Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

by Rafael Grugman

  «Read this,» I held out Benchelalli's testimony, «Notice the experiments with ricin and remember the Ressam case.»

  «So what? Terrorist attempts to use deadly gases have been known for a long time.»

  «It's been proven that Ressam, in whose car they found the instructions on care and use of ricin, met in Prague with an Iraqi diplomat. And Iraq used neuro-paralytic gases three times during its war with Iran-in eighty-three, eighty-five, and eighty-six; and in March of eighty-eight, it used a poison gas-yperite against the Kurds. That time nearly five thousand innocent civilians died. That's right, old boy!»

  «You think there's a connection between Benchellali, Ressam, and Saddam Hussein?»

  «Nobody can be a hundred percent sure of anything, but if there's a suspicion, we can't brush it aside. This is not the time for that. Better to be overly cautious.»

  While we were talking, Lloyd's answer arrived. He thanked me for the information and informed me that, although Iraq had never used ricin, the research data would be passed on to UN inspectors. If there was a suspicion that Iraq was engaged in producing ricin, let them look for it.

  That evening, I started to write a letter, but couldn't get myself to put down anything sensible. Crappy words slipped out, not the ones I meant to say.

  Thought is material. All you have to do is think of a tragedy-a black witch is right there breaking down your door. How do you overcome fate? Clench your teeth and repeat without stopping: «Life is beautiful, beautiful and surprising.»

  I opened a bottle of Budweiser and took a couple of swallows-no relief. The telephone rang and interrupted my gloomy thoughts. I glanced at the clock-eleven o'clock at night, a time when only my nearest and dearest are permitted to call. Without looking at the caller ID, I picked up the receiver and, hearing Camilla's voice, flinched with surprise.

  «You weren't expecting me to call?» she sang tenderly, sensing my confusion.

  «To be honest, no,» and, to soften the unintended blow, I lied: «Although I've remembered you often.»

  Camilla didn't take offense, and, in a cheerful voice, continued the attack.

  «There's a saying: if a woman deceives you, she's not indifferent to you. In this case, how about men?»

  «What are you talking about?»

  «About the fact that you remembered me. After all, you might even have called me, if that was the case.»

  «But after all, you're not single.»

  «I'm single now.»

  «How did that happen?»

  «There's another saying: if doves fly low over your head, it's time to take a shower and get your clothes dry-cleaned.»

  «Has something happened?»

  «How did you guess?»

  «By your phone call.»

  «The nasty part is in the past. Although, as a result of my trusting nature, I lost thirty thousand dollars.»

  «By what means?»

  «I had a boyfriend. He looked like a decent, family sort of guy. I thought: we'll live together for a while, get to know each other. We can always legalize our relationship later. We lived a few months in harmony, took a trip to the Caribbean. I trusted him-I wanted so much to be happy. I gave him my credit card. And he turned out to be a gambler. He went to Atlantic City and lost everything. I only found out about it when the bank statement arrived. He swore that he would pay off all his debts. I believed him again. And he lived through stayed another week and then waved «good-bye». I started searching for him. What if something had happened to him? He called me from Florida. He said he was ashamed to show his face around me. I asked him, 'And what are you doing there?' He answered that he was trying to get a good job, so that he could pay me back. But that, as you can imagine, is just an excuse. Now I'm paying off my debts. But that's already another story, a half a year in the past now.»

  «Hm, yes…Lucky you…»

  «Don't say it. So, did you really remember me?» Camilla responded with hope in her voice.

  After a brief pause, in which I subconsciously weighed variations, I confessed.

  «Yes. But I'm not single. If that doesn't bother you…»

  «It does,» Camilla interrupted the attempt to throw up bridges. «I need a serious relationship.»

  We parted on friendly terms, wishing each other luck in finding our other halves. The voice of a woman with whom sweet memories were associated had a cheering effect. To plunge into moments of love is the equivalent of taking a relaxing bath. Useful before going to sleep.

