Sakharov the Bear (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 5) Page 13

  The call had come fifteen minutes ago: four CIA CyWar spies gunned down. At an IHOP, of all places. Anatoly Palatov had struck. The president snorted and turned away from the toilet, confident the drip-drip-drip of the urethra was played out and his boxers would remain acceptably dry. Washing his hands in the sink, he studied the face staring back at him. White, Anglo-Saxon but not Protestant. Not anything, for that matter, though he had tried many times to convert to something—anything—and to remain committed. The mandatory Sunday morning shot of the president and family leaving their place of worship. But, alas, none of it had taken and now Sinclair was an unabashed agnostic. He had lots of answers, sure, as any president must. But answers about God—that's where he disembarked the answer train. For he had none and didn't like to guess. Guessing about the fate of his soul was better left to the religious and, increasingly, the quantum mechanists. "You don't even know about sixty minutes from now, much less your prospects for eternity," he chided his reflection in the mirror. "Better to say nothing and appear a fool than to speak up about such things and prove it," he said with his campaign smile, the smile that had wooed voters over his thirty year career in politics. The Colgate smile.

  He returned to his bedroom, where Harald Stennis, his personal assistant, had yet another dark blue suit ready and waiting, with yet another white shirt and yet another red necktie. "Some things never change," he muttered at Harald, whose usual practice was to simply nod that he had heard such comments, which he did now. The president dressed quickly and expertly, all tucks and pleats in place, then departed his bedroom, picking up his first Secret Service bodyguard of the day. He entered the North Hall, where he took a right and passed by his own reading room, then the Yellow Oval Hall, to the elevators and stairwell. Today he chose the stairwell—all the better to steal even a hint of exercise in hopes of keeping the fool doctors at bay. He two-stepped downstairs and the agent followed in kind. At the bottom, another two agents joined the party and off the foursome headed for the Oval Office. Past the Office of the National Security Advisor, down several doors and to the right into the presidential lobby, ending up in the Oval Office. President Sinclair sank into his desk chair, swiveled around and stared out at the Rose Garden, then reined himself in and turned back around to focus on the day ahead.

  It was 8:30 a.m. and the President's personal secretary, Andrea Gomirivi, was waiting. She took him over the day's schedule. He remained impassive while she stepped through his meetings and calls and photo ops and appearances. He then attended the daily handshake sessions—the first and second of six—and then met with his legislative advisers. Throughout, he was anxious to address the CIA killings, but managed to maintain an even demeanor and happy smile for the photographs and visitors, none of whom he'd remember by nightfall.

  At 10 a.m. he received the Presidential Daily Briefing from the National Security Advisor. Fifteen minutes later, the CIA chief joined them.

  Jed Buchholz was the NSA chief. He was a portly man, caught forever between middle years and middle later years thanks to his babyface and perfect skin. He had the hunter's sense of smell for a nearby foe and was reported to be a man who would awaken from a sound sleep at 3 a.m. and call for a hit on an Afghani warlord ten thousand miles away. At the other end, someone would die and no one would know exactly why, except for Buchholz, who operated the agency on a need-to-know basis. The murder of four CIA agents was hand-wringing time in most offices in Washington, but not so with Buchholz. He was ready to give chase to whomever had pumped the shotgun blasts into the CIA's brain trust and then fled the scene. Give chase and hang them by the neck without a trial. That was Buchholz's perfect result: justice without the bother of a trial. For this reason, this character trait, he fit perfectly into the role of NSA chief.

