Russian Resurgence

by Allan Topol

  Elizabeth wanted to wait and talk to Dr. Cardin in person the following morning at the clinic, but Craig convinced her time was too critical, so she called him at home.

  “I’m involved with US intelligence people in a complicated national security issue,” she said. “We believe Jonathan’s grandfather may be in Budapest, and it’s important we talk to him. Jonathan believes that his grandfather is dead.”

  Dr. Cardin interrupted her to say, “You want to know whether you can ask the boy to help you get in touch with his grandfather?”

  She was impressed at how well Dr. Cardin had sized up the situation. “That’s exactly right.”

  After a short pause, Cardin said, “I think you can do it. Jonathan has an amazing ability to cope and a maturity beyond his years. And in any event, I would recommend that you give him as much information as you can.”

  “But what if his grandfather isn’t in Budapest or we later find out he’s not alive? I don’t want to raise his hopes only to crush them.”

  “If you explain the uncertainty to Jonathan from the beginning, I think he should be okay.”

  She thanked Dr. Cardin, put down the phone, and then explained to Craig what he had said.

  “I’ll reserve seats for you and Nick on my flight to Budapest in the morning,” he said, pleased with the result.

  She raised her hand. “Not so fast. What about the risk to Nick? If the Russians find out he’s there, they may attack him.”

  “Good point. We’ll take Pierre with us. You and I may be busy. He’ll be able to guard Nick.”

  Early Monday morning as Craig and Elizabeth drove to the clinic with Pierre following them, they decided on a plan. Elizabeth would go in and talk to Nick while Craig remained outside and briefed Pierre on what they wanted him to do in Budapest.

  Walking up the stairs into the clinic, Elizabeth realized how delicate this conversation would be. It was wonderful news that Nick’s grandparents hadn’t died in the fire, but she couldn’t prove that they were still alive, and even if they were, Peter being in Budapest was still a guess on their part. The last thing she wanted to do was raise Nick’s hopes only to disappoint him. She had to be careful.

  When Elizabeth went into Nick’s room, the boy was still sleeping. She turned on the light next to the bed and tapped him on the shoulder gently. “Hey Nick, it’s Elizabeth.”

  The boy sprang up to a sitting position, then relaxed on seeing her. He leaned back against the headboard. “Did you play baseball yesterday?” he asked, yawning.

  She smiled. “The Paris Yanks had the week off. But I have something I need to talk to you about.”

  “What happened?” he asked anxiously.

  Elizabeth sat down on the bed next to Nick.

  “The FBI analyzed dental records from the two bodies found in your house after the fire. They weren’t from your grandfather and grandmother.”

  “Then they’re still alive?” Nick asked doubtfully, almost unable to believe it could be true.

  Recalling what Dr. Cardin had said, she continued, “I don’t want to mislead you. We don’t know where they are, or even that they’re still alive,” she cautioned. “We only know that they didn’t die in the fire.”

  “Then who died?” Nick asked.

  “The FBI thinks it was two Russian men.”

  “I bet my grandpa killed the two who broke into the house. I bet he’s still alive—he’s too smart to have let them kill him.” For the first time Nick let a look of wild hope steal across his face.

  “I hope you’re right. Craig and I want you to help us find him, if he’s still alive.”

  “How can I do that?”

  “We think there’s a chance that your grandpa may be in Budapest. You know his phone number, don’t you?”

  “Sure. I used to call him all the time.”

  Elizabeth told Nick what to say, and he placed the call.

  As he dialed, his hand shook. Elizabeth tried to imagine what he was feeling emotionally.

  In a quavering voice, Nick said, “Grandpa? It’s Nick. . . .” Then he started to cry. “I’m so glad that you and Grandma didn’t die in the fire. . . . I’m safe now. Some wonderful people are taking care of me. They told me that dental records show you didn’t die in the fire, so I tried your cell phone. . . . Where are you? They’re taking me to Budapest. We’ll be at the Four Seasons Hotel this evening in a room registered to Elizabeth Crowder. . . Okay. I’ll see you then.” Nick put down the phone, wiping his face with his sleeve.

