Michael Gresham (Book 5): Sakharov the Bear Page 6

  He stood and came around his desk and hugged his favorite daughter-in-law.

  "Look at you," he said, stepping back from his son's wife and taking her in. "Pregnancy makes you glow, Antonia."

  She felt her face redden and she smiled. "Thank you, Dad. I'm feeling very good," she lied. She was having trouble with the pregnancy lately and hadn't told anyone. But Henry needn't know all that. That was for later.

  "So sit down and let me get you something to drink—tea perhaps?"

  "Nothing for me," she said, lowering herself into a visitors' chair. "But you go ahead."

  He waved it off. "So. How can I help my favorite daughter today?"

  "I want to speak directly and openly. I want to ask you a few questions about Russell."

  "Russell? Why me? Why not just ask Russ?"

  "I'll get to that, if that's okay."

  The man looked troubled. "Are you here as a prosecutor? Surely not that?"

  She could feel him withdrawing. She hurried and added to her previous statement, "This is personal, what I want to ask. It's only about Russell and me. Well, that's not entirely true. There's a professional aspect to it too. I'll get to that in a minute."

  "Okay. Go ahead, then."

  "Does Russell—did Russ ever study Russian?"

  "Did he ever study Russian? Like to speak it? I don't really know. He never mentioned anything like that. You know, his Ph.D. is in software engineering. I think he wrote his dissertation on algorithms. I don't think he had any Russian mixed in there. I mean, would he have?"

  She shrugged. "That's what I'm trying to find out. The fact of the matter is, I heard him speaking Russian on the phone one night."

  "Why don't you just ask him about it? Don't you imagine it's just something to do with work?"

  "I could, but that's where I am—I’m torn a little bit. I love my husband and I want nothing but the best for him. Most important, I don't want him to think I suspect him of anything. That's one side of it. The other side is that I work for the government as a prosecutor. I might at some point have a duty to go to the authorities with any information I come into—something I'm not willing to do where Russell is involved. I wouldn't turn him in based on even overwhelming suspicions. But I also don't want to be in the middle if something's wrong."

  “Very problematic where you might be married to a person under investigation.”

  She explained how she'd just been put on administrative leave and that she didn't know anymore than that; that he'd been arrested and indicted following an event in Russia. As she spoke, her hands shook and her voice quaked. This from a woman Henry Xiang had always known to be tougher than nails, a woman who could hold her own and more with any man in any courtroom at any time. He was stunned and suddenly very fearful for his son. The Russians didn't prosecute anyone unless they were going to put them away for a long time. They seldom missed their mark, either, Henry Xiang knew from Rusty's stories.

  She finished up, "What should I do, Henry? I don't know the first thing about defending Russian cases. Is there anyone you can direct me to? Anyone who's tough as nails and won't take any shit from these people?"

  Henry sat back and took several names into consideration, men and women he had worked with whom he knew to be strong defense attorneys. Then it came to him; of course.

  "Let me give you a name. With the pregnancy and your job and Russell's job and Russell's freedom and maybe even his life on the table, I'd like a lawyer I know to step in."

  "Who is he?"

  "My college roommate. His name is Michael Gresham."

  "Can we call him this minute?"

  "I shall," said the father-in-law as he lifted the phone from its cradle.

  Chapter 11

  M ichael Gresham

  HENRY XIANG CALLS me a few days after Christmas. Henry was my college roommate; his son is an agent with the CIA; of course I'm not supposed to know that. But I do; Henry and I have stayed up too late a few times, swapping stories and bragging about our kids.

  "Michael, Henry," he says, "Russell's in the Moscow City Jail. Under arrest by the KGB. Can you help him?"

  "Henry, seriously? Russia? I know nothing about Russian law. I'm not admitted to practice in Russia and I don't speak the language."

  "That makes you just who I'm looking for," my old roommate says in that dry way of his. "I need someone who isn't connected in any way. At this point the CIA has disavowed my kid. They're saying they've never heard of him."

