Gorbachev's perestroika found the Kuliyevs in Turkey. In Baku, as throughout the country, Party and Komsomol leaders turned out to be at the root of private enterprise. Gulnara's husband, who had accumulated connections abroad and had a solid business reputation, became a guarantor of the newly-appearing businessmen's commercial deals. A man who was «at home» in Istanbul turned out to be a hundred percent in demand. The future oligarchs' first operations were modest: oil in exchange for food and consumer goods.
Unexpectedly, Geidar Aliyev, former member of the Political Bureau of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, remembered Kuliyev. Gulnara's husband was acquainted with Aliyev thanks to the latter's son Ilhan; they had at one time been classmates, and had remained friends.
Ilhan Aliyev, an instructor at Moscow State University of International Relations, headed a commercial firm in Moscow, and visited his school friend in Istanbul on business. The Soviet Union was frantic-through the reliable person, rivers of dollars were flowing abroad from Moscow and Baku. Every liquid leaves some sediment. We need not continue beyond this point: everybody had a hand in the till.
But when the Soviet Union collapsed, there occurred, in Moscow and in a number of diplomatic delegations abroad, a series of mysterious deaths. It didn't skip over Gulnara's house-in Istanbul, under mysterious circumstances, her husband fell from the balcony of his own apartment. The misfortune coincided with Ilhan Aliyev's visit to Istanbul.
Gulnara was afraid to return to her native land. The day after her husband's «suicide,» she appealed to the American Embassy and, together with her daughter and son, was conveyed to the States. Whether her husband had had contact with the Americans, Gulnara didn't know-or knew, but didn't want to tell me. In any case, the fact that they soon offered her job in the FBI said a lot.
Asking personal questions is not accepted at our firm-the information about Gulnara, I gathered bit by bit from what she herself told me. A lot had evidently been left out of the picture, but since our relationship had not gone outside of mutually established limits-coarsely speaking, purely physiological-I didn't try to find out more. Her fighting past was outside my field of interest.
I began making friends with Gulnara soon after my return from Guantanamo, when she was transferred to our department as a translator. Not long before that, she had broken up with her boyfriend, an American who was a correspondent for a popular TV channel. It was he, incidentally, who had brought Gulnara into the world of journalism. At first I didn't understand very well where she was more involved-in our office, or on television-until I figured out that journalism was her cover, which allowed her, without advertising the Bureau's involvement, to fulfill certain functions. Surprising how she managed to hold down two jobs and a house!
From the very beginning, we agreed to keep our relationship a secret-the Bureau does not encourage even spouses working in the same department. Not to speak of lovers. It played into my hands-no obligations or scenes of the type that Camilla excelled at.
WAITING FOR THE BANQUET
Let us go back to Clark. I reported in detail on my visit to the «Islamic Center at Brighton Beach,» and, in spite of the absence of visible results, he was pleased: «Now we will wait and see if a fish bites.»
Lloyd did not interrupt my report; he sat silently opposite, nodded his head in approval; and, when I finished, brought up a point:
«It brings to mind the 'Center for Aid to Refugees of Alkifah.' So I asked the guys from Finance to carefully check the 'Islamic Center's' cash flow.»
«Sensible,» answered Clark. «Brooklyn is Al Qaeda's favorite place. Focus on Chechens-or, to be exact, on connections between Chechen separatists based in Europe and the Chechen diaspora in America and Al Qaeda.»
«I'll put Kuliyeva on it. Rivilis will assist her.»
«Do that,» Clark agreed, and turned to me: «Any questions?»
He usually ended meetings with that question. I decided not to ask a question about the «refugees of Alkifah»– it would be less trouble to bother Lloyd about it later-and answered tersely, «No.»
«Then you're free to go.»
I left the office by myself-Lloyd remained in Clark's study. Thus, I asked the question I was interested in only at the end of the day, when I was called in for instructions. Lloyd accompanied his answer with a detailed explanation:
«It's ancient history. It began in 1986, when Al Qaeda founded a workshop in Brooklyn next to Al Farooq mosque, giving it the resounding name, «Center for Aid to Refugees of Alkifah.» The head of the mosque was Imam Gulshair-remember that name. He did missionary work for the Saudi Arabian government, then served in Trinidad, and in 1985, he was transferred to Brooklyn.»
