Tranquility Denied

by A. C. Frieden

  Molina scoffed. “Many drowning victims are intoxicated, which explains why they’re careless in the first place. We’re waiting on preliminary toxicology results, but the final results will come only after the autopsy.”

  Jonathan shook his head and glanced at Derek. “I’m confident there was foul play.”

  “It doesn’t look that way right now,” Molina said, now sounding cocky and impatient. “The medical examiner will conduct the autopsy and make his own conclusions, but from what I see this is a classic case of drowning, perhaps combined with alcohol intoxication.”

  Jonathan left the crime lab a little before eleven. Despite Molina’s claim that there were no initial signs of foul play, Jonathan was already convinced Vice-Admiral Scarborough had his goons do the dirty work. But he worried that Derek was not yet persuaded.

  * * *

  Napoleon Street, just past the intersection with Baronne Street, is the home of Pascal’s Manale, a historic Garden District Italian-Creole hangout. For Jonathan, it had always meant a welcome break from busy court hearings to indulge in barbecued shrimp and savor a few bottles of Abita Amber with his buddies. Today, he’d try to bring back some semblance of normalcy. He walked in and strolled straight to the bar, the last stool. The smell of garlic and seafood filtered through his lungs. It had been a while.

  He had barely finished his plate when his cell phone rang. It was Gary, and he sounded anxious, his words barreling in too fast for Jonathan to catch them.

  “What are you saying?” Jonathan asked, holding his finger in the other ear to block out the loud conversation of his fellow bar patrons.

  “I said Judge Breaux’s chambers were broken into last night. I left a message on your voice mail a short while ago.”

  “My God,” Jonathan spat out, quickly sensing this was no coincidence. “I didn’t get your message because I was at the crime lab.”

  “Crime lab?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Jonathan said, now gripped with dread. “What happened?”

  “The judge had kept in his safe the original ship’s log and other documentation the Navy had turned over yesterday. And today, I hear it was stolen. The safe was pried open like a can of tuna.”

  “They did it!” Jonathan declared. “The Navy, the government, don’t you see? They were forced to turn over the evidence, but then they stole it—it’s brilliant.”

  Gary paused. “I’m not sure it’s so clear, but I am suspicious.”

  “What do you mean, Gary? It’s clear as daylight. Who the hell would do this? And who would have the skills to get into a federal building and pop open a vault, for crying out loud?”

  “I understand,” Gary replied. “but if they did it, I’m sure they’ve covered their tracks quite well.”

  He was right. Jonathan knew there was little chance the break-in would create a trail back to Scarborough. As silence took over the phone line, Jonathan came to grips with the worst realization of Gary’s news: these were original documents, and with their disappearance, Scarborough and his legal crony, Tillerman, had all the excuse they needed to say they had no other copies. How perfect, Jonathan thought. How damn convenient for those bastards. He was furious. He shoved his empty plate forward, slamming it against the beer taps. “I’m heading to the office. Can you meet me there right away?”

  “Sure, Jonathan, sure.” Gary sounded exasperated. If this case was killing Jonathan, it was no doubt ulcerating his law firm partner.

  * * *

  Jonathan arrived at the office to find Gary sitting quietly in the main conference room, the phone line stretched to his corner of the table.

  “Have a seat, please,” Gary said, his voice barely audible, his eyes never leaving the closed folder in front of him, which told Jonathan something else was wrong.

  “What is it?” Jonathan asked.

  “We’re settling this case.”

  “But we can’t!” Jonathan bounced back on his feet.

  Gary raised both his hands. “Wait, wait, wait! We have no choice. We don’t have the logbooks, there are still too many open questions, and...”

  “And what?” Jonathan asked angrily.

  Gary sighed. “And the insurance company is offering 6.5 million, to which our client said yes. They can’t afford to fight this any longer. You know that.”

  Jonathan walked off.

  “It doesn’t mean I don’t believe you,” said Gary. “For God’s sake, Jonathan, you’re the best lawyer I have.”

