The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8)

by John Ellsworth

  "I have information for you. Here."

  He handed Thaddeus a single sheet of paper, folded once.

  "What is this?"

  "Names you need. Christine's guards."

  "How can I use these? They aren't going to set her free, no matter how much I offer."

  "I don't know. I don't know your thinking. But I couldn't leave you twisting in the wind. Officially I'm not here. I would lose my position or worse if my employer knew I was even talking to you. You have the list. That's all I can do for you. Good night."

  "Your name is Jacques Lemoneux. Real name?"

  As he was walking away, the man turned.

  "Honest-to-God name."

  "How can I reach you if I need?"

  "You can't." He moved a step closer. "I'm sorry."

  "Talk to me, please. What would you do if you were in my shoes?"

  "Really? Probably I'd do the wrong thing. Shoot someone, shoot the wrong person. Get my friend killed. I'm the wrong one to ask."

  "I want to shoot someone."

  "Don't. You need to arrange for Christine to leave the prison and snatch her away from them. Some pretense to get her away from there. You're a smart man, I'm sure you'll think of something."

  "Are you saying—"

  "You are going to receive a delivery. It will contain a passport with a false name. It will have Christine's picture inside. You'll know what to do with it. You're a smart man."

  There; he had said it again: "You're a smart man."

  What was that supposed to mean?

  "What do you mean, I'm a smart man."

  Jacques pushed the heavy winter hat back on his head. He rubbed his forehead.

  "If I were you, I'd make a federal case out of it."

  "Meaning?"

  "Take her back to court. Another habeas petition."

  "That judge is owned by the president of Russia. That gets me nowhere."

  "True. But it does get Christine somewhere. Somewhere outside the prison."

  "Well."

  "Yes."

  The man spun on his heel and walked briskly to a Volga parked several doors away. He climbed inside, but the dome light didn't come on. With a long stream of exhaust pouring from the back end, the car accelerated and sped away toward the highway.

  Thaddeus watched it go. He watched the taillights flare at the highway. It sped south, toward the city. Then he returned to his room.

  He opened his MacBook and brought up a fresh Word document.

  It was time to make a federal case out of it.

  He typed until two o'clock in the morning. Then it was time to call Tony Folachnaya, the laundry man. It was true: back in the USA, Tony was a laundryman. But here, in Moscow, he was a powerful crime figure. And he owed Thaddeus.

  It was a matter of honor, the debt.

  And Tony, it turned out, was willing for Thaddeus to cash it in.

  43

  Oleg Valadnikov was a wiry Russian from the Urals, trained as a guard while serving in the Russian army, with a deep-rooted hatred of anything American, a society he considered purely hedonistic and spiritually dead. He was short, with massive hands and feet, and more Asian that Europid in the face. He'd had his eye on Christine in Special Isolation Unit No. 4 for two weeks. She was known to be American, and she was known to have resisted 150 attempts to waterboard a confession from her. She was one of those prisoners whose eyes flashed with an intense hatred anytime a guard came near. Including when Valadnikov served her soup and bread through the slot in her isolation cell.

  Valadnikov was one of the four-man detail tasked with moving the prisoner outside into the courtyard twice a day while she was locked in the isolation unit's cage. She remained outside for three to six hours each time; and each time they brought her back inside, she was shivering so badly that she would buck and roll off the slab bunk where they placed her. Valadnikov was amused by her agony and thought she, the hated American, deserved no less for the attempt she had made on the Russian president's life. Were it up to him, she would have been summarily dispatched and buried in the pauper's cemetery behind the prison.

  On the day following Jacques' visit to Thaddeus, Karli let it be known among the guards that a known member of the American CIA had visited Christine’s lawyer. Eyes had been in place, as usual, as the visit was observed with both close range and long range cameras and listening gear. When the duo had left the Execustay suite and gone outside to talk, the monitors had been unable to hear what was said, even though listening devices had been installed throughout the grounds and parking areas. Karli instructed the guards to maintain utmost care and utmost readiness for anything unusual, as he knew from Thaddeus' threats that the battle for her soul had just begun.

