Russian Resurgence

by Allan Topol

  “Okay, flip it then,” Betty said. “Suppose we warn Szabo.”

  “He’s barely talking to me, and we don’t have hard enough evidence,” said Worth. “He’ll laugh it off.”

  “Well, I know what I have to do,” Betty said. “I’ll alert our people in Brussels and have them assist Giuseppe and the Belgium authorities to locate Omar and take him into custody.”

  “I like that. Meantime, Craig, you’ve been on the trail of Omar. I want you to continue on it. You’re good at this sort of thing.”

  Craig was glad to have the president’s vote of confidence. “I’ll do that, Mr. President.”

  As soon as they returned to Europe and stashed Nick at the clinic with extra protection, Craig planned to go to Brussels and assist Giuseppe in the search for Omar.

  Betty’s phone rang in her bag. She pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. “The FBI director,” she said, looking at the president.

  “Take it,” Worth told her.

  The call lasted two minutes. It was a monologue by the FBI director. All Betty said was “yes” and “I understand.”

  When she put down the phone, she said, “The State Department has learned about Peter Toth’s travels in the days before his death. On July 25 he traveled to Grozny by a circuitous route: Washington, Sardinia, and then Grozny via Rome and Moscow. He arrived in Grozny on the twenty-sixth. He was only there a few hours. After that he returned to Washington via Moscow and Paris.”

  “In Grozny he must have recruited Omar,” Craig said.

  “But why Sardinia?” Betty asked.

  Craig shrugged. “No idea. I’ll have to get Giuseppe on that. And once we get back to Europe, I’m flying to Grozny.”

  “What in the world for?” Betty asked.

  “If we’re right, the attack isn’t until September 1. It’s possible that once Omar finished his preparations in France and Belgium, he went back to Grozny to avoid detection.”

  Craig recalled what Gideon had told him when he had been in Israel for Amos’s funeral. Omar and Kuznov were bitter enemies.

  With that in mind, Craig added, “If I can find Omar, I may be able to convince him that by trying to kill Szabo he’s walking into a trap set by Kuznov, and that he should abort.”

  “And if he doesn’t agree to do that?” Worth asked.

  “I’ll kill him.”

  Betty looked skeptical. “The odds are long that he returned to Grozny. More likely he’s holed up somewhere in Belgium or northern France.”

  “The Imam in Clichy told me that Omar went back to Grozny.”

  “That’s a reliable source,” Betty said sarcastically.

  “Giuseppe already has enough people in Brussels trying to find Omar. I won’t have anything to contribute there, but nobody’s in Grozny. Even if Omar’s not in Grozny, I may be able to hook up with one of his friends or confidantes. One way or another, I may be able to convince them to tell me where Omar is.”

  “It’ll be risky for you,” Worth said.

  “I’m prepared to take that risk, Mr. President.”

  Over the Atlantic

  On the return flight to Paris, Craig and Nick sat beside each other with Elizabeth across the aisle.

  Once the plane had leveled off, Elizabeth took out her iPad, opened it to Tracy’s draft, and resumed reading on her iPad.

  I never expected to hear from Peter Toth again, but three days later as I sat at my desk in the newspaper office, the phone rang.

  When I answered, I heard a frantic voice: “It’s the Hungarian hockey player. I’m hurt. I need help.”

  I went to the motel in Pittsburgh where he had been staying as fast as I could. Peter opened the door, sheets soaked with blood wrapped around his ribs.

  “They shot me,” he said weakly.

  The Russian guards from Philadelphia had found him, it turned out, although he had managed to escape.

  He looked light-headed. I helped him put on his blood-soaked jacket, grabbed his suitcase, and pulled him out of the door and along the corridor.

  Fortunately in the lobby neither the room clerk nor the bellboy were visible. Nobody noticed as I led Peter to my car, helping him into the back seat so he could lie down.

