Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

by Rafael Grugman

  I recalled a curious fact about something that happened a few hours before that. When the French general surveyed the room where the act of surrender was to be signed, and saw the flags of the Allies-Soviet, British and American-he created a scene. In order to pacify him (the victors, as usual, were magnanimous), a decision was made to sew a French flag. Two woman-soldiers from the Red Army, to humor the French, used the materials to hand: a blue mechanic's robe, a piece of a bed-sheet, and a fragment of the Nazi emblem.

  I decided not to interrupt Richard and entertain him with ancient history. He had found a grateful listener and continued to develop his favorite topic.

  «Giving in to Hitler without a murmur, five years of occupation without a hint of opposition-the core of the partisan groups were Jews and Russian prisoners of war-freed by the American troops and brought back to life after the war-again, on American money-that's France. And yet, it wants to be considered a Great Power. Oh, how it wants that! Now, therefore, hardly has an opportunity arisen to show off, and it yaps, trying to rid itself from its oppressive inferiority complex.»

  «In Russia they call that, «The Elephant and the Pug.»

  «What does that mean?»

  I summarized the Krylov fable for him. Richard shook so hard with guffaws, he had trouble driving the car.

  «Excellent. I'll tell that to the Ambassador today».

  When he'd finished laughing, he asked, «Do you know who the French national hero is?» And, without waiting for an answer, he continued, «A prostitute who infected twenty German soldiers with syphilis.»

  I had read something similar in Maupassant; and, although the action took place during the Franco-Prussian war, the image was still striking. France spreads her legs, but doesn't surrender!

  We drove up to the Palace of Justice. We parked. Richard had trouble settling down and told a joke. «A new exhibit appeared at auction at Sotheby's. A French gun from the Second World War. The caption: never fired, dropped once.»

  We stood for a while on the street. Gusts of cold wind cooled our passions and put us back in working condition. We settled into a conciliatory attitude, and walked up to the gendarme standing by the entrance. Richard introduced himself and offered his ID. We entered the building without difficulty. The scene was repeated. The guard phoned Bruguiere's secretary and gave our names. Three minutes later, the secretary came out of the elevator, walked over to the gendarme, filled in a registration journal and turned to us. I gasped-a living fashion model had stepped off the glossy cover of Paris Match. She cooed: «Bonjour, messieurs.»

  «Bonjour, Madame,» Richard broke into a smile, and, like a high school senior seeing a live model for the first time in his life, gave in, and when she turned away, he whispered to me, «Bruguiere knows how to pick them.»

  I chimed in in unison with, «I wouldn't say no.»

  Richard exchanged short phrases with her in French and, seizing the moment, whispered to me in English, «I wouldn't say no either.»

  The highest praise that, upon seeing a beautiful woman, is capable of escaping masculine lips-that's it.

  The beauty was accustomed to signs of masculine attention. Her glance and walk could be interpreted anyway you wanted: «yes,» «no,» «maybe,» «if I'm in the mood.» She asked nicely whether I'd been in Paris before. Receiving a negative answer, she entertained us, all the way down the long corridors until we reached Bruguiere's office, with information about the unique Marc Chagall exhibit, which no New Yorker visiting Paris had a right to pass up.

  Our host awaited us, and came to meet us practically with open arms. What it means to master the language of diplomacy-Richard was courtesy itself.

  «Jean-Louis, I'm glad to see you in perfect health.»

  An exchange of salutations-one might have thought that best friends were meeting. In five minutes, they would close the office and go to the nearest striptease bar to down a bottle of beer each. We went into the office and seated ourselves. At last Richard remembered why we had come.

  «Jean, we have collaborated very well. Remember the Ressam business. You agreed to testify in court in Seattle. Then you came to Los Angeles. We were always together when it was a question of the war on terror. What happened just now? What has caused this misunderstanding?»

  «You're exaggerating. We remain allies, as before.»

  «And Sophia Rivilis? We had an agreement-she is not implicated in the Benchellali business.»

  «I was forced to arrest her. To save her life.»

