Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

by Rafael Grugman

  After a breach of such magnitude, surely the FBI would hardly take in a Russian-speaking employee off the street? Apparently the director of the New York office is especially in favor with the Bureau administration, if they trust him to make independent decisions regarding personnel.

  As my «senior colleague,» Gulya officially became my mentor. Not, I suppose, without the consent of, or maybe even a direct order from, Lloyd. Incidentally, it's to her that I'm indebted for my participation in a two-day seminar in Washington, at which I made the acquaintance of Glen Howard, the acting director of the NGO American Committee for Peace in Chechnya.

  How did it happen? In the Sunday Washington Post, I read a short interview with Howard about an upcoming congressional conference on the problem of Chechnya. I called Gulya, and expressed a wish to be among the number of participants. I soon received an invitation. How Gulya managed to wangle a two-day trip to Washington out of the Academy administration, she didn't mention.

  At the conference, not without Gulya's assistance, I was an accredited journalist with the «Voice of America» radio program. This allowed me to talk in a private capacity, both with Howard, and with Ilyas Akhmadov, Foreign Minister of Chechnya in Aslan Maskhadov's administration. I don't know whether the radio station management was informed that a new «employee» had appeared among them, or whether the announcement was delayed and will be back-dated, but I wound up with the necessary documents.

  Howard willingly gave an interview. If only he had known that it would never be on the air! I gamely got into the role of radio journalist, and without consulting Lloyd, decided to show some initiative. The thought flashed across my mind: with a lucky confluence of circumstances, I might trace Basayev and Yandarbiyev's contacts with the Chechen diaspora in the USA and expose secret fighter cells.

  «Mr. Howard, what do you think of organizing a meeting in Washington between Chechen opposition leaders and those prominent Russian parliamentarians and social activists who are prepared for dialogue with Maskhadov?»

  Howard sensed a trap and waved his hands.

  «Not under any circumstances! After September Eleventh, inviting them would be unrealistic. You know, Russia is our ally in the anti-Terrorist coalition that has supported the attack on the Taliban. I am sure you are aware how unpleasantly it would react to contacts with separatists. In the present situation, the State Department and the White House would not permit that.»

  «We could correct the plan and have a conference in Europe,» I suggested, «The result would be the same.»

  «Not entirely,» Howard was mollified. «An informal meeting in Europe would allow Bush to preserve his reputation. You understand we need Russia's agreement, even silent, on the military action in Iraq. We don't support Russia's policies in the Caucasus, and we believe that every people has the right to self-determination. But at the present time, Washington isn't going to annoy Putin and meet with separatist leaders. All the more so since Basayev and Yandarbiyev, who have been observed in contact with Al Qaeda, are personae non gratae in America.»

  «That can be seen as a deal, right? We turn a blind eye on Chechnya, and you abstain at the UN Security Council when they vote on Iraq?»

  Howard smiled and nodded his head.

  «I can't confirm that that is Bush's or the State Department's position, but, with some allowances, the scenario you've described is true.»

  I took heart-the idea of holding a conference had been favorably received-and kept up the pressure.

  «Mr. Howard, may I hope, if such a meeting takes place, to be among those invited? As an American, of course.»

  Howard appreciated the joke and broke into a smile.

  «Of course, what a question! You will certainly be invited-to represent the American side.»

  Howard turned out to be a man of his word. I soon received an invitation to visit the Principality of Lichtenstein, a mini-state nestled in the mountains between Austria and Switzerland. I was informed that on the sixteenth of August, in a little mountain village on the right bank of the Rhine, a meeting would take place between Ahmed Zakayev, the former Deputy Prime Minister of Ichkeria, and Ivan Rybkin, Ruslan Khasbulatov, Aslanbek Aslakhanov, and Yuri Shchekochikhin.