  The CIA was headed up by a woman who had never been married, never given birth, and was said to be moving the agency lock-stock-and-barrel from SIGINT back to HUMINT. The reason: she found human intelligence assets much more forthcoming, productive, and reliable than the ciphers of SIGINT. The old CIA might be happy pulling down signals from the ether, but not Lucy Ya. Her Ph.D. in Chinese was Stanford, her undergrad in math was Harvard, and her ethnicity was Chinese-American from the Bay Area where her father was a vice-president at Apple. Some called her a lesbian; some called her straight; whatever; she hadn't been caught up in the mundane sexuality of the species, concentrating her focus more on career than relationships. Ya hadn't gotten where she was by being friends. She had gotten where she was by producing hard evidence for her station chiefs in Berlin and Baghdad by virtue of the clandestine encounters she had with hundreds of men who sold bits and pieces about everything German and everything Iraqi for the American dollars she paid out in what seemed an unending supply. She had helped George W. Bush invade Iraq and had come home to America shortly after, where she began her rapid ascent inside the CIA's administrative offices. President Sinclair had chosen her to head up the agency his second day in office. She had remained there ever since and reliable intel had never been in greater supply since the agency's inception.

  This morning's meeting was attended by Sinclair, Buchholz, and Ya only. Electronic counter-measures were in place inside the Oval Office. The meeting started off across a coffee table. On one side, Sinclair sat hunched forward on a sofa with his coffee mug, while Buchholz and Ya manned the opposite sofa. Buchholz balanced his can of Mountain Dew on one knee while Ya sipped her green tea out of a White House teacup on a gold-rimmed White House saucer. After brief hellos, the trio got right down to it. Buchholz went first, describing the murder of the agents. Then Ya recounted the success of the Agency's plan to cripple Russia's ability to call for a nuclear strike. The President appeared elated. He also marveled at Palatov’s timing: before carrying out the President’s order to take out the agents he’d let them shut down the Russians’ nuclear strike capabilities. Maybe it was only for a day, but it was huge—at least to the President.

  President Sinclair then led the discussion—as he always did. It was time to put on his dog and pony show.

  "Bucky, let's do some basic detective work here. Who would know that our quartet was meeting for breakfast?"

  Buchholz spread his hands. "We're working on that. All we know so far is that the team set up the breakfast while they were at the CIA campus. No calls were made from or to anyone's home; no evidence of any email trail. It's a very difficult concept for the world of spies, but I'm thinking it was nothing more complicated than meeting at someone's cubicle and agreeing to breakfast. No big deal."

  "And Russell Xiang of course is in Moscow. Does that figure into this?"

  "Of course, sir. We killed FSB officers; they put our people on trial for murder with threats of a firing squad. We cripple their ability to launch nukes for a whole day, they kill CIA agents.”

  The President appeared thoughtful. Then, "You folks tell me where we go from here? What's the next rock to get turned over?"

  "Know what I think?" said Lucy Ya, the CIA chief. The men looked at her. "I think I've got a mole."

  "What?"

  "It's been known to happen."

  "So what do you plan to do?"

  "Security is already looking. We're beginning with proximity and digital."

  "So while you're doing that, what kind of video have you pulled down from IHOP? I assume there was video?"

  "There was. We've analyzed it and it's undergone facial recognition. The problem is, the shooter had a line on the video cameras. He never turned toward one so all we have is back-of-head."

  "Amazing," said Sinclair. "They can actually do that?"

  "What, avoid the camera? A good spy is trained extensively in avoidance techniques. It becomes second nature. The Russians are masters."

  "And where does that leave us?"

  CIA looked at NSA. Buchholz of NSA said, "With an even score."

  "Meaning?"

  "It's now four-to-four, Russia to the United States."

  The President stood. He bent
and settled his mug on the coffee table. The visitors were oblivious, just as he knew they would be. The real truth was his secret and his alone. Of course there was Palatov, but he was reliable always.

  "One other thing, Dr. Ya," said Sinclair. "I don't want your mole taken into custody."

  "I wasn't thinking custody."

  "Good. The world will never know about him. The world will never know what became of him."

  "Yessir," said Ya.

  The President looked at his visitors. "What about the American lawyer who's now helping Xiang? Any update?"

  "He's just been bailed out of jail."

  "Jail? What the hell was he doing in jail?"

  "His identity was being established. The Russian court had decided maybe he wasn't who he was claiming to be."

  "Who was he claiming to be?"