  Richard lost his tongue. I was dumbfounded. Bruguiere took satisfaction in his interlocutors' embarrassment. He pulled a bottle of wine from his cupboard and offered a toast to friendship. I was not surprised by this sort of turn in the conversation-in France, table wine competes with Coca-cola in price and is accessible even to children. We cemented our friendship with a glass of wine, and Bruguiere shared the results of the investigation:

  «After Menad Benchellali's arrest, we intercepted a conversation between his father and Makhmud Slimani.»

  «Who's that?»

  «A thirty-three-year-old Algerian connected with a Chechen Al Qaeda cell. What they were talking about was the fact that an undesirable witness needed to be removed. No name was named, but from the conversation, we understood: they were talking about Sophia Rivilis. I decided: until the bandits are rendered harmless, prison is the safest place. I hope she'll start talking here and give evidence regarding Abdel al-Dawalibi. If he can be successfully drawn out of Baghdad, the mousetrap will snap shut. Abdel is nervous. He was calling the imam and asking whether it was worth his while to come; whether there was a chance to free Sophia on bail.»

  Richard got confused.

  «That changes the business. We were misinformed.»

  «The fault is mine. I didn't get time to inform you. But I didn't think she would worry you so.»

  «We have our own interest in her,» Richard glanced at me, and didn't start explaining.

  Jean Louis let his words go in one ear and out the other-he had cares enough of his own.

  «May I be of use to you in any other way?» Bruguiere rose, letting us know that it was time to wrap up. «Pardon me, they'll be expecting me and Jean Ricard at the General Prosecutor's in an hour.»

  «Yes, of course! We value our cooperation!» Richard rose and asked at the last moment. «May we have permission to meet with Sophia?»

  «Oh, yes!» Jean-Louis drew a special form out of his desk, filled it out, corroborated the permission with an order by phone, and, after friendly handshakes and assurances of the stability of Franco-American cooperation, we parted.

  Bruguiere's secretary conducted us to the exit. We went out onto the street and silently walked to the car.

  Richard volunteered to take me to the prison. The time for jokes was over-Richard quickly summed up the visit: «Did you notice how he took leave] of us? He politely sent us packing. 'I didn't think she would worry you so much,'» he imitated Bruguiere. «Sneaky little weasel! He's playing his own game.»

  We drove up to the prison. Richard wished me success and left for the embassy. Bearing the paper signed by Bruguiere in my hands, supported by the phone call he'd made in our presence to the prison administrator, it didn't take much effort to obtain a meeting with Sophia.

  My heart ached when I saw her-she'd never been so depressed and sunken-cheeked. Or, to be precise, I'd never seen her depressed, and I couldn't believe that a few days in prison would alter her appearance to such a degree. Swollen face, bags under the eyes…

  She didn't express any amazement at the sight of me as a visitor. She asked quietly, sensing my embarrassment

  «Do I look bad?»

  «Prison doesn't do much for anyone.»

  «I'm not talking about that. How do I look?» Sophia insisted.

  «Is that all that interests you today?»

  «You said you worked for the radio channel 'Voice of America.' Is that true?»

  «Yes.»

  «After we saw each other, I liste
ned to the radio every day, but I never once heard you.»

  «I work on the edition that's broadcast in the Caucasus. Our region is Georgia, Chechnya, Armenia, and Azerbaijan.»

  «Unh-huh. In what language, if that's not a secret?»

  «For the Russian-speaking population, the broadcasts are in Russian; for the rest-in Georgian, Chechen, and so on. The most important material is translated into Caucasian languages and read by announcers.»

  The main thing is to lie convincingly. There's a better chance of being believed. Although I had actually managed, with Gulya's assistance, to produce a couple of pieces during the trip to Denmark and they had successfully gone on the air.

  «Can you help me?»

  «That's what I came for. As soon as I found out you'd been arrested.»

  «Thanks, pal.»

  «What are you being accused of?»

  «You're the journalist. Ask the investigator. I'm innocent.»

  «That's not entirely true.»

  Sophia feigned indignation. «Oh, God! You too!»