  “What did he say?” Elizabeth asked, anxiously.

  “He was very surprised. He told me he was sorry he caused me so much pain. When he sees me, he’ll explain what happened and why he had no choice. He hopes that I will forgive him. He said he will come to our hotel suite this evening at eleven in disguise, so I may not recognize him. And he said that he loves me.”

  Elizabeth was thrilled that Nick had handled the call so well. She had gotten exactly what she had hoped for. Now it would be up to Craig to convince Peter to cooperate in finding and stopping Omar.

  “This is very helpful,” Elizabeth told Nick. “I’m glad you’ll see your grandpa this evening. Now let’s go to Budapest!”

  Nick started peeling off his pajamas. “I’m getting dressed. I’ll be ready to go in two minutes.”

  Nick was true to his word. Two minutes later they were on their way to the airport.

  Budapest

  Prime Minister Szabo was disappointed as he listened to the report from the director of Military Intelligence. An enhanced interrogation of Gyorgy Kovacs, including waterboarding, hadn’t produced any information about Peter Toth’s plans to hire Chechen terrorists.

  “I’m convinced Gyorgy doesn’t know anything,” the director concluded.

  “Okay, release him,” Szabo fumed, “and warn him that if he tells anyone what happened to him he’ll be charged with undermining state security and given a ten-year jail sentence.”

  At Ferenc Liszt airport in Budapest Pierre rented a gray Audi and drove the other three the twenty minutes to the Four Seasons Hotel along the Danube River, a short distance south of the parliament.

  The art nouveau building, once the Gresham Palace, had been totally renovated after being damaged in World War II and was now Budapest’s most luxurious hotel. With Craig leading the way, they walked across the marble lobby lit by ornate glass chandeliers and up to the front desk.

  Elizabeth registered for a two-bedroom suite to keep Nick close by in the second bedroom, and a room adjacent to the suite for Pierre.

  Once they were in the suite and the bellman had gone, Craig made sure there were no bugs.

  Elizabeth told Nick, “I’m glad you’ll see your grandpa this evening.” She turned to Craig. “I think it would be best if Nick and I stayed in the suite. You probably have some things you want to do.”

  “Correct. I want to try and hook up with Lieutenant General Nemeth. When I was the head of EU Counterterrorism, Nemeth commanded Hungarian Special Forces. He’s a good guy, and I think I can trust him. I’m hoping he’ll help us in locating Omar.”

  As Craig headed toward the door, Elizabeth’s encrypted phone rang. She handed it to Craig.

  “Yes, Betty,” he said.

  “Are you in Budapest?”

  “Yeah. In the Four Seasons Hotel with Elizabeth and Nick.”

  “Can you get to the embassy? Doug Caldwell’s expecting you.”

  “Sure. I’m on my way.”

  “Use your Enrico Marino passport to get through security. Doug knows who you really are.”

  Betty clicked off.

  “Keep the phone,” Elizabeth told Craig. “You may have to call Betty when you’re not in the embassy. Also, do you know Caldwell?”

  Craig shook his head.

  “I checked his bio this morning,” Elizabeth continued. “He’s a kid. Been with the agency five years, an Iowa farm boy and a graduate of Wisconsin with an econ major. His first assignment was in London. Now this.”<
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  “So that’s who the heirs are to the swashbuckling, charismatic Yalies of the CIA’s glamour days.”

  “Don’t be such a snob. As I recall, you went to Carnegie Mellon.”

  As Craig walked the seven blocks to the embassy, the blazing sun beat down on him. It was a hot summer day, and as he passed by St. Stephen’s Basilica he was struck by the beauty of the cathedral. In front of the US Embassy was a small grassy area with an unsightly stone statute on a pedestal at the center. It was the Soviet Army memorial, which inexplicably had not been torn down after the Russians left in 1991.