  Jonathan stopped at the door and looked back at Gary, wanting desperately to believe this was all a joke, that Gary was just pulling his chain, that the case would go on. That victory was near. But it wasn’t so.

  Gary slowly got up and held up the folder. “It’s all here: the settlement agreement and a fax from our client instructing us that they have no objections.” Gary lay his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder and gazed into his eyes. “The moment you nailed Captain Tucker with his lies about the USS Meecham’s whereabouts, this became a battle on two fronts. We may have surrendered on one, but the other is still there, and I am on your side, my friend. I will not let you down, nor will I let Linda down. Let’s get the assholes on our own terms, and we don’t need our clients to do it.”

  Jonathan felt as if he could kiss the old man, but he was still weighed by disappointment that the case would end on such terms. He knew it would be infinitely harder to pressure the Navy now that there was a settlement.

  “Thank you, Gary. I do need your help, your wisdom and your patience. Let me tell you what I’ve discovered so far.” Jonathan explained to Gary everything he knew and suspected.

  “You’re a good man,” Gary said, as Jonathan finished and they walked out of the conference room. “Do what you need to do.”

  “When Linda is a little better, I’m going to Russia,” Jonathan said. “And I’ll need your help back here, including your help to keep Linda safe. These people have gone to huge lengths to derail a legal case, to silence me and my wife, to kill a witness. They could do much more. They could come after you. After Allen.”

  “To them I say, bring it on!” Gary said loudly, waving his fist.

  * * *

  Jonathan didn’t turn on the television the next morning. He didn’t want any more surprises. He crawled out of his chair, stretching the stiffness out from his limbs and reached for Linda’s hand. Today, he hoped she would be more lucid, as her dosage of pain medication had reduced just a bit. He wanted to hear her voice, to speak with her. And to his delight she turned her head toward him.

  “How are you, my love?” he whispered. “I am so glad you are pulling through.”

  Linda’s eyes cracked open. Her soft voice mumbled something but she didn’t have the strength to speak any louder or more clearly.

  “I love you,” Jonathan said, gazing at her serene expression. “I have always been yours, since we were kids. Remember those days, in my parent’s backyard. ’Member all those times you beat me up with that plastic chair of yours? How many bruises do you think you gave me?”

  She swallowed and gathered her strength. “That explains the brain damage: you became a lawyer.” She smiled, as did Jonathan.

  “You must be getting better. Your humor is coming back.”

  Jonathan kissed her hand and held it between both of his. “When you are better, I must go to Russia. I think Matt survived the plane crash and was taken there against his will, and that he still may be alive. Everything you and I were told was a lie. I am sure the remains we buried are not his. And I’m certain they did this to you.”

  “Matt’s alive?” Linda breathed, her voice weak.

  Jonathan held her hand to his cheek. He felt he was about to cry, but fought it off. He couldn’t appear weak, when what she needed the most was strength. “I don’t know what I will find, but I am desperate for the truth.”

  “Go now. Don’t wait.” Linda took another deep breath. She looked in pain. “Please, do what needs to be done.” Linda tilted her head toward J
onathan. She seemed in even greater pain than a few moments earlier, her breaths now short and deep. Her hand gripped his tightly. Her other hand gripped the bed sheet.

  “You want a nurse?”

  “Please.” Linda’s face cringed and her eyes closed.

  Jonathan returned with the nurse, who quickly injected the painkiller into Linda’s IV.

  “Go, go find Matt,” she whispered as the effects of the medication rapidly sent her back to sleep.

  * * *

  Gary had urged Jonathan to stay at the hospital over the weekend. Now that Jonathan had his Russian travel visa and had made arrangements with the Russian lawyer Professor DeFleur had recommended, there was no need to risk being out of police protection, so Jonathan stayed with Linda. As the hour of his departure approached, his anxiety mounted over leaving her alone, but Derek had ensured that the police presence outside Linda’s room would stay as long as Jonathan asked for it. Derek had also promised that he and Caroline would continue to come by a least once a day.

