Sakharov the Bear (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 5)

by John Ellsworth

  Voila! The credit card opens the door!

  And I'm inside in one quick step, closing the door behind me. I say a silent prayer that I'm in the right office.

  While I'm in there, I decide I might as well go all the way. Checking that the window blinds are all full lowered and twisted shut, I remove my flashlight and switch it on.

  It is a beautiful office, with a huge desk made of what I believe is mahogany, a plush executive chair covered in blue leather, wall hangings of gold and silver, with a myriad of personal pictures on the credenza. I plop down in the blue chair and start sliding desk drawers in and out. With no idea what I'm looking for insofar as what kind of folder or binder was used, I can only open, rummage around, and close. After a minute of this, nothing looks promising. There is neither folder nor binder nor paper-clipped stack of anything resembling shipping records or a bill of lading like mine.

  So I stand and look around. There is a long two-drawer filing cabinet covered in matching mahogany over against the wall beneath the window on the side street side of the office. I go there, kneel down, and open the bottom drawer. Files are arranged left to right with their tabs all facing left. So I scoot around to my left to where I'm facing the tabs and start pawing through. Halfway in, I suddenly freeze. All the other file folders are tabbed in Russian. But not the one I've just located. This one is tabbed in English and says, simply, Nurayov to Brotherhood.

  I jerk it out of the drawer and flip it open.

  Then I read, for everything's in English. The original of my bill of lading is on top of everything else. Then I read the file memos and letters. Evidently Henrik Nurayov procured and sold to the Saudi Brotherhood the weapons and materiel listed on the bill of lading. Nurayov delivered the first shipment of goods via a tractor-trailer rig that unloaded right downstairs on the loading docks. The weapons were then catalogued and checked against Nurayov's receipt of sale, and then entered onto EIS’s own bill of lading. Now EIS has given copies of the bill of lading to Nurayov, says the correspondence in the file, and to the Saudi Brotherhood, signed off by an Abu Degav al-Zawihiri. The bill of lading—the original I'm looking at—has inscribed on its face the initials HN. Henrik Nurayov. The rest of the file contains various correspondence to Nurayov and to al-Zawihiri and memos and photographs of the weapons shipped by EIS.

  Quandary. If I steal the file and present it in court, I have revealed myself as the thief. On the other hand, will EIS come forward and claim its records from what I'm certain was an illegal sale and purchase of military grade weapons inside the country of Russia? Would they be so foolish? I decide to answer that in the negative. So I take the entire file and slip it up under my turtleneck, and zip up my goosedown coat. I have what I came here for.

  Immediately, then, I switch off the flashlight and hurry back to the office door. Standing just inside, I place my ear against the door and listen. Hearing nothing, I ever so slowly open the door.

  And there, standing eyeball to eyeball with me, is what can only be the same man whose flashlight beam and cigarette smoking I encountered earlier.

  Before he can react, I whip off my belt from around my waist and open its inner zipper. In one quick movement I strip out two thousand dollars USD and hold them out to the man. He is stunned beyond belief and finally collects himself enough to draw a gun from his hip holster. He points the weapon at me; I notice his hand trembling. I push the money toward him again, indicating he should take it, that I want him to have it. "It's yours if you'll just let me go," I tell him, though I'm absolutely certain he understands none of it.

  Then, to my utter amazement, he says in a strong voice, "Lone star state? Don't mess with Texas?"

  "Yes," I cry out, "Yes, I love Texas! Lone star state!"

  And I thrust the money at him again. But this time he reaches out and takes it from me.

  "Green Bay Packers," he says as he receives my cash. "Aaron Rodgers."

  "Yes, it might buy two seconds of Aaron's time, but that's about it. It's only two thousand."

  "NFL."

  "Yes, we all love the NFL."

  "NBA."

  "Let me past," I tell him with a smile. "I go to Texas!"

  "Deep heart Texas!" he cries out, this time lowering and holstering his gun.