  "Why would they do that?"

  "Near as I can figure it's because of the arms reduction talks going on between us and the Russians. The government doesn't want the talks impacted by my son's mission."

  "Which was?"

  "To take out a Russian arms dealer, near as I can tell. Problem is, there was surveillance that no one knew about. Russell got nabbed and now he's facing a firing squad if convicted."

  My heart falls. My old friend's kid is in some really deep trouble. The Russians play for keeps and, from what I know, their judicial system is totally rigged. Justice in Russia is just another word.

  "Look, Henry, there are all kinds of American law firms with offices in Moscow. How about I do some checking and turn up someone you can trust? Believe me, you'll be much further down the road with a Moscow lawyer. Does that help?"

  Long silence. I feel like I'm letting my old friend down. Plus, there is more than I want to face. An old wound between us. An old wound that has never healed and likely never will, and I was the one who was wrong. But I can't let that color my professional judgment. Sending me into a Russian court would mean certain death for Russell Xiang. There is no good ending in doing that, not that I can see.

  "If you're absolutely certain you can't do it, Michael. I'm going to have to trust your take on this."

  "You won't be sorry. As soon as I hang up, I'll start making calls."

  "All right, Michael. Please get right back to me when you're done."

  "Will do."

  "Do you think that will be today?"

  "It has to be," I say. "Russian jails are worse than the Gulags. I'll be back before sundown."

  We hang up and I start hitting Google. There has to be an American criminal law firm in Moscow.

  I have a sick feeling in my stomach as I wade through names and practice areas. One thing I know, Russian courts have little if anything to do with seeing justice done like we're used to in America. But in a way, after a little thought, that isn't going to scare me off. American courts are the same, up close and personal. Justice always takes a back seat to the players' pedigrees and how much influence they wield around town.

  I punch the keyboard and keep searching. A man's life is at stake on one level, and the arms reduction talks of the world's two superpowers are at stake on another. Knowing Uncle Sam, Russell will get kicked to the curb in this if necessary; he's on his own.

  I have to talk myself down after that consideration wanders through my mind.

  Anyway, I won't be going to Russia and that is that.

  Chapter 12

  M ichael Gresham

  SURE, that was that.

  Henry knew about my feelings for Russell and he knew I wouldn't be able to say no to going. It was a fait accompli before he even called me, actually. Especially after I made some calls and found little to zero interest from any lawyers. No one wanted to take on the Moscow court system. They all told me the same thing: the case is over before it even begins. I'm told to go over and try to cut the best deal I can for my friend's son. Maybe they're right: life in a prison camp is better than a firing squad. Isn't it?

  In the end, I throw some things in a suitcase, kiss the kids goodbye, and leave them with their nanny and with their maternal grandmother, at my home in Evanston. Mikey is now in half-day pre-school and Dania is moving up in the grades; their lives have begun to take on new dimensions to the extent that my absence for a few days here and there just isn't a major thing to them. Which is all I can hope for, since the loss of their mother i
s still so new.

  Speaking of their mother—her name was Danny. The woman I loved and worshipped. On the flight to Moscow, in those first hours, I grow lonelier and lonelier. Looking out the window, watching the land mass below pass by mindlessly and without sensibility, I realize I am aching inside and that I miss being held. There is a great comfort in feeling another's arms around me. Even more so when that other is one I deeply love, even treasure. As I grapple with these powerful feelings, I inadvertently allow my mind and my feelings to slide back another forty years. Back to Russell's mother, to Henry, to our long days and nights during one summer session just before our senior year, and the drama that played out until graduation. Now I'm morose—dripping wet with it. I decide it's definitely time to have a drink and even a private cry before Moscow looms large in my window.

