Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

by Rafael Grugman

  Let her accept Islam if she wants-what's it to you? The ship has sailed! She's a page that's been ripped out! Yesterday, which can't be lived through again! A stranger! One among four billion others!

  «What are you thinking about?» I heard Sandy's voice behind my back. After Ted's death, he had been handed his duties-we had become partners. Sandy had been at the meeting: the information about my family ties with Sophia was no secret from him.

  «Don't worry, you're above suspicion,» he remarked in friendly tones.

  «What made you decide I was worried? The news is unpleasant-nothing more than that.»

  «Tell the boss, and they'll take you off the case…»

  «There's no need of that-I'm okay,» I interrupted him, fearing that, on ethical grounds, they really might pull me off the operation; and, knowing that Sandy was a passionate hockey fan, I started talking about yesterday's game-Rangers against Devils.

  The trick worked. Sandy switched over to his favorite topic and agreed with my assertion that New Jersey was a mediocre team, and, if it weren't for Brodeur, would have struggled along in the middle of the score sheets.

  «Give us Brodeur in the gates, and the Rangers would have a hundred percent chance of going to the finals.»

  Gratified by our community of hockey sympathies, we went off to our separate cubicles.

  This little chat with Sandy had a good effect. I calmed down and started rereading the xeroxes of phone conversations recorded by the Frenchmen, and noticed a short call from Georgia. This time Sophia hadn't been lying: the caller, having confirmed that Sophia was on the line, had connected her with her mother.

  Klara Yakovlevna stated that she was feeling well; that they were treating her very well; and that she was receiving the medicines she needed on time. There followed an entreaty to obey the requests of friends.

  The French had established that the call came via satellite connection from the Pankiss gorge, outside of Georgian control.

  The next find was a two-minute call from Baghdad. A day after the call from Klara Yakovlevna, Abdel had called Sophia and informed her that he had gone to Qatar for one day especially on her behalf, and met with the one who had command of the Chechen fighters who had kidnapped her mother. The unnamed commander had promised him that if Sophia would carry out a certain important task, her mother would be freed and conveyed to France.

  Whom did he have in mind? In the capital of Qatar lives Zelimkhan Yandarbiyev, the former vice-president of Ichkeria. During the period between the death of Dzhokhar Dudayev and the election of Aslan Maskhadov, he had occupied the empty seat. And, in his capacity as acting President, he had been received at the Kremlin and negotiated directly with Boris Yeltsin. On the other hand, Yandarbiyev was connected with the fighters who seized the theater in Dubrovka. Cell phone conversations had been recorded between him and Movsar Barayev, the leader of the terrorists. It's known that he went to Afghanistan and attempted to establish diplomatic relations with the unrecognized by international society Taliban regime. But, perhaps, the «Syrian» was bluffing, trying to get Sophia to carry out some important task without questioning.

  Suppose Abdel had gone to Qatar with the goal of working out the feasibility of a terrorist act against American military servicemen. The Central Command of the US Armed Forces, which led American troops billeted in twenty-five countries around the world, had been moved to Dokha.

  I underlined the lines about Abdel's trip to Qatar and the important task they were making Sophia carry out, and noted in the margin: «Attention: Lloyd.»

  These finds brought back the anxious mood. In order to chase away an awful sense of foreboding, I checked my e-mail, wandered from one entertaining web site to another-in spite of the trick, peace of mind did not come. I went out onto the street, went into a café, and, using the public phone, called Natasha. Knowing that Gulya's telephone conversations might be listened in on by a military censor, we had agreed that she would call only her children. I would bear the code name «Tim» in their conversations. Short for Timur. This would not arouse suspicion.

  Natasha cheered me up-the first news from her mother had come in yesterday. She had arrived safely at her destination and was settled in a luxury hotel for foreign specialists.

  Five days had gone by since she left. I was heartsick. Gulya's letter would arrive at my Brooklyn address in about two weeks. No sooner. And that was if she got time to write. Everything came down to this: bets were no longer being placed on Hussein. By my calculations, there wasn't much longer to wait. At the latest, the massive bombardment of Iraq would begin in the second half of February.