  Gary had come by earlier and dropped off a guide to Moscow as well as a map. He’d also brought him a suitcase full of clothes and personal effects, traveler’s checks and several thousand dollars in cash. Jonathan would soon be on his way to Russia, armed with not much more than hope. Gary had also promised Jonathan he would contact the FBI, and more importantly, Senator Labenne, a former law school colleague of his. “Surely, they couldn’t be webbed to Scarborough’s conspiracy,” Gary had said, which Jonathan hoped would be true. Anything was possible.

  13

  Jonathan’s plane landed just before noon at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport. The exhausting twelve-hour flight was compounded by a ridiculously long wait at the passport control, located in a dark hall filled with the pervasive odor of armpits. The booth that had to process three hundred fatigued, impatient passengers was manned by only one officer. This wasn’t the welcome Jonathan had expected of mighty Russia.

  As he entered the arrivals lounge, a man approached him.

  “Transport,” the lanky guy said loudly with a heavy Russian accent. His eyes locked onto Jonathan’s, and that’s when he grabbed the American’s luggage cart. “Transport. City. Cheap, cheap.”

  Jonathan shook his head and was about to give the guy the finger, when out of nowhere a large-framed, goateed man the size of an armoire stepped forward, swatted the annoying fellow aside and greeted Jonathan.

  “Meestar Brooks, da?” he asked in a deep voice.

  “Yes, are you Alexandre?”

  “Nyet, I take you to Alexandre. Me driver, Boris.” He had high, pointy cheekbones and slightly bronze skin that told Jonathan he was not an ethnic Russian, or Slavic for that matter. From the southern republics, Jonathan thought.

  Jonathan followed him outside. The place was a madhouse, with drivers vying for a prized spot at the curb, their horns blaring, with hands gesturing and words that sounded unfriendly in any language. Boris led the way through a pack of travelers arguing with police and onto the far end of the drive-up area, where a boxy, white car idled.

  Boris was such a large man, his knees hugged the steering column and his head rubbed up against the car’s ceiling. If he scratches his ass, the car will simply rip open at its steel seams, Jonathan observed.

  The first ten minutes of the ride gave little indication of the bustling metropolis Jonathan was impatiently expecting. Instead, vast snow-covered fields extended as far as the eye could see. But the view quickly changed after the airport road crossed over a wide divided highway and veered onto a huge, busy boulevard.

  “Germans stop here—the limit,” said Boris, pointing to a strange object in the distance. “Moscow defense.”

  Jonathan leaned forward as his Russian driver again pointed at the object. It was a large six-pronged, metal tank obstacle. Jonathan gathered that it was a monument marking the farthest point of the Nazi incursion into the city during World War Two.

  “No mess with Russia, huh,” Boris said with a playful frown and then swiped his hand across his neck in a slashing gesture. He then laughed.

  They crossed dozens of spacious intersections busy with foot traffic on the wide, crowded sidewalks. Jonathan was in awe at the massive concrete buildings that lined the streets. He’d never seen so many, and certainly not in New Orleans. Some appeared to be apartment blocks, while others had the austere look of government offices.

  “Alexandre is not ready until one hour, so I take long way, okay?” Boris asked. “For you see city good, da?”

  Jonathan nodded, watching Boris rotate the steering wheel with his octopus-sized hands as if he were driving a bumper car.

  They continued along an eight-lane avenue, its sidewalks wide enough for a herd of elephants.

  “At left is famous Ukraina Hotel,” Boris said pointing over his shoulder at a colossal square structure crowned by a central tower some forty stories high, its architecture resembling a ’30s-era New York high-rise. As they approached a bridge, he then pointed at a large white building on the other side of the river. “White House—Russia Parliament, and this here, Moskva River.”

  The curvy banks along the calm waters were heavily trafficked and lined with old, mid-rise buildings. But what struck Jonathan as odd was the lack of billboards, neon and other advertising clutter that he was so used to seeing back home.

  Boris was a fast driver. Though he seemed eager to show off his city’s landmarks, he didn’t slow down long enough for Jonathan to observe each one with any degree of detail.

