Sakharov the Bear (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 5)

by John Ellsworth

  "If I can get you out of here."

  "If you can get me out of here."

  "What about the disavowal? The CIA says it doesn't know you. Where does that leave you with them?"

  He smiles cagily. "Please remember, Mr. Sakharov, we're only talking business here. I'm still a CIA agent and always will be until I retire. They will take me back as soon as I resurface in the States and I will be utilized somewhere. Once you're in, you're in for life. Never let anybody tell you any differently."

  "Now, let's talk defense of your case. I'm going to prove you're Chinese, not American, and that you are in Russia to start a business."

  "Understand. Have you been receiving my letters? I've written them in Chinese just as you directed."

  "Three?"

  "Yes, three of them. Good, so you've got them all."

  "Yes, we have. Antonia interpreted them for me and I think you've done a good job presenting your nationality as Chinese. The backstory you've chosen works for me too. Now here's a puzzle I want to present you with."

  "Go on."

  "Moscow Station has records that would clearly link you to the CIA as an officer."

  "Correct."

  "I was visited by a man who identified himself to me as Anatoly Palatov. He is the man who bailed me out of jail. Does that name mean anything to you?"

  He shakes his head. "Never heard the name."

  Just then there is a knock on our door and suddenly it flies wide open. Two guards seize Russell and begin moving him out. Evidently our meeting is over. Which is fine. I got what I came for. Now I know what I want from the CIA. It just remains for me to pry it loose from them.

  I walk out the jail's front door.

  Goodbye, my son.

  Soon I will return to take you home.

  Chapter 28

  Michael Gresham

  The voice that calls my phone sounds like a load of gravel sliding out the back end of a dump truck. It is rough, gruff, and heavily accented so I have to listen closely. But, it's English being spoken and that's uncommon as hell.

  "Yes, this is Mikhail Sakharov."

  "Mr. Sakharov, this is Sergei Gliisky. I'm the lead prosecutor in the case against your client Russell Xiang."

  "Thanks for calling. How can I help today?"

  "I'm calling in order to make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Sakharov."

  "Clarity is good."

  "Two cases. One against you for lying to the court. One against your client for murder and state secrets."

  I don't reply. There's no need for him to remind me of what keeps me up at nights.

  "Mr. Sakharov, we are convinced your real name is Michael Gresham. We are convinced you work for the CIA. As you know, this is very serious. You could go to jail for a minimum of ten years if these charges are proven against you."

  "Just how do you plan to prove I'm CIA?"

  "We have our methods, Mr. Sakharov. But here's one to consider. We know about your children in Evanston, Illinois. Do you still want to continue your deceit in our court?"

  I nearly drop the phone. They have me. They know where I live and they know about my children. I will immediately call home and have my children moved to a safe place no one knows about. My eyes see flashes of terrible events unfolding and things too awful to even imagine taking place. But I have to act as if I'm unfazed, and I do.

  "You've just lost me. I don't know anything about Illinois and this Evans place. You have the wrong man for that connection."

  "Evanston. We will make this proof to the court in your client's case."

  "Wait a minute. You're going to try to prove your case against me during the case I'm defending for Russell Xiang?"

  "You heard me correctly. It is allowed and I plan to do it."

  "I'll fight you on that."

  He scoffs. Then he clears his throat and the gravel dumping continues.

  "Second item on our list. I'm going to personally witness your client in front of the firing squad. I'm going to watch as he is gunned down. There will be no deals for him, no appeals, and the jury is going to hate him all the more because you are a liar and a CIA agent. They will know all of this when they retire to the jury room to deliberate. Sound inviting?"

  "Is this what you called for? Just to intimidate me?"

  "Not at all. I also wanted to tell you we now have in custody a woman who claims to be the wife of Mikhail Sakharov, a man who claims he is Mikhail Sakharov, and a young woman claiming to be Anna Sakharov. It was a chance you took, sending them on the train to escape, but it failed."