  «Sofa, try to understand: this is all very serious. You were involved in the case of Zakayev, who's accused of participating in taking hostages at the musical Nord-Ost…»

  «That hasn't been proven! The court ruled in his favor.»

  «Don't interrupt me. That's not what I'm talking about. You took up with Abdel, an international terrorist who, on the threshold of war with Iraq, is in Baghdad.»

  «How do you know he's in Baghdad now? I didn't tell you that.»

  I realized that I'd let the cat out of the bag, and went for broke.

  «From the investigator. Don't forget, I am a journalist. Either you start cooperating with the investigation, or you'll be in a heap of trouble.»

  «But you know my situation! I told you: this whole thing is about Mama. She's in their hands.»

  «I'll see if I can help you. But tell me, why can't you ransom her? You're the one who has the money from the sale of your condo.»

  Sophia blenched. «Please, forget about that. If anyone finds out about the money, I'll never see Mama again.»

  Her eyes grew wet. She looked pleadingly at me, and I flinched. Better to avoid the painful topic. When the subject is millions, faces usually turn a greenish color. A different idea flashed through my mind…

  «If you want, I can start negotiations for ransoming her through my own channels. That won't arouse anybody's suspicions-she's my mother-in-law. I'll try to offer a hundred thousand through intermediaries. We'll see what they say. They'll either refuse or demand more money. The main thing is to establish contact and start bargaining. If it's required, will you be able to part with the necessary amount?»

  «Of course. Don't even ask. Don't leave me here alone. I'm so lonely.» She began to cry.

  «I'll do everything I can. I promise.»

  Further dealings became insupportable-since time immemorial, I can't stand to see Sophia's tears. I started to take my leave. Sophia calmed down and made me give my word that I would visit her again. On this «joyous» note, we parted. I dropped in on the deputy prison administrator to thank him for his cooperation. There were no mirrors in his office, but by his eyes, I read the diagnosis: this guy's not in the best shape. He offered me a glass of wine to fortify myself. I politely refused, and asked him to call a taxi. He carried out my request at once, and ordered a gendarme to see me to the car.

  The taxi arrived ten minutes later. I gave the address: «Avenue Gabrielle, US Embassy.» The Arab driver glanced at me suspiciously, but he maintained his silence-the gendarme was right there.

  A plan for freeing Klara Yakovlevna came to me on the road to the embassy: I remembered Shchekochikhin, a journalist for Novaya Gazeta, who, as one of a group of four Russian politicians, met with Zakayev in Liechtenstein. He would surely know how, without attracting attention, to get in touch with him. The trade in people is a steady business, the favorite industry of terrorists. In order for it to flourish, a reliable middleman is required to guarantee the receipt of ransom and the transfer of money. According to evidence received from Russians by the FBI, Zakayev was a secret banker for terrorists. I would propose a scheme: Zakayev would receive the money for the bandits holding Klara Yakovlevna and give the signal to hand over the hostage to Shchekochikhin. He would take her to Moscow. Shchekochikin had a reputation as a civil rights activist. That would enable him to establish contacts that were impossible on the official level-in critical situations, people are always needed who enjoy the trust of both sides. It was decided: I would ask Shchekochikhin to be the middleman.

  I called Novaya Gazeta from Richard's office. I introduced myself as a correspondent for the radio channel «Voice of America,» and asked them to connect me to Shchekochikhin. The secretary answered that he was on assignment and would return at the end of the week, and dictated his cell phone number to me. I didn't try to call him. The conversation would be of a delicate nature-better to have it when Shekochikhin returned to Moscow.

  * * *

  If anyone sincerely believes that all the FBI does is conduct a round-the-clock hunt for spies and smugglers (in recent years, terrorists and drug dealers have joined the number of those being tracked down)-that means he's read too many detective stories and watched too many James Bond films.

