Tranquility Denied

by A. C. Frieden

  The men laughed.

  “You speak no other language?”

  “Some Spanish, but I’m a bit rusty,” Jonathan said.

  They headed to the hotel’s coffee shop, and after ordering tea and pastries, Alexandre got to the crux of the meeting.

  “So you are looking for General Yakovlev, is that right?” Alexandre asked, his tone hinting that he already had answers.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I found only one person by that name and rank: Major-General Yakovlev Andrei Matveyovich.”

  “Fantastic!”

  “Not really,” Alexandre said, sighing. “He’s dead.”

  Jonathan’s smile faded. “Oh?”

  “He died in 1993, during the parliamentary revolt in Moscow. He was one of the high ranking communist officers who took over the White House—our parliament. He was killed when the army retook the building floor by floor. It was a bloody affair.”

  “Yes, I remember seeing that on television. Didn’t a tank attack the building?”

  “Many times. Half of the White House was on fire.” Alexandre put his hands together, his large gold watch emerging from under his sleeve. “I tried to call you before you left to tell you the general is not alive, but it was too late. Your secretary told me you had already taken your flight. I didn’t want you to waste your time coming here if this man is dead.”

  “Are you sure he’s the right person, and there isn’t someone else with a similar name?”

  “Positive, Mr. Brooks.”

  “Call me Jonathan.”

  Alexandre took a sip of his tea. “Okay.”

  “Do you have more on Yakovlev?”

  “This is what I found.” Alexandre dug into his briefcase and pulled out a plastic file folder. “His last posting was as chief intelligence officer at the Gagarin Air Force Academy, not far from Moscow. Before that, he served briefly as a senior analyst with the GRU—Soviet military intelligence. And prior to that he was with the Third Main Directorate of the KGB in Leningrad and also in Afghanistan, but it’s not clear what exactly he did in any of these posts.”

  “What is the Third Main Directorate?” Jonathan asked.

  “Principally counterintelligence and security, but it doesn’t exist anymore under that name. Everything was reorganized after 1991.”

  Jonathan had many more questions, but he was frustrated that the general was dead. He realized that the task of finding anything remotely useful would now be infinitely more problematic.

  Alexandre flipped through the pages of his file and said, “I came across his name in many documents relating to the parliament uprising. Coincidentally, I represented over twenty officers, mostly mid-level, who were charged with treason and other crimes relating to the revolt. General Yakovlev is definitely dead.”

  Jonathan hadn’t come all this way to simply turn back. Alexandre had been quite resourceful in quickly finding the general’s background. That meant he would be able to dig up a whole lot more if he had additional time. But then again, Jonathan wanted to approach things as methodically—and as prudently—as possible. His near-death encounter after his meeting with Tillerman and Vice-Admiral Scarborough had left him with a deep distrust for anyone with authority. It was entirely possible that despite Defleur’s recommendation, Alexandre too was untrustworthy. What if they’re all in cahoots, Jonathan thought anxiously, before dismissing his concern as a momentary spell of paranoia. But he was in a huge city known for its extreme corruption and danger, and being cautious was something he’d have to take seriously.

  “Since I’m here, I would like to know more about Yakovlev. And I’m willing to pay for your services at your normal rates.”

  Alexandre seemed unsettled. “Well, it’s easy for me to charge fees. But I’m not sure what I can do for you.”

  “I need to know Yakovlev’s activities around 1989. He must have had people working with him. Someone, somewhere must have known what he was doing.” Jonathan wasn’t prepared to give Alexandre details about what he’d learned in Gotland.

  “I see,” Alexandre said. “That’s possible. I have many more documents at the office, and I can make more calls as well.”

  “I would be very grateful,” Jonathan said.

  “Why do you have such an interest in this general?”

  “I will gladly explain this to you later,” Jonathan said. He wasn’t comfortable giving this stranger any more details than he had to.

  Alexandre appeared surprised but simply shrugged his shoulders. “No problem.”

  The waitress brought another tea.

  Jonathan was curious about Alexandre’s legal practice, and so he asked, “Tell me, what do you do?”

