Russian Resurgence

by Allan Topol

  “You don’t think it could have been the rupture of a gas line?” she persisted.

  “No way.”

  Elizabeth thanked Kevin and hung up. After refilling her empty coffee cup she thought about where to go next. Focus on the victims, her reporter’s instinct told her. They had to be the key to what had happened.

  She went online and found the obit in the Washington Post for Peter Toth. Two paragraphs made a powerful impression on Elizabeth:

  Peter Toth was born in Budapest, Hungary, in 1948. In 1977 when he was twenty-nine years old, he came to the US as a member of a Hungarian hockey team. He defected at that time and remained in the United States. In 1991, shortly after Russia relinquished control of Hungary, he returned to his home country and became a wealthy industrialist. For many years Peter Toth was very close with Franz Szabo, the current prime minister, who began as a young liberal politician in 1989. Toth and Szabo had a falling out two years ago, as Szabo’s politics became increasingly right-wing. At that time, Peter Toth liquidated most of his interests and moved back to the United States.

  Peter Toth’s father, Zoltan Toth, now ninety-five, is still alive and living in the Washington area. Zoltan Toth was an important leader among the pro-independence Hungarians who directed the unsuccessful 1956 uprising against Russia. At the time, Zoltan Toth came to New York to plead the rebels’ case to the UN. He was barred from returning to Hungary by the Russians. He settled in the United States, while his wife and eight-year-old child, Peter, were prohibited from leaving Hungary.

  Elizabeth picked up a pencil and a pad. On a blank page she wrote the name Peter Toth. Under it she drew a timeline.

  At this point Elizabeth believed she had enough information to talk to Betty Richards, who had succeeded Craig as CIA director. As a result of Craig bringing them together, the two women had developed a close relationship. Betty had been a help to Elizabeth not just professionally, but in dealing with Craig, who Elizabeth loved, but who could be a pain in the ass. When they joined forces against him, Craig called it “the sisterhood at work.”

  Not knowing where Betty was, Elizabeth decided to email and schedule a call.

  “I have to talk to you on a secure phone. What do you suggest?” she wrote.

  A minute later the response came. “I’m currently in Berlin for a NATO security conference. I could stop in Paris tomorrow on my way home. How about 6 p.m. at the embassy?”

  Elizabeth immediately replied, “I’ll be there.”

  Next, Elizabeth had to call Henri, her boss at the paper. As the foreign editor, she had a lot of freedom to pursue her own stories, but with one as complex and time-consuming as the murder of Peter Toth was likely to be, it was best to get Henri on board early in the process. If not, he could become an impediment. This time she had the perfect opening.

  “Henri,” she said, “I have a little more information on the woman who was murdered this morning.”

  “Do the police have any leads?”

  “Nothing so far, but as I was working on my article, I came across a peculiar fact.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hours before Emma Miller was killed, there was a mysterious fire in Potomac, Maryland, a suburb of Washington and Peter Toth—”

  “I heard about the fire. Peter Toth was an enemy of the Hungarian prime minister, Szabo.” Henri sounded excited. “I’ve met Szabo a couple of times. The man’s a horror, a right-wing demagogue, and vicious. He told me how much he admires Kuznov, and one of Kuznov’s most charming characteristics is how he murders his political opponents. Emma Miller could have been involved with Peter Toth. Suppose Szabo took a page from Kuznov’s playbook? And if he did that, he might have arranged Emma Miller’s death as well. This could be big.”

  She was thrilled Henri saw where she was going with this, but had no intention of telling him about Nick. “That’s what I was thinking,” she replied.

  “I want you to get on this right away. Full steam ahead with your connections. Being an American, you should have a leg up on any other journalist in Europe. Go to Washington if you think that would be helpful. I’ll set up a special expense account for the story. You can always edit other pieces from the road or dump them off on Dominique.”

  Elizabeth was ecstatic. “Will do.”

  “Just keep me informed.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “No is the answer to that question,” came Henri’s exasperated reply.