  He needed a doctor. I recalled that Barry Firestone, one of my close friends in the anti-war movement, had settled down in Pittsburgh, gone to medical school, and become a doctor in Mt. Lebanon.

  I arranged to meet him at his home office. Barry Firestone had gotten fat and bald, but he was a very good doctor. Working without the aid of a nurse, it took him more than an hour to treat Peter. He cleaned the wound and used six stitches to close it up. After he bandaged Peter, he gave him some pills for infection and for pain. Then he took Peter into one of his upstairs bedrooms and put him to bed. He had lost a lot of blood but Barry said he would be okay. While Peter slept, I made up my mind to take him back to Philadelphia and hide him in my house.

  The next morning we drove back to Philadelphia. On the way I asked him what he had been doing in Pittsburgh. The Hungarian Refugees Relief Agency had told him that most of the refugees had gone to Cleveland after 1956. He had been on his way there, but had to change buses in Pittsburgh, when the Russians caught up with him.

  In the next two weeks while Peter recovered from his wound we became lovers. I enlisted the help of my father, U.S. Air Force General and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Alvin Thomas, to use his government contacts to obtain asylum and citizenship for Peter in the United States.

  After everything had been settled, Peter told me one morning over coffee that he had decided to move to Cleveland. He wanted to be with other Hungarian people. I was heartbroken but understood.

  So on a cold but sunny January morning, I dropped Peter Toth at a bus station in Philadelphia.

  And on that morning, my Hungarian hockey player disappeared from my life forever—just as abruptly as he had entered it.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes. She recalled Tracy’s final words at the Hyatt Hotel in Bethesda following the memorial service, about how Peter would have done anything in his power to get revenge on the Russians.

  Tracy’s story underscored those words. Everything that happened and was happening must have been set in motion by Peter’s desire for revenge.

  Paris

  Pierre and two of his men met Craig, Elizabeth, and Nick when they got off the plane at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. From there, he drove them straight to the clinic.

  Craig knew Elizabeth would go berserk when she heard about his going to Grozny, so he didn’t want to tell her until they had taken Nick to the clinic and Craig’s security for the boy was in place.

  In Nick’s room, the boy hugged both Elizabeth and Craig. “You understand,” she said, “that you’re only staying here until I can be sure that you’ll be safe outside of the clinic, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “I’m okay with that. I know I’ll be safe here.”

  Nick didn’t ask and Elizabeth didn’t say what would happen to Nick after that.

  It was three in the afternoon. When they were back in the living room of their suite at the Bristol, Elizabeth asked Craig if he’d be going to Brussels to work with the authorities to locate Omar.

  Craig took a deep breath and said, “Tomorrow morning I’m flying to Russia, to Grozny.”

  When she didn’t respond, he added, “The capital of Chechnya, which is a part of Russia . . .”

  “That’s insulting,” she replied in a surly voice. “I know where Grozny is. I didn’t reply because that’s the most asinine idea I’ve ever heard. Even from you.”

  “Don’t hold back, tell me what you really think.”

  “What could you possibly hope to accomplish?”

  “Omar may be holed up there until it’s time to go to Brussels. And even if he’s not, I may be able to convince his confidantes to tell me where he’s hiding.”

  Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation. “That is so stupid. You won’t learn a damn thing in Grozny. Even worse, you
’ll never make it out alive. Between Omar’s terrorist friends and Kuznov’s thugs, somebody will kill you. You might as well be going into Russia with a big bull’s eye painted on your back.”

  “But I’ll be Enrico Marino.”

  “You’re being delusional. You already have a history with Kuznov, and he knows the two of us are together. By now he has no doubt learned that two of his thugs were killed in Paris by a man with Elizabeth Crowder. When they broke into our apartment, they must have learned that Enrico Marino was living with Elizabeth Crowder. It will take them about ten minutes to learn that Enrico Marino’s life began two years ago, and that he is Craig Page. And for confirmation, Kuznov won’t believe that any race car driver could bring down two of his people with a single shot each.” She looked at Craig. “You know I’m right.”