  “I’ve been a criminal defense lawyer for about ten years, defending a wide range of clients, many of them former city officials, military officers, and, on occasion, some violent criminals.” He raised his brow and added, “But I have avoided defending certain businessmen, if you know what I mean. In this city, it is not uncommon for those kinds of clients to kill their lawyers if they don’t like the result.”

  “It’s less of a problem where I come from,” Jonathan said, smiling. “Clients simply don’t pay their bills.”

  Alexandre returned the grin. “Russia is in transition, and things are a mess. Many vital laws are either new or not yet enacted, and enforcement is difficult, arbitrary and susceptible to unfair influence. It’s not a pleasant environment, but I hope things will improve.”

  “Criminal defense is a challenging practice anywhere, Alexandre. Not every lawyer has the stamina.”

  “Let me give you an insight into today’s Russia, with this joke: Clinton and Yeltsin arrive at the gates of hell. They are given a choice to reside either in the American zone, where you must eat one bucket of shit every day, or the Russian zone, where you must eat two a day. So, Clinton, wanting less shit, picks the American zone, and Yeltsin, drunk as usual but retaining a bit of wisdom, picks the Russian zone. A few weeks later they meet again, and Yeltsin asks how things are. ‘Great!’ Clinton says, ‘you devour the bucket of shit in the morning, and then you’re free to do anything you want the rest of the day. How about you?’ Yeltsin shrugs his shoulders and answers, ‘Same as always—they never make the shit or, if they do, there are no buckets to go around.’”

  Jonathan laughed. “Things aren’t perfect anywhere.”

  “That’s true, but my pessimism is growing.”

  “Have you ever been to America?”

  “Once, two years ago to visit a cousin in New York. It was amazing—the architecture, all those big buildings in Manhattan in such a tight space.”

  “Yes, it’s a crowded and fast-paced city.”

  “The traffic in New York was terrible, though, worse than here,” Alexandre said. “And the subway was not reliable, not like the Metro here in Moscow. Our Metro is an amazing work of art. What about in your town, New Orleans?”

  “The day someone proposes a subway is the day I’ll quit paying taxes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Half the city is below sea-level.”

  Alexandre laughed. “I see.”

  “But then again, in New Orleans, our affinity for corruption makes even the absurd entirely possible.”

  Alexandre paid the tab and headed out. “I will call you this evening.”

  The two parted ways in the lobby. Jonathan went back to his room feeling relieved that he’d met a man who seemed quite reasonable and astute. But he quickly became overcome with grief over Linda.

  * * *

  The crimson-colored Kremlin with its tall towers was an impressive site. The fiery sky, cast by the sunset behind its fortifications, amplified its striking features. Jonathan couldn’t think of a single building in New Orleans that could make such a powerful statement.

  Jonathan had left the Metropol some twenty minutes earlier, and the only thing on his mind was to unwind, if only for an hour, before his scheduled dinner with Alexandre. He’d also called Charity
Hospital for a status on Linda. He’d caught her awake and they had exchanged a few mutually encouraging words, which gave him strength to continue his efforts in Moscow.

  Bundled in a heavy coat and carrying a small map, Jonathan strolled through the twin-towered Resurrection Gate to the wide expanse of Krasnaya Ploschad, the famous Red Square, in the shadows of the Kremlin. The vast cobblestone place was nearly deserted. A lone police car was parked along the gum, the large department store on the east side of the square. Jonathan kept walking, observing Lenin’s mausoleum, which resembled a rust-colored marble wedding cake. It stood ominously at the base of the Kremlin fortifications. Above and behind the wall was an elegant yellow and white building with a snow-covered rotunda topped with the tricolor flag of Russia, brightly illuminated by floodlights. The majestic St. Basil’s Cathedral stood nearby with its ornate, multicolored onion domes. The cold breeze brought the smell of exhaust fumes from the heavily trafficked embankment behind the cathedral.

