Sakharov the Bear (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 5) Page 10

  It doesn't take her but a moment longer to see I'm very taken with her.

  "So who are you?" I ask. "I've shown you mine, now you show me yours."

  "I'm Verona Kristinova Sakharov, I'm fifty-one years of age, a widow, and I support myself by teaching at Moscow State University. I have no children, but four brothers and four sisters, all of whom live in and around Moscow, so I always have plenty of company around the holidays and there's always a niece or a nephew waiting for a birthday present from me. My favorite band is ABBA and my favorite painter is Gaugin. The greatest American writer is—"

  "Hold it, please, why Gaugin?"

  "Because, Mikhail, someday I would like to retire to the South Pacific and laze around in the sun on a sandy beach and have a man spread coconut oil on my shoulders. My particular fantasy. What is yours?"

  "Pretty much the same thing, without the man."

  We both laugh.

  Her features turn contemplative. "So tell me, is your man guilty? Did he really kill an FSB agent and steal Russian secrets?"

  She is staring right into me. She knows Russell is guilty of the things he is charged with; after all, there is a dead agent—it's been all over the news—and the CIA is denying involvement several times a day. She wants to see whether I will lie to her now.

  "It isn't my job to decide guilt or innocence. My job is to defend my client regardless."

  She reaches across the table and takes my wrist in her grip. She squeezes. "Come now, Michael. Surely you can do better than that."

  "Let me say this, then—"—it is making me very uncomfortable—"I will be investigating the Russian government's factual basis for its claim against my client. Then I will know more."

  "Fair enough. We shall shelve this discussion until then. But we will come back to it. Fair enough?" She releases my wrist as she says this.

  "Yes, that's more than fair."

  "Are you married?"

  "I was. My wife was killed."

  "How awful for you. How long has it been?"

  "Too long and not long enough. Know what I mean?"

  "I do. Mikhail hasn't been gone so long. He is missed by me and by his family."

  "How did he die?"

  "Boating accident, Colombia. They never recovered his body."

  An idea comes to mind. "Excuse me for asking, but it's very important to me. You say they never recovered his body? Was there a death certificate?”

  She studies me as if I know something she wasn't going to reveal.

  "Actually, no. They didn't recover his body and the Colombian government needs a pronouncement of death by an official before it will issue a death certificate. Evidently Colombia has been the site of many insurance frauds by Americans who go there to die and don't die but have their spouses file life insurance claims. So now an official pronouncement is required. Incidentally, our Russian life insurance refused to pay for Mikhail's death without the certificate. If you're really a lawyer maybe you can sue them for me someday."

  "I would—"

  She touches my hand. "I'm only joking, dear man. Forgive me."

  I smile at her. "So we've both lost someone dear to us. It's very difficult, especially around the holidays."

  "Especially."

  Then there is a quiet between us. We're both very comfortable with it. Just as suddenly, the spell is broken. She shuffles her feet and pushes her coffee cup and saucer away.

  "I need to get back to university. I have a class."

  "Totally understand. We'll grab a cab and I'll drop you off."

  "No need. I'll catch my own cab. But I must say—I've enjoyed this, Michael."

  It isn't lost on me that she's using my true name. Evidently that person has proven acceptable to her.

  I take a chance. "We should do it again. What are your dinner plans?"

  "Tomorrow night I have no plans. All other nights this week are spoken for."

  "Tomorrow night is New Year's. Are you feeling celebratory?"

  "I'm more interested in getting to know you better, in all honesty. What if you come by and we have dinner at my place?"

  "I'd love to. What kind of wine can I bring?"

  "No need. Mikhail left behind a huge wine cellar."

  "All right. Seven o'clock okay?"

  "It works. Here's my card. Let me jot my address on the backside."

  She pulls out a red pen and writes her address in red ink. "Old habits," she says, chiding herself for the red pen of the writing teacher.

  "Seven o'clock. I'll be there."

  "See you then." A cab whips to the curb and she disappears inside.

  Then she is gone.