  "Mikhail Sakharov."

  "How was he going to pull that off? Does he even speak the language?”

  "He does not," said Ya. "No Russian. We've contacted him, Sir."

  "And?"

  "He's harmless. Just another American lawyer, nothing special, but I think if we help, he can get the job done."

  "Oh?"

  Ya brushed her hand through the air. "We want Xiang out where we can control him. If he gets convicted in a Russian court maybe he tells all to the Russians to save his skin. Then they have their reason to break off the nuke talks. So we help Gresham walk him out. It’s the best guarantee your nuke talks will proceed.“

  The President knew that was the best way to handle Xiang. Which meant Gresham and his efforts were a key component. If Xiang came out a free man, Ya would control him. If they didn't get him home, the U.S. and Russian talks to reduce nuclear arms would suddenly break off because Xiang would have turned out to be a CIA officer who had killed an FSB officer.

  "We've told Gresham we're going to help him with anything he needs," Ya said, reading the president's mind.

  "If he needs witnesses, make it happen. Money, unlimited. Anything else, do it if he asks." said Sinclair.

  The agency heads nodded in agreement. "Well played, sir," said Buchholz.

  "And what about Anna Petrov?"

  "Who?"

  "The agent who assisted in killing four Russian guards."

  "Same treatment as Xiang. Set her free and bring her home.”

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. Good. All right, then. We're finished here."

  Chapter 25

  Russell Xiang reads the note brought to him by the guard who has been paid a thousand of the ten-thousand rubles Michael Gresham put into his commissary account at the jail. It was a payoff, yes; everyone did it and it was expected if you wanted to receive mail from the outside.

  Xiang puts the note aside and stares thoughtfully at the wall across from his bunk. Then he picks it up and reads it again.

  "Russell," it began, "please don't forget me. Anna Petrov. P.S.: Who is your lawyer? Will he help me too?"

  For yet another thousand rubles, the guards bring Russell paper and pen. He wrote, "His name is Mikhail Sakharov. I will have him contact you."

  She knew that the contact from Sakharov would come through the Embassy. That was standard operating procedure among the operators reporting to Moscow Station. Now she could only wait

  Over the next three days she checks in with her handler thrice daily. Then, on the morning of the fourth day, she's told where to go to meet the lawyer and when.

  Arriving early at Verona Sakharov's apartment, Petrov stands outside the door, weighing whether she should knock. What if it is a setup and the Russians are going to grab her again? What if they want to kill her this time? Her mind is in full retreat after all the beatings and blows to the skull and face; she has no answers. Still...she knocks; Verona herself opens the door.

  "I'm Petrov," the young woman announces as she tries to see around the older woman.

  "Then you must come right in. I believe Mikhail is hoping you would come."

  This makes the younger woman feel better. Could these actually be friends?

  She is led into the small living room. Michael Gresham rises up out of his chair and takes a step toward her. He extends his hand and they shake. Then he throws his arms open wide.

  "I'm Anna Petrov," says the visitor.

  "And I'm Sakharov the Bear," says Michael, drawing the young woman to him and embracing her. "How horrible it's been for you. I'm so sorry I couldn't do more to help while you were locked away."

  "I—I'm sorry too."

  "Let me try to make it up to you for that."

  "How?"

  "By setting you free, Anna."

  "Yes. That would be good. I just want to go home now."

  "And you shall. You have my word on it."

  Michael retrieves his phone from his coat and sends off a text.

  Help is on the way.

  Chapter 26

  Michael Gresham

  When she realizes I mean what I say, that I'm going to help her go home again, she wants another hug.

  Finally, she pushes away and Verona guides her down onto the sofa. It's clear our Petrov is in great pain and every movement takes its toll. We pass the time in small talk for the next thirty minutes while I tread water until help arrives. We are just moving on to Petrov's work duties when we hear the front door open and close and Verona looks at me, alarmed.

  But it's Marcel, who has responded to my text. He is introduced to Verona and Petrov and he takes a seat beside the samovar where he places one leg over the other and looks around at his surroundings.