  The FBI is an American organization like any other, with the same unspoken rules (Fridays are casual-dress) and traditions: in overtime situations, after eight p.m., pizza is ordered at the firm's expense. In everything, if you ignore the differences in the actual work, before the viewer lies a carbon copy of the internet company where I had occasion to work before the beginning of the New York Pearl Harbor. I arrived at that conclusion by observing how, during work hours, Sandy corresponded with his daughter on the internet. Once I caught Lloyd occupied in the same manner. We are all mere mortals, and, when it comes to one's children, subject to weaknesses. Photographs of his daughters, eldest and youngest, stand in a frame on Lloyd's desk. This unspoken rule is strictly observed in every company-children's photographs in the most visible spot.

  Richard's office at the US Embassy in Paris is no exception. His desk is adorned with family photographs. If there's nothing urgent, just do this: ask about the children (Richard has five). Ten solid minutes of non-stop talking are guaranteed.

  In a cupboard in his office, I saw chessmen. I proposed a game. Richard agreed with pleasure. He turned out to be a feeble player, and I won easily. Richard was not upset, citing the Olympic motto: «The main thing is not to win, but to play the game.»

  What, I wonder, would a visitor think, finding the FBI's representative in France playing chess during work hours with an agent on assignment from New York? If he were from Russia, he'd exclaim, «And where, devil take it, is the subordination?!» We must reassure the indignant guest-subordination exists, organically woven into the democracy of the professional relations.

  I waited until Saturday, and phoned Shchekochikhin from Richard's office. I was in luck-I reached him. I introduced myself as the correspondent from «Voice of America,» reminded him about the American Committee for Peace in Chechnya which had organized his meeting with Ahmed Zakayev half a year ago in Liechtenstein, and asked him for help.

  He reacted with goodwill. He lamented his dearth of free time: he explained that he was the deputy chairman of the Russian State Duma Security Committee. Moreover, his desk was buried under an enormous number of corruption cases, which he was employed in investigating for Novaya Gazeta. In spite of his busy state, he agreed to help, laying down one condition-not to expect quick results. The ransoming of hostages is a delicate and labor-intensive process.

  I thanked him and shared the information with him, that Klara Yakovlevna was with people reporting to Abu al Walid. I gave him my cell phone number and asked him to call me if any news turned up, no matter what time of day or night.

  On Monday, I visited Sophia again. The shock peculiar to the first days of incarceration had passed-she looked more cheerful. In her eyes
was devotion and readiness to carry out a simple request.

  I told her that I was making attempts to free Klara Yakovlevna, but she would have to hold onto her patience: the long process of negotiations lay ahead. The main thing was that the machine had been set in motion. And, as a sort of sedative pill, I shared Bruguiere's promise-to let her go on bail in the near future.

  Sophia answered that she had met with her lawyer and was also hoping for a speedy release. Her condition was satisfactory. I made use of that fact and confessed that I would not be able to stay long in Paris: the editors were calling me back to New York.

  She opened her eyes wide. A tear began to glisten and rolled out, melting on the bridge of her nose. I flinched-the visiting room almost turned into a midnight motel. She sensed that she still had her old influence on me, and whispered, «I want you.»

  How many times had I promised myself not to yield to her expressions. I restrained myself-I let her words go in one ear and out the other. I promised that I would follow her case, and asked her, in future, not to disappear and not to do anything stupid.

  It was a touching parting-like two turtledoves. I exited the prison with mixed feelings-the hatred that had been there before had disappeared. Everything had gone off pretty successfully, but the depressed mood didn't go anywhere.

  Richard interpreted it in his own way, and, bidding farewell at the airport, he speculated: «Europe, as usual, is careless. She flirts with the Arabs and foolishly shows them her rear. The war is breathing down other backs besides Saddam Hussein's. The sobering up will come too late for the Europeans and, believe me, will cost them very dear. The Europeans have forgotten that in the seventeenth century, the Ottoman Empire made it all the way to what is now the capital of Austria.»

  I agreed. Everything in this world has a price. The more vile the betrayal, the weightier the sacrificial lamb that would have to be placed on the altar to expiate the guilt. Frequently repentance is belated, and the next generation has to pay for the sins committed by the previous one. Does it learn its lesson from the mistakes of its fathers? Never! It would just step again on the same rake.