The President’s Dossier

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The President’s Dossier Page 14

by James A. Scott


  “Those are the sons-a-bitches who stay alive in this business. Aren’t you glad I’m on your side?”

  She grunted and turned back to her suitcase duties.

  After the heat went out of the conversation, we raided Grishin’s fridge, cooked dinner, and worked out a sleep-watch schedule. Jill crawled into one of the twin beds and went to sleep immediately.

  I took first watch in a living room chair near the door, with my gun handy. It was 6 p.m. I figured I’d give Jill four uninterrupted hours of sleep. In the cold, dark silence of the apartment, I tried to analyze why I was being such a jerk with Jill Rucker. The answer came to me. I was back in Moscow, with its rules for survival, honed by foreign spies over decades of the Cold War. I was following Moscow Rules. Rule Number 2: never go against your gut, and my gut was telling me not to trust Jill Rucker. She was a dead shot, a karate expert, and a fluent Russian speaker who had never been to Russia. There was also something dancing just out of focus in my mind that connected Jill to Moscow. Those thoughts were interrupted by an overwhelming desire to sleep, but I was on watch and I couldn’t sleep … and what was that smell?

  * * *

  I woke up when someone slapped my face. I expected to see an irate Jill Rucker. Instead, I saw my gun pointing at me. Dimitri, the concierge, was doing the pointing. Across the room, Jill, in pajamas, sat on the couch. A man in his late thirties stood behind her pointing a gun at her head. Behind him, windows were open and the room was freezing.

  Dimitri gave me a smug smile and explained, “I put something in the ventilation system to help you sleep.”

  Keeping his eyes on me, Dimitri spoke to the younger man. “Pavel, close the windows. I think our little sleep-inducer has dissipated.”

  Pavel shuttered and closed the windows.

  Jill’s ankles were tied to a leg of the couch with what looked like a bathrobe sash and her hands were behind her back. I was lashed to the back and legs of my chair with electrical cord. Dimitri sat in a chair just out of lunging distance. The only sound in the room was him cocking and uncocking my gun.

  I needed these people talking, not shooting. Searching for an ice-breaker, I noticed something familiar about Pavel. “You must be Vasili Bogdanovich’s son. I saw a picture of him when he was about your age. You could pass for his twin.”

  Dimitri jumped up and whacked me across the face with my gun. “No talking!”

  Pavel wasn’t getting the memo. “Who is Vasili Bogdanovich?”

  To me, Dimitri snarled, “You will not talk.” In a less hostile tone he told Pavel, “This man is a spy. All spies lie. The general has been trained to interrogate spies. He wants them kept quiet until he arrives.”

  Pavel disagreed. “That’s what you said, Uncle Dimitri. That’s not what my father said.” He pointed his gun at me. “Who is this Bogdanovich?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.” That promise was being made by a stocky, white-haired man of about seventy who was entering the apartment. He hung his overcoat on a rack near the door and added, “But first, we need to know who our guests are.”

  He went to Jill and announced, “I’m General Grishin. You’re pretty, but you’re not my grandniece.”

  Grishin came to me and inspected the gash on my cheek, courtesy of Uncle Dimitri. “You are not so pretty and you are not my grandnephew-in-law. Who are you?” His head swiveled between me and Jill.

  Dimitri answered. “Maybe they lost track of who they are, with so many identities to remember.” He pointed to the dinner table where our credentials were neatly laid out. The general flipped through our U.S. passports, phony FSB credentials, and the Russian identity papers provided by the couple who replaced us on the cruise in St. Petersburg. Luckily, I had left my letter of transit from Viktor Lukovsky in a locker at the train station. That was one less item for me to explain. Still, the appropriate term for this situation was, “Busted!”

  Grishin came to me. “Who are you? If you’re lucky, you’ll have to tell your story just once. So, make it a good story and it had better ring true.”

  I believed him. “I’m Maxwell Geller. The lady tied to the couch leg is Jillian Rucker. We’re not spies. We’re freelancers, private investigators hired to authenticate some documents.”

