Michael Gresham (Book 5): Sakharov the Bear Page 5
"Did he call you about this?"
"No, but our sources—"
"What sources? Who are we talking about here, Mr. Slosser?"
"Our switchboard received a call. Unfortunately, the operator didn't take down the calling number. But the message was that Russell Xiang was arrested. He's in Lefortovo Prison here in Moscow."
"That doesn't sound like a speeding ticket, Mr. Slosser."
She was not easily alarmed at arrests and that's why, she would later tell her friend, she was not wetting her pants. Her job at the U.S. Attorney's office was to put bad guys in jail. She would go along with Mr. Slosser and find out what she could, then she would decide what to do.
"Oh, I didn't say it was a speeding ticket. Truth is, we don't know why he's being detained. Probably some kind of mistake. It happens, you know."
"Mr. Slosser, I know a little about Rusty's work. I know he doesn't do Embassy work—"
She was about to go on and tell him she knew Rusty worked for the CIA but the bastard had hung up on her. She called his number back and got a "not in service" recording. Not in service, my ass, she thought. What makes the sons of bitches at the CIA think they can't come clean with members of the U.S. Attorney's Office? I know how CIA officers and FBI special agents trade back and forth all the time. So why can't their superiors? Question for the world at large: come in, please. This little housewife in Maryland wants to know.
Oh well.
So now what?
Then Russell junior called to her again. This time he did sound worse. And he was coughing. So she went into his bedroom.
WHEN HE HUNG up the phone, Slosser fixed the two FBI agents in his gaze. "You hear all that?"
They unplugged earpieces and said yes.
"Your job is to watch who she goes to. We need all conversations, all travel, all meetings. We have to know who she chooses to defend her husband. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Notify me as soon as you have a name for me. The person she chooses belongs to me."
"Understood," they said in unison.
TEN MINUTES LATER, Antonia had OJ in her son, cough syrup from the last go-around dosed out, nose blown and Vicks on the chest—all her mother's old remedies, none of which actually worked but they made the patient think he was doing better. Plus plenty of hugs. Russell was only six, so he hadn't yet started to pull away from his mother like she had heard would happen.
She had two choices facing her now. One, she could drop what she was doing and try to call someone in Russia and learn more about Rusty, or, two, she could go into the kitchen and pour two fingers of scotch and see if she could find where she hid her cigarettes after the last time. With a heavy sigh, she decided to make some calls and then have the scotch. Two birds, one stone, and all that.
"Who do you call when your husband is arrested in Russia?" she asked her friend at the U.S. Attorney's Office that afternoon by phone.
"I give up."
"Well, believe it or not, there are tons of American law firms operating out of Russia. Some of their people even do criminal law. Just Google Russian Lawyers and be ready to start dialing."
"Goodness," said Laura.
"So tell me, Laura. Does our office maintain any contact with prosecutors in Moscow? Or police?"
"Um—not that I'm aware. I've never heard of that."
"I wonder if any Russian law firms have English speakers?"
"Surely they will."
"All I can do is try. Poor Rusty!"
"Poor Rusty. Call now, Antonia. It'll make you feel better."
She took her friend's advice and made several calls. She found out right away that most of the Russian firms wanted to deal with American businesses looking to do business in Russia. Of course, that was where the big bucks were. So she kept dialing. Finally, she found a small firm with Russian names and dialed 7 plus the number. The guy had to be call-forwarded, she decided, because he answered even though it was probably the middle of the night there. They talked and she explained her problem. His English was good enough. He said he'd make some calls the next day and call her back. She asked him how she could pay him and he said, much to her surprise, "Visa? MasterCard?"
The next morning he called her back. He had some news. Russell Xiang was being held in Lefortovo Prison in Moscow. "Is this your loved one?" Mr. Andaleyev asked her. Antonia told him the name was right. He asked what else he could do for her and she asked him whether he handled criminal cases. There was a long pause. Finally he said, whispering, "We do not mix with the Ministry of Justice here. Too dangerous."
"You mean you won't go to the prison and find out why my husband is locked up?"
"No. Too dangerous."
"You could call the prosecutor and ask them, correct?"
"Too dangerous."
"What are you able to do."
"Nothing more. Don't worry about payment. Goodbye."
And with that he hung up.
So now what the hell do I do? Antonia thought. I can't just hop on a jet and leave my son to fly off to Russia. That doesn't work. Besides which, I don't speak the goddam language so I would get nowhere. I'm really pissed at Mr. Slosser that he didn't offer to help me with this. But that's the CIA. They are quick to ask you to go in harm's way and even quicker to throw you under the bus. Rusty knew this going in. I guess I did, too, but just never admitted it to myself.
Now what? she was wondering, when Russell junior called out and begged her for an Xbox. Great, she thought, your father is locked up in a Russian jail and you want to shoot Russian soldiers in a video game?
I need to talk to someone.
Then Antonia remembered, Rusty's father. Just the guy.
