Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

by Rafael Grugman

  I listened with assiduous attention to Clark's flowing speech and tried hard not to miss the most important part.

  Despite being in my sixth year in the country, and having experience working in an American company, my knowledge of the English language was still far from perfect. A conversation with a salesperson, patiently listening to the accent of the potential buyer, who asks a hundred times, «Could you repeat that?» is one thing. A conversation among professionals is another. One meets with unfamiliar words, and it is necessary to catch the sense without losing the thread. And what musical hearing one needs to have so as to quickly adjust to one's interlocutor's pronunciation!

  At the internet company, I had witnessed a conversation between two managers, American natives-a Southerner with a Texas accent, whom I understood with difficulty, and a Northerner. After a five-minute monologue by the Southerner, with many growling sounds, the Northerner gave up and said, «Could you repeat that?»

  I rejoiced. A river of balsam had been poured over my emigrant soul, instantaneously healed of the dread of incorrectly setting out ideas in a foreign language. If they don't understand you the first time, they ask again and understand the second time. A monstrous accent-which is treated unfavorably when one is hired into a high-paying job in other states-in New York, a city half composed of emigrants, is received with understanding.

  Distracted for a second, I lost the thread of the conversation. Clark was continuing a detailed explanation, the sense of which was not entirely clear to me. I gave up and interrupted him.

  Excuse me, but I have yet to grasp what my role is. And as for Sophia, I have no information about her whatsoever.»

  Clark narrowed his lids and smiled craftily.

  «Have you forgotten that your surname is Rivilis, and your genealogy, if one is to believe a newspaper, goes back to the Louvre?»

  «I wouldn't want to advertise that.»

  «Don't worry. Information does not leave the bounds of Guantanamo. Although France is behaving like a real prostitute, political scandal does not enter our plans. But on the military base… Why shouldn't we make use of your situation? We'll launch a rumor about Bonaparte's great-great-grandson, who has come to call upon the inmates, and watch their reaction. If, among the Chechen prisoners, there is even one who knows about Sophia, he will be sure to make contact. After September Eleventh, we must make use of every chance, every clue.»

  Thus, it was proposed once more that I don Bonaparte's uniform. It had caused no little fuss in the past-it was enough to remember Sophia's trip to the Caucasus, where she had presented herself as an empress (strange that her hearers believed her cock-and-bull story and introduced her to General Dudayev). Now, new troubles had begun.

  Clark went on with his directions. Striving to catch the gist, I broke them down by topic…

  First. I would fly to Guantanamo under my former name-Rivilis. A driver's license and passport would be prepared without delay.

  Second. I would be presented to the military base commandant, and later, to the prisoners, as a high-ranking representative of a certain humanitarian organization acting under the aegis of UNESCO. It was possible that prisoners would want to use this opportunity and make contact with the outside world.

  Third. Prisoners would be brought to me by turns for conversations on topics of general interest. Ten or twenty of them, no more. They would include Russians and Chechens in their number. I must take an interest in the quality of the food and medical services and write down complaints and requests. On my worktable would stand a framed portrait of Sophia. If the surname Rivilis turned out to be known to any of the prisoners, or he knew anything about Sophia, he would be sure to give himself away. Further instructions would be given depending on how things went.

  Clark inquired whether everything was clear to me. I said a hasty «Yes,» following a rule adopted at the internet company: we'll figure out the assignment later. Clark gave me a look full of misgiving, but said nothing-he appraised my audacity, exchanged glances with Lloyd, and wished me success in my new career. The audience was finished.

  We had hardly left Clark's office when Lloyd notified us that he would be detaining Ted and me for another fifteen minutes. We returned to the conference room. Along the way, Lloyd exchanged friendly repartee with Ted. I caught myself thinking that it would be difficult for an outside observer to understand which of them was higher ranking. Then I guessed: this sort of atmosphere-equality in everything not concerned with actual work-was the customary style of relations in the FBI. Incidentally, the same atmosphere had prevailed at the internet company.