  “Kremlin,” Boris blurted out before pointing his pudgy finger over the steering wheel.

  Jonathan spotted the Kremlin’s maroon-colored fortress walls some five hundred yards away. As the car drew nearer, Russia’s citadel of power rose from the ground even more impressively. Several cone-shaped towers were built into the massive wall. Boris continued along a wide street that ran parallel to the back of the Kremlin.

  A few more large buildings passed before Jonathan heard another familiar name.

  “Bolshoi,” Boris said, pointing at the world-renowned theater, its Roman columned façade standing elegantly about a hundred yards away. “And here, your hotel—Metropol.”

  “Wonderful,” Jonathan said, gazing at the sprawling five-story hotel. Its grandiose windows, wrought-iron balconies and elaborately painted tile roofline were clear signs that this was no run of the mill address. Jonathan had seen more world-class landmarks in the last forty minutes than many of his N’awlins buddies had seen in a lifetime. The excitement had momentarily made him forget his exhaustion and all the other stresses that were pulling him apart.

  Boris headed to the back of the building and pulled up under the glass canopy, where a bellman quickly appeared. Boris said a few words to the bellman that quickly brought the hotel employee to an even more formal demeanor. “I told him you are a guest of Alexandre, so he will take good care of you. Wait in your room.”

  Jonathan nodded and watched as the giant man defied the laws of physics by re-entering his compact car. Jonathan then checked in and went up to his third-floor room, which could easily have passed for a presidential suite. The cherry wood furniture, with golden accents, was meticulously crafted. He strolled to the window, cracked it open and soaked in the splendid views and sounds of the bustling goings-on. To his right, across the busy ten-lane boulevard, was the Bolshoi and in front of it a large fountain at the center of a pedestrian square. To his left was a snow-covered park that took up an entire block. The cool breeze wrapped around his face and the scent of diesel fumes seeped into his lungs as his thoughts once again migrated to troubled ground: Linda. He pictured her lying in her hospital bed. The same solemn gaze. The same helplessness. Her life hanging by a thread.

  After unpacking his things, the phone rang, and he immediately answered.

  “Hello,” a male voice said in English. “This is Alexandre Ivanovich. I am in the hotel lobby.” He spoke Jonathan’s language with a hybrid accent that sounded part Canadian, part American,
with a tinge of Russian.

  Jonathan was delighted. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  Wanting to start things off with as much goodwill as possible, Jonathan took with him a bottle of Jack Daniels he’d purchased at New Orleans airport for that very purpose. “Russians are born drinkers,” Gary had told him. Jonathan would later realize how right his partner was.

  Alexandre was not at all what Jonathan had expected. He was clean-cut, pale-skinned and wore an expensive suit. When Professor Defleur had told him he’d hook him up with an energetic Moscow criminal defense attorney, he’d instantly pictured a bounty hunter. The surprise was reassuring, to say the least.

  “Priyatno poznakomitza,” Alexandre said. “It means ‘nice to meet you.’”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Jonathan replied, shaking hands with him and adding, “Da,” the only Russian word he’d picked up so far. He then handed him the gift box, with the clear plastic front showing the bottle inside.

  It was as if Alexandre had seen a bullion of gold. His eyes lit up, and a huge smile emerged on his young, rosy face.

  “Your English is excellent,” Jonathan remarked, thinking how fortunate this was. Absent that, Jonathan would have been in a hell of bind. The Cyrillic alphabet on everything he’d seen since the airport had already made him feel as if he’d landed on an entirely different planet.

  “Thank you,” said Alexandre proudly. “I was always interested in languages, so I learned English and French at the same time as my juridical studies at Moscow State University. It was not easy.”

  “I can imagine,” Jonathan said.

  “I mean not easy because the school did not like me learning English, particularly. Unless it was for a special purpose, like for the government or military, the school administration reacted with suspicion, you understand? So, much of my learning was after class.”

  “Most Americans prefer to stay monolingual to make things simpler,” Jonathan said.