I quickly wrote an abstract. At my request, Lloyd repeated the imam's name, and continued:
«At first, we looked the other way when it came to the 'Alkifah' activities. The center collected private donations, which went to support the Taliban in Afghanistan. No one foresaw that after the end of their war with the Soviets, in which we were allies, the USA would become the enemy, both of the Taliban, and of Al Qaeda. We sobered up in ninety-three. After the explosion at the World Trade Center, the FBI conducted searches in the mosque and in the workshop. Eight attendees of Al Farooq mosque, employees of 'Alkifah,' were arrested. Among those arrested was Clement Hampton-El, nicknamed 'Doctor Rashid,' a specialist in the fields of artillery and the use of explosives. He had experience from the Afghan War.»
«Trained at American expense,» I added mentally what I didn't dare say out loud. Lloyd continued.
«Those arrested confessed to planning terrorist acts at the UN Building and FBI headquarters and in the New York subway system. The Center was closed; but, possibly, Coney Island, or more precisely, Brooklyn, has long caught the eye of extremists.»
«Why?» I yelped in surprise.
«Brooklyn is the heart of a Muslim community. Besides, terrorists were attracted by the proximity of Manhattan.»
Lloyd was right. Bay Ridge, which had been in the nineteenth century a stronghold of the Dane and Norwegian, and in the twentieth, of the Irish who replaced them, towards the end of the century had donned an Arabic headscarf. This was especially noticeable at playgrounds-quite often, women wrapped in black clothing leapt to the eye.
In earlier times, this would not have been permitted by the neighbors-Bensonhurst. For three-quarters of the twentieth century, Italians ran the show in Bensonhurst. Here beat the heart of the Italian Mafia; here, the events in Mario Puzo's best-seller The Godfather unfolded.
From here, the Corleone family controlled the criminal world of Greater New York, spreading its tentacles far to the West, all the way to Las Vegas. The prototype of the «Godfather»-Vito Corleone was a composite, but contemporaries found traces of Vito Genovese in him-turned out to be more powerful than Al Capone's violent Chicago clan. After an unsuccessful attempt to get in on the territorial division of New York, the Neapolitan retired from the field of battle, and soon disappeared from America's criminal arena. Unlike him, the New York Gotti and Gambino families recently celebrated their jubilee, «One Hundred Years in the Business.»
During the second half of the twentieth century, the unsinkable heads of the powerful Sicilian clans have moved to Long Island. This happened simultaneously with the arrival of the first wave of emigration of Soviet Jews. Naturally, they liked one of the wealthiest areas in Brooklyn, although they didn't manage to populate it right away. To get even the cheapest apartment, «Daddy's gold reserve ran short.» With the exodus of the Italians, Bay Ridge began to fill up with Arabs. They bought expensive houses and built mosques. The petroleum dollars of the Arab Sheiks came to Bay Ridge.
When I met Gulya and repeated the conversation with Lloyd to her, she was surprised.
«You really didn't know? It was almost with the blessing of the authorities that our glorious island became a refuge for Al Qaeda. And bin Laden and the CIA were on home visiting terms even before the creation of Al Qaeda.»
«Really?!» My eyebrows shot up, and I looked questioningly at Gulya.
«The love affair began in the eighties, at the height of the Afghan-Soviet war. It's not done to talk about it now, but Al Qaeda is Reagan's illegitimate offspring. Born in the ardor of friendship with Hussein, and adopted by the elder Bush. Afghan Mujaheddin made up the organization's backbone. At that time, I was working with my husband in Baghdad, and I remember well how Moscow and Washington courted Hussein by turns. Each suitor had its interests. The CIA expected that on an anti-Soviet basis, Al Qaeda would strengthen Sunni extremism and cause a falling out between Hussein and Moscow, and also oppose Shiite Iran, the CIA's longtime enemy. In Iraq, every crack smells of oil, and Washington wanted to push the Soviets out of it. So it assisted Al Qaeda, both with weapons, and with money. It's all simple, my dear.
