Sakharov the Bear (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 5)

by John Ellsworth

  The guard wrinkles his nose and shrugs.

  "He told me he worked for the American CIA."

  "Mr. Lukin, that's very hard to believe he would tell you that. Why would he admit to being a spy against the fatherland?"

  "We were trading stories and I bet him my story was the better one of all four of us."

  "So there was more than just you who heard this?"

  "Sure, there were others."

  "We'll come back to that. Did he talk about his work for the CIA?"

  "Not really. He said there were secrets he couldn't tell."

  "Did he talk to you about his night at Henrik Nurayov's dacha? The night several Russian guards were murdered?"

  "He didn't talk about that. But I know he was there."

  "Really? And how do you know that?"

  "His cellmate told me that Xiang told him. Spilled the beans, he called it."

  "His roommate is American too?"

  "Yes. A man who got drunk and assaulted a police officer."

  "What is his name?"

  "Abraham Smerconish. Number 16-3344-D. He's in D Wing."

  "Why would this man tell you something his cellmate confided to him?"

  "He thought it would help him get out of jail if he squealed on his cellie."

  "Did it help?"

  "Of course not! Our jail is above reproach. We do not take bribes."

  It's all I can do not to burst out laughing at this point. Such humongous lies and fairy tales. But I keep a straight face and listen as Lukin finishes up.

  There is little I can do to cross-examine so I waive cross-examination and the next witness is called. She is the second guard who also heard Russell Xiang's supposed confession. Same story as Lukin's: Xiang is lonely, told his life story, begged cigarettes, made a call to his wife while in jail. Lukin again, with some embellishments. She also adds that Petrov corroborated the story where she spoke with Petrov under similar circumstances as Xiang. Nothing can be gained by hammering home the same story on cross-examination, so I waive.

  But now they have made their case against Russell. As well as against Anna Petrov. Prima facie cases, but cases nonetheless.

  In the late afternoon, after a long lunch and after the court has been in recess while it attended to other cases pending before it, Gliisky calls a forensics expert. His name is Martin Dinavy and he is a crime scene analyst for the FSB. He takes the witness stand, shifts uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair, and tugs at his necktie. His uniform is that of the Moscow City Police, but he testifies he is actually assigned to FSB investigations. Was he there on Christmas Eve or Christmas morning at Nurayov's dacha? He says he was.

  Then, "My job was to collect up all evidence that might help us learn the invaders' identities."

  "Tell the jury whether you were successful."

  He swings his gaze over to the jury and expertly addresses them.

  "Yes. I took molds of the bootprints left in the snow where the invaders came around the side of the house. I could track those bootprints all the way back up the service road into a small grove of nut trees. Their vehicle had evidently been left there while they attacked Mr. Nurayov's home."

  "Were you ever able to match up those bootprints?"

  "I was. After he was arrested, the officers brought several boots belonging to the defendant Russell Xiang into my laboratory. I took my measurements and made my examination under our microscopes."

  "What did you conclude?"

  "Defendant Xiang's boots matched the bootprints I found left behind in the snow."

  Gliisky seizes a large clear plastic bag in which two large boots are enclosed. "Are these the boots?" He hands the bag to the witness.

  "Yes, these are my initials on the bag. That's my handwriting."

  "You're certain it was a match?"

  "There is no doubt."

  Gliisky sits down at his table and flips through his notepad. Then, "Nothing further, Your Honor."

  The judge nods at me and I hurry to my feet and to the lectern. I want to give the impression I'm anxious to face this witness and I believe I'm successful.

  "Mr. Lukin, what brand of boots are these?"

  "Work-Joy by Ollas. These boots are made by the company in Leningrad."

  "Are they popular?"

  "Yes, very popular among the working class."

  "Is Mr. Xiang a member of the working class?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, Mr. Gliisky wants the jury to believe he's a spy. Are spies members of the working class?"

  "I don't know. No, I suppose not."