  We took our seats. Lloyd asked if I understood everything from Clark's presentation. I grew embarrassed, but then I finally admitted honestly:

  «The task assigned presupposes a mastery of acting. I'm afraid of a fiasco.»

  Lloyd smiled benevolently.

  «Don't worry. Everyone's nervous the first time. But there is an additional reason why we made up our minds to do this experiment with you.»

  I cringed: weren't there enough surprises for Bonaparte's great-great-grandson?

  Lloyd confirmed my fears.

  «We suspect that one of the prisoners, a certain al-Kahtani, was supposed to have participated in the terrorist acts of September Eleventh. He is the supposed «twentieth kamikadze» on the team of suicide attackers. A month before the terrorist act, al-Kahtani tried to enter the USA through Orlando International Airport, but he didn't manage to get through Customs. He explained the purpose of his visit very vaguely, which put the inspector on his guard. They refused him entry, and he returned to Saudi Arabia. From there, al-Kahtani moved to Afghanistan. There, he was taken prisoner during a military action. After the September Eleventh terrorist acts, José Melendez-Perez, the Customs inspector, exhibiting unusual vigilance, remembered him and phoned the FBI. That served as the basis for al-Kahtani's delivery to Guantanamo. We'd like to let him go by you.»

  «Excuse me,» I couldn't keep silent, and interrupted Lloyd. (Let me remark in parentheses: a dilettante, which at that moment I was, has the right to commit foolish acts and ask stupid questions.) «Where did you get the number twenty?»

  Lloyd pursed his lips in displeasure and shot me a disapproving glance. I realized my mistake and mechanically covered my mouth with my hand. Lloyd chalked my blunder up to inexperience and explained.

  «On the airplanes that attacked the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, there were five terrorists each. But on board the flight that crashed in Pennsylvania, there were four. The twentieth terrorist for some reason or other wasn't able to get on the airplane. He may have been al-Kahtani.»

  Without meaning to, I blurted out:

  «Has he confessed?»

  «No. He has refused to cooperate. Under questioning, he is silent. But, possibly, through you, he might try to send a message to his relatives. Suggest offering him this service out of humanitarian considerations.»

  «I'll try. But how do we explain why they're bringing me all the Russian-speaking Taliban members? Won't that look strange?»

  «We'll spread a rumor that the UNESCO representative, an emigrant from Russia permanently residing in France, wishes to help his erstwhile fellow countrymen. What's suspicious about that? We'll watch their reaction… And don't worry, I'll be near you. Let's say, as a secretary. In unforeseen situations, I'll always be able to come to your aid.»

  AND THERE'S ICE CREAM AT INTERMISSION

  The night at Guantanamo preceding the amateur talent show with Yevgeny Rivilis in the role of Master of Ceremonies was spent rehearsing. I sat on the bench in front of the little one-story house we were lodged in, and imagined how I would begin conversations with the prisoners. I played through scenes, imagined dialogues-mentally, of course-but if anyone had caught sight of me that night, disheveled, with moving lips, they would certainly have decided that I was slightly disturbed.

  The main thing, I tried to convince myself, was to get into the role. And as a means of doping it out, I re
called the story of some transformations I had participated in in days of yore.

  First to surface in my mind was Alma-Ata. I was a fourth-year student at Novosibirsk University and had just received a stipend for two months. The middle of September. In the South it was the warm, «velvet» season; in Novosibirsk, it breathed briskly of late autumn. I had never observed a passion for travel in myself, but…the wine went to my head after splitting a bottle of «Rkatsiteli» with the roommate. I got on a train and went off to the warm places to stroll through the remainder of the summer. My ammunition was a Hungarian briefcase-leather, light brown-and a fleecy jacket, maybe Romanian, maybe Polish. The main thing was, it was imported-at that time, all that I had to brag about. For the show, I needed bravado; but without these props, Odessa acquisitions from summer vacation, the performance would not have taken place.