  Grishin glanced at our IDs. “You have exceptional support for freelancers.”

  “I’m former CIA.”

  “Have you worked for the CIA in Russia?”

  “Yes, but I was fired for criticizing President Walldrum.”

  Grishin gave that some thought. “Why did you come to me?”

  “Vasili Bogdanovich suggested I contact you.”

  “Bogdanovich is dead.” Grishin put his gun to my forehead. “Did you kill him?”

  “No. I went to him for information. I got his location from MI6.”

  “Why did Vasili send you to me?”

  I shot a questioning glance at Pavel and Dimitri. The concierge looked bored, probably just wanting to shoot us and get rid of the bodies before his shift ended.

  “Dimitri and Pavel are family. You can speak in front of them.”

  “Bogdanovich told me that you helped him defect to the British.” That was true. “He also said you supported Boris Nemtsov and other politicians who oppose Putin.” Actually, Sergei told me about Nemtsov as we sat in his car, but I couldn’t out my source. “Bogdanovich said you might help me.”

  “Help you how?”

  “You’ve heard of the Ironside Dossier on our president?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “I was hired to find out if the dossier allegations are fact or disinformation. I can’t do that without Russian help. I want to interview people who have firsthand knowledge of Walldrum’s activities in Moscow before he became our president.”

  Pavel interrupted. “And I want to know about this man, Bogdanovich!”

  Grishin sighed and ignored Pavel. He asked me, “Do you have children, Maxwell?”

  “No.”

  “One of the ironies of parenthood is that parents go through life seeing their adult children as their subordinates, while children go through adulthood seeing themselves as their parents’ equals.”

  In a soft voice, Dimitri said to the general, “It’s time to tell Pavel the truth.”

  “Time to tell me the truth about what?” demanded Pavel.

  To me, Grishin said, “Another irony is that people with no children give you advice on how to manage yours”—he glanced at Dimitri—“but sometimes they know what they’re talking about.”

  The general turned to Pavel. “This is not the time or place I would have chosen for this conversation, but it seems fate has chosen for us.”

  So, with the three of them standing around holding guns and Jill and I lashed to the furniture, the Russians decided to have a family therapy session.

  General Grishin said, “Vasili Bogdanovich was an officer who worked for me. He was also engaged to my daughter, Galina. Vasili wanted to defect and convinced Galina to go with him. Vasili planned to fake his death in a plane crash during a flight to Cape Town. There was no way to get Galina on the plane. So, we arranged with MI6 to smuggle her out of Russia through Finland and on to England. Galina was to leave for the Finnish border the day Vasili’s plane left for South Africa. At the last minute, she refused to go. She wouldn’t tell me or her mother why.

  “When Vasili’s plane went down—presumably with all hands—Galina told us she was pregnant. Vasili didn’t know. Galina was afraid to go to the West in her condition. She wanted to have her baby here in Russia with her mother attending.

  “Everyone thought the plane crash was an accident. As Vasili’s fiancée, Galina would normally be grief-stricken. I sent her and my wife to live with friends in the Urals for a year to ‘get over Vasili’s death.’

  “While they were away, Galina gave birth to a son. She died in childbirth.” He jammed his gun into his belt and took Pavel by the shoulders. “That son was you.”

  Pavel was speechless. He t
urned pale, then red.

  The general continued. “Your grandmother and I didn’t want you to go through life carrying the double burden of knowing your father was a defector and your mother died giving you life. Besides, if the state discovered that Bogdanovich was alive in England, his name would have doomed you to harassment or worse.

  “When my wife returned to Moscow a year later, we told everyone that you were our child and that Galina had died of pneumonia. I gave you my name and we raised you as our own. We could do no less for you.”

  Pavel was enraged. “Why didn’t you tell me this before now!”

  “What good would it have done?”

  Pavel had tears in his eyes when he turned to me. “When did you see my father?”

  “Three weeks ago, in Scotland.”

  “Is that where he lives?”

  “He did live there. I’m sorry to tell you he was killed shortly after I visited him.”

  Pavel was seething. “Who killed him?”

