"Enough," he says while maintaining his poker face.
"Would it be possible for me to visit Marcel in his cell?"
"I don't think. He has other men with him."
"How about in the hallway outside his cell? You could watch us from a distance. I need to talk to him and not be recorded or overheard."
"One hundred, USD."
I dig into my money clip and extract a hundred-dollar bill. "Will this do?"
He eagerly seizes the note from me and pockets it. "Come with me, Mikhail."
Now he leads us along the final corridor, and all along on our right are cells that I count as we go. At twenty-two, we reach Marcel's cell. The guard calls into his shoulder mike for the cell to be unlocked and seconds later that ignominious sound of a jail cell unlocking buzzes loudly not two feet from me. It startles me and I jump. Now the guard smiles. He motions Marcel to join him. He wraps handcuffs around Marcel's wrists, pulled behind his torso, and then turns him around. "Come," he says, and leads us to the very end of that corridor. There, he opens a locked door with his keys and holds out his hand. We are motioned inside. We go in and the door immediately closes behind us. I switch on the wall switch. A broom and mop closet. There's a sink, the large commercial kind, several mop buckets, a good dozen mops hanging from a wall rack, and box after box of cleaning products. Marcel takes a seat on one such box and I do the same.
"You're a sight for tired old eyes," he says.
I shake my head. "Sorry I don't have you out of here yet. But I'm working on it."
"Don't bullshit an old bullshitter, Michael. Nothing short of a Presidential pardon is going to spring me out of here. I'm in deep shit and I know it. Now, why are you here?"
"My hotel room. I know it's bugged and videoed."
He snorts. "So what else is new? This is Russia, Ducky."
"Sure. Mai Yung is coming in Sunday. I'm to meet with her and prepare her for trial."
"Who is she?"
"Russell's birth mother."
"Oh, shit. What the hell did she come here for?"
"She's going to testify."
"About?"
I look around. This room was random. I'm going to chance it.
"She's going to testify that Russell was with her in China on Christmas Eve. She'll say he flew to Moscow the next day to make business arrangements for one of his companies."
"So you've got a voucher. Everyone has a mother who will lie for them. What else you got?"
"I told you that I'm Russell's father. It's a long story that starts from our college days."
"She was in college with you, there was a wild night, our CIA agent is the product of that magical union. Got it."
"Shit, Marcel. Have you really become that jaded in here?"
The corners of his mouth turn down. He scowls. "I've always been this jaded. You've just never noticed before. Or maybe I kept it from you out of regard for your tender feelings. Just fucking with you, Mikey. No, I'm not. I'm going nuts, Boss. You've gotta get me outta here. And soon."
"I'm working on it."
"Really? What's our play?"
"I haven't decided. But I have some things in mind for you. I really do."
"Such as?"
His eyes are boring into mine. It's time to come clean.
"All right. Here's the bottom line, Marcel. You're charged with crimes against the state from your days here as an Interpol agent. The court papers said you murdered two Ministry of Justice agents. I've asked around. I've had Van ask around. Either one of those gets you a lifetime in a work camp. Two of them get you two lifetimes. You following me?"
"So there's nothing?"
"Afraid not."
He lets out a long sigh and his shoulders slump. I see for the first time that his jail tunic is a couple of sizes too big for him. It wasn't, the first month or two he was in here. He's losing weight. Hopefully it's the diet causing the weight loss and not something more serious.
Just then a large black bug emerges from under Marcel's box. It crawls toward Marcel's flip-flops. I imagine he's going to stamp on it like the Marcel I know would be quick to do. But he doesn't. Instead he sadly shakes his head and looks into my eyes.
"I know the guy. He visits us in our cell. He comes and goes as he pleases, the bug. We let him live because we totally admire his freedom to come and go as he wishes. We all aspire to be this bug."
The bug bangs up against Marcel's flip-flop and Marcel slides the rubber sole out of the bug's path. The bug lurches on past and disappears under the next box.
What can I say? We're living in two totally different worlds now, and I have no idea how to help my friend. What started as a day with some possibilities for sightseeing and some good food has now turned into a day of regret. I'm sick at heart that I ever asked Marcel to come to Russia. Had I known then about his record with the Russian Federation I never would have asked. But he's now my responsibility and his trial is still two months away.
There's nothing good to tell him.
"Marcel, where would you take Mai if you were me and you needed to talk in private?"
"Simple. Always do the random thing. Climb on a bus, go to the back seat where you can barely hear due to the diesel engine beneath your butt, and have at it. It's random and it will cover up your conversation with the diesel's knocking and gears. That's your very best bet."
"All right. That's what I'll do."
I have what I came for. We both know I have nothing else to offer Marcel at this point, yet neither one of us moves. It's too damn painful just to walk out of here and rejoin the sunshine and fresh air and leave Marcel in this place. It's inhumane.
"Are they mistreating you?"
"Naw, they're too smart for that."
"What do you mean, they're too smart?"
"They know I just might kill myself if they play too rough. That ends the game right there."
"Why would they care?"
He sighs a long, hard sigh.
"Michael, did I ever tell you I was part of the team that investigated the death of Princess Diana?"
