Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

by Rafael Grugman

  Gulya echoed his humorous tone.

  «Depending on the assignment that awaits us.»

  Lloyd smiled mysteriously.

  «Okay, we'll talk about the new assignment on Wednesday.» After a short pause, he gave up. «Rumors reached us that you succeeded in the role of spouses.»

  «So that's how it was!» said Gulya caustically. «And I didn't know that we had a full house.»

  «You need to read the papers,» he pulled from his desk a copy of the oldest Danish newspaper, Berlingske Tidende, with our photograph. «So what do you say, ladies and gentlemen? You got caught in the sights of a camera.»

  I was shocked, and silently examined the photograph. Lloyd reassured me.

  «Don't let it embarrass you. We expected that material would slip out somewhere on the married couple of American journalists working on the trial. You can take the paper with you and read it at your leisure.»

  The hint had been dropped. The jury retired for deliberations until Wednesday.

  THE IRAQI SYNDROME

  Wednesday, December 11, 2002

  I'm not superstitious, or it seems to me that I'm not, but on the eleventh of every month, I wish for the day to pass as quickly as possible. Fifteen months ago, the world changed. Slice that day out of history, and I would have been peacefully programming in Manhattan, getting paid a decent salary, and, possibly, would not be what I have become today-and FBI agent.

  Were it not for September Eleventh, there would be no war in Afghanistan or preparations for the inevitable war with Iraq. If some hoped for a compromise, to us it was clear-the conflict could not be avoided.

  By analogy with the first of September of 1939. The great powers supposed that the Polish pie was dessert for Germany, and, besides the announcement of a declaration of war and a propaganda blitz, didn't try to do anything. On the off chance that it could be circumvented. In reality, the «dessert» turned out to be an appetizer. The main dishes-France, Belgium, Holland…were served later.

  The invasion of Afghanistan by Coalition troops didn't signify victory over the terrorists. The odious Taliban regime was overthrown, but Al Qaeda was not overcome. And America's chief enemy-bin Laden-wasn't caught. Which meant a continuation would follow. In spite of France's, Germany's and Russia's stubborn resistance, the next item on President Bush's menu was Saddam Hussein in oil.

  We tried in vain to second-guess the surprise Lloyd had prepared. Probably, it was connected to the coming war with Iraq? (After all, it was not for nothing that he had asked Gulya whether she followed the news from Iraq, and given her a piece of the dossier to read). And we were off by fifty percent. With the same accuracy, I might say: «and we guessed fifty percent right.»

  The meeting with Lloyd fell under the heading: «something for everyone.» He wasn't in as benign a mood as he had been two days before, and he got down to business without delay.

  «I am obliged to cause you grief. You've worked well together. But life dictates its own rules. Kuliyeva is being transferred to a newly-created department that will work directly on Iraq. And Rivilis will stay on his former topic-the Chechen angle and uncovering Al Qaeda cells holed up in the USA.»

  Gulya reddened. I didn't react in the best of manners, and, in order to hide my displeasure, I lowered my eyes. Lloyd recollected himself and began to explain:

  «As you know, according to current law, the FBI doesn't have the right to conduct operations abroad. That is the CIA's prerogative. Hence there are frequent conflicts. Information received by the CIA is inaccessible to the FBI. And vice versa. The newly created department is supposed to coordinate other Services’ activities and improve their effectiveness. General supervision will be performed by the CIA. I confess I'm sorry to part with Kuliyeva-we're experiencing a serious deficit of employees who know Arabic and Persian. But what can we do? Kuliyeva, with her vast service record, is the best FBI representative on Iraq affairs.

  Gulya was put out and looked depressed. Lloyd was embarrassed; he started trying to justify himself-it wasn't he, or even Clark, who had made the decision about her transfer. He thanked her once again for her excellent work, and, in the name of the department employees, proposed a farewell dinner. The choice of restaurants was up to Gulya.

  All in all, it was like the song, «He is ordered to the West, she-in the opposite direction.»