  "Mikhail Sakharov?" I whisper into the shuddering afternoon wind with its endless snow. "What the hell?"

  Chapter 18

  "Did you shoot bullets at my son?"

  "I shot nothing."

  Anna Petrov sits at a long steel table in a room without heat. She is wearing thin cotton pants and a thin cotton top. She is shaking with the cold and snot is running from her nose to her upper lip. She swipes it away again and again with her sleeve, but it's no use. The cold is going to drain her nose until there is nothing left to flush out. She knows this, vaguely, knows that she's a mess and at this moment no longer cares. She just wants to feel warm again. That's all, just warm.

  Sitting across from her at the table are FSB chief Igor Tarayev and MI6 agent Henrik Nurayov, who, as usual, is assisting the Russians. Both men are wearing warm winter wear against the frigid room air. Their coats are thick and the men are wrapped in mufflers and gloves. While they are toasty and peaceful, their prey trembles in the cold air. Tonight they are pulling out all stops to prove the United States CIA killed Tarayev's son. Putin wants the case made yesterday—the pressure is intense and both men are feeling it. Petrov is a key figure; she was with Russell Xiang the night young Tarayev was gunned down; she might even be the one who pulled the trigger. There is a fifty-fifty chance it was her and not Xiang. So they pursue her.

  "But you shot at the guards who came outside Henrik's home that night, did you not?"

  "No! I never saw a gun that night!"

  "Ms. Petrov, we know you cooperate with the CIA. They have acquired you as an asset because of your knowledge of Moscow environs and Russian politics. Plus, there are your well-known abilities with a gun. Russians once hailed you as their hero for winning the biathlon with its rifle shooting and skiing just last Olympics at Sochi. A gold medalist, a hero to her countrymen, and what? You sell out your homeland for American dollars? Isn't that what you've become, an American whore?"

  "No, I have done no such thing. Please, I'm freezing in here."

  Tarayev waves his thick arm around the room. Despite the oversized coat, his body mass is enormous, like that of a sea lion. "We are warm here and you can be warm too. Just tell us the truth. What about Xiang? You saw him shoot a gun that night?"

  "Xiang? I know no one named Xiang."

  "You deny you were with him at Mr. Nurayov's dacha on Christmas Eve?"

  "I deny. I wasn't there. And I don't know anyone named Xiang."

  "What about the man you were caught with at the green house? What was that man's name?"

  "I don't know. He was already there when I arrived."

  "What if two of our agents saw you traveling on a bus with this man? Does that help your memory?"

  "I was traveling on a bus and sitting next to a complete stranger. I don't know what your people saw. Please, a jacket?"

  She draws her sleeve across her upper lip and nose. The two lines of discharge from her nose are cleaned away. The shoulder of her sleeve glistens from the repeated wipes. Tarayev sees this and rolls his lips away from his teeth in disgust. Normally he feels nothing, but the sight of her and her wet upper sleeve are killing his appetite, making him a little queasy. He feels nothing but disgust.

  Tarayev stands and lights a cigarette. He inhales deliciously and, when he is satisfied the prisoner isn't watching him, he suddenly thrusts a heavy
hand across the table and catches her with a right cross, knocking her out of her chair. He then scuttles around the short table and catches her with his boot as she lies curled in a fetal position on the concrete floor. His kick catches her in the kidneys. She will piss blood and he knows it from long experience. He kicks again and this time catches her in the forehead. She lolls onto her back and her mouth falls open. With all the disdain he can muster, he flicks his cigarette ash into her open mouth. She coughs and waggles on the floor like a netted fish. He leans down and extinguishes his cigarette on her forearm, pinning it beneath his boot as he smashes the ash to nothing.

  "No use screaming, Ms. Petrov," says Tarayev. "No one hears you. And even if they did, no one would care. Soon even you won't care if you continue to lie to us. Now let me try again. Who shot a gun that night while pointing it at the guards, hmmm?"

  She thrusts her hips upward on the floor but makes no attempt to move otherwise.

