In August 2001, I marked five years since my arrival in the States. At the time I was working as a programmer for a small Internet company in Lower Manhattan. Life was like the exuberant song of my childhood: «Orange sky, orange sea, orange greenery, orange camel…»
On September 11, the world became different: New York City saw Pearl Harbor. I was late to work, and I arrived when the first plane crashed into the North Tower. Amid the throng of gawkers I watched a slow-motion rehearsal of the end of the world. In the finale, I thankfully survived. I saw tiny figures on the upper floors of the skyscrapers waving their handkerchiefs, then jumping out of the windows. May God spare me from ever seeing anything like it again. America was at war.
I didn’t work for a week after the attack on the World Trade Center, because the company had suspended operations. Overnight I had lost everything: my job, confidence in the future. Lower Manhattan, the pride of New York City, was shut down up to 14th Street. I took advantage of the hiatus and in an hour prepared the required package of documents in Brighton Beach to apply for citizenship. Until Sunday I was completely in the dark. There was the milky haze-the ashen sky, the ashen sea, the ashen greenery and the ashen camel-and the phrase, like a slap in the face, that came by e-mail on the evening of September 11: «Wait until things clear up, then we will let you know…» Wait how long? A day? Two days? A month? On Sunday a ray of hope peeked through as I was summoned to work. The company had found space at the Brooklyn Business Center and… lasted a month. The market collapsed, re-enacting what had happened to the twin towers. Millions of Americans lost their jobs. I was one of them, as the wave of layoffs killed the Internet company and smashed a prosperous business to bits.
Misfortunes never walk alone. No sooner had I adjusted to an unemployment benefit, dropping from $6,500 a month to $400 a week, no sooner had I adopted an active, all-is-not-lost mindset and prepared to send out résumés again, than more challenges confronted Rivilis-Nevelev.
In January four FBI agents-all with cookie-cutter looks, built at the very least like sparring partners for Lennox Lewis, the world superheavyweight boxing champion-came to my apartment. They introduced themselves. They carefully inspected the rooms (without going so far as confiscating my computer or frisking me), and videotaped the interrogation as they started without beating around the bush:
«We have received information from a former compatriot of yours who knew you before you emigrated to America that your name is not Leonid Nevelev, but Yevgeny Rivilis. We looked into that. We tracked down people who knew you previously, and when we showed them photos of you they also identified you as Yevgeny Rivilis. How do you explain this? And who are you really?»
I was ready for these types of questions. Many times while lying in bed at night, I had gone through potential scenarios of being exposed and my exculpatory responses. But no matter how meticulously you prepare for trouble, when the real thing happens, when your answer to a question determines whether you remain free or go to jail, and one of the interrogators is demonstratively twirling a pair of handcuffs on his finger, homemade run-throughs don’t work.
«Yes, I was once Yevgeny Rivilis. Then I became Nevelev. What’s unlawful about that? Cassius Clay adopted Islam and took the name of ‘Muhammad Ali’. And these days, nobody in America calls him Cassius Clay.»
«We’ll assume that, because of you we have one additional Muslim,» one of the agents said snidely. «But based on your candid admission»-
An ironic smile played around his mouth. He fell silent, and his gaze began to bore into me. I don’t know what kind of reaction he was looking for. But even before his biting remark, my face was the color of sour milk. After savoring his opponent’s discomfort, the agent pushed his advantage.
«Okay. In that case, let me ask you two more questions. First, why did you do that? And second, when you submitted your paperwork to the American Embassy, why didn’t you indicate your previous names? There’s a special box for that in the application. If you had filled it in, we wouldn’t have had any questions like the ones we’re asking today.»
The second question was the trickier one. I disposed of the first one in short order.
«I had no choice. It was a matter of life and death. Let me show you the papers.» I pulled a six-year-old article from the Odessky Vestnik newspaper out of my desk, which proved that I was Napoleon’s great-great-grandson, and here I went for the ruse. I concealed the truth.