  * * *

  It smelled of oil in the apartment-a letter had arrived from Kuwait. I don't know how long the mail is supposed travel for on the threshold of a war-Gulya's letter took ten days. It was fairly restrained: weather, life, mood. The most notable news: «They've issued me a military uniform with lieutenant's shoulder straps,» with a coquettish post script: «and now I proudly swagger about the military camp, glowering around at the hundred-thousand-strong contingent of the valiant American Army.» The next sentence, brief and incomprehensible, was: «It's what has to be done.»

  That didn't sound too terrible. There was no one to be jealous of: a hundred thousand is not a single concrete individual. Delighted in advance with my fears, Gulya reassured me: «Don't worry. I am cheating on you only with my country.»

  On the other hand, something new had appeared-she had never said that she bore an officer's rank. The words were aimed at an idiot, but if Gulya didn't say everything, it would mean, naturally, that that was necessary. After all, I was not her husband. There was no reason to be offended.

  As for Sophia…She didn't respond to my letter, although I didn't touch on any topics that might elicit a negative reaction. As I had planned, I wrote her about Yura and offered material assistance, knowing full well that she had no need of my modest support. The money from the sale of that Fifth Avenue condominium she inherited had to be enough, not only to pay for a comfortable existence in France and the services of the best lawyers, but to ransom her mother from her captors.

  Why she still hadn't done that remained a mystery. After taxes, she still had nearly five million dollars. A mere trifle. In order to become a legal citizen in America, she wouldn’t even have been obliged to re-marry me. Put money into the economy, and lawyers will deliver up any ruling on a silver platter. She hadn't wanted to-she'd limited herself to the minimum. She'd paid for a social security card and a work permit, opened a bank account, and stopped at that. If somebody can explain feminine logic, please, go ahead. A Nobel Prize is guaranteed.

  I knew her social security number. It wasn't much work to find out whether she had deposits in American banks. The first amazing fact. Ten thousand dollars in Chase Manhattan Bank and the same amount in HSBC. But where was the rest? Looking over her statements for the current year, I noticed that the money was staying practically untouched. In Paris, she had used her debit card and withdrawn twenty dollars from each account, apparently in order to make sure her card was working perfectly-and stopped at that.

  Soon the answer to another inquiry came from Chase Manhattan Bank. In November of Two-Thousand, Sophia had opened an account at the bank and deposited a check from the sale of the condominium-four million, eight hundred and fifty-six thousand dollars. Two months later, she took out a hundred and twenty thousand and paid for the purchase of my present apartment. In reality she had made me a present of it, since, against my protests, she had made the purchase in my name. After that, almost right up to her disappearance, the maximum amount removed from her account at any one time never exceeded a thousand dollars.

  A spurt of activity occurred a week before her flight. Several money transfers went to Malta, and thence to the Faroe Islands. I didn't succeed in following the path of Sophia's millions after that. The question arises: why did she do it? What was the point of hiding legally obtained money, with all the taxes paid on it, God knows where?

  We shall continue with the questions, since the case has taken such a turn. What address was the bank sending the financial statemen
t to every month? And at the end of January, there'd be the statement of yearly income. The law is the law, taxes have to be paid on every bit of income. I sent an inquiry to both banks. The answer was unexpected. Sophia had rented a post office box in Oceanside, to which her correspondence was being sent. An additional riddle. What on earth had made her go to Long Island? There was nothing closer?

  I had to take the next step: go to the postmaster, show my FBI badge, and ask him to open the box with his key. The postmaster, a Chinese man near retirement age, grew pale and, with shaking hands, opened the section-fearing, apparently, a bomb placed inside-and hid behind my back. The box was empty. Someone had received a key, and was checking the mail at least once a month.

  I wrote a report to Lloyd and asked him to set up a video camera at the post office. The discovery, like a snowball, gets covered with details-Sophia still had an accomplice in the USA. Or a person she trusted. His appearance wouldn't have bothered me if this were a normal investigation. But to find out, completely by accident, that, while she was living with me, Sophia had maintained close relations with someone else-believe me, it wasn't especially pleasant. If her business partner was a woman, I could accept it with difficulty; but, well, what if it was a man?