  “The British think it was Russian assassins.”

  Pavel stood in the center of the room, his arms limp at his sides, staring into the lie that was his past.

  Grishin went to the bar, poured two shots of vodka, and brought them to Pavel. “Drink this,” ordered the general. “It will help you digest the truth.”

  Uncle Dimitri, the family cynic, declared, “In Russia, vodka is the only antidote for truth.”

  Pavel swallowed the vodka with robot-like detachment. He asked Grishin, “Why did my father defect?”

  “He was a FSB officer in a politically untenable position and he knew too much. He was going to be replaced by someone loyal to Putin and sent to an insignificant post that would end his career. He had pride. So, he defected. Had he stayed, he would have fought the system and been destroyed by it. I could see this in him.” Sadness crept into Grishin’s voice. “Take care, Pavel. I see those same self-destructive inclinations in you.”

  He added, “Last week in Scotland, Putin’s assassins killed a man called Lucas Novak. His real name was Vasili Bogdanovich, your father.”

  All during the therapy session, good old Uncle Dimitri had kept his gun trained on me and his eyes on Jill. He reminded Pavel and the general that a decision had to be made. “Now that we all know the sad history of Vasili Bogdanovich, what are we going to do with these two?” He was referring to me and Jill.

  The general looked us over. “I have no affection for the United States. Why shouldn’t I turn both of you over to the FSB?”

  Jill spoke up. “We want the same things for our people that you wanted for your daughter and Bogdanovich: truth and freedom from tyrants.”

  “How do you know what I wanted?”

  “You were willing to let your daughter defect with Bogdanovich and risk your neck by helping them. You may have no affection for the West, but you had faith that there was a better life outside of Russia. Otherwise, why would you support Putin’s political opponents?”

  Grishin said to me, “You have a good partner, Maxwell Geller, but she is not persuasive. If I help you, it might mean trouble for my family. If I turn you over to the FSB, that’s the end of it.”

  “No, it’s not!” declared Uncle Dimitri. “They are spies. Connect us to American spies and that’s not the end of this. It’s just the first step into hell. The FSB will want to know why they came to this building on their first day in Moscow. Next, there will be a surveillance van parked down the street. The FSB will want a rent-free apartment here so they can monitor who comes and goes. You, of all people, should know how they think. You were one of them.”

  “What are you proposing, Dimitri?” asked the general.

  “I say get rid of them in a way that they can’t be traced back to us. We don’t want to get involved with the security services.”

  It was time for me to redirect the conversation. “Maybe Pavel would like to know the names of the men who killed his father. Maybe the general would like to know, too.”

  That got everyone’s attention, including Jill, who wasn’t privy to my last conversation with Rodney.

  “How could you know that?” The general was skeptical.

  “I was kidnapped by the Russian hit squad after I visited Bogdanovich.”

  “How do I know you are not lying?”

  “Jill helped rescue me from the Russians. Take her into the bedroom. Ask her what happened. Dimitri and Pavel can question me here. Compare our stories. If they’re the same, you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

  Jill and I were grilled separately for about ten minutes, after which everyone returned to the living room. Jill was dressed. Dimitri tied her ankles to the couch leg and the Russians compared notes out of earshot. Then, they turned their backs on us and a discussion in harsh whispers ensued.

  Dimitri made an angry statement punctuated with gestures, and Pavel countered with frowns and pleading hand gestures. The general said, “Enough!” for all to hear. “Pavel, bring the car to the back door.”

  Dimitri looked pleased.

  Pavel shouted, “You lied to me all of my life. Now, you deny me the names of my father’s killers!”

  This exchange suggested that Jill and I were not getting a lift to the Ritz.

  Grishin gave Pavel a red-faced response. “You are my son! You will do what I tell you! Bogdanovich has brought enough suffering to this family!”

  Dimitri said, “Leave the spies tied until we come back. I’ll go with Pavel.” They left the apartment together. I guess Dimitri didn’t trust his nephew to do as he was told.

  The general sat at the dining room table and kept his eyes on us while we waited.