  Davy Crockett would have been proud of me as I lead the two-man procession out of the Alamo, back downstairs to the loading dock, where I jump down into the alley two thousand USD poorer but ready to cross-examine the living shit out of one witness named Henrik Nurayov.

  Chapter 34

  Michael Gresham

  The next day starts early for me, before sunrise, when room service raps on my door. Breakfast is served at the foot of my bed, leaving behind a cart with two plates and covers, a carafe of coffee, butter patties, and a large glass of water. It's all necessary, as it's going to be a long day and I need to fuel up.

  After breakfast comes a long, hot shower and shave. My face is scarred from a fire several years ago and the skin stings when I draw a razor across my beard. But I do it anyway. Today I want to look my best and be at the top of my game as it's make-or-break time. Nurayov either belongs to me or I go straight to jail.

  Then I'm nervous as the reality of what the day holds in store settles over me like a cold blanket. But I think my way through the fear: I have the documents and I sure as hell have the questions I want to ask the guy. So far he's lied about everything he's said and today he's going to hit a brick wall head-on.

  Just after eight, Van pulls under the hotel portico. He leans across and pushes open the passenger door. I climb inside and look across at him. He has a huge lump that runs from the outside of his eye up and over his eyebrow.

  "What the hell?" I say.

  He touches the lump gingerly. "Ouch!"

  "What happened, Van?"

  "A man paid a visit to my apartment last night."

  "Who was it?"

  "No names, no introductions. But I'm sure he was FSB."

  "What would the Russia spy machine want with you, Van? You're not accused of being a CIA agent."

  "He said I needed to stay home today. He said you would be going to jail and the trial would be over. He wanted me home so I couldn't take over the defense of our clients by myself."

  I'm incredulous. This can't be.

  "So what did you say to him?"

  "I laughed. I said ‘that's quite impossible.’ Just as I was about to ask him to leave, he hit me with a leather sap. It must have had lead in the end because it caught me on the side of the head and I was knocked out cold. When I finally came to, my cat Rasputin was licking the blood off the side of my face. Her rough tongue felt like someone was rubbing me with sandpaper so it woke me up. I tried to sit up and fell back. The room was going around and around. So I rolled onto my side and slowly pushed myself up with one arm until I was sitting. Then I threw up all down my front. Finally I made it into the bathroom and climbed inside the shower with all my clothes on. I turned on the hot water and took everything off. I threw up again but this time it went straight down the drain. Then I went in and got in bed even though I was still wet. I was reeling, Mikhail. This morning I woke up, peeled my eyes open, and tried to see out of my right eye. It's still seeing double. Oh well. But here I am. If you're going to jail, I'm going to finish the trial. They're going to have to kill me first."

  "Why the fire in the belly? What's gotten into you, Van?"

  "When I was little I was bullied every day, until I learned I was smarter than the bullies. I would dream of ways of making their little lives horrible for a moment or two. Payback, we call it today. Same thing with this trial. No damn bully is going to run me off. I don't run. Didn't then, won't now."

  "Wow. That's quite a story. I'm really sorry it happened to you."

  He looks over from the steering wheel. "Which? Childhood or last night?"

  "Actually, both."

  "Let's go to court. After last night, I'm ready to skin this Nurayov alive.”

  Thirty minu
tes later, we're standing at counsel table. Antonia has joined us late. Now the judge ascends to the highest seat in the courtroom. He makes eye contact with no one, pours himself a glass of water from a golden pitcher, and rubs his hands together briskly. He switches on his microphone and taps it twice. The feedback over the crackly sound system tells him he'll be heard. Then his eyes bore into me.

  "Mr. Sakharov, you were just finishing up with the witness Henrik Nurayov. Anything further, or can I dismiss the witness?"

  "Just a few more questions, Your Honor," I say, intentionally to mislead Nurayov, who is back in the witness chair listening closely. He seems to relax just a bit when he hears "few more." He is just about free and his eyes light up with anticipation.

  "Very well, proceed with your cross-examination, counsel."