  * * *

  The world is a strange place-at the same time as the doomed prisoners of the Twin Towers, suffocating in smoke, were bidding farewell to their dear ones on their cell phones, in Central and Upper Manhattan, restaurants were doing business, people were laughing and strolling up and down the streets…

  From the New York office of the FBI to the World Trade Center, or, to be precise, to what's left of it, is a stone's throw. When, on my first day at work, I went to the window, I was horrified, thinking what people would have to go through, who had watched the slowly unfolding tragedy helplessly from that window on September Eleventh. After that, every time I went to the window I saw the same thing-a collection of ruins. Day by day, by the efforts of hundreds of people, the jumble of blood and ashes was cleaned up and took on a decorous look. «Ground Zero» is the name of this international cemetery. I often have to pass by it-Wall Street, pulsing with life every day, with crowds of tourists and «white-collar workers,» runs past it. From Monday to Friday, from twelve to two, the nearby cafes and restaurants belong to them. On weekends, Wall Street is empty. Nothing has changed. Everything is as it was sixteen months BEFORE. As though there had never even been a «Black Tuesday» that turned the world upside-down.

  I sit down at a table to drink a cup of coffee. Swimming up out of the fog comes the phantom of a young woman. Without asking permission, she sits down next to me. Almost in my spot. She calls her son on her cell phone and dissolves into laughter-life is beautiful. I notice she's not alone-the cafe is full of phantoms. They slap each other on the back, exchange kisses. I surmise that the café, where they were regulars, is now their home. It's surprising, but, besides me, nobody sees them. True, the phantoms don't notice me either-they go on living as they did.

  Am I insane? I won't argue. Inasmuch as I live in a democratic country, I have the right to remain slightly insane. If my bosses don’t fire me from my job, that means I'm not bothering anyone. «September Eleventh Syndrome» is a rare disease. The medical establishment has not yet described it. Okay, that's enough self-torture-time to return to reality.

  On the calendar it's Friday, January 24, 2003. Eight o'clock in the evening. The Broadway theaters are full to overflowing. At restaurants, weather notwithstanding, it's not easy to find an empty spot. Friday is the time for friendly gatherings and family celebrations.

  I remember a recent conversation with Gulya. We were watching a film on Pearl Harbor and imperceptibly moved on to the events of September Eleventh. She shared a professional secret:

  «After the discovery of the black box of the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania and the deciphering of the recordings of conversations in the cockpit, the experts arrived at the conclusion that not all the hijackers were suicides. Only the pilots.»

  «What were the rest of them doing?»

  «When the hijackers heard the radio announcement that the first airplanes had crashed into the towers of the World Trade Center, a skirmish broke out in the cockpit. For some, that sort of finale was unexpected. Voices were heard demanding that the instructions be opened. A fight began. Once he understood that the original plan had been unsuccessful, the terrorist pilot aimed the plane at the earth.»

  «How were they fooled?»

  «Elementary. It was explained to them that the captured planes would set down in a third country. Then, they would present an ultimatum to the government of the USA. The usual scheme, which has been used repeatedly by airplane hijackers. It's hard to find twenty suicides. Two pilots per plane were enough.»

  «Why didn't they announce that publicly? It would have had a propaganda effect.»

  «I don't know. I read the secret report on the results of the investigation. Possibly, so as not to open up the wounds of the dead people's relatives, they decided to make the transcript of the cockpit skirmish secret.»

  I finished my coffee and continued to sit at the table, feeling keenly how much I missed Gulya. With a smile, I thought: «Hey, fellow, it seems you're really in love.»

  I glanced at my watch and estimated: in Kuwait it was morning. Gulya would already have awoken, eaten breakfast…Although, maybe, she was no longer in Kuwait? I remembered her hint about possible travels around the Arab world with her Azerbaijani passport. Where are you now, Gulenka-Gulnara? The airwaves are silent. Clark, on the other hand, never stops repeating: «The FBI works closely with the military, especially in the investigation of affairs that have to do with American citizens.» Interesting-how would that look in practice? I imagined Gulya in the hot embrace of an unknown colonel, started gnashing my teeth, and, so as to avoid wicked thoughts, switched to thinking of Sophia.