  The embassy, a five-story, pale yellow stone structure with a lovely art nouveau façade, would have looked like any other office building in the area but for the extreme security. A six-foot-high, heavy, metal black fence surrounded the building. Access was possible only through one entry gate, which was guarded by several Marines clutching assault rifles. After the 9/11 bombings, security at US embassies around the world had been enhanced. However, Craig wondered what justified so much security in Budapest. To his knowledge, the embassy had never been attacked, and Hungary was on friendly terms with the US, although Szabo seemed determined to change that.

  Doug Caldwell, tall and broad shouldered with a blonde crew cut, was waiting for Craig in his cubby hole of an office on the third floor. Craig regarded these surroundings with amusement. They exemplified what many in the State Department thought of their CIA colleagues. In fairness to the CIA leadership, it was hard to run a spy agency when Congress kept brutally cutting funds and committee chairmen wanted to be involved in planning every mission. Then there was the press, constantly making the CIA a whipping boy. The Company had fallen on hard times in its recruitment as well.

  “It’s a great honor to meet you, Mr. Page.”

  “You can call me Craig.”

  “And I’m Doug. I heard all about you in my training at the agency’s farm. You’re almost a mythical figure within the CIA.”

  “Yeah. I’m mythical okay. Did they also tell you that I set the record for shortest time as CIA director? Three weeks, as I recall. Not even long enough for them to take my picture to hang on the seventh floor at Langley.”

  “There were extenuating circumstances, I heard.”

  “Yeah. Like a weak-livered spineless president following the advice of an asshole Washington lawyer.”

  Caldwell smiled. “I was pleased to hear from Director Richards this morning that we’d be working together.”

  “Don’t worry, Doug, you’ll get over it.”

  Doug’s enthusiasm wasn’t dampened. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked.

  “That’d be great. Black and strong.”

  Doug left the office and returned a couple of minutes later holding two Styrofoam cups. What happened to English bone china? Craig thought.

  Craig moved files from a chair in front of Doug’s overcrowded desk and sat down facing the station chief.

  “Now tell me,” Craig said to Doug, “what happened that Betty asked me to drop everything and get over here?”

  Caldwell took a deep breath and said, “About an hour ago, I received a call from my primary contact in Hungarian military intelligence. He told me that Russian President Kuznov will be coming to Budapest Wednesday morning. Then at noon on Wednesday, in front of the parliament building, Kuznov and Szabo will announce an agreement between Hungary and Russia. My contact, General Horvath, doesn’t know what it provides.”

  Craig felt triumphant. All the pieces had fallen into place now, confirming what Craig and Elizabeth had guessed. Peter must have found out about this agreement between Hungary and Russia. With his enormous hatred of the Russians and Szabo, he then traveled to Chechnya where he hired Omar to assassinate both Kuznov and Szabo during the ceremony. Omar was thrilled to do it because of his own hatred for Kuznov, and Peter funneled the payment through Emma Miller. This also confirmed why Omar didn’t abort, even when he thought Peter was dead. With Omar’s hatred of Kuznov, he’d never pass up a chance to kill the Russian president.

  “And you told Betty what you learned from General Horvath?” Craig asked Doug.

  “Yes, sir, as soon as I heard it from General Horvath.”

  “What did she tell you to do?”

  “That I was to brief you and remain on standby until she called back.”

  The phone on Caldwell’s desk rang. “Yes ma’am. He’s here. . . . I’ll do that right away.”

  He put down the phone. “Director Richards wants us to go to the communications room in the basement to take her call.”

  The communications room was a twelve-foot square with depressingly drab gray walls, badly in need of fresh paint. It held a battered metal table with a red phone and three rickety wooden chairs.

  Doug hit several buttons, and Craig heard Betty say, “Craig, are you with Doug?”

  “Yeah. We’re both here.”

  “Did Doug tell you what he learned from General Horvath?”

  “He did. It confirms everything Elizabeth and I deduced. Omar’s planning to kill both Szabo and Kuznov at the ceremony on Wednesday.”

  “I agree.”

  “I hope President Worth will call Kuznov now and warn him.”

  “He just made the call, urging him not to go to Budapest until Omar is apprehended. Kuznov rejected the warning. He thinks this is all a ploy by the US to block Russia and Hungary from executing their Friendship agreement.”

