Russian Resurgence

by Allan Topol

  When Craig heard the lock turn on the door, he stood up, ready to invoke Kuznov’s name and his relationship with the Russian president, hoping that would get him better treatment and maybe even a meeting with Kuznov.

  Instead of soldiers, a middle-aged man in a suit and tie, black-framed glasses, and thinning brown hair entered. Craig held his breath, wondering what was coming next.

  “Unfortunately, there has been an error,” the man said. “You were confused with a suspected terrorist traveling with an Italian passport. We regret the mistake. You’re not only free to go, but we’ve held your flight to Grozny to give you a chance to board.”

  Craig was flabbergasted. He wondered what the hell was going on. The official sounded convincing, but Craig was reluctant to accept his story. It seemed highly unlikely they would have delayed the flight on his behalf, whether they had made a mistake in detaining him or not. On the other hand, with the incredible arbitrariness of justice in Russia, anything was possible.

  Craig simply said, “Thank you,” picked up his bag, and followed the official out of the room. The man led Craig to a doorway that opened onto the airfield. A minivan was waiting for Craig, its engine idling. It drove him across the field to his Aeroflot plane to Grozny.

  After an uneventful flight, Craig checked into the Hotel Grozny City at six o’clock that evening. It was a thirty-two floor, sleek modern building with a series of gray steel columns running along the sides from the ground to the top. The hotel was in the new redeveloped center of the city and a stone’s throw from the main mosque. This was the part of Grozny that the Russians had rebuilt after they pulverized the drab old city to rubble in the 1990s, proving once again that wars are good for contractors.

  But the hope for an influx of tourists had never materialized. Walking through the thick red carpeted lobby, Craig saw very few people and little activity. Build it and they will come often turned out to be a phony promise.

  Once Craig had dropped his bag off in his spacious suite on the thirtieth floor, he took the elevator back down to the lobby. The concierge, a tall, thin man with a shiny shaved head and neatly trimmed black beard and mustache, was standing behind a desk talking in French with an anxious sounding woman about restaurants in Grozny. She was peppering the concierge with an endless stream of queries. Craig held back, waiting for her to finish, while silently rolling his eyes. Grozny wasn’t exactly a culinary mecca.

  When the concierge was free Craig moved up to the desk and slid five one-hundred euro notes across the counter to the concierge, who swiftly pocketed the bills.

  “I’m Enrico in room 3010,” Craig said. “I’d like to talk to you in private. Do you have somewhere we can go?”

  “My office. Follow me.”

  The mirror behind the desk was a door leading to an office. Craig followed the concierge inside. Once he closed the door, he asked Craig, “What can I do for you?”

  “I want to meet Omar Basayev, sometimes known as Omar the Chechen.”

  All of the color drained from the concierge’s face. He was pale and his hands were trembling. At least he knows who I’m talking about, Craig thought.

  “I don’t know that individual,” he eventually replied. He held out Craig’s money, anxious to return it.

  Craig didn’t take it back. Instead, he pressed ahead. “If you make an introduction for me, I’ll give you another two thousand.”

  Craig sat down in a chair, making himself comfortable while the concierge agonized over how to respond.

  “Yours is a difficult request,” he finally said. “There are risks for me.”

  “Three thousand euros.”

  “Four thousand and I’ll do what I can. I can’t make any guarantees. I think you can understand.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Craig.

  “Good. I’ll call you if and when I’ve made arrangements.”

  “I’ll be in the dining room up on the thirty-second floor. After that, in my room. I’ll be expecting your call.”

  An hour later Craig was finishing a disappointing dinner of overcooked, dry roast chicken washed down by a mediocre bottle of Bulgarian wine when the maître d’ brought over a phone. “The concierge is calling,” he said, handing the phone to Craig and departing quickly.

  “I’ve made the introduction you wanted,” came the concierge’s voice over the phone. “In fifteen minutes, a man named Mikhail will call you on the phone in your room. He’ll give you an address. Take a cab there. Mikhail will be waiting for you there in a black car. He’ll take you to meet the man you want to see.”