  In spite of the autosuggestion, the mental defense wall turned out to be too weak: thoughts of Sophia successfully oozed thorough the chinks. A structural defect? Okay, we will deal with the «contractor» later, and definitely drag him into the Court of Justice. But I digress. Firstly, it was too bad about Klara Yakovlevna-I had never had inimical feelings towards my former mother-in-law. Secondly, if I disengaged myself from the thought that at one time, family ties had united me with Sophia, there remained the question: what task was being talked about in the telephone conversation? Were they forcing her to take part in a new terrorist act? Where? Sophia was forbidden entry to the USA for the next ten years. In France? Better ask the French to institute a close watch over all her contacts…

  I returned to the department and started compiling an inquiry to the FBI representative in France. The phone rang-Lloyd asked me to drop by his office right away.

  The conversation, as expected, was about the telephone conversations transcribed by the French. Lloyd also knew how to read.

  He was worried; he repeated what I had already turned my attention to. I listened carefully to his monologue, understanding very well, that it was not acceptable to interrupt the boss with the words: «I already know that.» As it turned out, that wasn't what Lloyd had called me in for.

  «The CIA found out Sophia Rivilis' e-mail address and are checking all her correspondence. Abdel's full name has been established. Al-Dawalibi. He is suspected of being close to the top commanders of Al Qaeda. In light of the upcoming Pentagon operation in Iraq, the CIA worried about his movements along the triangle from Baghdad to Damascus to Qatar. In connection with this, CIA Director George Tenet has turned to Robert Mueller with a request to involve you in their operation. The CIA is asking you to start up an internet correspondence with Sophia. They need to enlist her services. You need to explain carefully that this is the only way to save her mother. And, incidentally, herself as well.»

  Everything was confused: an hour ago, Clark had said the opposite-not to contact Sophia. Had cardinal changes really taken place in such a short time? Mueller had called Clark; Clark, Lloyd; and the boss had called me in for new instructions.

  Lloyd saved the bitter pill for last.

  «By the way, the CIA recorded your Paris meeting with Sophia. In the café. That's a little blow to our self-esteem. For business purposes, it will have to be lived down. What do you say?»

  «What can I say? Not much good-the CIA spying on the FBI. But about Sophia…She didn't give me her e-mail address. How can I explain my appearance? I'll just scare her off. She'll change her address and disappear out from under surveillance.»

  «That's the problem. She's unpredictable. Think it over. Love? Feelings aflame, and so forth.»

  «Well, you know…»

  «I understand,» Lloyd sighed, «personal motives, and entirely reasonable. You can refuse-nobody will blame you. But don't be in a hurry. Think it over. The threat of a terrorist act worries us. Using her desperate situation, they may involve Sophia in some nasty business. Send me your former mother-in-law's biographical particulars-we'll try to find out, through our embassy in Georgia, which of the influential field commanders is keeping her hostage.»

  «It wouldn't be bad if we managed to ransom her. Or break her out. Sophia's hands would be freed.»

  «The first step is to establish her location and who's h
olding her. After that, we'll think about freeing her.»

  The audience ended on a none-too-joyous note. In the course of one day there had been a mountain of news. Wasn't it too much for a Monday? And the day still wasn't over. On Tuesday night I was planning to phone Yurochka Dubovtsev in Odessa and wish him a happy Orthodox Christmas.

  In Odessa, we traditionally observed all the holidays, both Jewish and Russian Orthodox. Two years after my departure, Yurochka the giant (six foot one, and two hundred and sixty-five pounds) fell seriously ill. Diabetes ate away a third of his weight. His legs refused to carry his body. I called him at one in the morning-eight in the morning in Odessa-and wished him a happy Christmas.

  Yura was pleased, and informed me right away that yesterday, Sophia had called in from France, and proposed sending him some diabetes medicine. She'd left him her phone number and e-mail address, so that he could, without hesitation, call her at any time of the day or night.