"Princess Di—of Great Britain?"
"Yes. Two young men of her entourage that night were from Moscow. In fact they were employed not ten blocks away from here."
"Where would that be?"
"KGB headquarters. Two of her entourage were KGB agents who were friends of her boy toy."
"You can't be serious!"
"Serious, yes. MI6 wanted them taken out after she was killed. Yours truly drew the short straw. I came here, did the job, and was preparing to board the Aeroflot flight back to London when I was arrested at the airport. At the last minute, I escaped, jumped on a BOAC flight, flashed my Interpol credentials at the flight crew, and made my getaway. That's the short version. The long version is cloak and daggers and hours and hours of waiting for targets to arrange themselves—all that nefarious kind of stuff you read about and see in the movies."
"Wow. This is amazing stuff."
"Actually, it's all a state secret. For what that's worth. There isn't a soul alive in London who wouldn't applaud what I did if the story ever got out. We all loved her, you know?"
"Sure. She was beautiful and charming and wonderful."
"So the FSB knows it was you who pulled the trigger on these guys?"
"Sliced their throats—but yes, same thing."
"Why didn't you tell me this before I asked you to come here?"
He smiles a bitter smile. "It was you, Michael. I came because it was you asking."
"Well, thanks for that. FML."
"I know you feel terrible, but don't. It was bound to happen sooner or later. That's why I changed my name to Marcel Rainford."
"Wait. Marcel Rainford isn't your real name?"
"No. Read my court papers in the original Russian. You'll see my Interpol name was something entirely different."
"How can we use that? Wrong person?"
"Again? Aren't we beating that old horse to death here?"
"Let m
e change the subject." I proceed to update Marcel regarding the bill of lading and Nurayov's involvement. Then I tell him about the fact the original bill’s page one only lists the one shipping container number. I explain the page I stole was one of two. And that there’s no page two. Then I tell him why we don’t need page two with the numbers. "Russell has those up here," I say, touching the side of my head.
"So you obtained the original file including the bill of lading from EIS. Is that a nice way of saying there was a burglary?"
"Something like that. So what's my play? How do I put Russell's numbers to work?"
"Contact the embassy. I'll give you a name there. Tell them what you have. Prisoner trades are made constantly between our government and the Russian Federation."
"Doesn't ring a bell with me, Marcel. I didn't know about that."
"They never get picked up by the press. Very hush-hush. It's extremely common, though. Usually it's bodies being traded back and forth. But sometimes information is traded. Your case would be a matter of making the U.S. interested enough in us that they cut loose a Russian spy or three and trade us out of here."
"I see. Give me the name of your embassy contact."
"Try Charles Sidemayor. He's been there forever."
"CIA?"
"Definitely."
"I'm on it."
He leans forward and holds out his hands as if praying. I've never seen him like this.
"Get me out of here, Michael. Please."
"If they want to play, I'll play."
He nods solemnly. "They have no choice. Otherwise Chicago finds itself under a major attack from troops armed with military grade weapons. Or Los Angeles. Or Toledo. Who knows?"
We say our goodbyes and I open the door and stick my head out. Our guard is waiting right there, his back against the door, examining his new hundred-dollar bill. He smiles when I pull the door open.
"That's another one," he says, indicating his cash.
I go to my money. This time I hand him two more.
Who knows when I may need to do this again?
I then follow him back out to admissions, where I ask to see Anna Petrov. It is time to prepare her testimony next.
Chapter 38
M ichael Gresham
WHEN I STOP in at the embassy, I tell the receptionist my name, ask for Charles Sidemayor, and tell her to tell him I have shipping container numbers. I tell her he'll know what I mean, that the containers were offloaded in the U.S. by the Russian company known as EIS. She says because it's Saturday Mr. Sidemayor will be out of his office, that I'll have to wait until Monday. I tell her to just get ahold of him and give him the message, then we'll see. She grudgingly agrees to contact him and I remember again what it feels like to be obstructed by bureaucrats, Russian and American. But that's for another day.
I take a seat in the reception area, open to the public, and put my feet up on the coffee table after removing my boots. I'm tired and could actually take a nap. I close my eyes and within seconds I'm dreaming. There is a vision of a conflict between Verona Sakharov and Mai Yung to see who gets me. My laughter at the ridiculous image shocks me back to reality and I open my eyes. The receptionist is standing right there wearing a wide smile and asking me graciously, "Mr. Sakharov, would you like some American coffee while you wait?"
I can't resist. "Don't tell me. He's on his way here."
"Actually he wants to meet you at the Pushkin at one."
"Where's that?"
"The Pushkin Museum of Visual Art. Everyone calls it the Pushkin. He'll meet you in the cafe."
"How will I know him?"
She smiles. "How about that coffee?"
"American coffee would make my day. I'll ask again: how will I know him?"
"He'll know you, Mr. Sakharov. Not to worry."
At one o'clock on the dot I'm waiting in the Pushkin cafe when in walks my co-counsel, Van. He sits down across from me and looks all around. Wearing sunglasses and a black turtleneck he looks nothing like the neat and conservatively groomed Van I'm used to seeing in the courtroom with me.