  The airplane's wait staff brings me a scotch on the rocks—a rarity since I seldom indulge. I down it and am asked whether I'd like another. I take my emotional temperature. The alcohol has gone down hot and bold but it has left me feeling even lonelier as stronger feelings surface. So I wave off the second scotch and opt instead for coffee. Soon it arrives and I am sipping and very near tears as I realize nothing is going to soothe the ache I feel inside for my wife's loving arms—at least not today. I'm damned to an evening alone without loving-kindness and solace. Then I stiffen my spine. The lawyer and the male pride inside me abruptly surface. I scoff at myself for allowing my emotions to run off with my quiet time alone on the aircraft. What could have been a long respite from client calls and staff interruptions and the general clamor of running a law office had been allowed—by me—to drift away into a pity party. At least that's how I chide myself just now. And it works. I come out of my funk feeling energized and determined not to go to that emotionally anemic place again. Such is the male psyche and I am definitely one of that species. I switch on my tablet computer and begin reviewing what I have been able to learn about Russell Xiang.

  Hours later, I come awake as we're in our final approach. I look out the window at a black sky with millions of lights shimmering up. The city is huge. We pull up to the jetway and hurry into the airport. Then I find my luggage and head for Aeroflot desk.

  Russia is pungent in December. Everywhere are the smells of food boiling on stoves, of tobacco smoke curling through the air inside public buildings such as the Moscow airport, and smells of unwashed people. It is too cold here to bathe, I'm thinking, that must be it.

  "Mr. Gresham," says the Aeroflot clerk in good English, "your return flight has been left open, as you requested. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

  He hands me back the ticket I have asked him to check over. I slip the return ticket back inside its folder and tuck it into the breast pocket of my bomber jacket.

  "I guess not, but thank you. Oh, wait. There is one more thing. Can you recommend a good hotel where they speak English?"

  "Many of our passengers stay at the Moscow Marriott. It's located on Tverskaya, which is the Fifth Avenue of Moscow. The front desk has English speakers.”

  "How far from Red Square walking?" I ask.

  He purses his lips. "Maybe fifteen minutes. Twenty if there's ice."

  "Is there ice?"

  His face lights up. "Mr. Gresham, there is always ice."

  "It is Moscow."

  "Even in July. No, just joking."

  "I'm not so sure. Anyway, thank you, Denis."

  I make my way downstairs to the taxicab loading zone. I shake the cobwebs out of my head in the freezing air outside. I'm here after a fourteen-hour flight from Chicago to Moscow with a stopover in Brussels. Flying business class, I had a fairly decent sleeping setup, but still, onboard any public transportation with people and staff coming and going at all hours of the day and night, sleep wasn't really sleep. I was exhausted when I stepped off the plane and ready for sleep.

  The cabbie drives me to the Marriott and helps me unload.

  After a shower and four hours tossing and turning in bed, I'm ready to locate Russell Xiang.

  First, a cab ride of twenty minutes to the Moscow City Court. This court has original jurisdiction over all criminal cases involving a state secret. A very kindly old gentleman in some kind of gendarme uniform is the English speaker for the office. He helps me locate Russell's file and then translates for me. Long story short, Russell has been indicted and charged with murder in Count I and with obtaining documents containing a state secret in Count II. There is little else to be known just now, the gentleman assures me. I then learn where Russell is being held. So I tell him thank you, and take a cab to Lefortovo Prison, AKA the Moscow City Jail.

  Just inside the entrance, the jail is a hopeless, depressing matter. Lime green walls, faded gray linoleum, and huge pictures on the welcome wall of Lenin and Putin. Braced beneath by Russian lettering, I have no doubt those leaders are probably not reciting the number of prisoners they have sent here to dry up and blow away. This prison has that kind of reputation.

  I approach the counter and immediately find there is no English. I write Russell's name—in English—on a yellow sticky, the only writing material the entire spread of clerk's windows has to offer. I pass it through a small door in the Plexiglas separating me from the clerk. Obviously bullet-proof and assault-proof, the window between us, I wonder how stupid a Russian would have to be to try and break into this jail? The benefits that flow from attacking security clerks behind Plexiglas in a place like this escapes me. But it is what it is.