  The send-off happened the very next day. During the dinner Gulya revived, listened to the compliments, and, at the end made a moving farewell speech. Touched, Lloyd ordered flowers by cell phone; and ten minutes later, while the waiter was bringing coffee and pastries, a messenger carried an enormous bouquet of roses into the restaurant. One from each person there. Gulya almost cried.

  After the dinner she returned to the department, gathered her belongings, and we said goodbye-until Saturday. Before her departure, Lloyd came up to her and informed her where she needed to show up the next day.

  Gulya didn't proceed to grieve him with the fact that she had already received completely different instructions from her new bosses; she thanked Lloyd, and couldn't resist teasing him.

  «If the UN inspectors don't present convincing evidence that Iraq possesses chemical or biological weapons, will the war take place anyway?»

  She knew the answer without asking Lloyd, but at the last minute, she decided to play the fool. Lloyd smiled skeptically.

  «If a husband has a lover on the side and wants to divorce his wife, nothing will stop him. The decision has been made-all the rest of the actions are a smoke screen. Which they are making only for the jury.»

  «And the jury is the UN Security Council. Fifteen angry men.»

  Lloyd declined to joke on dangerous topics: «Our duty is to follow orders. God bless you! America is proud of you.» And he volunteered to see her to her car-to carry the flowers.

  Gulya called in the evening. She repeated her conversation with Lloyd and lamented that she had provoked him to no purpose-people might think she was against the hard line. I reassured her: «Don't worry. Lloyd is a reasonable guy.»

  On Friday, we didn't see each other-we talked briefly on the phone that evening, but didn't discuss work.

  On Saturday, as usual, I came to Queens. Before I had time to take my coat off, Gulya at once loosed a squall of information:

  «I've been included in a group that is flying to Kuwait in two-and-a-half weeks. It's a three-month assignment. Draw your own conclusions: the beginning of military action is slated for February or the first half of March.»

  «What will you be doing there?»

  Gulya shrugged her shoulders. The answer seemed unconvincing, and she added: «I'll find out when I get there.»

  «Can't they get by without you?»

  «Not many people in our department have lived for several years in Iraq and know Baghdad like the back of their hand. And are also fluent in Arabic, Persian, and Turkish.»

  «We have mountains of un-translated papers lying here. And if one of them is about the next September Eleventh?»

  «Right now there are other priorities.»

  I was silent: arguments were useless. The decision about the assignment in Kuwait had been made at a high level.

  Gulya confessed:

  «I saw a list of Iraqi leaders, the «worst of the worst,» destined to be found and arrested after the start of military action. Some of them-for example, the Minister of Information and the Minister of Trade, I met at receptions at the Soviet Embassy.»

  «When?» I was surprised.

  «A very long time ago. When my husband was working in Baghdad. I'm even acquainted with Saddam's oldest son, Qusay,» boasted Gulya.

  Without waiting for more questions, she resumed bitterly: «All our New Year's Eve plans will be ruined…»

  …From the twenty-fifth of December to the first of January, inclusive-America is on wheels. We cancelled the trip we'd planned to the Dominican Republic-Gulya decided to spend the holidays with her children, Natasha and Timur. They also got caught up in the moment and abr
uptly changed their New Years' Eve plans. The upcoming January second flight to Kuwait placed its mark on the New Year's Eve mood. Each in turn had a private conversation with their mom. Gulya was nervous, became irritated over trifles, and asked me, in case anything happened, to look after the children-the mood was far from festive.

  There were seven of us to greet the New Year: Timur invited his girlfriend, a Chinese, and Natasha, two girls from school. Under a miniature New Year's tree, a mountain of New Year's Eve presents had risen unnoticed.

  At five minutes to twelve, we managed to get everyone to the table. On the television, by tradition, one and the same picture was being broadcast-a triumphant many-thousand-strong crowd, filling up Times Square; and on top of a skyscraper, the New Year's Ball, sparkling with artificial diamonds.

  The peak of suspense-11:59. On the enormous screen the numbers are lighting up, counting time backwards…

  Timur has prepared to open the champagne.

  Bloomberg, the Mayor of New York, has appeared on the TV screen. He greets the crowd, waves his hand, and the New Year's Ball slowly sinks to the ecstatic shouts of the excited crowd, who, roaring in unison, have begun counting off the seconds to the start of the New Year: «Six! Five! Four!» We break down and chant together with them: «Three! Two! One!»