  Craig was apprehensive. It had been too fast and too easy. It just didn’t seem right. On the other hand, if the concierge had a line to Omar and Omar knew that a Western European had come to see him while he was planning a job in Brussels, he might be curious to meet the man. And if he wasn’t there, Craig might be able to persuade one of Omar’s confidants to tell him where he was. Once he had his location, he could go there and kill him.

  “I’m going back to my room to take the call.”

  “First, bring me my money.”

  “Two thousand when I leave the hotel to meet Mikhail. The other two thousand when I return to the hotel.”

  “I took risks for you,” said the concierge, sounding furious.

  “That’s the way I’m doing it,” Craig replied with finality.

  In the elevator, Craig focused on the fact that he didn’t have a weapon. Bringing one with him would have been too risky. Back in his suite, he looked around. The mini bar had a classic corkscrew with a knife that opened up. That would do the job.

  Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang in Craig’s room.

  “This is Mikhail,” said a voice on the other end. “Take a cab to the concert hall. I’ll be waiting for you in front in a black car.”

  Craig paid the snarling concierge two thousand euros and got into the only cab waiting in front of the hotel. He realized there was a good chance the driver was with state security or reporting to them, but he didn’t have a choice. Mikhail would have to deal with that.

  “Concert hall,” he told the driver.

  It was dark when the cab came to a stop thirty minutes later and the driver told him they had arrived. Craig paid him in cash before getting out to look around. He saw a black car parked in front of the concert hall, its engine idling. The driver’s window was rolled down.

  “Mikhail,” Craig said as he approached.

  “Yes,” said the man in the car. “Quickly, get in the back of the car.”

  As soon as Craig climbed in, a man who had been crouched down in the back of the car jumped at Craig, a club clutched in one fist. Off balance, Craig didn’t react in time and the man smacked him on the side of the head. Though dizzy and barely conscious, Craig was still aware of his assailant taking a syringe from a bag and inserting it into his arm. Then he blacked out.

  Irina, Kuznov’s secretary, buzzed Kuznov on the intercom. “The Chechen president is calling,” she said.

  Kuznov picked up immediately, hoping Daud would have news about Craig Page.

  “I had my best security people follow Enrico Marino from the minute he got off the plane in Grozny,” Daud reported.

  “And?” Kuznov asked.

  “At six o’clock earlier this evening, he checked into the Hotel Grozny City. One of the men I had placed in the lobby saw him go into a private room with the concierge. He was there with the concierge for fifteen minutes. Two hours later, he left in a taxicab driven by one of my men. He asked to go to the concert hall. While my man drove him via a circuitous route, security people in the hotel forced the concierge to tell them what he had discussed with Marino. It took some persuasion, but the concierge finally admitted that Marino had asked to meet with Omar Basayev. The plan was for Marino to meet up with Mikhail, a member of Omar Basayev’s gang, in front of the concert hall, and Mikhail would then take him to Omar from there.”

  “Why did the concierge agree to this?”

  “Money. I
’ll have him executed immediately,” said Daud obsequiously.

  “No. Don’t do that,” Kuznov ordered. “Leave him in place. You’ll own him now. You’ll be able to use him whenever you want.”

  “Understood.”

  Kuznov wondered if Page was seeking Omar out because he had something to do with Toth’s plan to prevent the Friendship Pact from being consummated. The Friendship Pact was too important—he was prepared to break his truce with Omar over it. He would have him murdered before he would risk having him interfere with that agreement.

  “Have Marino and Mikhail met with Omar yet?” Kuznov asked.

  “I don’t know if Omar will be there or if he is even in Grozny, but Mikhail and another man just got out of Mikhail’s car in front of a deserted warehouse. They carried Marino into the warehouse. It looked like he had been incapacitated in some way. My men can see inside with binoculars through a broken window, but they can’t overhear conversations in the building. Tell me what you want me to do.”

  Kuznov paused for a second to process what Daud had told him. He had a number of objectives. First, he wanted to learn why Craig wanted to meet with Omar. It must have something to do with Peter Toth. Second, he wanted Omar dead.

