Berlin, naturally, did not know that he was being followed. He started to entrust Sophia with urgent operations involving dispatching large sums, and in the end, he paid for that. When a deficit was discovered, he got nervous; first he decided there had been some kind of mistake; he started to investigate, and called Sophia. She was quick to smell a rat. She called in sick, and in truth, in order to ward off suspicion, she did it every morning and complained of a monstrous flu.
A week later, Sophia disappeared. Her cell phone fell silent. Berlin came to his senses; he went to see her «at home.» But it turned out that she didn't live at the indicated address (Sophia had given a Manhattan one), while the old lady, who had given her an excellent recommendation, had died.
Berlin realized he'd been deceived, but he didn't get time to organize a search in earnest-the investigation closed in on them, and the couple was arrested.
He wasn't able to discover me for just one reason-he didn't know of my existence. And how could he know, when Sophia tirelessly «sang» that her husband, a despot, had long since thrown her over and was living in the Ukraine, she didn't know where; while she, poor unfortunate, was alone and forgotten by everyone. Berlin swallowed it hook, line and sinker-he didn't know the classic saying: «It doesn't take a knife to kill a fool-tell him a nice tall tale, and do with him what you will!»
Now, much had become clear. Why she refused to marry me and get legal status in America; suddenly disappeared; and, in addition, suddenly removed all her millions from the country.
And the imperceptible Abdel? After all, he existed too! As did the videotape made at the theater of the musical Chicago, on which she had also been caught. The creep! How had she managed to wrap everyone around her finger? Many, very many questions needed to be asked of her; but the main thing was her undeniable crime: participation in financial machinations and the theft of ten million. Rounded out with suspicion of a (voluntary or involuntary) connection with terrorists.
Following Lloyd's directions, an urgent appeal was made to Interpol with a request for Sophia's arrest and extradition to America. Without waiting for the procedures to be set in motion, Lloyd phoned Judge Jean-Louis Bruguiere in Paris and asked him to arrest her immediately.
Bruguiere answered that, although he would like to wait for receipt of the official inquiry from Interpol, considering the friendly relations between our countries’ special services, he promised to place Sophia under close twenty-four-hour surveillance.
…Thunder from a clear sky. Sophia had disappeared! Breaking the agreement she had signed, she had left Paris. She did not respond to the letter in which I informed her of her mother's death.
The events surrounding Sophia fairly wore out my nerves, and then news from Russia pushed all that aside. After a two days' delay, I found out about a tragedy that had occurred in Moscow. On the third of July, 2003, Yuri Shchekochikhin had died in the Kremlin Hospital. According to preliminary data, his death resulted from the after-effects of an allergic reaction; edema of the brain and a stroke.
From the flood of news-the papers overflowing with emotion-I put together a picture of events. Shchekochikhin was in Ryazan investigating «FSB training» in mining and blasting of houses. He left Moscow in perfect health, but returned in dire condition. On the twenty-third of June, he was hospitalized with a suspected stroke. Right up to the very last day, they didn’t supply a precise diagnosis for him. The situation was complicated by the fact that his skin started to peel and edema of the brain set in. During his last days Shchekochikhin did not return to consciousness. On the night of July third, he died. An autopsy conducted that very day at the Central Clinical Hospital by toxicologists as well as leading hospital specialists, neither ruled out nor confirmed an alternative theory involving poisoning,
Whom had he interfered with? I phoned the editor-in-chief of Novaya Gazeta, with whom Yura had maintained, not only collegial, but also friendly, relations. I introduced myself as a radio journalist with «Voice of America,» expressed my sympathy, and attempted to get a clear picture of the situation:
«Which of the cases he was investigating, in your opinion, might have provided the incentive for murder?»
«Practically any one of them.»
«But, just the same? The most important one?»
«It's difficult to say. At the meeting of the Commission on Corruption, he was preparing to raise the question of filing criminal charges against the General Prosecutor's deputies. He had evidence of their participation in a case of bribery at the Grand and Three Whales furniture centers. He maintained that a customs operation was taking place under FSB protection.»
«Did he have documentation?»
