Michael Gresham (Book 5): Sakharov the Bear

by John Ellsworth

  "How so?"

  "He needs you to come to Moscow and lend us a hand."

  "Let me make arrangements for our son and I'm on my way. I'm sure Russell's folks will keep him for me."

  "When can you be here?"

  "Tomorrow okay?"

  "That would be great. Just dial this number when you land and I'll come find you."

  "Will do. Mr. Gresham, will I be getting to see Russell?"

  "Probably not. There's a chance we could convince them you're part of my staff, but probably not. These are very bright people."

  "Well, it wouldn't hurt to try, would it?"

  "No, it wouldn't hurt to try."

  We spend another five minutes discussing non-case-related things, then hang up. I manage to steal a nap during my remaining time in the airport. Then I sleep all the way back to Moscow. When I finally climb into my own bed it feels like a little bit of heaven, bedsprings and all. Like the proverbial light, I'm out.

  ANTONIA XIANG ARRIVES by Aeroflot the next night. She has flown all last night and most of the day to get here. She calls my phone and I go right to her at the Moscow airport.

  Baggage claim is frantic with passengers grabbing luggage and porters slinging it onto carts and rumbling noisily away. Everyone is in a great hurry and I feel sluggish among them, still exhausted after my flights yesterday.

  She is young—younger than Russell by maybe ten years, I'm guessing—yet she is composed and sure of herself as she hands me the baggage claim tickets and backs out of the travelers surrounding the conveyor belt. "Red bags, gold handles. Two total," she calls to me from behind. I'm caught up in the claimants' circle and we try to avoid stepping on each other as we lunge forward, pull handles, and jerk back away from the carousel. At one point I feel eyes crawling across my shoulder and look sharply to my right. There! The woman in the hijab. I believe it is her and I believe she is smiling toward me. Damn her! Damn the CIA, the damn cowards! Which makes me all the more determined to set Russell free, fly him back to the U.S., march him into the foreign news bureau at the Times, and lay out the whole, nasty story about CIA abandonment of agents and U.S. cover-ups. Will she be smiling when that happens?

  My reverie is broken by Mrs. Xiang, who is tugging at my arm and exclaiming, "Michael, you've let my bags go around twice! I told you the red bags with the gold handles!"

  "Got it."

  And I do, next time around, I snap them expertly off the carousel and begin moving away from baggage claim, outside to the taxi stand. She follows behind, wrapping her arms around herself as we are slammed by the wintry blast of Moscow night wind and sleet. It slices through my leather coat and even pierces my polypro.

  On the taxi ride back to my flat I update Russell's wife. I explain that Marcel has retrieved a written case summary from Russell that is waiting for Mrs. Xiang's translation. I tell her I'm hopeful her husband has taken full advantage of literary license and penned a whopper of a tale, something so bizarre it must be the truth. The Russians will have no idea what to do with it, if done properly.

  We arrive at my flat and I make coffee. It is a Mr. Coffee style machine. I fill the receptacle with dark, almost black, Russian coffee that wasn't grown anywhere near Russia, I'm certain. But the smell of brewing coffee and the hissing of the radiators gives my little home the feel and smell of warmth and safety. While the one is obvious, the other is tenuous at best, for nowhere in Russia is anyone truly safe, even the innocent. Then I produce a loaf of bread that is like a sourdough but very dark, a knife and board, and a round of summer sausage and a wheel of cheese and I begin assembling two sandwiches. Mayonnaise is slathered on, Russian-style—the condiment is hugely popular here, made of sunflower seed oil. Mayonnaise was never meant to be used in such huge quantities, I explain to Mrs. Xiang, but the Russians adopted it from the French and have abused it ever since. She laughs at my silliness and seems to relax just a bit, which is what I was aiming for.

  After we have eaten and drunk down our coffee, I produce her husband's case summary. It is written in his handwriting on white copy paper. The ink is blue and there is nothing about it to commend it as anything special.