  My impersonation, in the «Alma-Ata» restaurant, of an English student traveling around Europe, who had for some reason landed in the capital of Kazakhstan, went nowhere. Who among us did not seek adventure at twenty? But the fact that the men sitting at the table, hearing my repartee with the waiter in broken Russian, along with explanations about who I was, and where from, suddenly started a fuss and jumped into the act, gave it a new impetus.

  The eldest of them, emboldened by drink, made a decisive pronouncement:

  «I've been abroad too. I built the Aswan hydroelectric station in Egypt.»

  I rejoiced-the first applause was sounding-but I ignored the attack and modestly continued my meal, something from the national cuisine, selected for me by the waiter.

  «When you go back to England, tell them we already have communism,» the eldest announced peremptorily, and proudly glanced at his buddies. His eyes said, «See how I wiped his nose for him?»

  I choked, unable to tolerate their mockery of reality; and, without thinking about the consequences, in studiously broken Russian drawn from a film about German spies, began to clarify our relations:

  «I am a student Oxford City Universitity. I was goink all Erope, Polland, Dzerman-yours is total no-man's land.

  «You missed the most important thing,» my interlocutor boldly objected, and he insistently repeated his request. «When you go back to England, tell the comrades that we already have communism.»

  To let such a serve go by-tennis and volleyball players will grasp this immediately-would be inexcusable. It had to be repaid.

  «Yow communist?!» I pointed my index finger at my interlocutor.

  «No, he's a Communist!» The builder of the hydroelectric station pointed to the member of the governing party sitting opposite him.

  «Yow Communist?!» the «foreign student» continued unappeased, and, flying into a passion, he pointed his finger at the fresh victim.

  The Communist looked at me sternly and growled,

  «You're eating?! Eat!»

  A little innocent diversion was threatening to grow into an international scandal. The hydroelectric builder wanted to order a bottle of vodka, but the Communist stopped him roughly and pointed significantly at the enemy agent: what if that guy, in his good-for-nothing England, should blurt out the wrong thing? After all, he had somehow managed, the scum, to descry that ours was a «total no-man's land.»

  Time to put on the brakes. I let the curtain fall and, fearing to heap up unpleasantness for myself in the land of triumphant communism, silently continued to improve my acquaintance with the delights of Kazakh cuisine.

  Remembering past exploits lent me strength. I could do it again!

  For the current performance, makeup was not required. I didn't look bad in the role of UNESCO representative, and would have won applause on Broadway; but, alas, an actor's fate is unenviable. I soon began to realize that at the end of the performance, under no circumstances could I expect calls for an encore. The mission of Bonaparte's great-great-grandson at Guantanamo was purposely a dead number. The Afghan Chechens were not connected with Sophia and were far from the money received by her. Al-Kahtani announced that he had nothing to do with the Taliban, and that his arrest and extradition from Afghanistan were illegal. As for the offer of taking a letter to his relatives, he thanked me and declined.

  As I had surmised, Clark's idea was doomed to failure from the start. The probability that, out of ten or twenty prisoners, one would «bite» at the sight of Sophia's portrait, or start at the sound of the name Rivilis, was practically zero. The prisoners complained that they were not being permitted to observe religious rites, and unanimously repeated that their human rights were being violated.

  To disillusion Clark would be to testify to my own uselessness. And what then? Spent material gets thrown away. In my case, dispatched to the Immigration Service. The night before the flight out to New York brought a crowd of terrors comparable to the ones that had washed over me during the first week after the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. It's impossible to forget. Before my eyes, people caught in the fiery trap-people who were throwing themselves in despair from the upper stories of the skyscrapers. I became nervous and feverishly searched for an exit. A means of convincing the administration of my significance and staying in the ranks of the FBI. And I took a risk; I decided to start a new venture. The more global the project, the greater the chance of drawing extra attention to myself.

  At the airport, I asked Lloyd to arrange for another meeting with Clark.

  «What have you got there? Tell me. I'll report on it myself, if I consider it necessary.» Lloyd reminded me that he was my boss, and these were company rules.

