Sakharov the Bear (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 5) Read online

  I drop my coffee and donut where I stand and put my head down and start running. Out to the sidewalk I go, where I skid on the ice and head right, back toward the city. I run until I can run no longer. Then I slow to a walk and turn to see oncoming traffic. It's a simple matter to flag a cab and climb on inside. The driver in front studies me in the rearview mirror. I'll have him drop me a good block away from the Marriott.

  A long, snowy block from my hotel, I have the driver pull over at the Moscow Ritz. He understands my hand signs and swings the cab to the curb. I push a handful of Russian rubles at him and climb out.

  Then he is off, puttering down the road, tailpipe puffing a long stream of exhaust, and me watching, waiting until he turns the corner and is gone.

  Now I trudge through deep snow toward the Marriott. I'm alone and it is snowing and all sounds are muffled. For a moment I'm free again and just taking a walk on a winter's day.

  Inside my room I remove my coat. I look down. My hands are shaking. I have to urinate in a huge way. So I hit the bathroom and let fly with a long yellow stream.

  I close my eyes. I'm writing my name in the snow with my stream and I'm a child again and none of this is real.

  I remove my suit and stretch out under the covers on my bed. The springs creak as I settle in.

  Several times that day I hear steps outside my room on the landing and the doorknob to my room door being turned. I come fully awake and lie there, panting in my fear and praying the steps will keep going.

  And they do. All four times.

  In the late evening, Antonia comes up to my room. I invited her, to discuss her husband's case.

  We sit at my dining table and I give her a hard look. She’s a tough lady; I can tell it to her straight.

  "Today, two CIA agents were shot outside the Pushkin. They had just finished talking to me and had just walked down the front stairs. We were discussing Rusty's case."

  "Oh my God, does this mean Rusty's in danger in that GD jail?"

  "I don't think so. They've already worked him over once for an escape attempt—one giant lie. They don't get a second chance without the U.S. Embassy lodging a complaint. That's negative PR that the Russians can't afford. These are tentative times, what with the arms reduction talks."

  “What did they say about his case?”

  “They said they were hoping for a prisoner swap.”

  “But what about the trial itself?”

  “That never actually came up. I think they’re counting pretty heavily on a swap to get Rusty out.”

  “But they’ve been murdered. Does that change everything?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. Palatov and Van were the only contacts I had.”

  “Van? How so?”

  “Long story. But it turns out that Van was CIA. Clever, huh?”

  “So our plan at this point is to go ahead with the trial?”

  “That’s the only plan I have.”

  "Thank God for that. So tell me, Michael, what do you think of our chances?"

  "Well, the government just rested its case. Now it's our turn. My key witness comes into town tomorrow and I get to sandpaper her then.”

  "Key witness? Who on earth would that be?"

  "Mai Yung."

  "Rusty's mom. Good, she’s coming.“

  "All the way from China. She'll be in around noon tomorrow if you want to drop by and say hello."

  "She'll be here in your room?"

  "We'll be starting out here. We'll probably go someplace else to have our serious talk."

  She looks down. A moment passes in silence. Then, "Michael, the agents who were killed today. Did they have a plan for Rusty?”

  I honestly can’t look her in the eye. How do you tell a wife her husband will be murdered if his trial is lost? So my answer to her is very vague.

  "They were talking about making a trade. Russians for Americans. It sounded plausible enough. I don't know where their deaths leave us. My guess is, nothing will change at the White House. The prisoner swap will be going ahead."

  She looks relieved. She pulls a long curl of hair away from her forehead and looks around. Then it’s back to me after she’s collected her thoughts.

  “What about Nurayov? He walks away free?”

  I sit back and swirl the ice in my Coke. "Let's think about that. We have Nurayov, who we know is a British subject, works for MI6 and sells British secrets to the Russians or, possibly, the Chinese. Maybe the Iranians. Now the CIA wants him, since the bill of lading was found.”