  It wasn’t long before Pavel returned and announced, “Dimitri is waiting for us in the car. He said we can get rid of their luggage later.”

  Pavel scooped up our IDs from the table and dumped them into a plastic bag. Then, he untied me and Jill, and threw our overcoats, hats, and boots at us.

  “Why are we wasting time with that?” the general wanted to know.

  “It’s freezing outside, Papa. Anyone not dressed for it will attract attention. You need to put your coat on, too.”

  The general shoved his gun into his belt and was taking his coat from the hall rack when Pavel made his move. He snatched the gun from the general’s belt and jumped back out of reach.

  “What are you doing!” demanded the general.

  “We’re not killing these people, Papa.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s better you don’t know.” Pavel said to me, “Tie and gag him.”

  Jill and I happily cooperated in that task.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “Pack your suitcases and be quick.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we were in the car headed out of Moscow with Pavel at the wheel. I was riding shotgun, Jill was in the back seat, and we had our guns back.

  Jill asked Pavel, “What happened to Uncle Dimitri?”

  “I locked him in the garage. He’ll get out soon enough. The windows are high, but large enough for him to squeeze through.”

  “Then what?”

  “He’ll go to the apartment and release the general. That will be the end of it.”

  “No police?” I asked.

  “Uncle Dimitri avoids drawing attention to the building.”

  “Is he doing something illegal?” asked Jill.

  “No.” Pavel smiled grimly at the windshield. “If his activities were illegal, he might have the protection of the mafia or the FSB. Dimitri is a retired soldier. He pooled money with other retirees to buy the building. Most of the owners live there. They rent the other apartments. They’re concerned that if the building gets negative attention from the authorities, there might be interference from the city administration.”

  Jill was incredulous. “He was going to kill us to avoid drawing attention to his building?”

  Pavel sighed. “If you’re on the wrong side of Moscow politics, they will find a legal way to take your p
roperty. The general’s political views have already focused unwanted attention on the building. Dimitri is a man in transition. He’s a capitalist who craves democracy, but he fears the Kremlin kleptocracy. So, he avoids publicity that would offend the hand that steals from him.”

  We drove for a while before Pavel asked, “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “No.” I didn’t tell him that Sherri might be working on that.

  “I’ll take you someplace safe. You tell me who killed my father, and I will help you with your dossier investigation. I approve of what you are doing, but it is very dangerous.”

  Jill observed, “Helping us is also dangerous. General Grishin said you have self-destructive tendencies, like your father. Are you taking us to join the resistance … or Pussy Riot?”

  Pavel smiled at Jill in the rearview mirror, but said nothing.

  Pussy Riot is a protest rock group that opposes Putin and advocates for feminism, LGBT rights, and other issues unpopular with the state.

  Since our lives were now in Pavel’s hands, I took time to appraise him. Physically, he had his real father’s good looks, but not Bogdanovich’s compact body. Pavel had inherited General Grishin’s ramrod-straight stature. Though he was wearing drab civilian clothes, I had no trouble imagining Pavel in one of the many uniforms on Moscow’s streets. More importantly for us, Pavel was both emotional and decisive. He had shown those tendencies by his reaction to the facts of his birth and how he had moved against the general and Uncle Dimitri. If those were the traits that defined Pavel’s personality, I could see why the general had labeled him self-destructive. That could be bad for us.

  After we passed Moscow’s outer ring, we drove for an hour until we came to a farmhouse. Pavel told us, “I have friends here. Speak Russian. Your train tickets showed you came from St. Petersburg. Do you know the city well enough to discuss it?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Be polite. Avoid conversation. If you must talk, limit the topic to St. Petersburg. They don’t expect you to give details about who you are or what you do.”

  We didn’t have to talk to anyone. Pavel went into the farmhouse, returned shortly, and led us to a room on the second floor of the barn. It was windowless and warmed by electric heaters and heat from cattle bodies beneath us. There was a long wooden table with equally long wooden benches on either side, three sets of bunk beds, a closet, and wash basins. The place had the feel of a harvest season bunkhouse.

 

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