  She finds her glasses in her purse and sits back on the worn sofa. A cup of coffee is balanced on the sofa's arm and her hand turns it ever so slowly as she begins reading. The story unspools as she reads, aloud, and I hear what our defense is going to sound like.

  In the end, Russell Xiang's story sounds like something out of a Harvard B-School case study. His is story of a Chinese entrepreneur who journeyed to Russia in search of a source of travel photographs and prices for a reservations website he was putting together for Chinese citizens. He explained that ever since China had relaxed its strictures on out-of-country travel by its populace, Chinese citizens by the tens of thousands had been jetting around the world, looking for new playgrounds and entertainment centers. Especially among the young. Russell Xiang came to Moscow with an eye toward capturing some of that money for himself and his angel investors, when he was suddenly yanked into custody and charged with the murder of someone he'd never heard of. He recites in his tale of woe how he has tried to contact his father in China for help; that his father has retained Mikhail Sakharov and that Sakharov is now in Moscow preparing Xiang's defense. Xiang is married, his wife is still in China, and he is the father of two children, one of whom went to math camp at the age of five. His life was looking rosy and he was successful in all respects until the FSB whisked him away in the backseat of a police van and dumped him in Lefortovo Prison.

  And this is all just the beginning. There will be embellishments and add-ons, no doubt. There will be sufficient human suffering to melt even the iciest Russian heart in the sad retelling of one businessman's trip to Russia gone bad.

  The next day, I take Antonia to Van's office and we discuss what Russell has written.

  After reading the summary, he says, "There will be enough to sway the right jury—if we even get a jury."

  "Meaning?"

  "Even where jury trials are allowed by law, there is no absolute right to a jury trial. Without a jury, the conviction rate in Russian criminal cases hovers at around 93%. With a jury, maybe 27% are found not guilty."

  "So how do we guarantee a jury for Russell?"

  Over the next hour, we find ourselves wracking our brains, trying to conceive of all the possible ways we can obtain a jury for Russell. But even when we are finished looking at all the laws and the rules and the normal routines of the court system, we still don't know where the court is going to come down on our request for a jury. By contrast, in the United States the Sixth Amendment guarantees the right to a fair and impartial public trial by jury in all criminal cases.

  I tell Van, "Constitutional guarantees in the United States cannot be abridged."

  He sadly shakes his head and studies the anguish in my face.

  Then he says, in all seriousness, "In Russia, there are no guarantees."

  "How do people live like that, with that uncertainty?" I ask him.

  "Who said anything about living? In Russia we are merely surviving."

  "So what can we do? Anything?"

  He shakes his head. "This case is a hot political spectacle. There will be no jury. Unless—" his voice trails off.

  "Unless what?"

  "Unless we can manage to blow it up into something so huge that we can embarrass the court into giving us a jury. That is our only chance."

  I'm already down the road thinking about that one. But then I realize I'm not in the U.S. where I ordinarily would hold a press conference to twist the tail of the lion. Here, there is no such thing as a press conference.

  "So how do we embarrass the court?"

  "I'm thinking about that, Mikhail. I might have an idea."

  "Such as?"

  He spreads his hands and looks stiffly at me. "Let me talk to some contacts I have in the court. Then I will get back to you with a plan, perhaps."

  "Thank you, Van. I don't know what we'd do wit
hout you here."

  He nods his head. "I don't either. That's why I accepted your case."

  We sit in silence.

  Then Van brightens and his voice lifts up a note as he says, "Oh, by the way, a call came for you, Mikhail." He holds up a pink note.

  "Who would call me?"

  "Verona Sakharov is the lady's name. She lives in Moscow and she says she's your wife."

  I am stunned. "Wait," I manage to say, "she says she's the wife of Mikhail Sakharov?"

  "So she says."

  "Meaning I've taken the name of her deceased husband?"

  "She doesn't say anything about you being deceased. In fact—"

  "In fact what?"

  He smiles and chuckles. "In fact, she wants to meet with you."

  He hands over the note.

  "That is her number. Please call her."

  "But I don't speak Russian."

  "She speaks English. In fact, she teaches English at university. Her husband was a lawyer."