  The Principality was not selected by chance. Lichtenstein does not fall within the Schengen area, and to get a visa-the procedure takes four weeks-it is necessary to deal with the Swiss Embassy. Although the Lichtenstein border is open on the Swiss side, on the Austrian side, it is controlled by border guards. Visa limitations would help to detect everyone who wanted to meet with the Chechen leaders. Through Brzezinski, one of the founding fathers of the «American Committee,» the FBI recommended to Howard inviting all the odious separatist leaders to the meeting: Basayev, Udugov, Zakayev and Yandarbiyev, wishing to a pull in a big circle at one sweep. It didn't work out-only Zakayev responded.

  Unfortunately the European conference, which I had counted on attending as a journalist, happened without me. An unexpected attack of appendicitis ruined all my plans. The panorama of Lichtenstein was replaced with a view of the ward of a military hospital. The task of watching Ahmed Zakayev's contacts was entrusted to an FBI representative in Switzerland.

  Training at the Academy was completed ahead of time, in seven months. I was dispatched to the front lines at the end of October of 2002. My beat would be that city of lights and bridges, my own home, New York. Noisy and dirty-the scourge of big cities-painted with the colors of multilingual cultures, there are those who might not like it; in whom it would provoke allergies and stress. It's a matter of taste. A great, one-of-a-kind city-the capital of capitals-has no need of praises.

  As expected, I returned to my former department, specializing in anti-terrorist operations. True, it was in a new rank, and, on account of my knowledge of several Slavic languages, I became responsible for work on Russia. More precisely, for work with communities derived from the former USSR and living in New York. Naturally, a fraternal association of Chechens fell within my area of interest. That’s all I can say for now. I am not at liberty to describe the details of my work.

  Besides me, several other agents in the New York branch of the Bureau are employed on Russian topics. Each specializes in one thing. Someone works on economic crimes (in our system, there exist a whole group of professionals, and their service consists in uncovering sensational machinations involving gasoline and heating oil), and someone else, on criminal offenses: the famous arrest of Ivankov-Yaponchik was only the tip of the iceberg. There's nothing unusual about that-the same scheme exists for work with other communities: Latin American, Chinese, and Arab. If I started enumerating, there wouldn't be enough paper to get it all down.

  Once I returned to New York, I planned to belatedly celebrate my birthday, which had fallen during final exams, with Gulya. And again a delay-Clark included me in a group that was summoned to a meeting at the Pentagon.

  There were about ten of us, including Lloyd. To this day it remains a mystery why the Chief dragged me into the Pentagon-I had nothing directly to do with the subject of Iraq. So I took the fact of my invitation as a sign of encouragement: the analytical report passed on to Clark a while back had hit the mark and played its part one hundred percent.

  Our team was not allowed into the meeting room. Except for Lloyd. We were placed in one of the numerous conference rooms in the Pentagon, surrounded by computers; we drank coffee and snacked on the usual bagels and cream cheese, prepared at any moment to supply necessary information to our chief.

  In a neighboring room, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld in the presence of Vice President Dick Cheney (the participants' rank spoke for itself), «drilled» the assembled company. The conference was devoted to intelligence service strategy and goals in the standoff that was approaching-or, more precisely, had already begun-between the USA and Saddam Hussein's regime. Guys from the CIA, the Pentagon, and the State Department were at the conference. However, we didn't mingle with the competing «support groups.» They were in a differen
t room.

  At the end of the conference, FBI Director Robert Mueller came out to talk to us. He thanked us for our excellent work. What it consisted of, I still didn't understand. Nobody had troubled us in all day, and, in secret, I had spent a couple of hours on Russian Internet pages. I was reading jokes. My colleagues were shamelessly doing likewise, on the English-language ones. While Mueller was addressing us, big boxes of pizza, plastic bottles of soda and four packs of beer in cans were brought into the room. Before going on to the informal dinner, Mueller solemnly promised that the FBI would certainly catch bin Laden, notwithstanding his threat that another major terrorist act in the USA would suit Al Qaeda's taste. After that, he gave the podium to Clark. The chief was surprisingly brief. He expressed his gratitude to everyone and proposed that we fortify ourselves. There were no objections-pizza's good when it hasn't had time to get cold.

