Russian Resurgence

by Allan Topol

  “Agreed,” said Craig. “It seems as if Paris is attracting jihadists like a magnet.”

  “We’ll have to fly to Paris and tell Jean-Claude.”

  “That ‘we’ better mean both of us. I’m not going alone to tell him about Moshe’s little operation in France.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you. Fortunately for both of us Jean-Claude may be preoccupied. He had to rush back to Paris because of the brutal murder of a Hungarian national named Emma Miller.”

  Craig sat up with a start. “I’m familiar with Emma Miller’s murder. Elizabeth was covering the story before I left for Tel Aviv. She told me about it. But Emma Miller’s death has another component.”

  “What’s that?” Giuseppe inquired.

  “I’ll only tell you if you promise not to mention it to Jean-Claude or anyone else.”

  “If that’s what you want, of course I’ll honor it.”

  Craig and Giuseppe had developed such a close relationship over the years that Craig could rely with confidence on his promises. So Craig explained about Elizabeth finding Nicholas Toth in the Place des Vosges and what she had learned about the fire in Potomac, Maryland. “The key point is that Peter Toth had a strong Hungarian involvement,” he concluded.

  “So there’s definitely a connection between the Potomac fire and Emma Miller’s murder.”

  “Exactly. In fact, Elizabeth is now in Budapest trying to find out who might have been responsible.”

  “What did she do with Nicholas?”

  “She has a friend who operates a clinic for children suffering from trauma. She took him there.”

  “Can I do anything to help Elizabeth—perhaps provide security for her or for Nicholas?”

  “Thanks, Giuseppe, but I already have it covered.”

  “Listen Craig, I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to, but don’t you think you should tell Jean-Claude about Nicholas?”

  “Absolutely not. You know what he’s like. Once he hears about Nicholas, he’ll head right to that clinic and try to compel the boy to talk. He’ll traumatize the kid so badly that he’ll never recover his speech.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it your way. I’ll pretend you never told me. What I don’t know I can’t repeat.”

  “Thanks, Giuseppe. Remember, a kid’s life is at stake.”

  In his mind, Craig saw terrified Nicholas coming out of the closet in his kitchen. Speaking deliberately, he added, “If the Russians who killed Peter Toth and Emma Miller learn that Nicholas is alive, they’ll do everything they can to find him and kill him.”

  Giuseppe didn’t argue. Instead, he buzzed his secretary. “Craig and I are flying to Paris. Please get us on the first available flight.”

  In the car on the way to the airport, Craig said to Giuseppe, “One fact keeps bothering me. Amos and Emma Miller were killed in Paris on the same day.”

  “You think the two homicides are related?”

  “Right now, I don’t have evidence to link them, but my instinct tells me yes.”

  Giuseppe thought about it for a minute. “You may have a point. If we exclude terror bombings, there were only seventy-three homicides in Paris in all of last year. Here we have two on the same day and both have an international component. You may be on to something.”

  “Which means if we solve one of these murders, the other will fall into place.”

  Four hours later Craig and Giuseppe filed into Jean-Claude’s office. The head of the French intelligence agency didn’t even wait for them to sit down before he barked out, “I’m furious at the two of you,” his face red with anger.

  Uh-oh, Craig thought.

  “What happened?” Giuseppe asked, as if he had no idea what was on Jean-Claude’s mind.

  “I can’t believe you knew the Israelis were flying Amos Neir’s body home and didn’t inform me. That violates every rule of cooperation we have.”

  “You were in Turkey,” Giuseppe said. “The Israeli prime minister arranged it with your president. I assumed he would let you know. Didn’t he?”

  “No, he didn’t,” Jean-Claude snapped. “Moshe called a little while ago to tell me that the two of you would be coming to talk to me about Amos Neir and what he was doing in Paris. When I heard that, I gave it to Moshe with both barrels. He has no right running an intelligence operation in France without my knowledge and approval.”

  “Can we sit down and talk about this?” Giuseppe asked.