  “What’s the president want me to do?”

  “He has decided to back your attempt. Peter Toth was a US citizen, and he is responsible for developing this plot. If Omar succeeds or even if he attempts to carry out the attack, the US could be blamed. Worth doesn’t want to risk it. He thinks it’s better to try and stop Omar, even if that means the Russian–Hungarian treaty goes forward. The president is hoping you’ll work with the Hungarians to apprehend Omar and his men before Kuznov arrives Wednesday morning.”

  “I assume apprehend means capture or kill.”

  “I didn’t say that. But if Omar is shot while trying to escape, I’m sure you couldn’t help that.”

  “Suppose the Hungarians won’t work with me?” Craig asked.

  “You’re charming, Craig. You’ll persuade them.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You have only one limitation—no US troops can be involved. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay. Good luck.”

  This is great, Craig thought sarcastically. There are 1.8 million people in Budapest, and somewhere among them Omar and his men are holed up. I have less than forty-eight hours to find and stop him, and I don’t even have the vaguest idea where he is.

  Craig needed help, but he declined Doug’s offer for assistance. The CIA station chief had nothing that would be useful to him. Once Craig was outside of the embassy, he called Lieutenant General Nemeth.

  “Good to hear from you Craig,” Nemeth said in a booming voice. “Where are you?”

  “Budapest, and I’d like to talk to you.”

  “How about coming to my office in the Defense Ministry?”

  “Off-site will be better. I’m close to the parliament.”

  After a short silence, Nemeth said, “Special Forces has a small office at number 12 Bathory Street. I can meet you there in an hour.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Craig thought about the last time he’d seen Nemeth, who headed up a unit that was a combination of military intelligence and special ops. It was about three years ago, he thought. Craig had been the head of EU Counterterrorism, and he had received information that two ISIS terrorists had infiltrated a group of Syrian refugees who had arrived in Hungary before Szabo shut down access routes from Southern Europe. Working closely together, Nemeth and Craig had located the two, trapped them in Castle Hill in Buda where they were trying to set off bombs, and killed both of them. Craig and Nemeth solidified their bond that evening, celebrating by getting so drunk in a café with wine and Slivovitz that Cra
ig could barely make it back to his hotel.

  With an hour to kill until his meeting with Nemeth, Craig passed the Soviet Army memorial and headed toward the parliament, its neo-Renaissance dome shooting up into the air providing a marker for the entire city.

  Arriving in the square, he saw workmen erecting a platform with an overhanging roof in front of the parliament. That must be where the event would take place Wednesday. As Craig walked the periphery of the parliament square he passed Peter’s old office building with the defaced name plate that Elizabeth had told him about. Unfortunately, Peter and Szabo’s vendetta was no longer personal. Nations were involved, with potential consequences for millions of people.

  When Craig arrived at number 12 Bathory, Nemeth was waiting inside the front door. He took a look at Craig and a puzzled expression crossed his face. Reading his mind, Craig explained, “I had some work done to stay alive.”

  “Same voice. Same walk. It’s hard to change those.”

  Nemeth led Craig up a flight of stairs and into a drab corner office with a view of the parliament. Other than the two of them the building seemed deserted.

  The forty-five-year-old Nemeth had aged since Craig had last seen him. The brown crew cut was now gray, and his face showed wrinkles. His was a tough job with the constant threat of Islamic terrorists; and working for Szabo couldn’t be a picnic. It had all taken a toll over the last three years.

  Nemeth settled behind a desk while Craig sat in front of him.

  “I was sorry that you left the EU Counterterrorism job,” Nemeth said.

  “Giuseppe’s a good man.”

  “For sure. But he’s no Craig Page.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve made some career choices that didn’t work out too well. How are Katalin and your daughters?”

  “All good, thanks. I can guess why you’re here.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Nemeth reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture of Omar the Chechen. He put it down on the desk.

  “How’d you guess?” Craig asked.

  “Szabo called me this morning and said he was reported to be in Budapest and might be planning to carry out some type of terrorist attack. Szabo said we should try to find and kill him. Is that right?”