«Did the CIA really not see farther than the end of its own nose? Seven nannies, and no one's watching the child?»
«You're asking the wrong question. America nurtured both the Taliban, and Al Qaeda. Moscow was caring for its own nestlings: Arafat, the «Red Brigades,» Latin American partisans. You're still a baby-in politics, anything is possible. If Bush doesn't start a war before the presidential elections, I won't be surprised by an announcement that the next president has invited Saddam Hussein to Camp David for a cup of coffee, while Muammar Qadaffi has married Julia Roberts and become a first-rate star at Hollywood receptions.»
I simply threw up my hands.
«You should go into the State Department-you'd put everything in order there in no time.»
«Don’t worry, I wouldn't manage any worse than Albright. Or Condoleeza Rice.»
I kept silent-it's pointless to argue with a woman. She always gets the last word, if you're serious about wanting the banquet to continue.
How could I have known that our next banquet would end on a funereal note?
TED'S MURDER
The aphorism, «The bullet is a fool, the bayonet is clever» would have appeared in big letters, in four lines, on the front door of that long-suffering apartment, located on the sixth floor of a prestigious coop in the southern part of Brooklyn, had the satanic forces reigning within it for the second week now managed to take up residence earlier. What has inspired this suggestion? The loss of Ted.
On Saturday I intended to reveal the charms of Russian cuisine to him. Back at Guantanamo, we had agreed formally to visit a Russian restaurant. Ted had spoken with such enthusiasm of Manhattan’s restaurants-Mexican, Indian, Thai-asking along the way, «And what, actually, does Russian cuisine have going for it, besides vodka?» that there was nothing I could do but invite him to get to know it. I was seething with injured pride.
I reserved a table at the «National.» I had decided to let him see the show «À la Moulin Rouge» at the same time. He might even participate in some dances. It's not exactly Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, but it's unusual for Manhattan.
We agreed that Ted would arrive by eight-from my house to the «National» is a comfortable fifteen minutes' stroll. He'd been to my apartment twice before, but those times, our roles had been different-agent and suspect, hunter and game.
He contrived to show up an hour early. He rang the bell downstairs, asked permission to enter, and, naturally, took me by surprise: I had to hurriedly pack off my girlfriend, with whom he almost bumped heads on the staircase. I can imagine how surprised he'd have been had he recognized her as his coworker-our dear, businesslike Gulenka. However, whew! We carried it off!
I wasn't ready for his early arrival. But, since Ted had made up his mind to immerse himself in Russian America, I suggested he start his acquaintance with a Russian TV program. Meanwhile, I promised to be showered and ready within fifteen minutes.
What with the noise of the water, I heard neither the doorbell ringing, nor the shots. When I came out of the bathroom, Ted was lying in the hall in a pool of blood. Next to him lay a discarded pistol with a silencer.
The entrance door was partway open. I sprang out into the hallway and dashed to the elevator. One car had gone down to the first floor; a second had gone up to the eighteenth.
I rushed to Ted. He was alive. One bullet had hit him in the left arm, a little above the elbow; a second-in the stomach. Ted was holding the wound in his stomach shut with his good hand and writhing with the pain. I called the officer on duty. He called the doctors and the police. Within ten minutes it was Babel in the apartment. A brigade from the FBI soon joined in. They cordoned off the building and started going from apartment to apartment, questioning the residents. They removed the film from the surveillance cameras…
They weren't able to follow hot on the culprit's heels and find him: they weren't even able to take fingerprints. There was the feel of a professional at work. Two days and two very complicated operations later, Ted was brought out into a regular ward. As soon as it became clear that he was permitted to have visitors, I went to the hospital.
In a weak voice, Ted told me what I already knew from Lloyd. Somebody rang the doorbell. I was in the bathroom and didn't react at all. Ted went to the door and looked through the peephole. A stranger was standing very close, obscuring his appearance. Ted asked, «Who is it?» There was a polite inquiry from behind the door: might the speaker see Yevgeny Rivilis? Ted, not expecting a dirty trick, undid the lock and opened the door. A person in a mask fired twice, threw down the pistol, and ran away.