  Following the usual morning ritual, she was waterboarded before lunch by Valadnikov, questioned by Karli, and waterboarded again when she refused to give a statement implicating the CIA in a plot to assassinate the Russian president. Following that, she was fed potato gruel through the slot in her cell, then hosed down with ice water, forced inside the isolation unit, and rolled outside into the courtyard. During all of this she was stripped naked and was totally nude when wheeled outside.

  She was semi-conscious and suffering hypothermia when Valadnikov left his post at four-thirty that afternoon and crept into the courtyard. He removed the bolt from the hasp and opened the small cargo container into which they had stuffed her. He grabbed her by the ankles and roughly pulled her from the box and stood her on her feet. She promptly collapsed to the frozen ground, striking her head on the ice, and rolling onto her side, eyes closed, completely unconscious. Valadnikov moved around her, grasped her arm, and began dragging her to the side of the building, where there was a slight overhang under which several 2000 gallon drums of heating oil were stored. He dragged her between two drums and arranged her on her back. Then he spread her legs and assaulted her.

  When he was done, he left her there between the barrels until he and two others came for her at six o'clock. She was non-responsive and wasn't breathing. They carried her inside and ran through the halls with her to the infirmary, where they roughly deposited her on the linoleum floor in front of the desk of the admitting clerk. Emergency help was summoned and examinations performed. She was found to have a pulse rate of twenty, unknown if breathing, and unresponsive mental status. Her skin was blue and her rectal temperature was five degrees below normal. In a word, she had frozen to death.

  Or just about.

  * * *

  Dr. Nedrava Bella evaluated the prisoner carefully before using anti-shock trousers. She had to be certain that inflation of the trousers did not expose the heart to a sudden rush of cold, acidotic, venous blood from the legs. She knew that sudden temperature and/or pH changes in the heart caused cardiac arrest in severely hypothermic patients. Gentle handling was critical, and the physician barked orders at her staff to use the greatest care. She knew that stimulating peripheral circulation would reduce the blood volume in the woman's core, so she took every precaution when moving her.

  Two hours later, the prisoner's heart rate was increasing and the rectal temperature was approaching normal; but her blood gasses were disturbingly abnormal.

  Further examination then revealed the woman had been sexually assaulted. At which point the physician set off looking for the prison administrator to register her complaints.

  Prison administration officials knew a confession was required. So they ordered the prisoner held in the infirmary. If they allowed her to die—if they allowed the torture to continue—she wouldn't survive. Which would enrage the Russian president, who would be deprived of his confession. Heads would roll and re-assignments of key personnel made. None of the upper echelons was anxious to spend the rest of their careers in Siberia at a work camp, so the greatest care was taken to ensure the prisoner survived.

  At noon, the next day Christine opened her eyes. She found herself intubated and heard the sound of the ventilator breathing for her. Her eyes closed and she slept
until nightfall, when she awakened again and found they had removed the breathing tube. She was fed a mixture of warm mashed potatoes and beef gravy. She managed to swallow two bites before vomiting on the hand feeding her. The nurses cleaned her up and she was fed again. This time she kept it down, four tiny bites in all. Fluids were still being transfused and pain meds administered on a drip. They increased the drip and she slipped away into unconsciousness, sleeping another six hours until she was again fed. The catheter was removed and she was helped into the restroom, where she was placed on the toilet and steadied by the hands of two nursing assistants. They helped her back into bed, and this time she slept without chemicals.

  The administrator was notified, and he notified the president's staff.

  The prisoner had survived.

  Excellent, came the president's reply. Now get me the confession I require.

  The next morning, the waterboarding began again.

  44

  “Black Monday” was a Russian mafia.