Chapter 9
T he next morning, Antonia got a sitter—sick child—then called Henry Xiang, reporting on Rusty. Henry was immediately on it. He said to check her office's connections in Russia. He was hoping for some kind of relationship between the U.S. Attorney's Office in Washington and its counterpart in Moscow. Something like that could go a long way toward getting Rusty out of prison. She drew a deep breath as she backed out of the garage at their condo. It was everything she could do to hold it together, but she was giving it all she had. One step at a time, she told herself, and it will be all right.
Inside the Robert F. Kennedy Building, upstairs in her office, Antonia had just pulled off her shoulder bag and poured her first tea when Maggie Maison, the administrative assistant to Jeb Niswanger, the Special Teams head, knocked once and entered her office without invitation. "Jeb wants you on eleven. Stat."
Jeb was just the man she wanted to see about the Rusty problem. The timing was perfect. Antonia pushed aside the steaming mug, dipped the tea bag up and down twice more for good measure, and grabbed the tablet she would need for any notes. Jeb's meetings were commonplace for Antonia and usually amounted to nothing more than a policy change or new policy announcement. Niswanger was tasked with keeping all prosecutors in line with departmental policy. There would probably be thirty others in attendance with her. She would buttonhole him after the meeting and pick his brain about Rusty. She just had a feeling that there would be some connection, some backdoor way into the Russian prosecutors' offices.
But when she entered the conference room she was taken by surprise to find present only Jeb and the U.S. Attorney herself, Barbara Anne Belizza. There were no recording devices and no one to take notes, as was the usual practice of Niswanger and his staff, especially during those rare occasions when the U.S. Attorney herself—the boss—sat in on the event. A mere Assistant U.S. Attorney, Antonia didn't sit until directed to by Niswanger, who was sitting one-off from the head of the table at the USA's right hand. Antonia was directed to the fourth chair down from the USA's left hand. She took her place and switched on her tablet.
"Thanks for coming," said Belizza. "We know this is an unusual meeting for you, Antonia, coming in to find just me and Mr. Niswanger waiting for you, but what we have on our plate today is also unusual."
"Unusual, but I'm up to it," she replied with a smile. "How can I help? Oh, and then I need to ask you a question." She looked up from her tablet. Neither Niswanger nor Belizza was smiling.
Belizza answered, "We're going to need to put you on administrative leave and order you to stay away from the office for several months."
Antonia was shocked. Her face paled and a crease appeared between her eyebrows.
"Did I do something wrong? Did I—"
Belizza shook her head. "No, no, it's nothing like that. Jeb, why don't you fill Ms. Xiang in?"
Jeb Niswanger nodded. His thick eyeglasses slid partially down his nose as he did so.
"Very well. Look, Antonia, we've known each other for what, seven years?"
"Eight."
"Exactly. And during that time we've developed a certain level of trust between us, wouldn't you say?"
"I would, yes."
"But now a new prosecution is going to take place. A prosecution brought by this office against—against—well, against your husband."
Antonia half-rose up out of her chair. But then she slowly lowered herself back down. "Wait, did you just say our office is prosecuting my husband?"
"I did," said Niswanger. "Your husband has been holding himself out to the Russians as a CIA agent. He is not any such thing, of course."
She was floored. She'd never heard anything so ridiculous. "What is this, a parallel universe? Of course Rusty works for the CIA. He has for ten years now!"
"He might have been telling you that, but it's not true. He was involved in a murder in Moscow, the Russians arrested him and are putting him on trial. We've been tasked by the President with prosecuting him for holding himself out to the Russian government as an agent of this country. He will be tried in absentia or, if he returns, he will be tried upon return here."
"This is insane! Something is very very wrong here. You people are helping the President throw Rusty under the bus!"
Niswanger looked at Belizza for help. "Ms. Belizza?"
"Right. All we can say right now is that another agency has been looking into your husband's activities. Your husband has been indicted as of this morning."
Antonia felt her heart racing. Her forehead became damp with the sweat of fear. She abruptly sat back in her chair and caught her breath.
"Indicted? When does he get told about this? He's in Russia as of yesterday."
"Yes, he's in the Moscow City Jail.
"City Jail," Antonia whispered to herself. Then, "I must go. I must get in to see him immediately."
"Hold on," said Niswanger, raising a hand and indicating she should stay seated. "Hold on, Antonia. Let's think this through. You're a member of the staff that is prosecuting your husband in the States. You are being put on admin leave while the prosecution works its way through court. In the meantime, you are not a defense attorney and you can't just go right inside the jail in Moscow and flash your bar card and expect to see your husband. Also, as a member of this staff, you could be said to have a conflict of interest where Mr. Xiang is concerned. While you're on administrative leave to avoid the appearance of impropriety, you're still staff and that means that ethically and legally you cannot communicate with the prisoner. At least not without his lawyer present and some kind of waiver signed and approved by this office. It gets into a very gray area. But the point remains: you cannot just go running to his side right now. It isn't legal."
"Legal be damned!" cried Antonia, rising up out of her chair. "That's my husband you're talking about, Mr. Niswanger, not some ordinary defendant. The father of my children."
"Children? You have only the son, am I right?"
She tensed up and drew herself into a severe, almost military posture, as she said, proudly, "I'm almost three months pregnant. And I'm going to see my husband. Fire me if you need to, or whatever you think you have to do, but I'm going to see Russell today—right now—without delay. Is this all you had for me? Are we finished here?"
