Paul Vidich - The Mercenary

“No. Who is he?”

“You are lying!”

Rostov slapped the documents on the table in front of Garin, punctuating his accusation. The prosecutor’s face had reddened, his eyes were fierce, and his anger was palpable. Rostov turned to the judge. “This man,” he said, pointing to Posner, “is the man the CIA calls GAMBIT. A morally corrupt traitor to the State who trades military secrets for personal gain.”

The judge examined the documents that Rostov presented and removed her glasses to look at Rostov. “But why is the money going into the American’s account? Shouldn’t it be going the other way? The American sending money, not receiving it?”

“Madame Chairman,” Rostov said with a flourish, his voice deepening respectfully, “the elaborateness of this conspiracy is almost unimaginable. Here is a second numbered Swiss bank account at Compagnie de Banque et Investissements.” He placed the document before the judge with two hands, bending respectfully at the waist as he did.

“The first transfer is from the KGB disbursement account at the Military Institute Commission, which is the only agency allowed to disburse foreign currency,” Rostov explained, “and when the amount is below ten thousand dollars US, Posner could authorize the transfer, so long as he explained it. And defendant Posner wrote such an explanation, which you can see is the second document. He claims he was paying Garin to be a Soviet double agent.

“Here, however”—Rostov stepped forward and placed his finger on the second numbered account—“is the real business. Account number Q45458933A belongs to defendant Posner through his alias account at Coutts Private Bank, London, which has a banking affiliation with Compagnie de Banque et Investissements. May I direct your attention to the sum transferred on the same day as funds went to Garin, but this amount was from Garin to Posner, in the amount of two hundred fifty thousand dollars.

“As I said, the cleverness of this conspiracy is almost unimaginable, and the damage to State Security incalculable. We lost a KGB officer inside the embassy. This man Garin has masked his identity, leaving us to speculate who he is beyond who he claims to be. Our military technology shows up in the Pentagon. And the small sum paid to Garin is part of an elaborate subterfuge to give the appearance that Comrade Posner recruited this man Garin as a double agent, when in fact”—Rostov pointed at the prisoner in the dock—“he is the one who took cash for secrets, just as he took bribes to transfer dissident art into London galleries or secured prohibited alcohol for the Metropol Hotel. His ingenious plan was intended to make it look like he recruited the American Garin, but like the magician, one hand distracts while the other deceives.”

“What does the witness say?” the judge asked.

“He will deny it. He denied it to Comrade Talinov. But I will ask him.”

Rostov and the judge faced Garin. The judge had slightly oval eyes and the matronly face of a grandmother. She leaned forward, looking soberly at Garin, and directed him to answer the question.

Garin watched. He knew that the unreality of Hell didn’t mitigate the terror, but it could surprise him in unexpected ways. He heard in Rostov’s summary a plausible account, one even he could believe. Justice was outside of time because the crime and the judgment were only connected through facts woven into a reconstruction of the past. But they weren’t the past, only a version of it, and he preferred Rostov’s version.

“That’s ludicrous,” Garin said. He waved off the question with the calculated bluster of a poker player holding a bad hand. “A clever theory. If only it were true.”

Rostov raised his hands. “See? Nothing can more clearly demonstrate his deception than his denial. Look at his face, listen to his voice. He is trying to protect the man sitting there.”

“Numbered accounts,” Garin said. “Where is the proof? You would have the court believe you’ve pierced the confidentiality of Swiss banking.”

Rostov walked to Garin. “And clever of you too, Mr. Garin, thinking we would reveal our methods here in open court.”

THE TRIAL RECONVENED AFTER A two-hour break. The courtroom had no sense of day or night, and the unchanged fluorescent lighting created the illusion that time had stopped.

Garin was escorted into the courtroom by two guards who held his elbows. The handcuffs and ankle shackles were again removed at the door, but he walked in with the slumped posture of an accused man, not a witness. Garin was made to sit to one side, and it was then that he noticed a difference in the room. Defendant Posner stood at the defense table, and Natalya sat alone at the witness table. She wore her gray KGB uniform with its service medal, black leather heels, and a scarlet necktie on a white blouse. Her black hair was tied tightly in a bun, and her pale lips were pressed together in a defiant expression.

Natalya avoided his eyes. She was remote and seemed unnaturally rigid. When their eyes did meet, she did not acknowledge him in any way.

“Madame Chairman,” Posner said, moving from behind the defense table, where he dismissed the restraining hand of his lawyer, a pudgy, short man in a rumpled suit. “I stand accused of crimes against the State, and if everything I am accused of is true, as the prosecutor alleges, I would be the first to demand your evenhanded judgment. I am speaking now on my own behalf, against the advice of my attorney, but only I know the facts and how they fit together. If I may?”

Posner took his cue from the judge’s nod. “Thank you.” He turned to Rostov with a grim face. “The charges against me are false, the facts untrue, the allegations malicious, and the accuser Talinov has his own reasons to turn this trial into a mockery. Let me address each point of the charge and you will see that my accuser’s motives corrupt the accusations with foul intentions.

“Madame Chairman, I was convicted in a sham trial a few weeks ago of extorting money from trade unionists in exchange for favors. The conviction is being appealed. The vague evidence against me was filled with circumstantial claims, except for one. I was accused of taking bribes to facilitate the import of a prohibited good—specifically French wine—to the Metropol Hotel’s restaurant. The principal evidence against me was the confession made by the restaurant’s maître d’. What is unconscionable is what happened behind the scenes after the principal witness, A. Y. Vyshinsky, who actually rejected the idea of my guilt, was put in the hands of Directorate Z. Its powerful chief, Viktor Stucka, an ally of Talinov, suddenly took an interest in the case, and the man was transferred to prison where, miraculously, Vyshinsky made a confession. Subsequently, I reviewed the confession, but I had no chance to question the man. He died in prison.

“The idea that I would take a bribe from a hotel employee—it stretches the imagination and impeaches reason. But from this weed they grew a garden of claims that I had extorted millions from art dealers, food wholesalers, and cigarette importers. My conviction was quite convenient for a colleague in the Fifth Chief Directorate who now had no competition for the deputy director’s position I was in line for.”

“Comrade Posner,” the judge interrupted. “We aren’t here to retry your conviction. Speak to the present indictment.”

“Madame Chairman, I will address the charge of treason. I am guilty of many things that, if viewed in the wrong light, as the present circumstances create, support a case against me, and in this I am a victim of my own mistakes. But who among us is perfect? Am I guilty of being complicit in a rush to uncover deceit among my colleagues, and in doing so, have I made errors of judgment that look like I was dishonest? Yes, I am guilty of that crime.