  "These boots could have belonged to any one of thousands of people, they are so popular, correct?"

  "Correct. Maybe tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands. They're a men's size ten. Very common size, very common boot."

  "In fact, you've examined similar boots in your lab before, in other cases?"

  "That's right."

  "How many times?"

  "One dozen now."

  "So please tell me how you were able to distinguish these boots from the perhaps hundreds of thousands of others that might be out there?"

  "That would be impossible to say. There are marks, tool-marks, you might call them, on the soles. But even those are common enough."

  "What kind of marks?"

  "Well, the soles are rubber and rubber is easily scarred. Such soles pick up peculiar marks."

  Now I'm holding my breath as I ask, "Did these boots have peculiar marks?"

  "Not more than normal. I can't say they did."

  It's not going to get any better than this, so I thank the witness and take my seat.

  Then we are adjourned for the day.

  After dinner that night I receive a call from the U.S. Embassy, Moscow. The caller identifies himself as Harry Samson, who says he's a foreign service officer with the State Department. I'm thinking yes, sure you are, and I am too. Spooks all around, coming and going all day in the courtroom where I'm defending, some recognizable by their facial features, haircuts, and clothes, some not so much. Anyway, I tell Harry hello and ask what it is I can do for him.

  "I'm calling about the trial of Russell Xiang and Anna Petrov. You are their attorney and I hear you're doing a nice job for them."

  "Nice? Just nice? Considering that I'm the little boy with his finger in the dike who's saving Holland I'd say I'm doing better than nice. How about fantastic, Mr. Samson?"

  A stiff chuckle is allowed by Mr. Samson. Then he pushes on to his business.

  "We've been working behind the scenes to help you, Mr. Gresham."

  "Sakharov."

  "Right. Anyway, we’ve obtained the agreement of Russell Xiang's mother. She will attend his trial this coming Monday."

  "Today is Thursday. Tomorrow will probably finish up the state's case against my clients. So Monday is excellent timing. It couldn't have worked out better."

  Long pause. Then, "We know, Mr. Sakharov. That's our business to know these things and to act accordingly."

  But I'm already floating away, losing myself in my dream state, a state of desperate love and longing from so many years ago I can't count them all.

  We were young and time stood still when we were in college. Days were long, nights were even longer. My roommate was Henry Xiang. We were thrown together by lot our first year in college and it worked well enough that we stayed together until we graduated. But we did have our differences, one of them being Mai H. Yung, who would turn out to be Russell's mother. She played clarinet and Henry played clarinet. The opening day of marching band practice they found themselves together, marching and resonating with their instruments, marching and resonating with their bodies as they checked each other out that fall on the practice football field. They left practice and strolled over to the student union, where they had coffee and pie and talked all afternoon. He was Bay Area born and raised; she was from mainland China. He was studying pre-law; she was studying pre-med. They were inseparable until our senior year when Henry went
into the hospital for an emergency appendectomy. Two nights he was gone from our dorm room. The dorm room that Mai had moved into and was living in with Henry—and with me. Of course, I made myself scarce during those key times when they needed their privacy, but they would always reward me with pizza and a six-pack when they were done and I returned. One thing: no love-making after nine p.m. because I always studied from nine until one a.m. It was my routine.

  While Henry was in the hospital, things changed between Mai and me. Maybe "changed" isn't such a good word as things "came to a head." We had lusted after each other for two years. We both knew it; neither of us acknowledged it. Lusted after each other in the way that college students will when relationship boundaries aren't marked off with marriage licenses but rather are fluid like moods. By this I mean Mai belonged to Henry and she didn't. They weren't married; they weren't even engaged—Henry's failing. Because they were only boyfriend-girlfriend, while Henry was in the hospital the second night, Mai and I wound up in bed together. Thirty days later she announced her pregnancy—to me only, because Henry couldn't have sex during the time of impregnation because of his surgery. Her parents were told and they forced her to return home to China. That was the last Henry or I ever saw of her. But our son, Russell, was shunted back and forth between Beijing and San Francisco, where, at nine, he finally wound up living with Henry, the man he knew as his father. Why wasn't it me? Because neither Mai nor I could stand to break Henry's heart with the truth of his son's conception. So we let it go, as youth will at that age.