«He was getting material from the FBI and the German Intelligence Service. The furniture case was his last investigation. One might suppose that it also became the cause of his murder. He was being threatened. But-,» the editor hesitated for a moment-«it's possible that something else is involved here.»
«For example?»
«The 'training' on account of which he went to Ryazan. Or…» – the editor faltered.
«Anything more concrete? It's not an idle question-I want to conduct my own investigation-,» I lied for the sake of conviction. «I'm friends with some journalists who specialize in crime stories. They have connections to the FBI and Interpol, and they can dig up a lot of stuff.»
«The day before he left for Ryazan, he had a telephone conversation with Ahmed Zakayev. You know who he is?»
«Yes, of course.»
«I don't know the details. Yura had taken an interest in the fate of some important hostage who was being held by bandits. Just prior to his departure to Ryazan, he told me that at the end of July, he would have to fly to Grozny. Zakayev was the intermediary.»
«Wow! Do you know what they were negotiating about?»
«No, only what I just told you. Yura was in a hurry, and we agreed to go over the details after he got back from Ryazan. He wanted to let the secret out yet. But…what happened after that, you already know.»
Stop! Stop! The «wandering» of dishes and mysterious tea-parties began on the second day after my conversation with the editor-in-chief of Novaya Gazeta! Before that-besides the unfortunate story of Ted's murder-nothing extraordinary had occurred in the apartment. Was our conversation eavesdropped on by some special agencies? Okay! Okay! What follows from that? That I fell under scrutiny on account of Shchekochikhin? It was curious, how did they (if only I knew who) find me? What nonsense! But, maybe not? It was entirely probable that some connection, as yet unknown to me, existed just the same.
Alas, the number of unanswered questions was not decreasing. I called Steve, the Moscow correspondent for the BBC, whom I'd gotten to know back in Copenhagen at the Zakayev trial. We'd run into each other on 5th Avenue, in a crowd at the 47th-Street crossing. Both of us were in a hurry; we exchanged business cards and ran off in different directions.
The words, «Let's call each other,» at any other time would have gone in one ear and out the other. The usual standard greeting for New Yorkers flying by is «How are things?» – God help you if you ever stop and start holding forth. The routine answer is: «Thanks. How are things with you?» – and off you fly, without waiting for an answer, each on his own trajectory. Breaking with tradition, I dialed his phone number.
«Steve, I'm so glad we ran into each other. Too bad we were both in a rush and there was no time to talk.»
«Thanks. I was really in a hurry.»
By the surprise in his voice, I understood: Steve was confused, and couldn't figure out what was wanted of him. I flattered him: «Steve, I heard you just recently got back from Moscow. Let me hear some news. Everybody knows the BBC always has the best and most reliable stuff.»
Steve warmed a little. «The BBC values its reputation.»
«What do you know about Shchekochikhin?»
«That's a mysterious story-I've started collecting material for a book. I got some details from his close friends from the «Y
abloko» faction.»
«Steve, believe me, your book will be a bestseller. It's possible I can also be of use. The thing is, I participated in organizing Ahmed Zakayev's meeting in Liechtenstein with representatives of Russian groups pushing for political dialog with Maskhadov. Besides Shchekochikhin, Rybkin, Khasbulatov, and Aslakhanov were there. I can share my memories, if you find them interesting.»
«Really? We must get together. If you don't object, I'll record our conversation on my Dictaphone.»
«No problem-I'm at your service. But can't you satisfy my curiosity? What happened in Ryazan? There are different rumors going around.»
«Okay. From reliable sources. You know the mentality over there: nothing happens without alcohol. And when it came to having a drink, Yura was always 'for.' Possibly, his enemies decided to make use of that. Just before finishing up his assignment, he was relaxing in the hotel restaurant. Right in the middle of the party, sitting next to him, there was a companionable man, with whom, as it later became clear, none of those present were acquainted. Yura stepped out for a smoke with him. The guests figured the stranger was an acquaintance of Shchekochikhin's, and didn't react in any way. Yura returned alone, and soon felt a little indisposed. The stranger's absence was not noticed for a while. The carousing went on-in the Russian tradition, until the vodka's all drunk, the banquet doesn't end. Yuri's indisposition was put down to alcohol. He'd sleep it off and feel better. Well, he didn't feel better.»