  The ball drops. Happy New Year!!! The champagne cork shoots away, Timur fills the tall glasses, and in Times Square, an avalanche of confetti and paper streamers descends. Happy New Year!!!

  While the ball dropped, I offered up a wish: «That everyone stay healthy, and Gulya soon return home.» I repeated it twice, like an incantation. For some reason, Sophia rose up in my thoughts-I didn't manage to wish her anything, and she quickly disappeared.

  We clinked glasses. We drank up. We slaked our hunger. We drank again. Natasha put on a Santa Claus hat and got down to distributing presents: «To Mama from Santa Claus…»

  At about three in the morning, we went off to our rooms. Gulya looked tired, but she wanted to speak her mind, and she started talking about us, about the children. She went back to the kitchen for a bottle of wine. We drank to the children. Then we got to talking about Kuwait…

  And she lost her self-restraint. She broke into tears and got my word again that if anything happened to her, I wouldn't leave her children without a guardian. Then she presented me with a sealed envelope, which she asked me to open should I be a hundred percent sure of her death, saying that inside was the address of the law office where they would have to go to open her will. She repeated: the envelope should be given to the children only in the case of her demise. She handed me one more sealed envelope, but this time it was for me.

  I couldn't understand her fear, and I tried to reassure her that Kuwait was, so they said, far from the supposed theater of war. The time would fly quickly by. If war broke out, it wouldn't last long. The main thing was that Bush not drag his feet, and begin the invasion as soon as possible. And then, by summer at the latest, the war would be over.

  We drank to her speedy return. Slightly drunk, she confessed-after asking me in advance to keep it under my hat, since even Clark didn't know the whole truth-that she had been presented to her future boss several months ago. They had been talking about the USA's strategic interests in the Caucasus and her unique connections-her close acquaintance with Geidar Aliyev, then President of Azerbaijan, and his son, Prime Minister Ilhan Aliyev, the future head of state.

  «As you know, Geidar Aliyev was in the USA, in Cleveland, for a long time for medical treatment. It was impossible to save him. It was the final stages of cancer. He was doomed. I was advised to visit him in the hospital with a request for restoration of Azerbaijani citizenship. Which I did. The old man recognized me; he was pleased. He asked about my husband-he'd forgotten that it'd been eleven years since his tragic death. About the kids. In spite of the fact that the Azerbaijani Constitution doesn't allow dual citizenship, an exception was made for me. Ilhan issued a special resolution. Three weeks ago, on the twelfth of December, Geidar Aliyev died in the Cleveland clinic. I called Ilhan, expressed my condolences, and he asked me to participate in his father's funeral in Baku. Remember, I went away for two days?»

  I didn't remember, but I nodded my head just the same.

  «Now, besides US citizenship, I have an Azerbaijani passport. Can you guess why the CIA needed that ploy? For US citizens to visit a number of Arab nations is not desirable. But with a passport from a Muslim country, for me, the wife of a former Soviet diplomat, who has been more than once in Iraq, Iran, and Turkey, and has a perfect command of Azerbaijani, Arabic, Persian, and Turkish, many doors are open. Now do you understand that I won't be held up in Kuwait for long?»

  «Nobody will send you to Baghdad against your will.»

  «Zhenechka, do you really not yet understand that I have long served the American flag? And my duty is to be where my country needs me.»

  I was silent, subdued by her revelation.

  Gulya calmed down, having unburdened her soul, and, hugging me around the neck, whispered in my ear:

  «Will you behave yourself without me here? You won't run around?»

  «I could ask you the same question. You'll be surrounded by the hundred-thousand-strong American Army. Surely among them there are gallant generals and lonely colonels…»

  «Valiant sergeants and whiskerless lieutenants» she continued down the list.

  We started kissing and…if anyone is interested in the details, then I am not in that line of business. I am opening my heart, but not the door to my bedroom. We turn out the light. There remained, until the end of 2003, 364 days, nineteen hours, and forty minutes. But only a little more than a day before Gulya's departure.