«What is printed here under my byline is nothing but a prank. How the hell could I be a great-great-grandson? But they started harassing me.» And I told them about Sophia and the Chechens who visited us in Odessa, adding that I changed my name because I feared for my life and was unwilling to participate even indirectly in the war in the Caucasus. Then I described in colorful terms how we couldn’t even get peace of mind in America because the Chechens tracked down Sophia, threatened her, demanding that she return the money, and as a result, she was forced to go into hiding. And I had also felt for the last few years as though I was living on top of a volcano, afraid of a knock on the door.
Unbelievably, my reference to Sophia’s meeting with the late General Dudayev, and then to the Chechen who visited Sophia at college, saved me. The agents listened closely to my story (the video allowed them to hear my statement several times), instructed me to sign a paper promising not to tell anyone about the interview, took a Xerox of the newspaper (I had had the foresight to make two copies of the article) and politely took their leave. Sometime later they reappeared (half as many this time), without a videocamera or handcuffs, which had been so conspicuously displayed on the previous visit, and proceeded benevolently to part two. The preface came from Ted-at least that is how he identified himself to me.
«We’ve reviewed that recent article in Odessky Vestnik, «Napoleon’s Great-Great-Grandson Speaks,» and we didn’t find anything unusual in it. For the powers that be to have kids out of wedlock is not such a rarity. Whether your story is true or nothing but a fabrication is not important. The main thing is that you committed unlawful acts by concealing your real name when you filled out the application. You could get up to five years in prison for deceiving the immigration service. Followed by deportation. But in the interests of national security we can offer you a deal: amnesty in exchange for cooperation.»
«I’ll take it,» I replied with alacrity, ready to put myself in the FBI’s hands without hearing the terms of my surrender.
«I’m glad we understand each other. Ever since the terror attack of September 11 the struggle against terrorism and Muslim extremism has come to the forefront. Any Chechen fighters who are in America illegally may be linked to Osama bin Laden and Al Qaida. If you agree to become an FBI informer, we are prepared to overlook your transgressions and not report anything to the immigration service.»
«What if they don’t turn up?» I wanted to bite my tongue for the stupid question (I had put a noose around my own neck), but you can’t bring back what’s been said. In an attempt to remedy my gaffe, I blurted out something equally brilliant: «Maybe I can be of use to you in some other way?»
The visitors smiled indulgently.
«During the interview to become an American citizen you’ll have an opportunity to change your name… Take advantage of it and go back to being Yevgeny Rivilis. That will make it much easier for the people who are looking for you or your wife.»
«You’ll be a decoy,» the second agent assured me.
Duck hunting is a pretty entertaining activity as long as someone else is the duck. But whether I liked it or not, I had no choice. And to jump ahead a bit, I admit that when the time came for the interview, I followed their advice. As Sophia would have said, «I reverted to my maiden name.»
I can hear somebody in the audience shouting out a question, and I pondered it too for the past two weeks: Why didn’t you turn your uninvited guests over to the FBI? High-tech surveillance equipment will uncover any harasser. Besides, my status allows me to enjoy the privileges of an FBI
agent.
But what if these are tricks by my bosses? That’s nonsense, of course. But if I don’t understand the reason for what’s going on, then I’m entitled to consider that theory as well. Forwarding the problem to the top will prevent me from controlling the situation. From figuring out who the hell is drinking tea in my absence and to what end? Why are there only three settings on the table? If I assume that the first two belong to Sophia and Grisha, then whose is the third one? Mine?! Whoa now! I’m starting to go mad! And what about the unwashed dishes? I repeat, it’s not my routine to leave home without washing the dishes! Maybe I’ve started losing my mind and I’m pulling these pranks myself? I forget to clean up after myself-the third stage of arteriosclerosis-and groundlessly look for guilty parties elsewhere. Now that takes the cake! But what about the elevator? And the outrageous note? Did I write that myself, too? I’m taking a break-this is enough for today.