  "Anna Petrov," I say to Marcel, who nods.

  "I know."

  Verona pours four cups of tea, passes them out, and takes a seat beside Verona on the sofa. She balances her teacup and saucer in one hand.

  "Marcel and I have been working on the defense of Russell Xiang. We cannot go into detail about that with you.”

  "I understand. They might torture me again and you don't want me—'

  "Exactly," says Marcel. "At this point, we're not even sure who's who. So bear with us, please, while we get it all sorted."

  "Will you defend me too?" the young woman asks as a plea more than a question. She still isn't sure, it appears.

  "Of course," I tell her, "but I'm not sure yet how that will work. We pretty much have Russell's defense plotted out and we're lining up witnesses to corroborate his story. But you, your background is different and that makes it more difficult."

  She nods. "Meaning I'm not Chinese and you can't create an alternate reality for me."

  Marcel and I trade a look. He rolls his eyes. Yes, he seems to say, she's much smarter than either one of us was ready for. But why shouldn't she be? She's a CIA officer, after all.

  "Okay, let's start with what we know," I tell her. "First, tell me about your employer following your release from jail. What's happened with them?"

  "I showed up at the embassy without any ID. So that was a hassle but they finally were able to reconstruct my ID and I was passed through to Moscow Station.

  "Who did you talk to there?"

  "That's just it. Nobody would talk to me. They had low-level administrative people tell me no one could see me. It didn't take much of that before I understood I was being disavowed."

  "So, another Russell?"

  "Just like Russell. It's the nuclear arms talks, I get that. But there are so many resources! They could just ship me—"

  She begins to weep and Verona puts her arm around her visitor and pulls her close. "Go on and cry," she says to the girl. "You're exhausted and in great pain. Just keep in mind we're all your friends and we're not going to disavow you. We're going to see you to safety."

  Petrov fixes me with her blue eyes. "How will that happen? Will you smuggle me out of the country? Are you working with the CIA behind the scenes? Please, give me some assurances."

  "No, I'm not working with the CIA. They have offered to help but I believe that was done more for the record. They wanted me to have to tell anyone w
ho might hear this story down the road that they offered to do whatever they could to help you and Russell."

  "So what will you do?"

  Marcel says, "Mikhail? Should we talk first?"

  I'm thinking, Talk about what? We have no plans for Petrov. She thinks we do, but we don't. Then it comes to me that if the shoe were on the other foot I would have no one to rely on but her for help in getting me to safety. It's obvious I can't let her down because the Russians will beat her to death if no one stands up for her now that she's made her plea to the CIA and been rejected. She becomes a wounded rabbit to them and they will be all over her. She will surely die. So I make a commitment.

  "I will help you by taking you out of Russia myself."

  Everyone turns to look at me. What? Their faces are asking.

  Petrov speaks right up. "Mikhail, I'm expert in exfiltration techniques. Maybe it would be better if I just did this without jeopardizing you. If you're caught helping me you will die too."

  "Let her exfiltrate on her own, Mikhail," Marcel warns. "If you get caught, then Russell has no one."

  "He has Van," I reply. A weak reply, but it's the best I can do.

  "Van," scoffs Marcel. "A zoning lawyer or some such." He shakes his head in total disagreement with me and I know he's right. But still, I need to do whatever I can for this young woman. Plus, Henry Xiang would replace me if something happened to me, I have no doubt of it.

  "You're thinking your friend Henry would just replace you," says Marcel. "But it actually wouldn't be that easy. If you get caught helping Ms. Petrov then Russell Xiang's jury gets advised of that fact. It will result in his certain conviction, which will result in his death. Make no doubt about it, Mikhail, there are two lives hanging in the balance. You are deciding about two lives—three, counting your own—if you go ahead and try to help."

  "You have no idea how to help," says Verona. "You're the lawyer, not some spy who has resources. You have no way to help."

  "How long to have papers made up for her?" I ask Marcel.