  "But—but—"

  "Just call her, Mikhail. She certainly deserves to hear from her dead husband, wouldn't you think?"

  ANTONIA XIANG IS STAYING at the Moscow Marriott, so I have our cabbie drop her there. We promise we will speak later in the day, after I have been to see how Russell's doing. She wanted to tag along but I told her it wouldn't work in the infirmary, that they are very careful who they let in and out. I assure her that only Russell's attorneys have access right now. Unlike normal hospitals there are no visiting hours for family. She accepts that and says she'll be waiting to hear from me. I tell her she shall.

  Then it's back to my flat, where I make coffee and slip into some ill-fitting slippers I saw in the window of a shoe store and purchased. They are a type of moccasin, though Russia never had Indians to pass along the moccasin tradition. So I'm wondering how and why the country sells moccasins. But that's a question for another day, I decide as I pour myself a large cup of Russian coffee. It's time to call Marcel.

  Marcel is in hiding at the country home of a friend from his earlier days here. That's all he'll tell me and I, of course, don't push it. He has his skeletons and I have mine—evidently, I tell him, explaining that Mikhail Sakharov's wife has called.

  His tone is very measured. He is calculating. "How did she get your name? Where did she make any connection?"

  "Evidently the story of Russell and his work for the CIA has become somewhat of a story in Izvestia."

  "The Russian newspaper has picked up the story?"

  "Yes, and my widow evidently saw the story, read it, and was shocked to find her deceased husband was up to his old tricks, defending criminals in Moscow City Court."

  "Good grief. What have I done, Mikhail?"

  "That's why I'm calling you, Marce. What have you done?"

  Long silence. Then, "I think I might have really screwed the pooch on this one."

  "No lie, Sherlock," I say with all the sarcasm I can muster. "Now you have my widow calling me."

  "What does she want?"

  "She wants to meet with me."

  "What have you told her?"

  "I haven't yet. I thought I'd call you first and see if you'd like to kill her, her family, and all of her friends to protect my cover-up."

  "No need for sarcasm, Mikhail. I'm sorry this has happened."

  "Apologies for the sarcasm, Marce. But I sure as hell didn't need this development. Next time be a little more careful when you're choosing a name for me, yes?"

  Long silence. Again. "I don't think there will be a next time, Mikhail."

  "Why is that?"

  "My friend here has a nice investigation business with government ties. He would like me to join him in that."

  "Marce, think of what you're saying! You don't want to live in Russia!"

  "It wouldn't involve living in Russia. My work would take place mostly on the Continent. Plus some in the U.S."

  "Well please don't accept any offers just yet. Let me make you a counter-offer first. Please?"

  "I won't do anything until your work here is done, Mikhail. After that, we'll talk. But I'm strongly tending toward accepting."

  "Just don't. Not until you've heard my counter."

  "I promise that. I owe you that."

  "All right, then."

  "Mikhail, meet with the woman, tell her you're actually American and that somehow you and her deceased husband share the same name. That should placate her. She'll have no way of checking that out."

  "All right, then. So be it."

  I CALL the woman's number, get her voice mail, and leave a message that I'll be waiting to meet her in front of St. Basil's at three p.m. I don't have anything else to add, so I abruptly hang up.

  At 2:58 p.m. I'm standing in ankle-deep snow in front of the cathedral, smoking a nervous cigarette. A nervous cigarette is one I occasionally smoke when I'm too nervous to function. Which I am right now, thinking that I'm about to meet a woman who might be furious and ready and able to turn me into the FSB as an imposter. The FSB could then combine my deceit with that of Russell's and make me look like another plant by the CIA come to help Russell. Stuff like that is running through my mind, some of it a real possibility, some of it specious as hell, but there you are. Like everyone else gathering on the walk around me and shooting pictures of the famous Moscow landmark behind me, I'm only human and I have a brain quite capable of running off with my calm, logical processes and leaving me twisting in the wind with the insanity of whatever my latest crackpot idea has turned up. Taking over a dead guy's identity might be just that and it serves me right for trusting Marcel without question and for not checking up on his work myself. But what's done is—a taxi pulls to the curb and a mid-fortyish woman climbs out of the backseat. She is wearing overshoes, a heavy navy coat from shoulders to just below the knees, and her hair is pulled over to the side in a very stylish cut. She passes some currency to the driver and steps around to the curb as he pulls away. Then she turns around, spots me, and gives me the most beautiful smile I have seen in a long, long time.