  The jury shifts in their seats and prepare for me to be further skewered by this witness who has proven way smarter—cagier?—than me. It promises to be quite a show followed by my all-but-guaranteed sentence to prison. Who knows? Maybe this will be the end of their service as jurors. Wouldn't that be great?

  I step up to the lectern, boldly laying out EIS’s file before me. Now the world can see it. But the truth is, it won't. It won't because EIS is never going to admit the records in that file are genuine and belong to EIS. They will want the greatest degree of separation possible from what's contained in that file.

  "Mr. Nurayov," I begin, "yesterday you told the jury that I had been identified by an MI6 agent at the British Embassy. He told you I was a CIA spy. Do you remember saying those things?"

  "Totally."

  "And do you remember telling the jury that your job in the British Embassy was to investigate claims of passports being lost. Do you remember that?"

  "Yes." He looks around grandly, very satisfied that I have yet been stupid enough to allow him to repeat his damnation of me. Several jurors actually nod at him approvingly.

  "Ehrlyich International Shipping, Moscow, Russia. Ring a bell?"

  He looks up at the judge. "Didn't we cover this?"

  "You have," the judge proclaims. "Move it along, counsel. Or were you done?"

  I ignore the judge and address Nurayov again.

  "Let me show you a document I've had the clerk mark as Defendants' Exhibit Four. It is a letter written by Ehrlyich International Shipping and addressed to you. Do you recognize this letter?"

  I hand him the letter. He reads and begins squirming. But he holds tight. "No. I didn't see this."

  "Look at the address. Isn't that your home address?"

  "Yes. Or it was."

  "Now let me hand you Exhibit Five. What is this?'

  He looks it over. He turns it over and glances at the back. Then he turns it over again.

  "It looks like a letter from me to Ehrlyich International Shipping. But I didn't write this."

  "That's not your signature at the bottom of the letter where you confirm to them you're making a shipment on November first?"

  "No, not my signature."

  This time we're ready. "Mr. Nurayov I've hired Danil Lemerov to study the signature and study your initials on the bill of lading. If he testifies you signed this letter, would he be incorrect?"

  "Hold on. This must have been the furniture I shipped to my daughter. She's newly married."

  "Look again, sir. The value of the goods shipped is listed as one hundred million USD. Your daughter must be living very well."

  "Where is that? I don't see that."

  "Third paragraph. Fourth line. Where it says, 'Seller represents shipment value is one hundred million dollars.' You missed that before?"

  "Look here, counsel. That line four is the last line in the paragraph. I believe it was added after I sent this letter."

  "So you believe there's a conspiracy to get you?"

  He leans back and collects himself enough to smile at me.

  "I think you're out to get me, Mr. Gresham. I think you added line four. You're a CIA agent and you'd like nothing better than to see me imprisoned. Or dead."

  I've been waiting for this moment.

  "Finally, let me show you this photograph. It depicts you standing with a shipment being loaded onto a barge. It's many shipping containers. Do you recognize them?”

  "No. I was at the river watching my daughter's furniture going away on the barge. Someone must have snapped this."

  "Except for one thing. Please look at the number on the shipping container you're standing next to. Can you read the number off that container?"

  "Yes. It is NB322V-1993x."

  "Thank you. Now read the jury the numbers from the bottom of the original bill of lading. Very bottom, Mr. Nurayov."

  He reads slowly, "NB322V-1993x."

  "Again, please. Mr. Ivanovich? Please load the first slide."

  Van projects a blow-up of the barge picture with the container in plain sight, side-by-side with a blowup of the bill of lading. The jury is able to compare.

  "Now read the numbers off the shipping container, sir."

  "NB322V-1993x."

  "Wouldn't you agree that the two numbers are the same?"

  "They appear to be. I don't know who put the numbers on the bill of lading and I've told you those aren't my initials on it."

  "Doctor Lemerov will talk to the jury about your initials on the bill of lading. And your signature on the letter. The noose is drawing tight, Mr. Nurayov, wouldn't you agree?"

  "Objection! The only noose in this courtroom is the one around Mr. Gresham's neck!"