  Did I mention I was in love with Mai? Still am, probably, judging by my flip-flopping heart as Harry Samson from State explains to me that Mai will be arriving in Moscow on Sunday and that she'll be brought to my hotel room to prepare her for trial. And one last thing; she'll undergo DNA testing immediately on arrival at the same lab that tested me. We'll both be introduced to the jury at some point as Russell's bio-parents. I just haven't yet decided when that will be, but probably during Mai's testimony. That would make perfect sense.

  "And by the way, Mr. Sakharov, Mai will also be staying at the Marriott where you're staying in case you need more time with her. Does this work for you, Mr. Sakharov?" Harry Samson wants to know.

  I all but swallow the phone. But I force myself to take me out of the center of the picture and instead put Russell and Anna there where they belong. This is all about them; it isn't about me and I'm not going to make it about me. I'm sure Mai hasn't agreed to come here because of me: she's agreed to come here because her son is facing a firing squad. Her intention is to provide a pathway that sets her boy free.

  We hang up and I begin changing clothes to return to the jail for my nightly visits with Verona and Marcel. I'm on record as their attorney and have an almost-unrestricted right to see them as often as I need. I have gained favor with the guards and am allowed to bring cigarettes to Marcel and cans of mixed nuts to Verona. Their requests. The guards look the other way, receive thanks for their cooperation in the form of American twenties, and everybody gets on.

  Verona has feelings for me. She has told me so as we've shared through Plexiglas on phones that are no doubt bugged. Which is fine; we're still fueling the myth that we are in fact husband and wife and that Anna is Verona's daughter by another marriage. I've told her that I still am desperately in love with her, that I only want to get her home. And so reality perpetuates myth by necessity. And as myth, repeated, sometimes can bring about something real, I'm beginning to believe the truth of it. I'm beginning to believe that maybe I do love Verona. I don't know. One thing: times of extreme stress, such as we're experiencing here in Moscow, are never good times to make judgments about personal matters like love. So I avoid getting into the topic with myself even though it's tempting at night when I'm lonely and projecting my needs onto my future. This is a dangerous activity and I try to avoid it.

  It is late when Harry Samson says goodbye. But first he tells me he'll bring Mai around to my room about noon on Sunday.

  After we hang up I begin discussions with myself about what I'll be wearing when she arrives.

  Sometimes one can't help but feed their myths.

  Especially the ancient ones.

  Chapter 36

  Michael Gresham

  Gliisky softly calls, "Anna Petrov," and he turns to watch the female guards extricate Anna from the glass defendants' booth. They remove the handcuffs in back and bring them around in front of her, then march her up to the front of the courtroom. I watch as she comes forward. As she moves she tries to hold her head up high, as if she's not surrendered to the bastards who have her locked away yet again.

  But when she turns around and raises her hand to be sworn in, that's when we all see. The bruises on her face are just barely visible, but visible, through the pancake makeup they've coated her face with. The eye injuries hide behind mascara applied liberally. She attempts a small smile that flickers on and off. But during that brief moment, I can spot the rectangle where once there was an eyetooth. Quite recently, too. It is all I can do not to run to her and fold her into my arms and demand medical attention. But that would only get me locked up just like her—and just like my son. I resist the pull of decency; my clients need me free more than they need my medical advocacy.

  "Tell us your name, dear," Gliisky says to her in his friendliest tone. "We all want to know you."

  "Anna Petrov. American citizen. I demand to see a representative of my embassy."

  "Petrov. That sounds Russian. Are you Russian?"