  It was comprised of three brothers from the Ukraine who had migrated to Russia and devoured the Russian underbelly. Guns and drugs were the mainstay. Militia workers smuggled guns, mortars, and rockets out of the armories; transported them to Black Monday border stations; and sold them into the black market for use in Ukraine and the Middle East battles. Cash poured in the windows. It was easy money, and the brothers were unwilling to share. Competitors were rounded up and airlifted to 3000 feet, where they were kicked into the night—always on Mondays, a trademark practice. Hence, the practice became known as black Monday and the mafia became known as Black Monday.

  The brothers were Nikki, Fazi, and Kruzkov, and they were all clear-eyed killers before they were twenty-six years old. They answered to only one man—their father's brother. He lived in America and ran Black Monday from there. Uncle Tony Folachnaya's management style was straight out of the American mafia's playbook, paying everyone off, militia and Kremlin alike. There was enough money to paper walls, and Black Monday prospered.

  Uncle Tony Folachnaya never forgot a debt. When Thaddeus Murfee called him and asked for his help, there was no hesitation. The Russian GRU was holding a prisoner Thaddeus wanted to be freed. But there was a snag: President Piotor Irunyaev wanted Ama Gloq as a political pawn and he would never agree to her release. A huge intervention would be required. "Can you do it?" asked Thaddeus. Uncle Tony's voice was smooth and mellow over the phone. It was as good as done.

  Tony met with nephew Nikki on a subzero day in mid-January. Tony had arrived at Sheremetyevo Airport at six a.m. At six-forty-five, the meeting took place aboard Tony's plane. Huge snowflakes were covering all runways, only to be bladed and pushed back by endless plowing and potassium acetate liquid de-icing.

  "We owe a favor," Tony explained to his nephew. "A very big favor."

  "What can I do to help?" Nikki said. He was a cool-looking, smooth-talking Ukrainian, who had seen and done everything before his twenty-seventh birthday. Nikki was slender; he wore his black hair shaved down to the scalp and a huge diamond earring in his left earlobe. He carried dual Austrian Glock pistols concealed in his leather overcoat and it was known he wouldn't hesitate to use them. Enemies withered and disappeared at the mention of his name. The last thing any hoodlum wanted was to have Nikki learn his name.

  Tony knew he could rely on the young man for anything, which is why he was selected out of the three brothers to head up repayment of the favor Tony owed Thaddeus.

  He sat across from his uncle at the onyx table in the Gulfstream.

  "Who do we know in Matrosskaya Tishina prison?" asked the uncle.

  Tony ran a pale hand back across his bare head. His eyes narrowed.

  "We know everyone. What do we want there?"

  "There is a prisoner. Her name is Christine Susmann."

  "Do you want her dead?"

  "Not at all. I want her freed."

  "Done. Should I bring her to you this morning?"

  Uncle Tony raised a hand.

  "Not so fast. Our glorious president is holding her for political reasons. It must look like an accident. Or an escape."

  "Done. We can arrange that."

  "It must be done so there is no injury and no re-capture."

  "What will she do after she's freed?"

  "You will bring her to this aircraft. It is Russian registry and she will have false ID. There will be no suspicions when she leaves Russia for the United States. From this end, it will look like a common business flight."

  "Do I come with her?"

  "No need for that. However, there are two others who will come along."

  "They are?"

  "Thaddeus Murfee and Angelina Sosa."

  "Who are these people?"

  "The man is someone who once saved my life. The woman is a nobody. A reporter."

  "Then we must honor what this man did for you."

  "Exactly. You will take the three of them to Chicago. After that, you're free to go."

  "Consider it done."

  "How will you set her free?" said Uncle Tony. He wanted to be clear on what Nikki had in mind. There could be no slip-ups.

  "Did you ever hear of Oleg Topalov?"

  "No."

  "Oleg was a twice-convicted murderer. Small stuff to us, but a little bit crazy, his friends called him."

  "What did he do?"

  "He escaped this prison with a spoon."