  When I told Gulya about the dinner, she remarked waspishly that it doesn't take a visit to the Pentagon to drink beer from a can and eat pizza. She was right-whenever I've come to see her, a six-pack of Corona has invariably been standing ready in her refrigerator.

  Gulya lived in Queens, the section of New York with the second-highest population after Brooklyn, in shockingly well-maintained Forest Hills Garden, five minutes from a stop on the Long Island Railway. I observed, to my surprise, that in the center of a city of two million, there is a garden-like neighborhood with private streets, on which parking of non-local vehicles is strictly forbidden.

  The windows of Gulya's apartment looked out on Forest Hills Station Square. When I saw it for the first time, I gasped with admiration: a path paved with colorful Italian paving stones, exactly like in Odessa by the Laocoon Monument; small, tower-like houses, connected by arches-a distant copy of Lanzheron colonnade in Shevchenko Park. In every way a little corner of Old World Europe, set down in the middle of Queens!

  Gulya lived alone. Her daughter, a student at Princeton University, and her son, a Columbia student, had separated from their mother and lived in dormitories. To pay for two universities of that caliber, including student dormitory living, you have to lay out, at the minimum, a hundred thousand a year. Plus the purchase and maintenance of a four-room apartment in Forest Hills Garden. It's not proper to count other people's money, but, it seems clear that, before he threw himself off the balcony, Gulya's husband took pains to provide for his family.

  Usually on weekends I stayed at Gulya's-unwittingly, I was becoming more and more attached to her. She had no particular liking for Brooklyn, and she came only now and then to «Russian America.» In summer. And then only in order to run down to the beach in the morning.

  Friday, the eighth of November, promised no surprises. On Saturday, after a three-week' delay, I planned to celebrate my birthday with Gulya.

  At noon, I received a summons to a meeting by e-mail. Besides me, Lloyd and Kuliyva were summoned to see Clark at four o'clock.

  It is not for nothing that I am suspicious of meetings held during the last hours of the workweek. Nor did the premonition play me false on this occasion. We had hardly sat down when Clark turned to Gulya.

  «Have you been following events in Copenhagen?»

  Like a schoolgirl who has diligently learned her lesson, Gulya rattled off:

  «Last week, I believe, on the twenty-ninth, the first 'World Chechen Congress' was held there. And before that, on the twenty-third of October, terrorists in Moscow took the audience of the musical, 'Nord-Ost' hostage. During the liberation of the hostages, over a hundred people died.»

  «Excellent!» Clark, for some reason, rejoiced. «You, too, have caught the connection. Moscow has accused the organizer of the congress, Ahmed Zakayev, of involvement in the kidnapping of the hostages and has demanded his extradition to Russia of the Danish government. On the thirtieth of October Zakayev was arrested. In the next few days his extradition trial is going to be starting in Copenhagen.»

  Clark reached for a glass of water. Utilizing the pause, Gulya completed the announcement.

  «In two weeks a conference on Chechnya, organized by the committee 'In Defense of Ahmed Zakayev,' will open in the Danish Parliament Building.»

  «I see that you are no less well informed than I,» Clark grinned. «At the Congress, the former Deputy Prime Minister of Ichkeria appeared as the official representative of President Aslan Maskhadov. The action in Moscow was timed for the opening of the Congress. Muslim extremists in the USA may act according to the same scheme-seize as many people as possible as hostages and present the US Government with an ultimatum. Signals have gone out that a hostage-taking on Broadway was being planned. During the musical 'Chicago.' They abandoned this evil plot in connection with the closing of the musical. But the terrorists may select another target, if they haven't already.»

  Lloyd, it seemed, was stung by Gulya's show of activity, and broke the silence.

  «According to preliminary data, there are Chechens in the group who underwent training in Al Qaeda camps. One week before the planned action, they were to arrive in America from Europe. Supposedly from France. In the apartment of one of the fighters, who was arrested in a Paris suburb as a member of a Chechen Al Qaeda cell, a videocassette was discovered with shots of the theater showing the musical 'Chicago.'»

  «Okay if we familiarize ourselves with it?» asked Gulya.