* * *
Last week I hired a private detective to install two videocameras in my apartment: one monitoring the foyer and front door, the other aimed at the kitchen. Well, I threw $300 out the window, because the result was practically nil. At two o’clock in the afternoon the camera showed the front door opening and a man walking in. The camera, unfortunately, couldn’t get a shot of his face. Then both cameras shut off. Twenty minutes later they turned on again, recording the traces of some wild revelry: the table set for three, the open doors of the kitchen cupboards and-the black humor of the unexpected guests. They had left a sign hanging on the back of the front door, which read, «I am proud to be an American!» Yet I would have detected the remnants of the visit to my apartment without a videocamera. The main characters, as well as the director, sadly, had stayed offscreen.
Apart from the sign, there was nothing new about the production. Dark humor and doubletalk. The intent was obviously to drown me in incoherence. Maybe the target would start to panic and make mistakes. If I only knew whom I had beaten out, the search would have narrowed. A man? Was he alone or were there really three visitors-I had no idea. The content of the sign? If it was an allusion to something, then it was extremely vague. One thing was clear: the uninvited visitors were assiduously emphasizing that they were capable of doing as they saw fit. Remember the note that suggested that I «stick my nose in the fridge» and the subsequent incident in the elevator-a warning that was intended to convince the victim that the trap had slammed shut. If I only knew what they were so afraid of, it would be easier to catch them. All right. We’ll give them a chance to go on with their exercises and we’ll continue our reminiscences. At some point the troublemakers will be forced to put on something more elaborate.
AN INTELLIGENCE AGENT’S CAREER BEGINS IN GUANTÁNAMO
What boy does not dream, at least briefly, of a career as a secret agent? Automobile chases, gunfire, penetration into the enemies' secrets and frustration of their sinister plans. In recompense-a medal from the President's own hands and a kiss from a stunning beauty. This does not apply to informers. Unlike agents, risking their lives in the enemy camp, they circulate among their own people and quietly «report» on them. In any society, they are despised. Turn just a little bit away from the word, «informant,» inoffensive in nature when applied to a correspondent or lecturer, and it acquires a disreputable odor: spy, sleuth, talebearer. Or else, even nastier: provocateur, snitch. I won't argue: the secret services need both the one and the other. Humanity is ungrateful. For one and the same job-finding and providing information-one receives respect and honor, the other, hatred and contempt.
Having agreed to cooperate, I didn't sleep all night. The next day passed in a state of undiminished suffering. I remembered the long-ago acknowledgment by a Novosibirsk acquaintance, a journalist for a young people's newspaper, who admitted, over a bottle of wine, that the KGB had offered him a job as an informer. Once he saw my reaction, my acquaintance hastened to dissociate himself from the Secret Police: he had, he said, rejected their offer. I don't know whether a careful sounding out of Yevgeny Rivilis on the subject of possible recruitment was underway, but at about that time, the career of the «rejecter» took off: he got into a youth delegation that visited the USA and was received at the White House. After the next glass of wine, he proudly showed me a photograph taken at a meeting with Senator Kennedy, and his autograph. We kept up friendly relations for a long time-«he who is not caught is not a thief»-but the feeling of disgust stayed with me, no matter what.
I made up my mind to talk to Ted, and, come what may, refuse the tempting offer. To my surprise, he reacted with understanding to my avowed motives, and suggested changing my status-I should try to become a regular employee of the FBI.
He gave me the address of the New York office of the FBI and told me about the first steps. It turns out that anyone who wants to can turn in an application, and, if they survive the competition-there are a hundred people per opening-enter government service.
I followed his advice, filled out the required documents, and was soon called in for an interview. The carousel had begun to turn. Fingerprinting, written exams, lie detector test, background check, accompanied by the study of my biographical data and lifestyle. A neighbor woman, a Russian, acknowledged in secret that people from the police had shown an interest in me, and that she had given me a glowing character. Without a doubt, there were other respondents as well. It was not for nothing that I had signed a paper permitting a comprehensive inquiry into my personal life, including my financial status. And while the application is being looked over-sometimes the process drags on for up to a year-one is permitted to serve one's new homeland as a part-time agent. Wearing the same clothes as an informer, but it sounds nicer.