  I can hardly breathe. A boulder has been lowered onto my chest. They have arrested Marcel, Verona, and Anna. Proving their case against me is now the essence of simplicity. Plus, there will be charges filed against people I encouraged to flee. I have no words.

  "Make no mistake. There will be no deals for these people just like there will be no deals for you. We will not offer to reduce the charges in return for a plea to a lesser offense. While Westerners like your client and your investigator might be hoping there will be a last-minute deal, we don't offer deals. You will serve at least ten years. With this new ruse which we can prove you arranged, you are looking at twenty years additional. As for your friends, they are already languishing in jail. I'm told the younger woman is already offering to testify against you in return for leniency. And don't forget, we have her confession putting the blame for killing young Tarayev directly on your Mr. Xiang. A nice, neat package of American CIA agents all bundled up for the work camps."

  "Is that all?"

  "Isn't that enough? Now you have a pleasant evening, Mr. Sakharov. Or should I say, Mr. Gresham? Whatever, it really makes no difference at this point. You will serve twenty years at a Russian work camp in Siberia no matter the name you use, am I correct, sir?"

  He is laughing as he hangs up.

  In a sudden explosion I'm running for the toilet in my hotel room. Head buried inside the porcelain bowl I unload everything. All the fear, the deceit, the powerlessness I've felt all along—it all comes roaring out.

  Then I drag myself into the small sitting area of my suite and flop down on the bench couch. It is uncomfortable as it is long and flat and the back is a ninety-degree wall. Of course it's uncomfortable, it's Russian, I'm thinking. I empty the half-full water pitcher into a large crystal tumbler. Taking huge gulps of the liquid I wash the bad taste from my mouth and throat. Then I sit back and loosen my tie. It has been a long, terrible day.

  It's their system. Only the government can win in the Russian system. It is made that way. I can imagine the judges are all personal friends and confidantes of Vladimir Putin. I can imagine that they report to him on a daily basis how many crooked citizens they sent to the Gulag that day.

  In my mind's eye, there is a jury I have helped pick. They are not a jury of peers and they are not a jury found to be unbiased after much probing during jury selection. Instead I see only puppets, people whose words and actions are controlled by the puppeteers who sent them into the courtroom to perform in the first place.

  Then I visualize myself trying to convince them of Russell's innocence, of his status as a Chinese citizen, of his undeserved predicament where he should be turned loose. But then I see the jury look at him and then look at me and then look back at him. He doesn't look anything like Chinese, they are thinking. No, he looks like his lawyer, Michael Gresham. That's who he looks like. Xiang is about as much of a Chinese citizen as we are. Then I see them look away in disgust. They don't even bother to discuss when they retire to the jury room. They just sign the forms of verdict without voting: GUILTY.

  I decide to call Van and talk it over with him. But he doesn't answer his phone. Can't say that I blame him. He's probably heard about the arrests of the others and sees it linked back to me. I wouldn't be at all surprised to see him withdraw from the case. Withdraw and leave me twisting in the wind.

  Then another large boulder falls onto my chest. Marcel and his Russian record from years before. He had war
ned me that he couldn't afford to be identified by the Russian authorities. But now he has been. What could that mean? I groan and wish I had more water. The case only gets worse each time I chase someone down the rabbit hole. Even my lover Verona Sakharov will pay dearly before it's all said and done.

  There is a knocking on the door to my room. Instantly I'm electrified for I can only predict they have come for me. With every bit of speed I can muster I search around for a sweatshirt—anything to keep me warm in that freezing cell where they will put me!

  Now there is yelling outside my door and I hear my name being called.

  With the ultimate resignation, knowing I will spend the rest of my natural life in a Russian forest at hard labor, I make my way to the door.

  Ever the Catholic, I make the sign of the cross.

  Then I twist the doorknob.