  He told Daud, “Wait a little while to see if Omar is there or if he comes. If your men see Omar, have them break in and kill Omar and his gang. Hold Marino in the warehouse temporarily. Let me know when you have him and I’ll tell you what to do.”

  “Suppose Omar’s not there and doesn’t come?”

  “Kill his gang and take Marino into custody. Then call me. I’ll tell you what to do with him.”

  When Craig regained consciousness, he was naked, sitting in a wooden chair, his arms and legs tied tightly. His vision was foggy as he looked around, but he could tell he was in the center of a storage area of a warehouse. He saw oil barrels scattered on the floor and dirty paint cans on shelves. Craig’s clothes were scattered on the floor near the chair.

  Craig saw Mikhail and two other men, neither of whom was Omar. Seeing that he had regained consciousness, one of the men approached, aiming a gun straight at Craig’s head.

  “Why do you want to see Omar?” he asked.

  “I want to hire Omar to do a job,” Craig replied calmly. “If he’s not in Grozny, tell me how I can contact him.” The man with the gun looked dubious. He glanced at Mikhail questioningly.

  Mikhail shook his head, his face hard. “He’s lying,” he said. “He’s an agent of Kuznov. He wants to find Omar so Kuznov can kill him.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Craig said. “I hate Kuznov. I wouldn’t have anything to do with him.”

  The man with the gun studied Craig. Finally he said, “We’ll find out if you’re telling the truth.”

  He pointed to the third man who reached into a box on the ground. He pulled out a rope. At one end it had five steel balls. Craig could guess what was coming next. In case he had any doubt, the man wrapped the end of the rope around his hand and gave a practice swing. The steel balls struck a paint can so hard that it fell off the shelf.

  “His balls will hit your balls,” the man with the gun said, laughing sadistically. “Now, do you have anything else to tell me?”

  Craig was out of ideas, but he tried to hang tough. “I’ve told you the truth. I want to hire Omar for a job. If you don’t help me, you will be costing Omar a lot of money.”

  “I don’t believe you,” said the man.

  “Then fuck you,” Craig retorted. All he could think about was that Elizabeth had been right. He had been a fool to come to Grozny.

  He watched the man wind up with the rope with a sick feeling in his stomach. But before he had a chance to swing it, Craig heard the firing of automatic weapons. The man with the steel balls hit the ground, and Craig saw his chest had been riddled with bullets. Six men in military uniforms burst into the warehouse firing at Mikhail and the man with the gun. They cut them down before either could get off a shot.

  One of the soldiers untied Craig.

  “Thank you,” Craig said as he picked his clothes off the floor and hurriedly dressed.

  “We take you back to the hotel,” another soldier said.

  Craig asked, “Who sent you?” but neither soldier responded.

  They dropped Craig in front of the hotel. As soon as he entered, he glanced at the concierge desk, but it was deserted. He got into an elevator and hit the thirtieth floor. Gradually, his fright was passing. He didn’t even want to imagine what would have happened to him if those soldiers hadn’t come.

  Craig got into the shower and let the water flow over his head, cleansing him from his ordeal. After his shower he checked airplane schedules on his iPad. The first plane with an available seat didn’t leave Grozny for Moscow until 2:00 p.m. the next day. He made a reservation on that flight, grabbing one of the few remaining seats, and then on a connecting flight to Paris.

  At this point, he just hoped he could get out of Grozny alive.

  Craig spent the morning in his hotel room, hoping Omar’s gang wouldn’t try to attack him there. He killed time until his flight by reading about Chechnya and its president, Daud Mollah. One thing was clear: Daud was a puppet of Russia.

  At noon Craig got into a cab and asked the driver to take him to the airport. The man was silent the entire ride, and Craig breathed a sigh of relief when they arrived without incident.

  Check-in also went smoothly, but Craig had no intention of relaxing until the plane took off. Waiting in the boarding area, he sipped lukewarm coffee and glanced around anxiously. The first ominous sign came when the monitor showed that their departure would be delayed one hour; no explanation was given. The other passengers groaned.