  "American citizen. I demand to see a representative of my embassy."

  "Ms. Petrov, your present incarceration is actually the second for you this winter, is it not?"

  She is determined, looks neither right nor left, but stares at the back of the courtroom.

  "American citizen. I demand to see a representative of my embassy."

  "In fact," Gliisky glides along, the Hans Brinker of smooth courtroom skating, "you were present at Henrik Nurayov's dacha the night of the shooting. Am I correct?"

  This time there is no response of any kind. She just stares straight ahead.

  "And you have given the guards your written statement, correct?"

  Stares and ignores.

  "Let me ask you to review your written statement."

  He lays it before her on the witness desk but she doesn't even look down. There is again no response.

  "The court has previously admitted this statement into evidence," says Gliisky, "so I request that it be read aloud to the jury at this time by the clerk."

  "Very well," says the judge, quick to agree. "The clerk will read the exhibit into the record."

  The single-page is passed over to the clerk by Gliisky and he takes his seat. She begins reading.

  "I, Anna Petrov, do swear the following statement is under oath and is factually correct in all respects. On December 24, 2016, while I was in the company of Russell Xiang, we proceeded to the home of Henrik Nurayov on the north side of Moscow. We hid our car down the road from Nurayov's residence and walked back up the road. We were both armed and intent on killing Nurayov. At that time and place we were both employees of the Central Intelligence Agency and were acting under the terms of our employment."

  The clerk pauses and turns the page over. She sees there is nothing on the reverse side and proceeds again.

  "As we approached Nurayov's house we made a plan to cut the glass out of his rear sliding door. We made the cut, removed the large piece of glass, and stepped inside. We were greeted by at least six armed men so we gave up our weapons without a fight. We were taken outside to be killed but instead we killed those guarding us. Soon, the others inside the house came out to see what was happening and we caught them in a barrage of gunfire that killed all six guards. We then ran inside the house for the purpose of locating and murdering Henrik Nurayov, but he had fled. So we searched the premises and then walked back up to our car where we got in, drove off and departed. Signed, Anna Petrov, CIA."

  "Is
that all?" Gliisky asks.

  "It is," says the clerk, and she holds out the confession for Gliisky to take. He returns the confession to the stack of documents which are collecting on a table just below the judge. They are all waiting to be taken by the jury into the jury room for deliberations. At that time the jury can read and digest at their own speed.

  "I have no other questions for this uncooperative witness," Gliisky tells the judge. He nods at me and raises his eyebrows in a question.

  "Yes, I have questions. Ms. Petrov, is that your signature on the statement the clerk has just read?"

  "Yes and no."

  "What does that mean?"

  "My wrist was broken in two places. I signed with a broken wrist so it isn't my normal signature."

  "How did your wrist get broken?"

  "The guards at the jail hit me with their batons. They kicked me while I was down on the floor. They made me undress and ridiculed me. They hurt my genitals with wire and pliers. They cut out a fingernail with a knife blade. Only after they had done all these things to me did I sign their paper."

  "Well, about the things contained in the paper. Did you and Russell Xiang in fact go to the home of Mr. Nurayov on Christmas Eve or morning?"

  "No."

  "Did you shoot guns while at his house ever?"

  "No."

  "Did you kill any guards at his house?"

  "No."

  "Have you ever been to this house?"

  "Never."

  "Have you ever pursued him?"

  "Never."

  "Why did you sign the confession, then, saying you did these things?"

  "I hurt. I was scared. I signed."

  "Do you work for the CIA?"

  "I work for the U.S. Embassy in Moscow. I'm a keyboard operator."

  "What are your duties?"

  "I keep a registry of U.S. citizens who enter Moscow."

  "Why is this kept?"

  "In case our government needs to evacuate its citizens."

  "Why would that happen?"

  "Well, say the Kremlin ordered all Americans to leave Russia. We would have a list."

  "So it's a safety precaution, this registry?"