  Jean-Claude pointed to a conference table in the corner. “Sit if you want, but you two better not try to justify what Moshe did. Those damn Israelis are always operating on their own. Now I find out you two are in bed with them.”

  Craig decided to intervene. He couldn’t let Giuseppe take all the heat. “First of all,” he said, “neither Giuseppe nor I had any idea that Amos Neir was even in France until I saw his body being pulled from the Seine. And second, every nation has a right to defend its own security.”

  “If Moshe had clued me in, Amos Neir might still be alive.”

  “That’s doubtful,” Giuseppe said. “In any event, wait until you hear what Craig has to tell you. I think you’ll be grateful to Moshe and Amos Neir.”

  Jean-Claude shook his head emphatically without responding. Craig almost thought he would refuse to listen. Finally, he said. “Tell me.”

  Craig decided to omit the reason Moshe had given Amos this assignment. He cut right to the results. “Amos Neir was a dark-skinned Moroccan Jew—the perfect candidate for infiltrating Clichy. In the last several months he provided the French police with three anonymous tips on major terror attacks being planned by jihadists in Paris. As a result of his tips, you were able to thwart all three.”

  Jean-Claude didn’t disagree. Instead, he said, “So you expect me to award this Israeli a medal?”

  “No, but I’d at least like you to acknowledge that he saved French lives.”

  “I don’t care how many lives he saved. It’s still outrageous that Moshe didn’t let me know Amos was operating undercover in my country.”

  “Maybe he should have, but he didn’t.”

  Giuseppe intervened. “All of that’s irrelevant. Amos is now dead. He may have been uncovering something big, and he paid for it with his life.”

  Jean-Claude responded, “Maybe he was killed because of the attacks he thwarted. Maybe he didn’t discover anything new.”

  Jean-Claude was really stubborn, Craig thought, not willing to yield an inch.

  “Moshe thinks Amos was onto a new suspect,” Craig said.

  “Who?”

  “Have you heard of Omar Basayev?”

  Jean-Claude sat up with a start. “Omar the Chechen.”

  Craig nodded.

  “The man’s a horror,” Jean-Claude said. “Brutal and cruel, but also cunning. He’s given Moscow fits with his attacks on Russian targets there, in the Ukraine, and in Syria. You’re not going to tell me Omar’s in France.”

  “Amos spotted him in Clichy. He was trying to find out what Omar was doing when he was killed.”

  “Are we certain it’s Omar?”

  Craig took the picture Gideon had given him in Israel and passed it to Jean-Claude. “Amos photographed this man in Clichy and forwarded it electronically to Tel Aviv. The Mossad people made the ID.”

  Jean-Claude looked alarmed. “We have a small Chechen population in Clichy,” he conceded. “Omar could have blended in with them. He may be planning to hit a Russian target in Paris. Their embassy, perhaps.”

  “Or,” Giuseppe interjected, “Omar may be joining up with other non-Chechen jihadists for an attack in France that doesn’t involve a Russian target.”

  Jean-Claude shook his head. “Unlikely. That doesn’t fit his MO.”

  “He may have been offered enough money to do a job here. He could then use those funds to finance other operations against Russia. These terrorists sometimes freelance.”

  “That’s possible,” Jean-Claude admitted.

  “During my time as director of the E
U Counterterrorism Agency, I established relationships with informants in Clichy,” Craig said. “I could go up there and talk to them.”

  Jean-Claude dismissed Craig’s offer with a wave of his hand. “This is a matter for the French intelligence and military. I’ll send in some of my people this evening. We’ll find out what Omar is planning. We’ll also take him into custody.”

  “There’s a lot of hostility to the French government in that area,” Craig pointed out.

  “Are you telling me how to run an operation in my own country?” Jean-Claude snarled.

  “I spent time in Clichy. I’m just trying to be helpful,” Craig replied with a shrug.

  Jean-Claude pounded his fist on the table. “With a show of force, we’ll get what we want. I’ll accompany intelligence agents with troops fully armed.”

  Sounds like a prescription for a riot, Craig thought. And it was doomed to fail. But he didn’t argue any more.