  “I will this time. I promise.”

  “I’ve heard that before. Do you know the value of that particular promise?”

  She was smiling. “I’ll play your silly game. Several thousand euros?”

  “Wrong. Three US pennies. And by the way, if you involve Craig and this turns dangerous, as most of your escapades with him do, then don’t worry about my loss from your demise.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve taken out a life insurance policy on you and made the newspaper the beneficiary.”

  Elizabeth wanted to say, “That’s not funny,” but she didn’t think Henri was joking.

  After hanging up the phone, she walked over to the window and looked out. As she did, two black BMW SUVs pulled up in front of her apartment building. It had to be Craig’s friends.

  A man wearing sunglasses got out of one of the vehicles. He was short and squat and looked hard as nails. This was Pierre. She remembered meeting him once at a function with Craig. He was retired from the French military—special ops. Elizabeth opened the window and waved to him. He waved back.

  Then she walked into the bedroom and moved her gun from the closet to the drawer of the bedside table. She was ready in case they came for Nick.

  Northern Israel

  Craig arrived in Israel late that evening. After checking into the Dan Hotel on the beachfront in Tel Aviv, he arranged for a rental car to be delivered early the next morning. He wanted to drive himself to northern Israel for the funeral.

  Amos had been a member of a kibbutz north of Haifa, close to the Mediterranean. When the kibbutz had been founded in 1948, the same year as the establishment of the state of Israel, it had been an agricultural kibbutz. Its revenue came primarily from oranges, peaches, and lychees. That changed about twenty years ago. Keeping pace with the new Israel, the kibbutz abandoned agriculture and moved aggressively into tech. It now served as an incubator for high-tech start-ups. Already six companies had been launched from the kibbutz that were on the NASDAQ.

  Though it was 11:30 p.m. when Craig had finished making his rental car arrangements, he had no intention of going to sleep. Tel Aviv had a frenetic pace, particularly in the summer, which went well into the morning hours. He set off on foot for Dizengoff Street, which was lined with bustling outdoor cafes and restaurants. After walking for half an hour, he found an empty table at a Yemenite restaurant where he ate salad and grilled lamb accompanied by a good red blend of cabernet, merlot, and cabernet franc from the Golan.

  After Craig had finished his meal, he made his way back to the hotel, taking in his surroundings and enjoying the warm night air. Looking around at the people in the restaurants, on the street, and even on busses, he had the same thought that he always had in Rome: How do these people get up for work in the morning?

  Craig was up early the next morning and driving his rental car out of the hotel parking lot by six o’clock. The sun was already up. Welcome to Israel in the summer. It was a picture-perfect day with not a cloud in the robin’s egg blue sky. Nobody should have to be buried on such a beautiful day, Craig thought somberly.

  On the highway, Craig kept pace with the flow of heavy traffic, which fortunately lightened as he got further from the city. He had no need for GPS. Over the years when he had been stationed in the Middle East, he had made this drive many other times. He and his wife, Carolyn, and their daughter, Francesca, had often gone to visit Amos and his wife, Daphna. They had a daughter, Gila, who had been Francesca’s age, which would make her twenty-eight now, and a son two year
s younger. The two families had been close, taking vacations together in Turkey and Morocco.

  Craig’s last visit to the kibbutz had been six months before Carolyn died of bacterial meningitis in Dubai. When he had called to let them know that Carolyn was in the hospital and seriously ill, Amos had arranged for her to fly to Israel, which had the best medical facilities in the Middle East. But by the time she got there, it was too late.

  Craig reached the kibbutz an hour before the funeral was scheduled to begin. As he pulled up to the metal gate at the entrance, he immediately became aware of the high level of security. Two soldiers armed with semiautomatic weapons stood on each side of the gate. Another was checking IDs.

  Craig rolled down the window and held out his Italian passport.

  “Pull over and park,” the soldier said curtly, pointing to a dirt area off to the side.

  Craig did as he was told. Two soldiers descended on him. “Out of the car,” one of them ordered.