  "Mikhail!" she cries, coming to me with her hands outstretched to take my hands in her own.

  I comply, tentatively holding my hands out and she does, indeed, take them into her own gloved hands.

  "Thanks for coming," I say.

  "Oh, this is exciting."

  "How so?" We are standing there, still holding hands.

  "Well, I'm getting to see my long-dead husband come back to life. Naughty boy, dilly-dallying around in court without calling your wife as soon as you set foot back on earth. Tsk-tsk."

  I can see it's going to be an interesting afternoon. I hail another cab, we climb in, and I ask Verona to tell him we need a coffee shop, something close by.

  Then we're off.

  She learns forward in her seat and turns to face me. She loosens the muffler around her throat. She shakes her hair free.

  "Okay," she says without a hint of how she's feeling about me, "who are you really?"

  She has me, no doubt. But I need time to put my story together.

  "I'd rather wait until we're alone in the coffee shop, if that's all right."

  She sees me indicate the driver with my eyes, as if I'm afraid he might be listening.

  "Driver!" she snaps, "This man has a million dollars for you if you'll only toot your horn!"

  Of course, there is no reaction. The driver is immutably immune to the English language, just like she knew he'd be.

  "Still, please let's wait until we're alone," I try again. I sound like I'm whining and suddenly I don't much care for me. After all, I've betrayed this attractive woman and now I'm feeling like an ass.

  "All right, Mikhail."

  We are dropped in front of a small cafe with a green canopy and a greeter at the entrance. He opens the door and waves us through.

  Then we are seated and coffee is ordered.

  "Again," she asks without waiting, "who are you?"

  "My name is Michael Gresham and I'm an American la
wyer." The jig is up.

  She pulls a curl of hair from her forehead. I love her hair—a hint of gray mixed in with blond—and I love her deep red lip gloss. Plus she smells wonderful, like the Tweed of my college days.

  "Are you working for the CIA? Is that why you're in Russia, to help the CIA agent they caught?"

  "No, I'm anything but CIA. I was hired by the man's father. My client is Russell Xiang and he is charged with acquiring state secrets. He's also charged with murder of an FSB agent. It doesn't look good."

  "Why are you using my husband's name? Why have you stolen his identity? And why shouldn't I go straight to the FSB and report you?"

  Thankfully, our coffees arrive and we use the cream and sugar, me in copious quantities; her, very little.

  It gives me a few moments to formulate my response.

  "I'm using your husband's name because my investigator put together a Russian identity for me to keep me insulated from the FSB. We don't want them to know my real name for my own safety. So that's the why of your question. And you shouldn't go to the FSB with this because they'll toss my dumb ass right in jail and throw away the key."

  She smiles suddenly. "Pity, then I'd have to come visit you at Christmas."

  "And my birthday."

  She is still smiling. "Silly man."

  It doesn't take her but a moment longer to see I'm very taken with her.

  "So who are you?" I ask. "I've shown you mine, now you show me yours."

  "I'm Verona Kristinova Sakharov, I'm fifty-one years of age, a widow, and I support myself by teaching at Moscow State University. I have no children, but four brothers and four sisters, all of whom live in and around Moscow, so I always have plenty of company around the holidays and there's always a niece or a nephew waiting for a birthday present from me. My favorite band is ABBA and my favorite painter is Gaugin. The greatest American writer is—"

  "Hold it, please, why Gaugin?"

  "Because, Mikhail, someday I would like to retire to the South Pacific and laze around in the sun on a sandy beach and have a man spread coconut oil on my shoulders. My particular fantasy. What is yours?"