  Chapter 29

  Michael Gresham

  Standing there, holding out a cocktail napkin, is a messenger. He tucks the soft paper into my hand and turns away. I unfold the napkin and read, "Gorky Park - Vremena Goda, first table on the right. Tomorrow 10 a.m." The messenger is gone by the time I look up. I have no idea who wrote this and I have no idea if it presents any hope. It could be bad news or good news or it could even be the FSB trying to trap me into something—anything is possible. But this much I do know: I'm going to be there tomorrow at ten a.m. Every bullet I came here with has been fired. I have no choice but to follow up with this invitation or command or whatever it turns out to be.

  The next morning at nine a.m. I climb into the first cab to roll down Tverskaya Street. Then we swing into traffic and I'm on my way.

  At the entrance to Gorky Park, the Main Portal, we pull into the lot and drive forward. When we are as close as we're going to get, I climb out. All around are skaters—singles and twosomes—on the frozen paths, Further beyond, skaters glide along the frozen river. It is dazzling in the rare morning light. Within the hour it will be gloomy again but just for now—just for this one instant—I close my eyes, turn my face up to the light, and imagine that I'm five again and that I'm going outside to sled. Then I open my eyes and that child is gone. That child who will save me, that child who, five years older, will possess all the skills I will ever need to succeed inside any courtroom anywhere. The interlude passes and it is gone. But I'm back.

  I climb the stairs to the Main Portal and study the map there. An arrow points to the restaurant Vremena Goda, so I head that direction.

  It is a short walk down an icy path. Skaters whiz alongside me as I go, shouting out in Russian as they approach from behind. I move to the far right and allow passage.

  As soon as I pass inside the restaurant, the first thing I smell is cigar smoke. Someone at the second table is smoking a cigar, waving it around while he speaks animatedly, then puffing and blowing out large clouds of foul-smelling stuff. But the first table on my right is empty and I help myself to it. Whoever I'm meeting hasn't arrived yet, so out of habit I pick up the menu the waitress drops before me as she passes by and I'm greeted with two pages of incomprehensible Russian. Service is going to be very slow as she doesn't return to take my order for almost ten minutes. By now it is ten minutes before the hour when she stops at my table, shifts her weight to one leg, and speaks in Russian. "Coffee?" I ask. "Do you have coffee?"

  She looks at me and shrugs. So I make a drinking motion as if I'm holding a cup with a handle. I can see the light come into her eyes and I'm thinking perhaps she has understood. At any rate, she leaves, folding my menu as she goes.

  Which is when I see a familiar face come inside the entrance and look directly at me, there at the first table.

  Antonia Xiang. Russell's wife. She removes her coat and shakes the snow out of her hair—yes, I can see it is snowing now outside the window. Then she approaches.

  "You're here," she says with a smile and takes the chair across from me.

  "Yes, I am. Who could resist your note? Mysterious, presented on a cocktail napkin—I felt like a spy receiving his orders from on high."

  "I saw Rusty last night," she says. "He's wasting away. The food is horrible and there's not enough of it. I'm going to guess he's lost maybe twenty pounds already."

  "I saw him too," I tell her. "But weight loss isn't the worst of his problems. Let me bring you up to speed on what's been happening."

  I proceed to tell her all of it—the part about Marcel and Anna and Verona being caught as they were trying to leave Russia, the part about me being found out and my home in Evanston pinpointed and me charged with my own set of crimes; Petrov's confession and agreement to testify against Rusty; the story comes tumbling out and when I'm done I'm shaking and she is white-faced.

  "My God, Michael, this is bad. Very bad."

  "What about you?" I ask. "Have you been working with Van?"

  "I have. And I have prepared Rusty's defense, you'll be happy to know."

  I almost think I've misunderstood and I ask her to repeat herself.

  "Yes, I said I've prepared Rusty's defense. I have witnesses, papers, photographs, the whole nine yards. We're ready to spring him free."

  My coffee arrives and Antonia points to what I've been served and nods and points to herself. She'll have the same, she's indicating. The waitress nods solemnly and slowly moves off.