"Van?" I say. "You're what—you just happen to be here?"
He extends his hand across the table as if to shake.
"Charles Sidemayor," he says, "Central Intelligence Agency."
"What—what? Van, I'm waiting for Charles Sidemayor. Don't tell me you're—"
"Charles Sidemayor. I'm telling you, Michael, there's more CIA in Moscow than there is FSB. We're everywhere."
"Wait a minute. I called a random phone number to hire a lawyer to act as my Russian co-counsel. You're saying I got you instead?"
"You did. We intercepted your call and they routed it to me."
I'm all but speechless. "You've known all along about Russell and Marcel?"
"And Verona and Anna. You've been doing a nice job with Russell, by the way. You were on the verge of losing that damn trial. Now it's up for grabs, Michael. Nice work."
"This is impossible. I don't believe—"
"Get over it, Michael. We don't have much time. We need shipping container numbers. Your friend Russell has those."
At just that moment, we are joined at the table by a third man. He looks familiar; I know I've seen him somewhere here in Russia before. He smiles and sticks out his hand, "Anatoly Palatov. I bailed you out when you were in jail in Moscow, remember?"
It all comes back to me. "I do. And thank you once again for that. But it also sticks in my mind that I asked you about Russell and you said you'd do what you could to help. Remember that?"
He smiles grimly. "I do. I'm afraid that's been very difficult."
"Meaning what? Do we have a swap to make for Russell and the others or don't we? I know Uncle Sam wants those shipping numbers. So what's the holdup?"
"We want Russell. We want Russell and Verona, Marcel, and Anna. We have four Russian prisoners we'll trade for them."
"Who would that be?"
"Remember when the government sent all those Russian embassy workers home after the last election was hacked?"
"I do."
"Four of them didn't get to go. They were held. President's orders."
"The four we're going to trade for my friends."
"That's right."
"Has the President approved the trade?"
Palatov looks at Van—Ivanovich. Both men nod. "He has no choice," says Van. "He cannot afford a terrorist attack like these weapons would unleash. It's a done deal."
"So what are we waiting for?"
“The Russians are waiting for you to lose the trial. Then they get to keep Russell and keep us from obtaining shipping numbers. If we lose, Russell will have to cooperate with the Russians to stay alive.”
“So there’s no choice but for me to win and get him out of Russia.”
“If you don’t,” Van said, leaning close to me and speaking softly, “we’ll have to eliminate your son ourselves. There’s no losing, Michael, not if you want to keep your boy alive.”
Both men are standing, making ready to leave.
“Why do you think he’s my son?” I ask.
But they don't answer. They have turned their backs to me and they are leaving.
I sit back and close my eyes. So, that’s the CIA’s game. Either Rusty comes home or he dies very young. My hands are stuffed inside my coat pockets and I realize they’re balled into hard fists. I want to hit someone, preferably someone who put my son in this terrible position. But I’m powerless; they’re all phantoms and there’s no one to strike. Except I’m not powerless in court. There’s the bottom line for Rusty and me: the courtroom.
There is a line at the cash register. I decide to give Russian coffee another chance, and get in line. We move forward inch by inch until I'm up to the pastries case. I'm just choosing a glazed donut when gunshots erupt outside the museum. A guard comes in from the outer room hands raised. He's shouting in Russian. The people ahead of me in line visibly relax and continue waiting so I do too. Whatever the trouble was, it must have pass
ed by now.
Ten minutes later I walk out the front doors of the museum. There, at the bottom of the stairs are several police cars and an evidence van. Photographers and TV cameras are all around and there, in the middle of a cordoned-off area, lie two men who have been shot to death. I pause before my next bite of donut. The hair of the nearer one resembles someone I—then I realize. It's them, Palatov and Ivanovich. Van and Palatov have been gunned down.
I drop my coffee and donut where I stand and put my head down and start running. Out to the sidewalk I go, where I skid on the ice and head right, back toward the city. I run until I can run no longer. Then I slow to a walk and turn to see oncoming traffic. It's a simple matter to flag a cab and climb on inside. The driver in front studies me in the rearview mirror. I'll have him drop me a good block away from the Marriott.
A long, snowy block from my hotel, I have the driver pull over at the Moscow Ritz. He understands my hand signs and swings the cab to the curb. I push a handful of Russian rubles at him and climb out.
Then he is off, puttering down the road, tailpipe puffing a long stream of exhaust, and me watching, waiting until he turns the corner and is gone.
Now I trudge through deep snow toward the Marriott. I'm alone and it is snowing and all sounds are muffled. For a moment I'm free again and just taking a walk on a winter's day.
Inside my room I remove my coat. I look down. My hands are shaking. I have to urinate in a huge way. So I hit the bathroom and let fly with a long yellow stream.
I close my eyes. I'm writing my name in the snow with my stream and I'm a child again and none of this is real.
I remove my suit and stretch out under the covers on my bed. The springs creak as I settle in.
Several times that day I hear steps outside my room on the landing and the doorknob to my room door being turned. I come fully awake and lie there, panting in my fear and praying the steps will keep going.
Michael Gresham (Book 5): Sakharov the Bear Page 21
