know, are they connected—any senators or congressmen in their families? Any war hero daddies? That kind of thing."

  "No, sir."

  "Good. Then I want them taken out."

  "Sir?"

  "I cannot afford to have people running loose who might connect Xiang to the United States CIA. Loose lips sink ships, Palatov. As true now as it ever was."

  "Sir, the CIA doesn't just go around killing off its own employees. I don't know where you got that—"

  "Goddam it, Anatoly Palatov! Are you not hearing me? The lives of millions of people are at risk. Nuclear disarmament cannot be sidetracked because of one stupid CIA officer. Don't your people know they're expendable? What kind of camp are you running over there?"

  "Sir, I can't—"

  "Mr. Palatov, we are not negotiating here. This is a matter of greatest national security and I'm giving you an order. Do you have any questions about the order?"

  "No, sir."

  "Do you understand my order?"

  "Yes, sir. Eliminate Xiang's team."

  "So we're clear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Look, Palatov. We can even improve our play here. When you hit these people, make it look like the goddam Russians."

  "Make it look like the Russians did the hit?"

  "That's my guy, yes! Now we've got something we can toss back at them. This is pure inspiration, Palatov."

  "Sir, if—if you say so."

  "Get it done, Palatov. Without delay."

  "Yes, sir."

  "One more thing. Plan on coming by the White House on New Years Eve. We'll be singing songs and drinking Dom. Your wife will love it."

  "I'm not married, sir."

  "Then bring a date, you—Anatoly. Don't let me down, son."

  "I won't, sir."

  "Good man."

  The President hung up the phone. His hands were shaking and he wrung them together and tried to bring them under control.

  By the time he received his toast and took his first bite, the shaking had gone away.

  Xiang and Petrov were abandoned, as far as the public and the Russians knew. But behind the scenes his administration would do everything it could to see them released and returned to the states. He drew a deep breath and slowly chewed his toast. Now if he could only make it all happen before the weapons crossed into the United States. If he failed, the most horrific attack on American soil would occur and it would come back on him.

  Failure wasn't an option.

  Chapter 7

  The President's order to locate the weapons in the shipping containers in no more than twenty-four hours was taken on by the FBI and DHS. It involved pulling out all the stops to locate the weapons containers at American seaports before they were waved through. It was a huge task, probably impossible, but there were jobs at stake—that was the bottom line. It had to appear that the government had taken all possible steps to locate the shipping containers. The President ordered the FBI and DHS to throw every last asset at the problem.

  Special Agents Timkins and Ng of the FBI were tasked to head up a large force of agents in L.A. First up was gaining an understanding of the shipping industry. According to the FBI computers, there were over twenty container terminals in the United States classified as maritime. They knew the interception had to be at the maritime container terminal when the arms came through.

  But how to narrow it down?

  In talking with Homeland Security, the agents got up to speed on searches and scans of incoming containers for nuclear materials. Incredibly, they found that less than 100% of
containers were scanned for nuclear contents. Moreover, the statistic for container searches—where the government agents actually opened containers and searched inside—was all but non-existent. Physical searches were minuscule compared to the risk involved, which had huge potential for sneaking in the kinds of weapons terrorists wanted. So Timkins and Ng immediately knew they would outright fail without the container numbers. There was no choice: they had to have the shipping numbers assigned to each container that would be carrying the Russian war making matériel.

  However, only Russell Xiang had those numbers.

  Timkins and Ng wasted no time reporting that locating the shipping containers by inspection would be like finding one needle in ten thousand haystacks. Still, they were told to proceed anyway. What they weren't told was that theirs was a political mission. There was zero expectation of finding the weapons.

  It was only important that they try.

  Then, when the attack came, the President could show all that he had done to head it off.

  Chapter 8

  Antonia Xiang was married to Rusty and she believed he was in Russia, though she had no proof. "But a wife senses these things," she said to her closest friend from work. Antonia was a staff attorney at the U.S. Attorney's Office in Washington. She worked within walking distance of the White House. While her married name was Chinese, and while her husband was of Chinese descent, Antonia was not Chinese. She was a Wisconsin girl, born and raised—a true cheesehead who still had a secret crush on Bret Favre.

  On Tuesday she was home from work with their son, whose sore throat had brought on a temperature and who, in the last few minutes, was crying out that his muscles ached. Antonia switched off the vacuum cleaner and was about to go check on him when the phone rang. Her heart leapt. It could always be Rusty!

  But the number was not calling from Russia. It was not a 7 prefix.

  "Hello?"

  "Mrs. Xiang, this is Mr. Slosser."