  "Let's back up just a minute," I say. "How have you done all this?"

  She leans back and fluffs her hair with her hand. It is damp from the snow and probably cold on her head. I offer her my muffler but she refuses.

  "I've done all this with help from our friends at the Embassy. They have been sweetly reasonable after all."

  "How did that happen?"

  "You remember I work for the Department of Justice in Washington?"

  "Yes."

  "My job gives me access to certain government documents. In my work in counter-terrorism I have top secret clearance."

  "Okay, I'm following."

  "Well, with my security clearance I was able to access certain files on certain government employees, one of whom is my husband, who also works counter-terrorism at the CIA."

  A light is going off in my head. I think I know what's coming next.

  "From there, armed with my husband's records, it was quite easy to gain an audience with the Chief of the Moscow Station. I then threatened him with disclosing Rusty's true employment to the FSB if the CIA continued to refuse to help Rusty. So they suddenly decided to help."

  "I'm impressed. So, what's been done?"

  "Well, our friends at the Embassy have been busy. First, they have provided me with a witness with impeccable credentials. She’s a respected surgeon and well-spoken. She’s Rusty's mother from Beijing. She will testify that Rusty lived in Beijing until he came to Russia looking for business opportunities."

  Old feelings pierce me when I hear his mother is coming. It’s been forever.

  "Incredible. Go on."

  "I've also got all manner of paperwork. School records, passport, medical records, the Chinese equivalent of tax returns—we've got everything we need to prove Rusty is a Chinese citizen who came to Russia on business."

  "Wait. He was taken into custody at the green house. He was in the company of Anna Petrov. What about that connection?"

  She smiles easily. "Michael, I'm a lawyer and I'm known back home for being extremely thorough. I have the same records for Anna Petrov, whose cover is that she was an American journalist assigned by her news syndicate to China. She and Rusty were on a story. She was covering his trip to Russia for a magazine piece. She accompanied him to Moscow."

  For the first time in weeks I can actually see a ray of hope. A tight knot down inside my gut loosens maybe a half inch. This is terrific work she's done.

  "You are good," I tell her. "You are very good, Antonia."

  She smiles graciously. "Thank you. I've been known to win my share."

  "One question. How did Russell and Petrov come to be at the green house? My understanding is that's a CIA safe house
."

  "The green house is located on the property of Rudina Alaevsky, who sits on the Duma, the lower house in the Russian Federal Assembly. She is friendly to the U.S. and to its agents. I've spoken with her and she's happy to come in and testify that Rusty and Petrov were visiting her when they were suddenly arrested for no reason and trundled away in handcuffs."

  "That would be very persuasive, having an important Russian politician come into court and vouch for Rusty and Anna Petrov. Very persuasive, indeed."

  Antonia nods and flashes an understated smile when no one is looking. "There's even more."

  "Please tell me."

  "I have been busy talking with Henry, your old roommate."

  "What does Henry have to do with any of this?"

  "Very little. But he says you do, Michael."

  "How so?"

  "He says you're Rusty's biological father. I plan to use that in Rusty's defense."

  I'm stunned. This was all so long ago. I believed that Henry would never mention any of what happened way back when.

  "How so?"

  "You're going to be my witness. You're going to testify you're Rusty's father and that's why he resembles you. He does, you know?"

  "But if I'm his father why was he living in China?"

  "You and his mother were never married. She was a student at Georgetown when you were there. She returned to Beijing in shame when she discovered she was pregnant. You're going to testify your son was living in China too."

  "No one's going to believe that."

  "Oh, yes, they certainly are."

  "Why?"

  "Because we're going to have DNA testing done to prove you are who you say you are, that you're Rusty's father. Then they have to believe you."

  I'm dumbstruck. How did she find this out? She has probably always believed that Henry Xiang is Rusty's father. What would have made her start questioning that?

  "How did you get this information?" I ask her.

  "Henry and I had some very open talks. One night he just tossed it out there that you were actually my husband's biological father."