  She thinks very fast. “What if the U.S. tells Nurayov they’ll pay for container numbers? Then they wouldn’t need Rusty anymore and maybe there wouldn’t be a prisoner swap.”

  “The Russians would get their payback if Nurayov turned on them. He’d be dead in six months and he knows it. No, he won’t be selling numbers to the U.S.”

  “So they have to have Rusty?”

  I hold up my hand as if swearing an oath. “Absolutely have to have Rusty.”

  Her eyes tear over. She reaches and touches my wrist. “Michael, the only man I’ve ever loved or ever will love is Russell Xiang.”

  “I know.”

  She shakes her head; she slowly collects herself. She stands and smooths her skirt. "What say I drop by at one o'clock tomorrow?”

  "Works for me, Antonia. Come by and say hello to your mother-in-law."

  "And to your old love."

  Stunned, I look at her, my jaw on my chest. "What—"

  "Relax. Henry Xiang loves telling it like a college prank. It's all good."

  "Does Rusty know?"

  "Not yet. I thought I'd leave that to you—Dad."

  "Oh my God."

  "Dad. That feels kinda good."

  Then she's gone and I spend the rest of the afternoon by myself, reading novels on my tablet.

  While I try to remember how to turn off my smile.

  Chapter 39

  Michael Gresham

  The next day, Sunday, I shave at seven when I shower and again at eleven, just before she's due to arrive. She hated facial hair; that's something that's stuck in my brain all these decades. Useless information. Or is it?

  I sweep the room with my bug detector. Nothing found.

  At 12:05 there's loud rapping on my door. I hurry into the hallway area and swing the door wide open. There stands an enormous black man with wireframe eyeglasses who's biting at a fat stogie clamped in his pearly whites.

  "Harry Samson," he says with a laugh. "I called the other night. I said I'd be bringing Mai by your room."

  Then he moves his six-four frame to one side and there she stands. Without another word, Harry backs out of the room to leave.

  Here is the most perfect porcelain face, a green silk tunic buttoned up to the chin, two red combs deep in her thick black hair, and caught in mid-smile, the beautiful girl from forty years ago, brought here by the beautiful woman she has become. I would never have missed her: I was right all these years. She is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She steps forward and I fold her into my arms. She hugs up very close and in her hair I smell it: Tweed. The pheromones never lie and the nose never forgets. Tweed enriching the skin's natural oils and fragrances after a long session of love-making. Who would ever forget? She has me, preverbal.

  "Michael, you haven't changed a bit."

  I'm speechless. Her English is perfect. It's as if she didn't spend the next forty years after college in mainland China. But she did.

  I at last manage to say, "I need lunch. Would you join me?"

  She laughs. "Always to the point. That's my Michael."

  My Michael. Of course, she's right about that.

  "That just came out, the thing about lunch. I'm actually so excited to see you I probably couldn't eat."

  "We might eat. Let's see what we decide to do. But do you have tea? I'm ready for a strong Russian tea."

  I call down and order a samovar. If she asked me for a house I would buy her one and move her in. And maybe me along
with her.

  I lead her into the sitting area of my suite. She takes the wingback; I take the love seat. We are close enough that the cuff of my pants brushes up against her leg. I swing my leg away, embarrassed.

  "So what shall we talk about, Michael? Shall we get right into Russell's case or shall we talk about what you've been up to first?"

  "We should talk about you," I say with a big smile. "That's the most interesting of the three choices you gave me."

  "There were two choices, Michael. And talking about me wasn't one of them. But anyway, here goes. Yes, I'm married. Thirty-five years now to the same man, a thoracic surgeon on a pediatric ward. He saves at least one child's life every day. How could you not love someone like that?"

  "I'm sure you love him very much. And what about you, Mai? Did you go on to medical school?"

  "I did. In China. I'm a board-certified thoracic surgeon, too. Except I operate on adults. We're what's commonly called chest-crackers, my husband and I."

  "What about politics? You were pretty much anti-everything back in college. A political nihilist. Has that continued?"