  "Overruled. Please continue, counsel."

  I'm stunned. He denied Gliisky's objection? Did I really just hear that?

  But the problem is, there’s only the one number on the original bill of lading. Where are the other numbers? I study the the bill of lading as I contemplate my next question. Then I see it, plain as day: at the top it says “1 of 2.” I have only the first page of the original bill of lading with only one container number. The other numbers are on the second page. Quickly I shuffle through my stolen file. There is no second page. It’s missing and I don’t know why. So I do the only thing I can at that point, which is to take the witness down another path.

  "You've brought up my pedigree, Mr. Nurayov, so let's talk about that."

  "I'm certainly ready, Mr. Gresham."

  "What's the name of the MI6 agent who told you I was CIA?"

  "I don't recall."

  "You don't recall because he doesn't exist, am I right?"

  "No, you're wrong."

  "All right, then. Describe him for the jury."

  "He's large and—and—"

  "How large? Six-feet-one?"

  "I—I—yes, six feet one or two. Plus he's heavy."

  "How much does he weigh?"

  "I don't know."

  "Hair color?"

  "Dark."

  "Eyes?"

  "Dark."

  "What was his name again? I would like to subpoena him to come testify."

  "You know what? I'm wrong. It was actually a female agent and she's been sent back to London."

  "Oh, so now it' a woman and she's no longer here?"

  "That's right. It's coming back to me now."

  "What's her name? I don't mind going to London and taking her statement."

  "I don't know her name."

  "Describe her, please."

  "I don't—I don't—"

  "Objection, Your Honor," says Gliisky, who has lurched to his feet. "Counsel is harassing the witness."

  The judge raises a cautioning hand. "Not at all. I, too, would like to know this person's name. Without a name, I'm going to throw out all of this testimony. Please give us a name, Mr. Nurayov."

  Nurayov swallows hard. He darts his eyes from Gliisky to the rear of the courtroom, to me, and then sits, eyes downcast, silent.

  "I don't have a name, sir."

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the court is going to instruct you to ignore and forget all testimony from this witness about Mr. Sakharov being a CIA agent
. The court will ignore it as well. Proceed, counsel."

  I'm too stunned to move on to my next question. I've just crossed the goal line and scored!

  "That's all I have for now, Your Honor. Subject to recalling this witness in the defendants' case."

  "Very well, the witness may step down. But you are not excused, Mr. Nurayov. Now you must wait in the hallway outside the courtroom until counsel decides whether he will recall you to the stand. Understand?"

  Nurayov is very meek when he says, "I understand."

  He steps down, head bowed, and hurries up the aisle. Then he disappears out into the hallway.

  Chapter 35

  Michael Gresham

  He is a bull of a man like an NFL nose guard: thick neck, sloping forehead, tiny eyes and a large nose that looks like it's been broken a time or two. Nothing to like there, and his voice matches his rough-and-ready looks. Vassily Lukin is a night guard at Moscow City Jail in D Wing, he tells the jury, and he knows my client, Russell Xiang.

  "How did you come to know Mr. Xiang?" Prosecutor Gliisky asks, all innocence. There's a game underway here, and it consists of Gliisky playing like Lukin is someone reliable, an officer of the law, who's telling the truth and only the truth. But some of us know better. Lukin is a dupe, a setup, a rube. I watch as the game moves ahead.

  "I met Mr. Xiang when I was on duty at night. He used to ask for cigarettes."

  "Did you give him cigarettes?"

  "Of course. He's a very nice man. Very hard to deny anything to him."

  Plus, he paid you for them, I'm thinking. If any of this actually happened, which I seriously doubt.

  "Did you have talks with Mr. Xiang?"

  "Of course. All the guards and prisoners talk at night. It's lights out at seven p.m. No one can go to sleep that early so the only thing left is small talk."

  "What kind of things did you talk about?"

  "Family, home towns, growing up, work."

  "Did he tell you about his work?"

  "Of course he did. And I told him about my work."

  "What did he tell you?"