  "I—I—" she utters. But the words don't come and she passes out.

  "Damn it, Henrik! Have I killed her?"

  Henrik hasn't moved during all this. His time with young boys has shown him that physical abuse is relative. Some adjust and accept it; others, like the Petrov woman, resist and make the intensity level increase until, like now, they pass out or die. Her inability to defend herself reminds him of the boys. He grows excited. He stands and eases around the table. With a quick glance at Tarayev, who nods, he draws back his hiking boot and kicks the unconscious woman. She doesn't move. She doesn't acknowledge the blow. Nothing.

  He retreats to his chair and sits there glaring at the far wall. He feels inadequate when his best elicits no response. It has happened before. Now he hates the woman so much more. He would like to see her pay the ultimate price tonight, but he knows she won't. No, she will be used by the FSB, placed in a courtroom where everyone swears she has the right to defend herself. Then they will cut her apart and vacuum the life right out of her body. And the point will be made: traitor.

  Tarayev goes to the steel door. He kicks it with his boot. "Water!" he shouts. It is less than a minute until an arm reaches inside and presents Tarayev with a carafe of water. The door closes. Tarayev moves and stands over Anna Petrov. He unscrews the carafe's thick plastic plug. Then he pulls it out. Steam comes rolling out. He turns the carafe onto its side, holding the open hole over Petrov's face. A stream of steaming hot water swirls and splashes onto her face, wetting her eyes and going up her nose. She gasps. Her eyes blink open and she reaches and tries to shield her face from the continuing downpour. Tarayev kicks her arms aside with his boot and continues the downpour. She turns her head away, to the side, eyes closed, and begins weeping. "So cold and you tease me with hot water! Don't you even care?"

  Henrik smiles. Her ability to process what's happening has become juvenile. She could just as easily be a boy lying there, crying out for solace while yet another blow falls across his buttocks. "No one cares, Anna. Least of all us. Listen to the man. Just tell the truth. Tell us you know Xiang. Tell us you fired guns at the guards. Tell us you murdered Mr. Tarayev's son that night."

  Somehow—despite the cold, despite the kicks to the head, despite the punch to the side of the head—a thought filters through. Tarayev's son died out there. My God, she is thinking, that's what this is about! We killed this man's son!

  Now she knows it will never stop.

  She is going to die.

  But he will never know her truth. He will never know that she shot the men on the right, the first one being the young man with the dyed blond hair. She recalls sighting in on him and putting the bead of the shotgun in the middle of his chest. She recalls seeing his chest explode and sail away across the snowy yard.

  Tarayev's dead son died stupidly and without a fight. Of course they would award him a posthumous medal, maybe a ribbon or two. They would print his name on a document and present it to his mother, as well.

  Sometimes even the very stupid make bank.

  She manages to raise herself onto an elbow and says, looking under the table at the men's legs, "I saw your son and I saw his ribcage go flying across the snow. It was beautiful and ugly all at once. But most of all, it was stupid. Your son died a stupid man."

  The two men bend forward at the waist and peer under the table. She smiles at them.

  "Seriously? This is the best you have?"

  Chapter 19

  Michael Gresham

  I have learned that Moscow is one of the most—if not the most—expensive cities in the world. Yet, Verona has obtained enough meat to make a fine spaghetti sauce as we're eating Italian tonight. There is the gravy, made with peppers and sausages and hamburger, and there is grilled asparagus, and there is a fine French bread, lightly salted with a garlic spread. For dessert we eat Ptichye Moloko (Bird's Milk) until we are so full we have trouble sitting. And then comes the pièce de résistance: Verona has shopped at the Starbucks on Krasnopresnenskaya and picked up fresh ground French Roast. How she knew it was my favorite, I don't know. But we sweeten it with a drop of honey, add cream, and it's delicious.

  This woman is beautiful, kind, and seems very intelligent. She is wearing a long purple skirt with a green top and a heavy silver necklace with native American squash blossoms. Her face is full of life, the eyes sparkling and the teeth bright and perfectly aligned, and when she smiles I feel as if a long-time friend is giving me approval and sending me warmth. Being with her leaves me glowing inside and I want to take her soft hair in my hand and pull her face to mine. Of course I don't let onto any of this—or so I think.