  «I have some ideas. But I'm not ready to discuss them yet. It will take me two or three days to summarize them.»

  Lloyd looked at me with distrust and set a deadline.

  «We'll talk day after tomorrow.»

  He left me in peace, hung out with Ted the whole way, and bugged me when he wanted some amusement with, «What's the Russian for…?» He would name a word and cheerfully repeat «samoliot,» «vertoliot,» «pulemiot.»

  We had begun this game on the way to Cuba. He liked to study Russian in this way, and I played along with him:

  «Lloyd, how do you say, 'pistol' in Russian?»

  «Pistyoliet.»

  While Lloyd was amusing himself with Ted, I thought about how to convince Clark of my significance. Write an analytical memo? Demonstrate that the investigation into the events of September Eleventh should not revolve around bin Laden and the Taliban? I spent the whole next day in torment-I wrote and rewrote a report, struggling to lay out my thoughts clearly in a foreign tongue. A Solomonic solution came to me unexpectedly: to prepare the report in two versions: one in Russian and the other in English. If Clark were interested, the FBI had an ample staff of translators.

  A day later I gave Lloyd the memorandum. He read the English version and, without commentary, requested an electronic copy. After another two days, he informed me that, before giving the memo to the boss, he had corrected the text slightly; and, as a result, Clark was calling us in for a meeting at six o'clock that evening.

  The first question Clark asked took me by surprise. He stared me fixedly in the eye for about a minute-I almost collapsed-then his gaze grew warmer; something like a smile flitted over his lips, and he spoke insinuatingly:

  «So what work did you do in Russia, anyway?»

  I was not expecting this question; since I had told about myself in detail on the enormous questionnaire, I'd filled out earlier, and, like all new hires, had undergone a lie-detector test. I grew confused and stalled, trying to choose the necessary phrases. Clark assessed the condition of the novice as a sign of timidity and did not wait for the muddled answer.

  «I read your memo. Curious. Very curious. There's almost nothing new there, but the clarity of thought… You didn't, in your youth, go through training in the KGB's Analytical Department?» He quipped unexpectedly.

  I flinched, but Clark did not continue with his line of thought.

  «I am in partial agreement with you. Your analysis of the conne
ction between Saddam Hussein's regime and Al Qaeda and Iraq's participation in the events of September Eleventh coincides with the opinion of FBI analysts. You're right, it wouldn't hurt to change the USA's immigration policy and demand that the European Union stop the Islamization of Europe. But acting directly, as you propose, is something we can't do. We would immediately be accused of interference in domestic affairs. Liberal lawyers would start shouting about civil liberties and human rights. Don't forget, the native language of ten percent of Frenchmen is Arabic.» Clark grinned. «Just a little more and the citadel of Catholicism will make the Hadj and start wearing a paranja.»

  Lloyd joined in.

  «Naturally! The military flag of France is a white cross-on a white background!»

  Clark smiled approvingly, but made no comment.

  «Not long ago in the Parisian suburb of Montfermeil, an Algerian emigrant was arrested on suspicion of participating in the activities of a Chechen cell of Al Qaeda. Slimane Khalfaoui. He had gone through training on Georgian territory, in the Pankiss gorge. Afterwards, he fought in Bosnia and in Afghanistan. After the defeat of the Taliban, he managed to slip away, and he showed up in France.»

  «A new International has been created, a terrorist one,» interjected Lloyd.

  Clark nodded approvingly at him without following up on the remark.

  «We suspect Khalfaoui of being close to another Algerian, Ahmed Ressam, arrested in December of 1999 on the Canadian-American border in Washington State. The customs officers who detained Ressam found about sixty kilograms of explosives, timing mechanisms, and other materials needed in the preparation of a mega-terrorist act, in his car. The French, incidentally, suspect Ressam of participating in the organization of the explosion in the Paris metro in ninety-six. From France he fled to Canada, and then tried to get into the USA.»