  Ever since I disclosed the family secret in the Odessa Vestnik, making it public that I was Bonaparte's great-great-grandson, the peaceful life has ceased to be. Yesterday was no exception. In spite of the agreement between the FBI representative in Paris and Judge Jean-Louis Bruguiere, the man in charge of the case of the Chechen Al Qaeda cell, Bruguiere had changed his mind and given the order for Sophia's arrest. This was her second day in a Parisian prison cell.

  Lloyd was furious. The problem wasn't that Jean-Louis had wrapped us around his finger and violated the agreement. He had «exposed» her! Abdel was hardly going to risk even calling her now. And Klara Yakovlevna's fate? How would it go with her? With great difficulty, it had been ascertained that she was with the people of Abu al Walid, financially sustained by Zelimkhan Yandarbiyev. Lloyd had appealed to the CIA with a request for their cooperation in freeing her. Now, irreparable harm might happen any day. Al Walid, once he suspected Sophia of treachery, would make short work of the hostage, before an attempt could be made to free her!

  Lloyd immediately made a decision:

  «Take off for Paris right away. Find out the real motives for the arrest from Bruguiere. Our representative will help you get permission for a meeting with Sophia. I don't think we'll be able to conceal her arrest from the press-probably Bruguiere has already given a couple of interviews, and the newspapermen will glom onto you as soon as you step onto French soil. I don't doubt that they know that the detainee's ex-husband is an American journalist. Someone may remember you in connection with the Zakayev case. Don't give way to your emotions. It's possible that this is for the best. Be on you r guard. If the press reacts to your arrival and publicizes it widely, possibly one of her current friends will decide to see you. Or, without giving himself away, will place you under intense observation. Be vigilant. Good luck!»

  I returned to my cubicle and reserved an airline ticket for Saturday at eleven p.m. More than a day remained before the flight to Paris. More than enough time for packing.

  I had drunk up my coffee-the time for reminiscences was finished. I left the café, went into the bar next door,
and cheered myself up with a glass of whiskey. Sometimes it helps. We will relax in heaven.

  * * *

  Paris. Monday, February 3, 2003.

  I went to the Palace of Justice to meet Jean-Louis Bruguiere with Richard Modano, the FBI representative in France.

  I didn't need Richard as an interpreter-Jean Louis spoke excellent English. His presence lent the visit official status. Under the present circumstances that was obligatory.

  For the first time since the end of the Second World War, France was openly heading an anti-American coalition. At the international forums, the presidents of both countries ignored each other. Officials of slightly lower rank studiously copied them. Unlike the politicos, the Intelligence Services cannot adopt an offended pose and avoid dealings with each other. The specific requirements of the work are such that they are doomed to cooperate.

  And, if ordinary Americans had declared a boycott on French goods (an acquaintance told how his boss, preparing for his daughter's wedding, refused to buy French wine. He brought Australian and Californian wines to work, and proposed that the employees have a tasting and tell which wine they preferred), the Intelligence Services have no such option. To declare a boycott of Bordeaux would be to advertise one's total incompetence.

  On the way to the Palace of Justice, Richard entertained me with stories of Franco-American relations and confirmed that before the incident with Sophia, there had been complete mutual understanding between the FBI and Bruguiere.

  «The French are furious. Her arrest, contrary to an existing agreement between us, should be taken as an attempt to humiliate America, and as the usual declaration of independent foreign policy. I look at France's behavior, ever since de Gaulle entered into a union with Adenauer, from a Freudian perspective. A syndrome of an inferiority complex.

  Traffic jams facilitated his eloquence, and, in support of what he had said, he turned to the history of the Second World War: «When Keitel, the Supreme Commander in Chief of the German Army, came into the room where he would have to sign the act on Germany's unconditional surrender, he saw the French general and burst out: «What? We lost the war to them too?»