  Craig climbed out and raised his hands. One of the soldiers roughly patted him down while two other soldiers examined his car.

  “Why are you here?” the soldier asked.

  “Amos and I worked together. We were friends. I know his wife, Daphna. I’ve been here many times to visit him.”

  The soldier didn’t seem convinced. “Who can confirm your identity?”

  “Talk to Moshe.”

  Craig had learned long ago that no one ever used the last name or the title of the venerable Mossad director. They simply referred to him as Moshe.

  The soldier took out his cell phone and said something in Hebrew. Minutes later he directed Craig to a jeep parked inside the gate. Craig climbed into the vehicle. With a soldier driving, they rode up the hill and parked next to the kibbutz administration building.

  Moshe was waiting in front. His gray hair, once thick, was thinning. With heavy bags under his bloodshot eyes, he looked weary and much older than Craig remembered. He had once told Craig, “Every time I bury one of my people it takes years off my life.” And Craig knew that Amos had been a favorite of Moshe’s.

  When Craig got out of the car, Moshe’s head snapped back in surprise. “Giuseppe told me that you had some plastic surgery,” he said. “Still, I wasn’t expecting such a difference. Your doctor did a good job.”

  “I like living. So I made a change to stay alive. After that, I managed to kill the devil who was after me.”

  “This was your battle with the Zhou brothers.”

  Craig was startled. Israel hadn’t been involved.

  “It’s my business to know what’s happening everywhere in this small world,” Moshe remarked. “With globalization, we’re now all interconnected. I’m familiar with what you did in Argentina as well.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t go back to looking like Craig Page.”

  “I don’t know, Craig. Plastic surgeons can do miraculous things.”

  “Now I have a new career as a race car driver. My fans wouldn’t like it.”

  “Giuseppe said you and I should talk about Amos and his death.”

  Craig nodded.

  “My office, this evening at seven o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there. Do you know where Daphna is now?”

  “Their house.” He pointed to a path that went up a slight hill between two rows of trees.

  With the hot sun beating down, Craig walked along a cracked cement path, passing a school and a soccer field, until he arrived at a modest stone structure that was identical to others around it. Craig recalled it was one floor with two bedrooms, a living room, a small kitchen, and a bath. Meals were taken in the communal dining room. Despite the wealth of the kibbutz, members refused to alter their lifestyle. Those who wanted more left to live in Haifa or Tel Aviv.

  People were milling around outside of the house. Craig saw a couple of familiar faces from the Mossad, but decided it would be too complicated to explain who he was so he moved past them. With the crowd of people inside the house and the absence of air conditioning, it was hot. Craig felt perspiration soaking the white button-down under his suit jacket.

  He saw Daphna sitting on a sofa, her son, Danny, on one side and her daughter, Gila, on the other. Daphna’s eyes were puffy and red from crying. She had one of the saddest expressions Craig had ever seen.

  Going over to her, he said, “Daphna. I’m so very sorry.”

  Confusion was on her face as she stood up. “Do I know you?”

  “Amos was a wonderful man,” he added, hoping she would recognize his voice.

  “Craig?”

  “Yeah. I had a little work done on my face.”

  She hugged him. Then she broke down and cried. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “I can’t believe you came. Thank you. Thank you. Amos loved you like a brother.”

  Craig had no intention of telling her he had seen the police pulling Amos’s body out of the Seine so he simply responded, “I had to be here.”

  She wiped the tears from her eyes. “We heard about your loss with Francesca. She was a very special person—brilliant and a joy to be with. I was so sorry to hear.”

  “Thank you,” Craig said looking down at the ground and choking back his own tears and the sadness he felt when he thought about Francesca.

  “I had been pressing Amos to retire for several years. I told him it was a young man’s business. Finally, last June he agreed to retire in September—next month, right before Rosh Hashanah.” She began crying again. “He . . . he almost made it.”