  Jean-Claude stood up, signaling the meeting was over. Before leaving, Craig considered asking Jean-Claude where he was in his investigation of Emma Miller’s death, but decided that would be a mistake as long as he wasn’t willing to talk about Nicholas.

  On the way out of the office, Craig thought about Jean-Claude’s plan for going into Clichy. He had no intention of leaving the search for Omar up to Jean-Claude and his people. Amos had been Craig’s friend. To hell with Jean-Claude. If the Frenchman didn’t get results that evening, Craig intended to go into Clichy himself the next day. He’d find Omar and make him talk. He wanted to know exactly what he was planning, and what had happened to Amos.

  From Jean-Claude’s office, Giuseppe drove to the airport to fly back to Rome. Craig checked his phone on his way back to the apartment. It was seven in the evening. He had a text from Elizabeth telling him she’d be staying that night in Budapest. He hoped she was learning something.

  When he turned the key and opened the door, he saw a lamp turned on in the living room. Craig immediately grabbed the gun in his bag. Elizabeth was compulsive about turning off lights. As he moved through the apartment silently, Craig checked and rechecked, but nobody was there and he couldn’t find anything missing. Even the forty euros he had left on the bureau were still there. But he was certain some of his papers had been moved. Elizabeth’s computer was turned on. She would never have left it that way. There was no question about it: Somebody had been in the apartment.

  The only explanation was that whoever had killed Emma Miller knew that Nick had gone off with Elizabeth, and they were searching for the boy. Satisfied no one was hiding in the apartment, he put down the gun and called Elizabeth on the encrypted phones they used.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Four Seasons Gresham Palace in Budapest.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He told her about the apartment break-in.

  “Did you have anything in the apartment that identifies where you took the boy?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Anything on your computer?”

  “Not a thing,” she asserted, “but they could never get in anyhow. I’m paranoid about hackers so I change the password daily.”

  “Okay. These guys play rough. I heard from Giuseppe what they did to Emma Miller. I’m going to move into the Bristol. You can come right there when you return to Paris. After that, we’ll go over to the apartment together to get the things you need. Meantime, I’ll call Pierre and have him position someone to watch the apartment and someone outside my suite at the Bristol.”

  “You think all that’s necessary?” Elizabeth asked.

  “For sure. When are you coming home?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. I had a good meeting with a business associate of Peter’s today, and I’m meeting with the justice minister tomorrow. He was a friend of Peter’s. I’ll give you a report when I get back.”

  “Okay. Take care of yourself.”

  Craig had dinner alone at Au 41 Penthièvre, a small restaurant close to the Bristol. As he walked back to the hotel at ten o’clock, his phone rang. It was Giuseppe.

  “Have you heard the news?” Giuseppe asked.

  “No. What happened?”

  “The police backed by military troops went into Clichy with a show of force. That was Jean-Claude’s effort to grab Omar. The locals firebombed a couple of police cars and a military vehicle. It was a real mess.”

  “Gee, what a surprise. Have you spoken to Jean-Claude?”

  “A couple of minutes ago. They couldn’t locate Omar. If he was still there, he was hiding, and no one was talking.”

  “I’m going up to Clichy tomorrow, early afternoon, when things have settled down a little,” said Craig.

  “You telling Jean-Claude ahead of time?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I can’t tell him either because I don’t know about it. Good luck.”

  Russia, near the Black Sea

  President Kuznov had a large summer house along the Black Sea. He liked traveling there for several days at a time in August. Typically, he brought along his wife, Svetlana, and his much younger mistress, Natasha. At six in the evening Kuznov and Natasha were nude, frolicking in the hot tub behind the house. Looking up, he saw Svetlana watching them disapprovingly from a second-floor window, but he ignored her gaze. He reached for a glass of champagne resting on the edge of the tub and took a sip.

  Suddenly, from behind, he heard Dimitri’s unmistakable voice say, “Mr. President, we have to talk.”

  Kuznov turned around and said, “Dimitri, your timing is horrible.”