  We go into the living room of her small apartment and sit at either end of a blue couch. There are three cushions, she has number one and I have number three. She suggests we remove our shoes and I do as she does.

  After almost an hour of small talk, she shuffles uneasily on her cushion and says, "I need to stand and move around. Would you like to dance, Michael?"

  I was hoping I would get to hold her tonight. Smiling takes over my face and I know I'm turning red as I stand and accept her invitation. She places her smartphone in a player and a serene Russian ballad fills the space between us.

  She moves up to me and says, with a soft smile, "Hold me, my husband."

  Instantly I have her in my arms, drawing her near, and we begin shuffling our feet in time to the music. As we dance I can feel her breath on my neck as her face is turned toward me. The song finishes and a second, much faster song cheers us along as we separate somewhat and begin doing something resembling a slow jitterbug. Helpless dancer that I am, I try to make it appear as if I'm very comfortable dancing but nothing could be further from the truth.

  "I've missed you," she smiles. "You've been away far too long."

  It dawns on me—maybe I'm only imagining this, but is she thinking I'm actually her husband?

  Halfway through the third song—another slow, romantic Russian ballad—she slows to a stop and looks into my eyes. "Please, kiss me," she says and I press my mouth on hers. She tastes sweet and—how can I say this—healthy. Perhaps not a romantic insight, but this is a woman who cares about herself and who has taken really good care over the years. Is that your normal turn on? It is for me.

  Anyway, five minutes later we're shrugging out of our clothes although we're back to moving our feet to the music again as we do so.

  "Dance with me nude," she says, and steps over to the light switch. Now it is dark except for the glow from a digital wall clock and the slight light from the face of her phone as it plays and plays. I fully embrace her then and she shudders against me. "This won't last long, she says, and allows her hand to trace down my spine to my buttocks. She leaves it there, softly caressing and at the same time humming into my ear.

  Then she moves slightly away. "Who are you really?" she asks.

  "I'm Michael Gresham. I really am."

  "Well, if you need to pretend you are my husband, that is acceptable. But you will have to prove it to me first."

  "How do
I prove it?"

  She steps back to me and throws her arms around me. "By taking me to bed. There are certain things only my husband would know. Let's find out if you're really him."

  An hour later, as we are lying and embracing in her bed, her eyes flutter open and she pushes back from me. Now she is looking deep into my eyes.

  "Mikhail, you have returned."

  "Thank you," I say, happy that I passed whatever the test was about.

  "I'm grading you an A-plus. You make love like a Mikhail who has been away on a long trip and learned many new skills in your travels. Now come here."

  I slide to her and place my free hand in the center of her back.

  "I have been gone a long time. It won't happen again, Verona." I lightly brush her eyes with my lips. She shivers under my touch.

  "You're forgiven," she says. "You may keep the name."

  "Thank you."

  Chapter 20

  Michael Gresham

  We come into the courtroom, Van and I, on the Monday following my arrival in Moscow. It is the day and time for Xiang's preliminary hearing. I have no idea what to expect and, like all events I've ever engaged in where the rules are unknown and the results can be disastrous, I'm afraid. But I suck in deep breaths and release them slowly through my nose. An inner calm is restored and allows me to continue to act as if.

  The courtroom is large, rather like a ballroom. I look around for my clients—I'm accepting Petrov's case and representing her alongside of Russell. I don't see either one, so I turn to look. Along the rear wall is the defendants' glassed-in cell where, locked away, sit my clients, side-by-side on a wide bench. They evidently observe the proceedings from back there. I walk back toward them until I can reach out and touch the glass. Russell sits, heavily bandaged and still showing signs of the abuse following his escape attempt. And there is a young woman beside him who can only be Anna Petrov. I nod to them and force a fake smile. They only look at me. So I turn and go to find my table.