  "You know what? I mellowed. As kids will do, I mellowed out and learned to get along. Live and let live."

  "Are you a communist?"

  "Next question. No, what about your wife? How old, what's she do, do you still love her madly?"

  "My wife died. Yes, I still love her madly."

  "I'm sorry, Michael. I'm deeply sorry for your loss."

  I swipe my hand across my eyes. This is an old friend. I can talk freely here.

  "A day doesn't go by that I don't talk to her and have a few tears for her. She was my everything."

  "What was her name?"

  "Dania. We called her Danny."

  "My husband's name is Zhang Wei. It means he's great. So he had a lot to live up to, given a name like that."

  "But it sounds like he did, Mai. Which makes me very happy for you. How long can you stay over?"

  "Tonight and tomorrow night. I fly out Tuesday."

  "Then what do you say we get to work? We have lots of ground to cover."

  Our tea arrives and we doctor it accordingly. Then we sip and just enjoy staring at each other. It's been a long time but in that moment it feels like it was only yesterday. I find myself wishing I'd never lost Mai. I find myself wishing that we are still together and we are in this room on vacation and sightseeing in the world's most expensive and most interesting city, Moscow. I sip my tea and let that one play out. But reality calls me up short. It’s time to get ready for tomorrow.

  Twenty minutes later we’re on a bus, in the back, ready to talk. Then we go to work on her testimony. It is tedious and crammed with persuasive details. At the end of the bus line we climb off and find a small cafe with tea and pastries. We order, get our drinks and cookies, and launch into story-time.

  Two hours later, I have her story made up and she has embellished it and we're ready for her testimony tomorrow. I have learned that she previously provided a DNA swab to the same lab that tested me and that the DNA witness will be ready to testify on Tuesday. We catch a cab and head back to our hotel.

  Then I ask, "Look, why don't you go to your room when we get back, change into some walking-around clothes, and let's walk Red Square?"

  She smiles, tossing her head back and laughing soundlessly.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Harry Samson lied to me."

  "About what, Mai?"

  "He said he had talked to you and you had said it was terrific, his words."

  "What was terrific?"

  "If I stayed with you both nights."

  I reach over and take her hand. I slowly shake my head.

  "Know what, Mai? As much as I would like nothing more than to hold you again, you're married. I can't do that to your husband or to you."

  "Michael, kick back and relax. We have a very open marriage, Zhang and I. He sleeps with all his nurses; I sleep with whoever I want. My straying from the fold is rare; his is almost nightly. Or whatever. But Zhang already knows I'm coming to see you and already knows I plan to stay with you. He sends his blessing."

  "Holy sh—I'm way upstream on that one. But it's amazing and I'm—I accept."

  So we go up to my room and she begins tidying the table we left earlier, humming as she goes. Something strikes her funny. She laughs out loud, sloshes her tea, and I jump up with a linen napkin. Carefully I wipe tea from the back of her hand and, as I do, she turns, places the cup and saucer on the low table to her side, and reaches for my hand. She caresses my hand and then holds it to her cheek.

  Looking deep into my eyes, my hand on her cheek, "I never stopped loving you, Michael. You do know that, don't you?"

  "Then we're equal. I've never faltered in my love for you, either. If only."

  "Let's not do if-only. Let's just stay in the now and grab what we can."

  "All right. It's time I did that anyway."

  "Please call down to concierge services. They're holding my luggage."

  "I'll have it brought right up."

  Thirty minutes later we finish what we had started and find ourselves together in the two-headed shower, hot water pounding our bodies and steam filling the room. All I know to do is hold on and not think about Tuesday when this will end. There is no Tuesday, not today.

  It's a short cab ride to Red Square, where we have the cabbie let us out at Theater Square. "Look," Mai exclaims, "the Boldshoi Theater. How I'd love to buy tickets!"

  Directly across the street is the fantastic facade of the Metropol Hotel, covered with multicolored mosaics and sculpted stone.