"Ms. Belizza?" asked Niswanger. "Anything?"
"You've been warned," said the USA. "I urgently caution you to use your head, Antonia. Right now, you're upset. It would probably be wise for you to contact an attorney of your own choosing before taking any further action."
"It—it—" the impossible nature of her situation was becoming clear in Antonia's head. The lights went on in her brain. There were so many legal dynamics at work right now that she did feel like she needed to talk to someone. Their mentioning her son and her remembering that she was pregnant were raising a red flag. She owed her children her allegiance right now. They had to be all right before she took any other action that might result in—who could say? She made her decision then, in that instant.
"I'm going to talk to Russell's father. He's a lawyer and he'll have good advice for me." Then Antonia suddenly collapsed again into her seat. "Wait one," she said solemnly. "Am I—is there any—am I under investigation too?"
Belizza blanched. "We can't answer that, Antonia. That's why we've asked you to stay away from the office while all this gets sorted out."
Antonia slapped the table with her open hand. "No, dammit! Tell me the truth! Have I been the subject of any investigation along with my husband?"
The USA and her number one assistant looked at each other.
"Yes," they said in unison.
"My God," muttered Antonia. She stood and managed to move her body toward the door even though she was in shock.
Then she was gone, moving as if in a dream first to return to her office and grab her pack and purse and then on out to the elevators. She punched the DOWN button several times and kept punching it until the doors whooshed open.
Then she stepped inside and, seeing she was alone, placed her back against the steel wall and burst into tears.
"I'm only going to cry this one time," she managed to say through her tears. "And then I'm going to fight you bastards!" she exclaimed to the empty space around her.
The FBI agents, watching the video feed coming from Antonia's elevator and hearing her words, looked at each other.
"Well?" said the first.
"What, you expected her to slink away and go hide?" said the second. "Not gonna happen that way and I told you people that. She's a fighter and this is going to get messy."
They continued watching the video stream. Already the tearful moment was past. The woman was dabbing her eyes with a tissue and drawing in a deep breath. Then she said to the eye in the upper corner of the elevator, "I'm coming for you bastards. This isn't going to happen like this. Now put that in your fucking report!"
"Done," said the first agent.
"I expected no less," said the second.
They were satisfied with their work. Upon coming into the office, Antonia's bag had been checked. As it was gone through, the security officer placed a small bug inside the coin pocket. It looked like a dime but it wasn't a dime. It was capable of hearing through anything—including walls—and would keep the FBI agents advised of developments from then on.
They listened as she broke into tears again inside her Volvo and then began cursing.
Then they tracked her vehicle as the bug broadcast GPS data. Her car stopped and the bug moved laterally away from it. She had parked and was walking. They turned up the volume and sat back.
They were getting very close and soon would have a name for Slosser.
They were sure of it.
Chapter 10
She floored it and her Volvo jolted away from the RFK Building. She needed to talk. Russell's father was who she needed to speak to. He would be able to tell her more about Russell and about what she should do. She fought back th
e tears; it was still difficult thinking in those terms—that her husband was in jail—and it was going to take much longer for her to be able to say it to herself without getting all teary-eyed and horribly frightened. As for Rusty, her son, she knew she had done nothing wrong, which meant he wouldn't be taken away from her. Unless...unless they found something in her life that embroiled her in whatever Russell had done.
She slowed her Volvo at the next light and then accelerated when it turned green, passing by the FBI building that serviced the U.S. Attorney's Office. Inside was a mixture of FBI and D.C. Police, the one to investigate violations of federal law, the other to investigate violations of city law. It was complicated and yet it wasn't. Antonia had started out in the U.S. Attorney's Office working the city crimes with the D.C. Police before graduating into the federal area. Now that's all she did. Or used to do up until fifteen minutes ago. She smiled grimly; they had even had the nerve to tell her she would have to submit to a polygraph and drug testing before she eventually could return to her job. "Sure, I'm going to jump through your hoops," she told the rearview mirror. "You bastards aren't getting rid of me that easily!" Realizing her car was probably bugged too, she made her face into a mask of rigid calm and continued her drive. But then the feelings came roaring back and, with them, the tears. She had to admit, she was more scared than ever in her life.
She calmed herself and asked what should be her first step. She pulled out her cell phone and called Henry Xiang, Russell's father. Hearing her voice and the worry there, he said of course she could drop on by and he'd make time to see her immediately. Twenty minutes later she was pulling into the underground parking at Xiang and Partners, Attorneys at Law.
Henry Xiang was a fearsome litigator, a man in his mid-fifties who bench-pressed two hundred pounds without breaking a sweat and who could move juries to tears with his words at will. He worked out religiously, determined to still have some gas in the tank when he retired at sixty-five, and his courtroom arguments were prepared and curated by a psychologist whose practice serviced only lawyers who wanted to get a leg up on the other side. Henry Xiang was married, five kids, all of whom still gathered at the lawyer's house for Thanksgiving and Christmas, a relatively happy man in a good marriage to a woman who was a broker. He told his secretary to immediately bring Antonia into his office when his intercom buzzed.