Ted seemed to be on the path to recovery. He was smiling and trying to crack jokes. His wife and children arrived. I didn't want to get in their way and took my leave, promising to come the next day. That night, complications unexpectedly set in. In spite of the doctors' efforts, they weren't able to save Ted.
I was the original sitting duck. The doublet went to Ted. It was clear to all that the attempt was the result of the visit to the «Islamic Center at Brighton.» Something about me had frightened its inhabitants.
They issued me a bullet-proof vest, and I received strict orders from Lloyd: to wear it whenever I went out on the street.
On Friday the FBI ran a full-scale operation. About fifty police blocked off the streets neighboring the «Islamic Center.» Twenty FBI personnel tore into the building from two directions, interrupting the morning prayer. I was among them. However, unlike the other agents, my face was hidden behind a mask.
I carefully scrutinized those present. The bearded men whose acquaintance I had made in that building, and who were, it seemed, involved in Ted's murder, were not among them.
The catch, not counting dozens of illegal immigrants-Pakistanis working at gas stations-was nil. The net came up empty.
The documents of those present were verified. Those who had none on them were held until their identities were established, and then let go. The illegal’s were handed over to the Immigration Service. And that was all, I guess. There was a man-and he is gone. An ordinary casualty in an undeclared war.
THE CHECHEN TRAIL
I don't know what about my modest person has fascinated Clark. Ordinarily, the procedure for getting a staff position in the awe-inspiring Bureau takes a long time. Sometimes the waiting stretches on for a year. But… Hats off! Before you stands Yevgeny Rivilis, FBI agent. I beg you to be kind and gracious!
Ahead lay eighteen months of training at the FBI Academy in Quantico, a small town in Virginia, thirty-five miles from Washington.
It's high time a whole novel was devoted to training in Quantico. It would be read at one sitting. It's possible that in thirty years or so, when I'm retired, they will allow me, due to remoteness of these events, to open the curtain of secrecy, name the names of heroes, and tell about beautifully executed operations. But just at present, it can only be sketched in general terms.
Many ranks of police go through special training at the FBI Academy. The serial comedy «Police Academy,» popular about twenty years ago, had absolutely nothing in common with real life. Quantico is the image of professionalism. Everything is done at a high standard, including the min
i-city «Hogans Alley,» built on its territory, and imitating a typical American city, on the streets of which the actions of personnel in various operational situations are worked out.
To put it briefly, one of the FBI's jobs is the battle against organized crime and heinous crimes against private individuals. There's an analogy with the USSR, where the investigation of petty crimes was left in the jurisdiction of the militia, while complex criminal matters were given over to the Prosecutor Office. The KGB has its own specifications. The white pages are counterintelligence and the war on terror; the red, which have forever stained its reputation, contain the war on dissidents. The organization has been renamed several times: its essence hasn't changed. They have never managed to wash the red pages clean of blood.
The FBI combines the functions of the Prosecutor Office and the white pages of the KGB.
Every year, the Bureau publishes a report on the state of crime nationwide. The police administration receives daily methodological and practical assistance, referring to the FBI database of criminals and dactyloscopic charts, while the FBI criminological laboratories exercise all sorts of expertise at the request of the police.
It's unthinkable-yet I wound up in this holy of holies. Had anybody told me about this a year ago, I'd have taken the soothsayer for a madman. Especially against the backdrop of the famous breach in the security system that recently occurred at the FBI headquarters in Washington and the February 20, 2001 arrest of high-ranking FBI agent Robert Hansen. Under the weight of irrefutable evidence, he confessed to espionage on behalf of the Russian Intelligence Service. Hansen's sphere of activity was observation of the Russian Embassy in Washington and coordination of counterintelligence operations directed against the Russian diplomatic mission. His special achievement was the sale of documentation of a secret tunnel under the Soviet Embassy in Washington, on the construction of which the US intelligence services had uselessly shelled out hundreds of millions of dollars.
Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks Page 7