  From there, we walk southwest on Okhotny Ryad to Manezh Square. Then it's on to the Resurrection Gate. Our guidebook has it that although this triumphal arch was built in the early 1990s, it is an exact replica of the original structure, which stood on this site from 1680 to the early 1930s. Now the stunning square opens up. On our immediate left is the tiny Kazan Cathedral, and on our immediate right—the north end of the square—is the State History Museum.

  We walk along the east side of the square, window-shopping the State Department Store, better known as GUM. Then we duck inside and Mai finds a few souvenirs among the fancy boutiques. The mighty towers of the Kremlin are in silhouette in the late afternoon sunlight, dominating the west side of the square.

  At the far end of Red Square, the colorful orbs of onion domes and tent peaks belong to the Cathedral of St. Basil the Blessed, the 16th-century church that is probably Moscow's most recognizable sight. We step inside only briefly, find it crowded with tourists, and go back outside to the walkway leading south to the Moscow River. At this point, Mai takes my hand in her own and we are two lovers off for a look on our Sunday afternoon. It isn't long before we hurry back to the Marriott and our room, where we disappear into our bed and make long, languorous love, coming up only for a room service delivery and a new pot of tea later on.

  Chapter 40

  Michael Gresham

  Inside the courtroom the next morning, just before eight, there is an unrehearsed moment of mother and son coming together and symbolically pressing their hands together through the heavy panes of glass that comprise the witness box. They cannot hear, but I'm sure they don't need words to communicate how happy they are to see each other. I continue on, up to the front of the courtroom, where I sit and make ready at our counsel table. When the judge comes in and assumes his lofty position at eight sharp, Mai knows that's her cue to step outside into the hallway and wait there until her name is called to testify.

  First up is the explanation of Van's absence. Antonia is early; she looks hurt and I know it's because of Van. They had worked up the trial together and I know she had come to like him quite a lot.

  Then the judge looks down at me and says, "Well?" I simply tell the judge that I don't know where Van is, but I'm ready to move ahead without him. "He didn't call you?" he asks and I answer in the negative. "Well," he sniffs, as though snubbed by a suitor, but he decides to
plunge ahead without my co-counsel. Then, the judge tells me I can begin the defendants' case.

  "Defendants call Mai Yung," I say in my most confident courtroom voice, and we are off and running.

  Mai comes forward wearing a plain black dress and an understated string of pearls, nothing too fancy. She looks neither right nor left as she comes forward, a friendly smile on her face. Then she turns in the witness stand, raises her hand, and is sworn. The same translator is in place and renders English to Russian and vice-versa.

  "Please tell us your name," I say to her.

  "Mai Yung."

  "Ms. Yung, where to you live?"

  "Beijing, China."

  "What do you do there?"

  "I'm a surgeon. I treat all manner of disease and injury to adult patients."

  "Are you married?"

  "I am. My husband is Zhang Wei."

  "Are you the mother of Russell Xiang?"

  "I am.”

  "And who is his father?"

  "You are."

  An excited stirring ripples over the jury as this information takes them by surprise. I can only imagine what Russell is going through right now as he discovers that his father, Henry, isn't also his biological father. It's a cruel way to apprise him of all this, but I wasn't allowed to see him this morning when I stopped by the jail to prepare him for these words. So I can only hope that he isn't swept away by this revelation and stops hearing what else his mother has come to say. He might have to confirm her words; and he might not: I haven't yet decided whether he will testify. I always make that decision about the defendant at the last minute of trial, just before I rest my case.

  "Tell us where Russell lives, if you know."

  "Certainly. Russell lives with his wife and two children in Chaoyang Park, an upscale district in Beijing. Many upwardly-mobile young business people and professionals make this part of Beijing their home."

  "What kind of home does he have?"

  "Property is very expensive in Beijing. My husband and I made him a loan for a downpayment on a condominium unit that is about sixteen hundred square feet with three bedrooms. It overlooks the park and is an excellent place to raise children; the schools are the best in China and STEM curricula prevail."