  «Can you dictate her address? Spell it out,» I corrected myself, hearing of this unexpected luck.

  Yura knew that we'd separated two years before, and the request didn't surprise him.

  «Of course.»

  He dictated the e-mail address, which was written down, incidentally, with some errors; but that didn't bother me: I had the correct address. Now, I could get in touch with her with no fuss, since I had an explanation: I had gotten the address from Yura.

  I asked Yura to repeat the address and corrected him:

  «Yurochka, 'Yahoo' is spelled differently,» and I dictated letter by letter.

  After our conversation ended, I went on the Internet and sent Lloyd a brief message: I know how to start up a correspondence with Sophia. In a second sentence, I informed him that I'd be at the office by eleven a.m. After which, I set my alarm clock for eight thirty and went to bed. The sixth of January ended at last.

  WAR BREATHES DOWN OUR NECKS

  Tuesday, January 7, 2003. 10 A.M.

  Lloyd's office.

  The Little Boss listened with satisfaction to the report on the night-time conversation with Dubovtsev and pondered for a long time. After a lengthy pause, during which various dopey thoughts-of the sort, «all normal people have Tuesday on their calendars, but for me, it's still Monday, «came to my mind-Lloyd opened his mouth:

  «Do you know Sophia well?»

  «I think so. We lived together long enough.»

  «Could she become a kamikaze?»

  «Never. She loves life.»

  «Excellent,» for some incomprehensible reason Lloyd was pleased. «Before I give you something to read,» He fell into a second reverie causing me to feverishly choose among bizarre variations. Having given my terrors time to run wild, Lloyd announced:

  «The DST, the French Security Service, which is conducting research into ties between radical Muslim groups and Chechen terrorists, after listening in on Sophia's telephone, located fighters who were planning a terrorist act against the Russian Embassy in France. The friend whose request she was to carry out is none other than Menad Benchellali.»

  «Who's that?»

  «An Algerian who went through a two-year training session at one of Al Qaeda's training camps in Afghanistan. His brother, Murad Benchellali, is in Guantanamo at present.»

  «Not the pleasantest news,» I said thoughtfully.

  Lloyd opened his eyes in surprise, and I quickly corrected myself.

  «The DST is to be congratulated, but…how did they mean to involve her?»

  «Benchellali planned to use Sophia as a living bomb in a terrorist act against the Russian Embassy in Paris. The details of the plot will be cleared up in interrogations that are underway now. If not for timely arrests conducted by French counterintelligence, Sophia, in the near future, would have been on her way to heaven. The Muslims wanted to carry out a series of attacks on Russian representatives in France in revenge for the death in Chechnya of Field Commander Khattab, and for the deaths of the forty fighters who died in Moscow during the freeing of the hostages at 'Nord-Ost' theater».

  «That can't be! She would never in her life agree to that.»

  «Nobody would have asked her,» Lloyd grinned. «A remote-controlled explosive charge, and bye-bye. No embassy and no Sophia.»

  I held my head. Dangerous games ventured into with extremists lead to nothing good.

  «Are there any Chechens among the detainees?» I asked, quite sure that the leading role in the planned terrorist acts would belong to natives of the Caucasus.

  «Not one. All nine are Algerians. But four went through training in terrorist camps in Afghanistan and saw military action in Chechnya.»

  «A terrorist International has been created,» I remembered Lloyd's long-ago words. Meanwhile, the Boss continued:

  «Their arrest is a major achievement. Sophia doesn't even know that you actually saved her. You revealed her ties to Islamic extremists. The thread was unraveled.» The timbre of his voice changed and became solemn. «Robert Mueller has asked me to express his gratitude to you and Kuliyeva.»

  «And what about the CIA?» I taunted him. «It also has claims to Sophia.»