I soon came to understand why the Bureau had proposed a deal in such unprecedented haste: Ted voiced his chief's desire to send me to the Guantanamo American military base. I responded with my acceptance. If it was to be supposed that I would someday be hired as a regular employee, then, according to FBI rules, I must commit myself to heading off to any geographical point, even the North Pole. It would not do to upset my future employers prematurely. Let them write in my dossier that Napoleon's great-great-grandson was ready for heroic deeds.
What happened after that turned out to be beyond the boundaries of the fantastic. The head of the FBI's regional department wished to meet yesterday's emigrant.
On the appointed day, Ted met me in the lobby and escorted me to the boss. I was already acquainted with him-he had conducted the FBI quartet that visited my apartment. Lloyd made a pretense of seeing me for the first time. If it was easier for him to start off with a clean slate, well then, let it be so. After a short interview, Lloyd announced, «They're waiting for us,» and got up from the table. I rose simultaneously with Ted. The cloud of Fortune took on a new passenger, floated to the elevator, and went up three floors. We entered the office.
I expected to meet an imposing man in epaulettes, at least a colonel in rank, with racks of decorations and silver-gray hair. Disenchantment is the companion of illusions. At the massive desk sat a brown-haired fifty-year-old in civilian clothes and of a completely un-athletic build, who looked like the head of a small accounting firm. The face of Clark, the senior special agent coordinating FBI activities in New York, revealed no traces of a wild youth.
Later, when I asked about the FBI hierarchy, Ted would answer that the lowest level of the service ladder was the agent (and he pointed to himself); then came the special agent-Lloyd, for example, Ted's boss, who had ten or fifteen rank-and-file agents under him; higher still, the aide to the senior special agent, and so forth. Senior Special Agent Clark was an FBI legend, whose service log contained more than a few brilliant operations that had become textbook examples at the FBI Academy.
Clark greeted me affably, congratulated me on starting work, and emphasized that the new stage in the battle with international terrorists had forced him to temporarily change the existing rules for hiring new employees. Having finished with the introduction, he issued me a g
enerous advance.
«I look upon you as a viable candidate for the post of agent. When you get back from Cuba you'll have to go through a couple of supplementary tests, on which, I hope, you'll exhibit brilliant results. And-good luck!»
Clark apparently expected to hear, «Thank you, Sir.» Nothing of the sort happened. Trained at a military camp near Novosibirsk to shout, «Hurrah!» at the top of my lungs (or the more restrained second choice, «I serve the Soviet Union!»), I wasn't able to reorient myself. I modestly muttered, «I will try,» started to get confused, and dropped my eyes.
Clark smiled indulgently and moved on to the briefing.
«As you know, on October seventh, a military operation began in Afghanistan. After the fall of Kandahar and the taking of the Tora Bora underground shelters, it became clear: the Taliban have been overthrown. Thousands of prisoners. Among them there turned out to be many mercenaries, citizens of other countries. Russians, Englishmen… Even our countrymen have wormed their way in there. But in this case, it's the Chechens we're interested in. They not only fought in the ranks of the «Taliban,» but were also involved in many famous terrorist acts. In Indonesia, in Pakistan. The Russians are constantly complaining about them. Terrorist act after terrorist act.
«Oho,» I grasped the idea, «so that's it. Trumps have been named: Chechens.»
Clark confirmed my guess, turning toward me. Lloyd, nonchalant, sat silently across the table and appeared frankly bored. Ted made a show of listening attentively; opened a notebook; prepared to write; and there, he stopped.
«We must unmask those who are connected with Al Qaeda cells in America. You told us that your wife visited Chechnya six years ago and met with General Dudayev. Apparently they remember her well in the late president's circle. That emissaries of the fighters tracked down Sophia in New York is evidence that separatist cells are operating on US territory. The money they wanted to get from her was earmarked for the financing of terrorist activity. However, it's possible that it was a hook that they caught her with. In reality, they are planning to involve her in a different way. Let's suppose as a living bomb, a courier, or a liaison. A nice-looking woman usually does not arouse the suspicions of the police.»
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