  2003 BEGINS WITH A HEADACHE

  Monday, January 6, 2003.

  Operations meeting with Clark.

  A meeting at nine a.m. is not the best way to start the week, especially after a long holiday. The boss expressed his hope that we had had a good rest, shared some family news-he and his wife had gone to visit their daughter in Boston. She had informed him that she was expecting a baby. (The directness of Americans, who notify the world of coming additions to their families practically at the moment of conception, never ceases to amaze me).

  The standard congratulations followed. Someone joked that Clark was still in fine shape and capable of becoming a dad again. We recalled a Steve Martin comedy in which the main character played a father and grandfather-his wife and daughter gave birth at the same time, and poor Martin, cudgeling his brains, rushed from one beloved woman to the other. Clark heard out his colleagues' wishes good-humoredly-he liked the comparison with a Hollywood star-and promised to think over a sequel to the movie with his wife in their spare time. After concluding the romance part of the meeting, Clark moved on to the latest information.

  «The preparations for the September Eleventh terrorist act were carried out primarily in Europe. The European Union's liberal immigration policies led to Al Qaeda's feeling free to do anything in Spain, France and Germany. Two months before the terrorist act, it conducted a nine-day summit in Spain, at which the final details were agreed upon. On the ninth of July, suicide-pilot Mohammed Atta met in Tarragon with supposed terrorist act coordinator Ramsey bin Al-Shaibakh. From him, he received his final instructions. Three additional Al Qaedists took part in the talks. Among them was the one that we are conditionally calling «Abdel the Syrian.» As you know, the majority of the participants in the terrorist act were citizens of Saudi Arabia. It's possible that Abdel was a key figure, one of the leaders in the crime. His biography, name, and citizenship may turn out to be fictional. It’s possible that he uses a fake passport-or even several of them-for foreign travel.»

  Clark pulled a pile of Xeroxes lying on his desk to him, leafed through one of them, and peered attentively at the meeting participants.

  «Familiarize yourselves with the transcripts of Abdel's phone conversations with Sophia Rivilis. They were made by the French criminal police. All of Sop
hia's conversations from December sixth to January first were recorded. Abdel is calling her most often from Baghdad, but sometimes from Damascus, which indirectly confirms the existence of contact between Al Qaeda and Saddam Hussein.»

  Clark handed around Xeroxes. I started feeling not quite myself once I sensed that I was the center of attention. Two or three of my colleagues cast a swift glance my way, but, having met my eyes, switched back to looking at the boss. He pretended not to notice anything.

  «We know the number of the phone he's using. We've hooked up with the CIA. Agents in Baghdad-we don't have a lot of them-have been given the task of searching out Abdel. Unfortunately, so far, we don't have his photograph. As for Yevgeny-those present fixed their eyes on me as if by command-so as not to frighten Sophia away, for the time being, it's best that he have nothing to do with her. She's nervous and in such a condition as to be capable of unpredictable behavior. We'll wait a little, and, with the assistance of our French colleagues, figure out what her role is. From there, we'll draw up a plan of action.»

  The meeting went on for a long time. Clark analyzed information, emphasized parts…I tuned out, leafed through the pages of my xerox, and tried to read the printed records of telephone conversations carefully. Sophia's voice sounded importunately in my ears. Time for some therapy!

  After the meeting, I didn't return to my workspace right away-I needed to cool my faculties and reset the tumbler controlling my emotional condition to a neutral position. I walked out onto the street. I didn't succeed in remaining alone: with lashing gusts, a dank wind drove this poor fellow back into the building. I took an elevator up to the department, without dropping by the office; went into the kitchen, poured chocolate from a packet into a paper cup, filled it with hot water, sat down at a table and, without hurrying, began to drink. My thoughts whirled around the xerox.

  Does she really love him? She-Devil! Of all the people for her to take up with! And what business is it of yours!? Stop sniveling!

  It's a tried-and-true remedy: an aggressive, sometimes crude, tone of auto-suggestion is the best medicine against depression and unexpectedly flaring jealousy. The main thing is to build a defensive wall; to separate the past from the present with the deepest of moats, and burn all the bridges: to institute a taboo on sweet recollections.