  Lloyd spread his hands wide and said waspishly, «Tenet is dreaming of James Bond laurels. Its own achievements aren't enough, so here the CIA is stalking the FBI. He, of course, defended himself that in Paris, the CIA wasn't following you, but Sophia. She, if you please, was a subject of interest in their operation. And here, there accidentally turned out to be an FBI agent. Whether it's true or not-may the justification stay on his conscience. It's not the first time the CIA has tried to appropriate others' exploits.»

  «Is Sophia being threatened with anything in connection with the arrests that are being made?» I asked cautiously.

  «No, of course not. No one knows that the counterintelligence found Benchellali after listening to Sophia's telephone and watching her contacts. We hope that a bigger fish will bite the hook-Abdel al-Dawalibi. Therefore, Sophia's name must not appear in the court records. There is full mutual understanding with Jean-Louis Bruguiere-he's leading the investigation.»

  «Hm…yes…One can’t get bored. About yesterday's assignment. I'm confused. On one and the same day, Clark gives one order, and you, another. As a result, I still don't know whether to establish an Internet correspondence with Sophia, or to wait a while?»

  «The situation is changing every day. So, we need to change tactics every day. After all, she already knows about the arrests.»

  «I wouldn't want to be in her skin. She's like a hunted animal now.»

  «That’s right. She's alone and in need of psychological aid. You will appear at the right time. After all, she trusts you?»

  «I think so.»

  «I think so too. Otherwise, she wouldn't have told you about her mother. So, go ahead. We can't exclude the possibility that you'll soon have to fly to France. That's Clark's opinion.»

  I went back to my workspace and requested information about the arrests. Unlike the French President, who headed an anti-American coalition, the counterintelligence people continued to cooperate, and DST shared interrogation records with the FBI.

  An hour later they were lying on my desk. A note accompanying them said that the operation was conducted in the suburbs of the French capital. During the search, the inspectors found components of a detonator; chemicals, used for the creation of electrical circuits; a soldering iron, a voltmeter, a protective suit for use with chemicals, and two empty gas canisters.

  In the testimony of Meruan Benhamed I distinguished the sentence: «Menad Benchellali carried out experiments with highly toxic substances, and announced to a circle of relatives and friends his readiness to move on to decisive action. He intended to use the toxins in botulism and ricin.»

  Ricin again…The case of Ahmed Ressam, arrested three years before in the American Northwest, surfaced in my memory. He was arrested on the fourteenth of December, 1999, on the Canadian-American border in Washington State. The customs officer asked him a few routine questions. Ressa
m got nervous. His forehead, in spite of the December frost, was covered with beads of sweat. The officer became wary and continued asking questions. Ressam caved in under the pressure and started to flee. He got out of the Customs area onto the street in a small port town, and, attempting to flee his pursuers, started to break into a car that was parked on the street. At that moment, he was detained.

  In his car, the customs officers found explosives, timing mechanisms, and instructions in Arabic on the care and use of ricin. Later, it was determined that a room had been reserved for him at a motel not far from the Space Needle. Fearing the existence of a back-up plan, the mayor of Seattle cancelled massive celebrations that had been planned to mark the start of the new century.

  The investigation established that Ressam had met in Prague with an Iraqi diplomat, supposedly an intelligence agent. They were unable to prove Iraq's involvement in the attempt to transport explosives and poisonous substances into the USA.

  I sent an e-mail to Lloyd. In the light of the current inspections and the report being prepared for Colin Powell to deliver to the UN Security Council, any information might come in handy. After the attack in the Tokyo subway using the deadly gas Sarin, and the September Eleventh terrorist act, no trivial detail should be ignored.

  Having sent in the report, I started thinking about the letter to Sophia. What to write about? I would need to start with Dubovtsev. What next? Everything had piled up-my long-ago anger and the feelings of jealousy that had unexpectedly flared up, the terrorist connection, and Gulya, far from a matter of indifference to me. Almost my wife.

  «What are you so preoccupied with?» came Sandy's voice from behind me. I had gotten so absorbed in thinking over the letter that I hadn't noticed him come into the office.