  Other people were waiting to talk to Daphna, and as they drew her attention Craig pulled away. He left the house and climbed the rocky path leading up a hill to the kibbutz cemetery. He looked at the markers—so many young people from the kibbutz had lost their lives in Israel’s wars: 1948, 1956, 1967, 1973, and the more recent ones in Lebanon and Gaza. Craig was convinced that peace would never come to this part of the Middle East, and it didn’t matter what actions the Israeli government took. All it could do was remain strong in confronting its implacable enemies.

  Craig didn’t feel like talking to anyone, so when the funeral began he hung back. It seemed to pass in a blur, a kaleidoscope of memories. In his mind he replayed times he had spent with Amos. The Israeli could be intense and hard-driving when the situation required it, but he was also fun to be with. He had often made jokes and poked fun at politicians, and he was an incredible soccer player—daring and fast as the wind. More than anything he had loved his family.

  As the ceremony was ending, people started chanting the mourner’s kaddish. Craig joined in. Afterwards, he stopped briefly at the house to say goodbye to Daphna. In the crowded room, she pulled him to one side. “Craig,” she said. “I know you retired from the CIA, but you still have contacts. Please, please find out who did this and make them pay for it.” Her voice cracked with emotion.

  “Daphna, I loved Amos. I promise you that I’ll do it for you and for me.”

  Paris

  Elizabeth slept fitfully. Every hour or so she woke up and reached into the drawer, making certain the gun was still there. She also walked over to the window and looked out to check that Pierre and his colleague were in place. Everything outside looked normal.

  She wanted to believe that Emma and Peter’s killers wouldn’t have had enough time to figure out Nick was with her. She hoped that was right.

  Finally, at about five in the morning, she fell into a deep sleep. What felt like moments later she awoke again to the sound of a ball smacking against a wall: whack . . . whack . . . whack.

  Pulling on a robe, she went out to the living room. Nick had on her baseball glove and was tossing a rubber ball against the red brick wall, catching it, and tossing it again.

  Looking startled and embarrassed when he saw her, he took off the glove and returned it to the top of the bookcase where she kept it. The ball rolled across the floor.

  “That’s okay,” she said.

  Hoping he could talk, she added, “
It’s my glove. I’m a pitcher. What position do you play?” She held her breath.

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. He raised two fingers.

  “Second base,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Why don’t you get dressed? I’ll fix breakfast.”

  Once he had disappeared into the bathroom, Elizabeth called Pierre on the number Craig had given her. “Hi Pierre, this is Elizabeth. Anything happen during the night?”

  “All quiet.”

  “Can I bring you down some food and hot coffee?”

  “That’s very nice of you, but we loaded up at the patisserie on the corner. I’ll probably gain ten pounds on this job.”

  “The chocolate croissants are particularly good.”

  “Already had two of them.”

  After hanging up, Elizabeth cut up a melon and made Nick a tomato and cheese omelet along with a side of smoked salmon. There was nothing wrong with his appetite—he devoured everything.

  As Elizabeth was finishing her second double espresso, she said, “I’ve been thinking about your situation. I want to help you, and I have an idea.”

  He listened wide-eyed, anxious to hear what was coming next.

  “I assume you could speak before all this happened.”

  He nodded.

  “I would like to help you speak again, but I’m no doctor. I don’t know how to do that. However I have a good friend, Dr. Cardin, who runs a clinic outside of Paris for children who have suffered trauma. I would like to take you there and have you stay at the clinic so Dr. Cardin can help you.”

  From Nick’s face, she saw anxiety give way to fear.

  “You will be completely safe at Dr. Cardin’s clinic. You can use your identity as Jonathan Hart. Neither Dr. Cardin nor anyone else at the clinic will know that you are Nicholas Toth.”

  Nick took a deep breath and blew it out, then rubbed his hand through his hair.

  She cautioned herself to go slowly. He was only a twelve-year-old, and he had been through a lot.

  “I won’t take you if you don’t want to go,” she added. “But if you do I will visit you often. Tell me what you think.”