  The clerk I've passed Russell's name to is back from her huddle with another couple of clerks and supervisors. She isn't smiling as she passes the sticky note back to me.

  "Nyet," she says, then raises her eyes to the next behind me in the line.

  "Wait a minute," I say roughly, "the City Court told me he is here. Please let me see him. Russell Xiang, that's his name."

  She ignores me. Then she brushes me aside with her hand in the air. But I don't move.

  I pass the sticky back beneath the glass partition. She pushes it back at me.

  "I'm not leaving until someone here talks to me," I advise her.

  Whereupon she hits a button with the heel of her hand and in an instant an armed guard is standing beside me, listening to her words. He then nods curtly and grasps me by my upper arm. I don't resist as I'm steered back outside the huge glass doors and pushed along on the sidewalk and down the stairs until I'm fifty paces from the entrance. The guard then looks me in the eye, smiles a friendly smile, and says, in Russian, words that I'm almost certain mean "Don't come back and if you do I will hurt you. Bad."

  I nod and jam my hands into the pockets of my bomber jacket. I'm wearing polypro and wool beneath my jacket, and a hat with ear flaps, plus heavy gloves, but I'm freezing and immediately cut apart by the icy wind. So I step up to the curb and start waving at taxis.

  When I'm back inside the warmth of my hotel room and reasonably thawed and enjoying my second coffee of the day, I realize that I'm in way over my head. So I place a call to Marcel, my investigator, and tell him to hop on his favorite airline and meet me in Moscow. Marcel, who has worked for Interpol and the New Scotland Yard, has command of several Slavic languages, Russian among them. At this point I can't remember what I was thinking when I came here without him anyway. Probably that Russia would be like Mexico, where you can always locate someone standing nearby who knows English. And where the pocket language book contains words that are pronounceable. Russia and Russian are nothing like Mexico and Spanish.

  Absolutely nothing alike.

  Рассел.

  I've learned that's Russell's name in Russian.

  Marcel can't arrive soon enough.

  Chapter 13

  M ichael Gresham

  MARCEL LANDS in Moscow at ten a.m. the next morning. He has been with me almost fifteen years, and we go back to when we got called up to go to Iraq during Bush Two's misadventure. I served ten months in-country in the JAG Corps; Marcel served two tours as General Dumont's
logistics officer—meaning, basically, he was a bodyguard who didn't get to shoot anyone because he was guarding a four-star Army general. We both came out frustrated, but we had gotten to know each other at beer call, and we had hit it off. When we returned to the States, I had a law practice to resuscitate, and Marcel had no place to go so he tagged along, got his investigator's license, and began working up criminal cases for me. It worked out well, and here we are.

  Like me, Marcel is unmarried. His hard-luck story includes a deceased wife—colon cancer. My story is a first wife who ran off with a younger man to have a baby late in life. Number two was a wife who was murdered. Both of which sometimes finds Marcel and I alone and ready to commiserate, something we do at beer call on Wednesday nights. My limit is two beers; Marcel, who has graduated beyond beer, usually sips a JW on the rocks. I don't know his limit; like clockwork he's ordering a third about the time I'm heading home.

  I spot him coming up the jetway. He is traveling light today—a single bag on rollers. We head to the hotel and go straight to my room after checking him into his own room. We look each other over and shake our heads.

  "What were you thinking, Michael?"

  "I have no idea. Maybe that someone in this city would know English."

  "No, Russia isn't like other places where you have English speakers lurking. You're really out in the sticks here when it comes to languages."

  "So I learned yesterday. The hard way. But look, Russell Xiang is supposedly at Moscow Jail and I need to confirm that. Then I need to figure out how to visit him. Are you up for that now or do you want to go to your room and grab a few winks?"

  "I'm bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” he says, always game for whatever I've got going on. I'm grateful.