  “Mr. President, I think you’ll want to hear this immediately.”

  Kuznov looked at Natasha, who was frowning. “Wait for me in the bedroom,” he said.

  In a pout, she climbed out of the tub, tossed a towel over her shoulder, and brushed past Dimitri.

  “Get in,” Kuznov said. “We can talk in the hot tub. It’ll do you good to relax. You work too hard.”

  Dimitri stripped off his clothes before gingerly lowering himself into the hot water. When he was in the tub, Kuznov said, “Now tell me what’s so important that it couldn’t wait an hour.”

  “I just returned from Budapest. Szabo and I had a tough negotiation session. Eventually we got down to 100 million euros, your number, which was where I drew the line.”

  “And?”

  “Szabo wants to think about it. He’ll get back to me.”

  “So you’re nowhere.”

  “I think he’ll take it.”

  “How confident are you?”

  Dimitri thought about it for a moment, then said, “Very confident.”

  “Good. In the morning I’ll give the order to begin assembling troops and tanks at airfields near Ukraine. Once the Friendship Pact is signed we’ll airlift those troops and tanks over Ukraine to Hungary.”

  “Won’t Ukraine object?”

  “They wouldn’t dare. They know I’ll destroy their entire military in twelve hours. Now tell me about Nicholas Toth.”

  “Our technical people analyzed the photo Anatol took of the boy.”

  “And?” Kuznov asked impatiently.

  “We found yearbook photos of Nicholas Toth from the last few years. The boy who went off with Elizabeth Crowder is unquestionably Peter Toth’s grandson.”

  “But I told you that without any additional analysis. What I want to know is whether Boris has been able to locate the kid.”

  “Not yet. Anatol broke into Elizabeth Crowder’s apartment, but nobody was there at the time.”

  “What did he find?”

  “Nothing related to the boy. From what he saw, she lives with a race car driver named Enrico Marino.”

  Kuznov was becoming increasingly annoyed. “So far you haven’t told me a damn thing.”

  “I’m getting to it. Anatol found baseball equipment in Elizabeth’s closet: bats, gloves, and balls. He remembered reading in one of the French newspapers that she plays baseball Sunday mornings in the
summer in the Bois de Boulogne with other American expats.”

  “So if she plays this Sunday,” Kuznov said, completing the thought, “Boris could send people to grab her and they could force her to tell them where the boy is.”

  “Definitely. And perhaps even better, she might bring Nicholas to the game.”

  “Then we could seize Nicholas and find out what he knows.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Talk to Boris and have him set this up. I don’t want the boy to get away this time.”

  Budapest

  Janos Rajk was tall and thin with a receding hairline above a wrinkled brow. When Elizabeth entered his spacious office in the Justice Ministry, she thought he looked worried. Still, he greeted her graciously.

  A secretary brought in coffee in china cups and Janos pointed to the living area, motioning Elizabeth to the sofa. He sat on a straight chair facing her.

  “I appreciate your meeting with me,” she said.

  “I’m happy to do so. You’re a well-respected journalist and Peter Toth was my good friend for many years. I was saddened and distraught to learn of his sudden death, and I’d like the world to remember his many good qualities.”

  Elizabeth removed a pad and pen from her bag. “Could you tell me about those good qualities?”

  “Peter had an incredible love for Hungary. He would do anything to help his native country. That patriotism may have something to do with his background.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His mother was descended from Hungarian aristocrats related to the monarchy and instilled in him from birth a love for Hungary. His father was one of the leaders of the 1956 uprising against Russia. Peter returned to Hungary right after the wall fell because he wanted to help rebuild our economy and turn Hungary into an economic powerhouse.”

  “And while doing that, he made an enormous amount of money.”

  Janos smiled and sipped his coffee. “That’s true, his investments did pay off. At the same time, he supplied us with badly needed knowledge of the American economy and how free markets operate. As you are no doubt aware, we were emerging from the dark ages of Communism. Peter played a major role in shaping our economy under these radically different circumstances. You Americans have an expression: doing well by doing good. That applies to Peter Toth.”