  "Explain that."

  The men continued plotting and laying their plans for another half hour. After that, Nikki double-timed down the outside stairway and jumped in the back seat of his Mercedes. Exhaling a long plume of gray diesel smoke, the black automobile pulled away from the General Aviation tarmac and departed through an open gate.

  Nikki was already planning how he would get the spoon to Christine Susmann.

  45

  On the eighteenth day, they didn't beat her. Nor did they waterboard her. Nor did they subject her to sub-zero temperatures in the courtyard. Instead, the lone prisoner in the isolation cell received a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon, two pieces of toast, and a small carafe of American coffee. She was astonished. Astonishment turned to elation.

  Then turned to suspicion. Perhaps they were going to take a new tack with her, try to influence her and obtain a confession by other means. Halfway through the breakfast she pushed it aside. That wasn't going to work with her, either, any form of bribery. What the hell, did they really think she was that dumb?

  She numbly looked around her cell. She was sitting on the edge of her bunk—rather, a flat slab of concrete extruded from the wall of her cell. It was just barely long enough for her to stretch out on; and even then, the length of the cell required that she keep her knees bent. There was no mattress, no sheets, and no blanket. At the far end of the cell squatted a wooden bucket with wooden top and rope handle. She had used that for her toilet. The only opening, besides the steel door, was the overhead HVAC vent equipped with an ancient slide switch that opened and closed the antique vent. The walls were solid concrete, washed in a thin green paint that boiled and blistered along the seams where the concrete was joined to itself. The floor was the same concrete, but natural color.

  Her mind was in the process of re-learning how to fashion together two consecutive thoughts on the same topic. It had been shattered in its usefulness by the pain and fear she had known for two weeks now. Torture inhibits all useful thought and that is actually why it is done: to break down the mental processes of the subject so information can be extracted from the unwary mind.

  As her eyes played over the room, she realized she was no longer being held with the three cellmates she had started with. She was alone. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. So far, she hadn't given them what they wanted. She had known they would come for her again and immerse her in water again, so the breakfast was mind-numbingly twisted. They would try anything, she finally decided; and for that that she would have to remain on high alert.

  Four hours passe
d as she sat and tried to join thoughts together. Almost alarmingly the slot in the cell door opened and a plate of food slid onto the ledge on her side. She retrieved the plate and sat down again on the bunk. She studied the food. Chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy and what looked like cranberry sauce. She drew her finger through the mashed potatoes and inserted it into her mouth. It was warm and bore her away into dreams of what real food could be. Ten minutes later, she realized she had cleaned her plate. She stood, stumbled, and replaced the plate on the ledge. A hand swept inside and retrieved it. The plate was replaced in minutes with a gold and black carafe of coffee and a clean cup and saucer.

  Was she dreaming?

  She retrieved the hot liquid and got back up on the bench. This time she leaned back against the wall and prepared to enjoy the delicacy.

  A sip and then she heard the lock on her door being turned from the outside.

  The door came open and there stood three guards. Except on closer examination, they weren't guards at all. Their gray coveralls meant they were maintenance men. They entered her cell and indicated she should move as far back on her bench bed as possible. She did, pulling knees to chin as she sat back. She still had her coffee and gulped down the last of the cup, fearing they would take it from her before she finished.

  But they didn't take it.

  Instead, they pulled in behind them a squat machine on wheels with a huge canister and electric motor. A thick black hose came off the machine and ended in a long silver spike. Next came a short ladder. The bald man opened the ladder and climbed up. Holding a screwdriver, he reached up to the ventilation duct, removed screws until the grate came free, then passed it down to the youngest man. The third man, a bearded worker with thick black eyeglasses, passed the business end of the hose back up the ladder. He threw a switch on the machine and a huge racket slammed Christine's sore ears. She recoiled, scrunching her side against the wall, and shut her eyes. The man on the ladder inserted the silver spike end of the hose into the open duct and began enlarging it.