  Twenty minutes later, two armed soldiers appeared in the boarding area and went up to the gate agent. After they spoke with her, the agent picked up the microphone and announced, “Will Enrico Marino please come to the desk.”

  Craig tried not to look worried as he approached. At the desk the agent asked to see his passport, then nodded to the two soldiers.

  “Mr. Marino,” one soldier said, “please come with us.”

  “For what reason?”

  “On orders of our president.”

  Resisting was futile, Craig realized, so he followed the soldiers quietly.

  Upon leaving the terminal, they put him into a military van waiting at the curb. Half an hour later, he was being escorted into the presidential palace and led to a suite of offices with a sign on a wooden door that read: Office of the President.

  One of the soldiers knocked twice, and the door opened from inside. Craig immediately recognized President Daud Mollah from his research earlier that morning. The man was short, only five foot six, but squat and muscular, built like a tank with a short, pointed, reddish beard. He had a kindly smile, but Craig, who had read about Daud’s cruelty, wasn’t deceived.

  “Come in Enrico,” he said.

  The door closed after Craig, and he found himself alone with Daud.

  “I appreciate your coming,” Daud said.

  “It’s an honor to meet the president of Chechnya,” Craig replied in kind.

  “I was surprised that you didn’t come to thank me this morning for saving your manhood,” Daud added.

  Craig swallowed uncomfortably. “I really appreciate your help, and I mean that,” he said, resisting the urge to add, “You cut it awfully close.”

  “Now I want to know why you came to Grozny,” said Daud, his smile taking on a dangerous edge.

  “I’m seeking possible investments,” Craig replied smoothly. “I’ve heard that your economy is on the verge of taking off, and I want to get on the ground floor.”

  Daud looked angry. “I don’t like it when people lie to me, Enrico Marino.”

  “I thought you’d like an investment in Chechnya by a famous race car driver.”

  “That story might have had a chance if you hadn’t asked to see Omar Basayev yesterday. As you’re no doubt aware, Omar is a terrorist,
an enemy of Chechnya and Russia.” He paused before adding, “Here’s what we’re going to do. In the next room I have certain implements that might prevail on you to talk. We can spend as long as you like there, but you will tell me why you came to Grozny, sooner or later.”

  Craig realized he didn’t have much of a choice. His mind raced as he thought about what he could tell Daud, knowing the Chechen president would be sure to repeat it to Kuznov. The best approach, he thought, was to stick with the Amos Neir story and omit Peter Toth. He knew that Kuznov hated Omar, so if Kuznov believed Craig was hunting Omar for revenge, he might very well instruct Daud to let Craig go in the hope that he would succeed.

  “I had a good friend,” Craig began slowly, “Amos Neir, an Israeli Mossad agent who was killed in Paris on August second.” As Craig spoke, he knew he had to give enough detail for his story to sound authentic. “Amos was living undercover as Ahmed Hussein in Clichy,” he continued, “a Muslim suburb of Paris, trying to stop terrorist attacks. After Amos identified Omar in Clichy, he tried to find out what Omar was up to, but Omar realized Amos was tracking him. Amos’s body was found in the river—he had been murdered. I’ll do anything I can to locate Omar and kill him. I promised Amos’s wife I would avenge his death, and I intend to do that.”

  Daud looked skeptically at Craig.

  “You’ve heard the whole story,” Craig added. “Now am I free to leave Grozny?”

  “Tomorrow morning at eight, if your story checks out.”

  “How about this afternoon?”

  “I need time to confirm what you told me.”

  Craig understood what that meant: Daud would tell Kuznov, and he had to give Kuznov enough time to check the facts and decide Craig’s fate.

  “My men will drive you to your hotel,” said Daud. “It would be best if you stayed in this evening.”

  “You don’t have to worry. I did enough sightseeing last evening.”

  Daud didn’t even crack a smile. Okay, the Chechen doesn’t have a sense of humor, thought Craig.