Джозеф Файндер - Judgment

That, in combination with Arnold Coren’s well-known ability to circulate rumors that would reach all the way to the Kremlin. Protasov would be summoned back to Moscow, questioned, maybe even arrested. He would no longer be a threat.

It was only a matter of time.

They had no idea how soon.

The next morning, as Duncan was watching Meet the Press Daily and she was putting away groceries, he suddenly called out, “Jules?”

He pointed, and she looked at the TV. She hadn’t been paying attention to the news, but then she heard “philanthropist and investor Yuri Protasov.” They were showing video of what looked like a downed helicopter. The chyron on the bottom of the screen read: BREAKING NEWS — BILLIONAIRE PHILANTHROPIST KILLED IN HELICOPTER CRASH.

“—are telling us that Protasov’s helicopter experienced a mechanical malfunction of some kind and crashed upon takeoff on the island of Nantucket. We are hearing reports of wind conditions and structural fatigue.”

“My God,” she said, stunned, sinking into a chair. “My God.”

She stared at the television. This she hadn’t planned on. The most she’d dared hope for was that Protasov would be summoned back to Moscow and arrested. But not this.

Her phone rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone. She saw a 202 area code, meaning the Washington, DC, area. She picked it up.

“Well, you’re safe now.”

It took her a moment to recognize Alex Venkovsky’s voice. The FinCEN guy.

“But the Kremlin—”

“No,” Venkovsky said. “The Kremlin has been suspicious of Protasov for a while. They thought maybe he’d gone native. Gone soft. That he’d been so lionized in America and the UK, so deified, that he probably imagined he could slip the Kremlin’s strings.”

“But why kill the man?”

“Apparently the Kremlin got intelligence that he’d been cooperating with the CIA. And to the Russians, that’s betrayal of the Motherland. And turncoats get assassinated.”

She thought about Pale Moth and went silent for a beat. Then she said, “Must have been persuasive intelligence.”

“And the Russians know that the US Government is moving in on Protasov’s empire. Which means that, even if he isn’t working for the CIA yet, he could. Meanwhile Olga, Protasov’s minder, sees this judge, who may be working with the feds, swan right into this highly secure enclave. That itself was highly suspicious.”

“And what about my... kompromat ? The sex tape?” She’d told him about it, of course; she had to. But she hadn’t briefed him on Duncan’s lunch with Arnold Coren. Her agenda wasn’t the same as theirs.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Venkovsky said. “If the video got out, it would focus attention on how Sanchez died. The Kremlin will open cans of worms, but only strategically. This would not be strategic. They don’t want the details of Protasov’s misadventures to become public.”

“Understood,” she said.

“We’ve reviewed the interagency briefs. This campaign of his, this operation — they’re saying that’s all Protasov. That he wasn’t acting with Kremlin approval. He went rogue. In Moscow, they’re telling each other that the whole disaster was his doing. To finish his work would be to own it, see. So they’re washing their hands of the whole thing.”

“What does that mean?”

“What does that mean? It means you’re safe.”

Six weeks later

Juliana had put together a feast for Ashley to welcome her back from Namibia: steamer clams, corn, and lobster. The dining table was a mess of lobster shells and clamshells and cleanly shorn corncobs.

Ashley was looking thinner and a little drawn, but at the same time even more vibrantly pretty. She said she’d broken up with Jens, in Namibia, and she was okay with that. Jake seemed genuinely happy to have his sister back. Finally the band was back together. The family was reunited and safe.

They were at the ramshackle old Wellfleet house they rented every summer, just up the dunes off White Crest Beach. The house needed a lot of work, but it was cozy, it was right on the beach, it had an amazing location, and they all loved it. They’d been renting the house for ten years already.

They were sitting around the table finishing off the last of their lobsters. Juliana was feeling relaxed, finally, and not just because of the sauvignon blanc Duncan kept pouring. The Wheelz case had been nicely squared away. The government had seized all of Yuri Protasov’s assets, including the complex network of companies he owned through offshore shell companies like Wheelz and including, yes, the ten million dollars he wired to the offshore account that FinCEN had set up.

The government hired a law firm to manage the company, which had immediately fired Devin Allerdyce and replaced him with a well-known female CEO, Cheryl Whitley, who’d run a big tech company.

Her first order of business was to settle the Rachel Meyers lawsuit. She issued a statement: After a thorough investigation and some soul-searching, the board of the Wheelz Corporation has concluded that mistakes were made and that Rachel Meyers was not treated fairly or appropriately during her time at Wheelz. She deserves to be compensated, and we have made a generous offer to do that. We are looking forward to putting this matter behind us and continuing our efforts to improve the atmosphere in our workplace.

So Rachel Meyers had gotten what she wanted: acknowledgment of what had happened to her. In addition, she received a five-million-dollar cash settlement.

Juliana found herself thinking, too, about Philip Hersh, about the memorial service she and Martie had organized, how amazing the size of the turnout. People came from all walks of life: taxi drivers, car mechanics, politicians, city bureaucrats, cops, high-priced lawyers, bookies. The guy had touched a lot of people, in his mordant way.

Juliana looked around at her family. Ashley, digging some lobster meat out of a claw, said, “I just saw on Twitter that Kent Yarnell got Me Too’d.”

“Yep,” Juliana said. The Boston Globe had an article that morning on its front page reporting that three women in the Attorney General’s office had filed complaints against Yarnell for inappropriate sexual conduct. So he was stepping down. She wasn’t surprised.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Duncan said.

Jake rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on,” he said. “It’s all theater. Am I the only one who sees this—?”

Ashley always ignored Jake when he was in verbal diarrhea mode. She cut him off, talking over him: “You always said he was a creep, Mom.”

Juliana tried not to smile. “I don’t judge. Ash, are you going to help Jake with his college essays?” She worried about how Jake would deal with a process he had so effectively mocked. Probably not so well. Maybe Ashley would be a good influence on him. “What do you think, Jakie — an essay on building a Guatemalan barn?”

Ashley and Jake exchanged a meaningful glance. She got up and located a piece of paper in a pile of mail in front of the TV. Then she handed Juliana a white business envelope. Its return address was Hampshire College, Amherst, Mass.

“What is it?”

“Check out who listens to his blog,” Ashley said.

Juliana took out a crisply folded white letter and looked at it. She said, “An old-fashioned letter and everything.”

Hope you’re considering Hampshire, it read, where we really value the kind of initiative, creativity, and sparky irreverence you’ve brought to your podcast. They were inviting him to visit the town of Amherst.

“They love your podcast!” she marveled. “How did they even hear it?”