  “I’m going anyhow.”

  “You’ll never get out alive.”

  “I’ll find a way to do this.”

  “You’re just being stubborn and pigheaded.”

  To gain Elizabeth’s support, Craig said, “It’s our only way to find out about the cause of Peter’s death. That means it’s the only way to ensure Nick’s safety.”

  “Oh bullshit. You’re just saying that to manipulate me into dropping my opposition. The truth is you want to find Omar and kill him to avenge the death of your friend. That’s what’s driving you.”

  Elizabeth began to cry. He got up, walked over, and took her into his arms. She punched her fists against his chest. Then she stopped and let him hold her.

  For a few moments, he held her tightly. Then she pulled away.

  “A little while ago, when you and I and Nick were on the plane, I was so happy. Now this,” she said.

  Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “I’ll be back. I promise.”

  “Yeah, right. I don’t plan to waste my time on the widow’s walk. I have my job at the newspaper,” she said, her voice cracking. Then she stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

  That certainly went well, Craig thought.

  Craig called Giuseppe. “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Paris.”

  “Can you meet me at the place where we had breakfast a couple of days ago?”

  “Be there in an hour.”

  When Giuseppe arrived, Craig knocked on the bedroom door.

  “Giuseppe’s here,” he called to Elizabeth through the closed door.

  When she came out, she said to Giuseppe, “Has he told you the stupid thing he plans to do?”

  Giuseppe looked puzzled. “Not yet. I just arrived.”

  “Why don’t we start by telling Giuseppe what happened in Washington?” Craig suggested.

  “Okay, you tell him,” she said angrily.

  Craig began speaking and Elizabeth jumped in to talk about Zoltan and the memorial service. “Bottom line,” Craig said, “President Worth wants me to find Omar.”

  “And you’re going to Grozny, which is why Elizabeth’s upset.”

  “What are you, a mind reader?” asked Craig.

  “I’ve known the two of you for quite a while.”

  “And don’t you think this is stupid?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Listen. I care for the two of you, and I hate to get into the middle of this.”

  “Just tell me what you think,” she demanded.

  “It’s Craig—he’s always taken chances that I and others wouldn’t. Somehow he always survives.”

  “I really do think Omar may be there or I’ll be able to find out where he is from one of his people,” Craig insisted.

  Elizabeth sighed and shook her head. Craig figured she knew a hopeless cause.

  “Let’s talk about Sardinia,” Giuseppe said, changing the topic. “Why do you think Peter stopped there?”

  “I have no idea,” Craig replied, relieved that they were no longer discussing Grozny.

  “While you’re in Grozny, let me move up on Sardinia.”

  “That would be great. What’s happening in Brussels?”

  “I’ve distributed Omar’s picture to all the Belgian security and police agencies and to the people in northern France. So far no leads. But I’m hopeful we’ll find him before September 1.”

  Moscow and Grozny

  On Monday, Craig flew on Air France to Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport. There, he planned to change planes to Aeroflot for the flight to Grozny.

  In the busy new terminal at Sheremetyevo Craig carried his duffle toward passport control. In the slow-moving line, Craig thought about how vulnerable international travelers were, totally at the mercy of foreign governments and their law enforcement personnel.

  When he reached the front of the line, Craig slid his Italian Enrico Marino passport under the glass. The agent studied it with a bored expression. He glanced up at his computer screen and suddenly, he looked alert.

  Craig noticed him reaching down with one hand and pressing a red button on a panel next to his seat. That spells trouble, Craig thought to himself.

  “What are you doing in Moscow?” the official asked.

  “I’m in transit. Going to Grozny.”

  “Purpose of the trip?”

  “Business.”

  “What type of business?”

  “I’m looking for possible investments,” Craig replied.

  Two armed soldiers closed in on Craig as they spoke, one from each side. The soldiers were large, burly men toting automatic weapons.

  “Come with us,” one of the soldiers told Craig in English.