  «Of course. Lloyd will arrange a viewing,» Clark answered for him.

  Lloyd nodded his head in a chastised manner. With his eyes on Gulya, Clark began giving orders.

  «So, Rivilis and Kuliyeva will go to Denmark. Both will be independent journalists, sympathetic to the Chechen separatists and working for the American mass media. The goal is to establish contacts with Ahmed Zakayev and his circle. Naturally, as private individuals, you will come out in his defense. Additionally, Kuliyeva must use her knowledge of Arabic and forge contacts with colleagues from Arab countries. In particular, with journalists from the Qatar satellite TV channel Al Jazeera, which is overly well-informed about bin Laden's and Saddam Hussein's plans.»

  I glanced at Gulya. She was listening attentively to Clark. I got the impression that this wasn't the first time she'd carried out this sort of assignment. Meanwhile, Clark continued.

  «The TV channel constantly transmits allegedly anonymously supplied video appeals from bin Laden. Express a wish to go to Pakistan and interview him. Use the fact that you've worked in Iraq, Iran, and Turkey, and that the Arab world falls within the sphere of your professional interests. Of course, since Daniel Pearl, the chief of the Wall Street Journal's South Asia office, got abducted and murdered, traveling is not exactly safe for an American journalist. But if bin Laden agrees to an interview, we'll be able to establish his exact location. Talk over the details of the assignment with Lloyd. Get in touch via the US Embassy in Copenhagen. Kuliyeva is in charge. Any questions?»

  I was stunned and just sat quietly. Gulya reacted placidly and answered for both of us:

  «No questions.»

  Right after the meeting, Lloyd invited us to his office. He offered coffee, lamented the complexity of the task assigned to us, and, before speaking his own, wished to hear our opinion.

  I managed to think over the general outline of Clark's plan. Again, like the assignment at Guantanamo, it seemed fantastic and disconnected from reality to me. I couldn't express my skepticism directly, and in answer to Lloyd's suggestion that we speak our minds, I carefully expressed my doubts about bin Laden's agreeing to grant an interview to an American journalist. And a woman at that. Although I wouldn't be too sure.

  To tell the truth, I didn't want Gulya to take on an unjustifiable risk and travel into an explosively dangerous area. I called upon Gulya as an ally.

  «I think Kuliyeva will agree with me.»

  Instead of the expected support-after all, it was her safety we were talking about-Gulya confessed:

  «I'm acquainted with two of his brothers. At that time, they had just begun studying at Baku Medical Institute, where I taught
them Russian.»

  Lloyd settled back in his chair, smiled ironically, and shook his head.

  «Osama bin Laden is the only son of the tenth wife of a Saudi billionaire who died in an airplane crash in the 1980's. He has fifty-two half-brothers and half-sisters. Some of them live in the USA. He's not likely to remember them all. But when he inherited two-hundred and fifty million dollars from his father, the brothers had a falling out. Most of the family rejected him. It's better not to mention your former students-it may turn out that they're also his enemies. Don't hurry. Over the weekend, think out a plan of action and what help you may require. On Monday, present your ideas. At the same time, we'll watch the video.»

  I was left pleased with the delay. If anyone should «ambush» us outside of work, we'd have a reliable alibi-we'd be meeting by order of the Big Boss. So for the purpose of our «conspiracy,» we sometimes jokingly distinguished Clark, as distinct from Lloyd, who was, of course, the Little Boss.

  After parking on 71st Avenue, I called Gulya on my cell phone, and we agreed to meet at Barnes and Noble-I liked the cozy atmosphere of the Starbuck's on the first floor of the bookstore. The round miniature tables for two emphasized the intimacy of coffee drinking.

  I got there first, and, out of habit, took a privileged spot next to the window-the whole room is visible from there. Gulya appeared ten minutes later.

  «Hi,» she threw her purse on the couch next to me and sat down at the table. «For me, the usual.»

  «You could give me a kiss…on the cheek.»

  I rose up slightly to order the coffee, but Gulya decided that I was planning to offer her my cheek to kiss, and stuck out her arm to ward me off.