  Jonathan had much on his mind as he took his long walk from Red Square to the banks of the Moskva River. Seven Kremlin towers rose from the ground under bright floodlights. Each faced the water’s edge and was topped with a radiant ruby-red five-pointed star. He wished Linda was there, by his side, taking in the strikingly beautiful sights.

  He strolled to Alexandrovski Gardens, a narrow park that ran along the west side of the Kremlin. A thin coat of snow covered the pristine grounds. He strolled by the tomb of the unknown soldier, where a guard watched over a permanent flame that burned from the raised stone foundation. To his left was the construction site at Manezhnaya Square—the finishing touches to a new Western-style underground mall.

  The cool air filled his lungs and chilled his face, even with the collar of his coat raised high. He headed back toward his hotel. The surreal calm was invitingly deceptive. He felt something was wrong, as if an evil presence surrounded him, its cursing eyes tracking his every move—a hatred, an anger, a desire to harm burned through his skin.

  Jonathan eyed his hotel a block away, feeling anxiety and disappointment. His first day in Moscow had yielded less substance than lukewarm borscht. He returned to his room, feeling more restless than when he’d left. He hoped Alexandre would find much more on Yakovlev. For now, his trip was a potentially dangerous yet wasteful fishing expedition.

  * * *

  Jonathan answered the phone on the first ring, perhaps because he was hungry: for food, for information, for news. For hope, too.

  “I have interesting news,” Alexandre declared, nearly shouting. “It seems Yakovlev had a loyal subordinate. Apparently they were inseparable at the Academy.”

  Jonathan felt excited yet skeptical, but he didn’t want to dampen Alexandre’s enthusiasm. “Tell me more.”

  “He could help answer your questions.”

  “Can you arrange a meeting?”

  “Yes, I already have.”

  “Good. Where?”

  Alexandre chuckled. “In prison.”

  “What?” Jonathan asked, moving to the windows carrying the clunky rotary phone in one hand and the handset in the other.

  “He’s in jail waiting for trial.”

  “For what?” Jonathan asked as he glanced out the window. Large snowflakes cut across his view of the street and seemed to hover a bit.

  “For fraud and also for resisting arrest and battery on a Militsiya officer. I found his lawyer, but he’s not representing him anymore. He arranged the meeting, but only if we agreed to pay him a small fee—I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “For setting up a meeting?” Jonathan asked, finding that completely ridiculous.

  “Five million rubles—that’s about nine hundred dollars.”

  Jonathan was irked at this poorly camouflaged act of thievery, and he entertained the thought that Alexandre was partly to blame. But he accepted, reluctantly. “So, who is this person?”

  “Second Lieutenant Vlad Bornikov—an instructor at the Academy whose specialty was aviation munitions. I’m expecting a complete dossier early in the morning.”

  Aviation munitions? It didn’t mean anything to him.

  “We must be at the jail at nine-thirty in the morning,” Alexandre stated. “Will this work for you?”

  “Of course.”

  Alexandre now seemed in a hurry to get off the phone. “You can either take a taxi directly to Butyrka Prison, at forty-five Novoslobodskaya Street, or I can pick you up at the hotel, whichever you prefer.” But before Jonathan could answer, Alexandre took the choice away. “Never mind. It’s better that I pick you up. Nine, okay?”

  Jonathan agreed.

  Alexandre also cancelled his dinner plans with Jonathan on account of an urgent personal matter on which he didn’t elaborate. After hanging up, Jonathan called the hospital again. Derek answered and said everything was stable and that Linda was asleep, heavily sedated.

  Jonathan headed downstairs and dined alone under the immense vaulted glass ceiling of the hotel’s main restaurant, one of the best in the city. But every second was consumed with thoughts of his beautiful wife.

  14

  Jonathan had been standing outside for less than a minute, but the frigid air felt as if it was about to freeze every inch of his body. It was colder than any place he had ever been in his life.

  Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long. Alexandre pulled up in a black Isuzu Trooper and waived a thumbs-up.

  Jonathan jumped in. His Russian host was quite chatty from the outset, even friendlier than the day before. Jonathan took it as a good sign. A less positive sign was Alexandre’s liquored breath—and so early in the day.