  “Why? What did I do?”

  The other soldier shoved Craig with the handle of his gun, effectively ending the discussion.

  They led Craig to a small windowless room with a metal table and two chairs. Once Craig was inside, one of the soldiers grabbed Craig’s duffel and tossed all the contents—clothes, toiletries, and books—on the floor. Then the soldiers left, slamming the door. Craig heard a deadbolt click into place.

  He had to figure out what was going on—and fast. After about a minute’s deliberation, he decided that Elizabeth must be correct: Kuznov had figured out that Craig had killed his two thugs in Paris, and that Craig was now Enrico Marino. It was unlikely that Kuznov had deduced why Craig had come to Russia. If they blocked Craig from going to Grozny, at least he might be able to get a meeting with Kuznov to try to obtain some useful information. After all, he and the Russian president had helped each other in the past.

  Satisfied that he had a plan, Craig sat down in one of the chairs and waited for someone to come for him.

  Dimitri burst into Kuznov’s office. “You were right, Mr. President,” he said.

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” Kuznov replied. “I’m always right. What happened?’

  “Enrico Marino has just landed at Sheremetyevo. He’s been taken into custody. I could have him transferred to a jail until after the ceremony in Budapest.”

  “Where was he flying from?”

  “Paris. He was connecting to Grozny.”

  Kuznov was startled. “Did you say Grozny?”

  “Correct.”

  This changed everything. Kuznov’s assumption had been that Craig was coming to Russia to confront him, but obviously that wasn’t the case. But Grozny? Why Grozny?

  Kuznov knew that Craig had access to Nicholas Toth, and it was possible the boy had trusted him enough to tell him what he knew about his grandfather’s plans to put an end to the Russian–Hungarian Friendship Pact. And now Craig was going to Grozny.

  Kuznov called the director of the Transportation Ministry and asked him to access travel records. “Tell me whether Peter Toth made any airplane trips to Grozny in the last month.”

  Kuznov held on the line. A few minutes later he heard the answer. “Peter Toth traveled to Grozny on July 26. He stayed a few hours before flying back to Paris.”

  Now Craig Page was going to Grozny, undoubtedly to find out what Peter had done there. Kuznov was aware that he had plenty of enemies in Chechnya. Perhaps Pete
r had enlisted one of them to keep the Friendship Pact from being finalized. In that case, Craig could be a valuable asset for Kuznov. By following Craig, Kuznov might find out what Peter had been planning.

  Kuznov turned to Dimitri. “Order the airport guards to release Page. Have them tell him that his detention was a mistake, that we confused him with an Italian terrorist. I want him to fly to Grozny as he planned. Hold his plane if need be.”

  Kuznov saw a perplexed look on Dimitri’s face, but he had no intention of explaining why he had changed his orders.

  Once Dimitri was gone, Kuznov called Daud Mollah, who ruled the Russian republic of Chechnya as his own private empire but was loyal to Kuznov.

  “Daud,” Kuznov said, “you will have a visitor, an Italian race car driver by the name of Enrico Marino. He’ll be arriving sometime today on a flight from Moscow. I want to find out what he’s doing in Grozny, who he’s talking to, and what they’re saying. This is very important.”

  “Understood. We’ll follow him from the moment he arrives.”

  “A loose tail. He will be on high alert, and I don’t want him to know.”

  “Understood.”

  Kuznov was aware that Daud enjoyed using brute force wherever and whenever possible, so he added, “One other thing. I don’t want you to take any action against Enrico Marino. I don’t want him harmed when he’s in Chechnya. Report to me personally in real time about all of Marino’s activities.”

  After he put the phone down, Kuznov closed his eyes and thought about the situation. On Peter Toth’s trip to Grozny, he must have set a plan in motion to disrupt the execution of the Friendship Pact. Perhaps even after his death that plan was still proceeding. He certainly couldn’t risk assuming it wasn’t. Kuznov would let Craig uncover that plan. Then he would pounce.