  “I must warn you that your visit to this prison will make you want to go home on the next plane out,” Alexandre said, shaking his head and cracking a smile. “Our entire penitentiary system is a disaster, and no one knows how to repair it—or even manage it.”

  “You should see the prisons in New Orleans,” Jonathan replied, reminding himself of countless times he’d visited inmates as part of his pro bono work in law school and beyond. “I think our prison systems have much in common.”

  “Perhaps,” Alexandre said with a scowl. “But in Moscow, we have several prisons, called SIZO—prisons that serve to hold pre-trial inmates as well as convicts. But the overcrowding is awful, inhumane. I have two clients at Butyrka, four at SIZO NUMBER 2 and a woman at SIZO NUMBER 6. I also have three clients at the federal Lefortovo prison—an ugly place. My clients at Butyrka have to take shifts sleeping, because there is only one bed in the three-by-three meter cell and four prisoners. Can you believe this?”

  “Terrible.”

  Alexandre cracked open his window and lit a cigarette. “It is 1996, but in many ways we are still in the age of the Gulags. Pre-trial prisons here are still based on the large dormitory concept. I know in your country and in Western Europe this is not the case. There are much more individual rights for prisoners, with more private space. It is very rare to have individual cells in Russia. It is mostly for punishment.”

  Jonathan listened, thinking about the infamous Angola prison in Louisiana. It was no paradise hotel either, with violent inmates crammed together like sardines. He’d been there three times during his law school days, helping his professor and a team of civil rights lawyers interview clients who had been victims of abuse and retaliation by prison officers. He’d even seen the notorious Camp J, known as the “dungeon”, the prison’s punishment unit, where inmates are under lock-down and subjected to grossly inhumane treatment in cramped, poorly ventilated cells.

  “Several of my other clients are in cells made for twenty but that now house about fifty prisoners.” Alexandre was an even faster driver than Boris. He weaved through traffic as if he were in a rally. He turned left and pulled up to a gate. “All right, we’re here.”

  Jonathan suddenly opened his eyes wide. The building straight ahead at first glance looked like an abandoned factory. It’s outside walls looked battered, as if a remnant of urban warfare. �
��Don’t tell me that’s—”

  “Shocking, huh?”

  “It looks like it’s taken a few artillery rounds.”

  Alexandre nodded and laughed. “A treasure from 18th Century Russia—”

  “You mean ruins.”

  “And home to about four thousand prisoners,” Alexandre said as he pulled up to a spot in the small parking lot adjoining the narrow gated entrance.

  “Four thousand?” Jonathan blurted, completely baffled. The main building was a long one-story structure with what appeared to be a couple of annexes behind it not much larger than a strip mall. That so many inmates were housed here seemed a physical impossibility. It looked like it barely had room for a few hundred.

  Just before leaving the car, Alexandre cautioned Jonathan about speaking. Prison guards were notoriously skittish when it came to foreigners, he said, particularly now that human rights groups had converged on Russia to shed light on every conceivable violation. “If a guard asks you anything, I will tell them you are an exchange lawyer working with my firm and nothing more, okay?”

  Jonathan nodded. “No problem.”

  The smell of mold was the first thing that greeted Jonathan as he followed his colleague into the jail through the gate.

  Alexandre seemed to know at least two of the four guards loitering around the atrium, one of them behind a makeshift wooden reception area. The formalities were much simpler than Jonathan had experienced back home. Alexandre signed in for himself and Jonathan and waved an ID to the guard. They then walked to another guard, who carefully inspected them with his handheld metal detector before letting them through a steel door behind him.

  The place was essentially a single long hall, with red and yellow tiled floors, yellow walls, and a white ceiling, the paint peeling and cracked from neglect. On the left side were the cells, their metal doors large, with tiny slits at eye level. On the other side were large windows, many with the glass panes missing or broken, and with thick bars on the outside. The rancid smell, perhaps from unbathed inmates or rotting sewers, was overpowering. A guard was positioned every thirty or so feet along the corridor. How they withstood the odor was a mystery.