Steve gave ten seconds for things to sink in-I held my tongue. He gave up and asked, «What do you say? Does it seem like poisoning?»
«It reminds me of London. Georgi Markov, the Bulgarian dissident, got pricked by an umbrella. Only, carried out in a more professional way. There's no murder weapon and no hit man.»
«Killing techniques are being perfected. The stranger might have, from a noiseless mechanism hidden in his clothing, released a dose of bacteria that were unknown to doctors and would guarantee blood poisoning and a slow death. So people hinted to me.»
«Steve, are you sure?»
«Nothing can be confirmed a hundred percent. Have you heard about the Mairanovsky laboratory?»
I flinched, but immediately got a hold of myself: at the FBI Academy, they told us that way back in Lenin's lifetime, in the womb of the NKVD, a secret laboratory was built for the preparation of poisons that would be impossible to identify when a corpse was examined. I remembered that several similar instances were described in his memoirs by former Deputy Chief of the Secret Service Administration of the MGB, Lieutenant General Sudoplatov.
Attempting not to reveal my excitement-had Steve really hit on the answer? – I answered cautiously, «Only with half an ear.»
Steve was pleased with the answer, and continued:
«I'll tell you a secret. Shchekochikhin's Moscow friends managed to make a copy of the history of his illness, and send it to some German doctors along with some tissue samples they obtained. For an independent finding on causes of death. The conclusions are not reassuring. According to the experts' opinion, the acute allergic reaction was the result of the action on the body of an unknown substance. Ricin, the stuff used in Markov's case, has been excluded.»
«Why not publish the results immediately? Steve, it's a bombshell.»
«That's precisely why his friends are all against any publication. They're afraid of getting the medical examiners and doctors at the Kremlin Hospital in trouble. Don't forget, the copy of the disease history was made illegally. If an investigation should be launched-many might suffer. People are beginning to get frightened. Political killings get chalked up to criminal account-settling.»
«Don’t exaggerate!»
«Those aren't my words. That's the mood. I've talked with a lot of people.»
«Every word has a price. That's the trouble with lots of people: they thoughtlessly toss out words without thinking of the consequences. It's silly to compare a fire at the dacha with the arson of a Reichstag. A different scale and different consequences.»
«Don't forget, nobody has seen the stranger who joined in at Shchekochikhin's last supper since then. Not even at the funeral. It's not clear who he was acting for.»
The thought flashed by: possibly he was no longer among the living-an assassin who might wag his tongue is not needed by his employer. I remained silent; I wasn't about to generalize. The ABC's of carrying out a hit, Steve knew without my telling him. Whether the murder was connected to Klara Yakovlevna's fate, for the time being, remains a secret.
Our conversation after that offered nothing of interest-we both agreed that when Shchekochikhin went into the hospital, he was already doomed. The Kremlin doctors could not have possessed the secret of the antidote.
…Let us sum up. Today is July 25, 2003. Whether the outrages occurring in my apartment are connected with Shchekochikhin's murder, or these are chance coincidences, I don't know. Just as I don't know whether the occurrence in the elevator five days ago was a technical malfunction, or a premeditated action by the same scum. Interpreters of Nostradamus would behave in a simpler way: they'd find a suitable quatrain and, alluding to it, would predict a global catastrophe. On the scale of the apartment on the sixth floor of a prestigious coop in the southern part of Brooklyn.
I wish Gulya would come back sooner-it’s easier to overcome the deadlock together. Probably, she'd agree to setting a twenty-four-hour guard on my apartment; and, in the end, we'd find the malefactors.
The question remains open: what to do? Wait for my persecutors to settle down? Or would they, on the contrary, take decisive action, and thus reveal themselves? Is it worth informing Lloyd? I don't know. I need to think…
I looked at my watch-nine o'clock in the evening. The midday heat had gone to rest. The very time to go to the promenade, stroll along beside the ocean and calmly think over the events of the past few weeks.
I left the house. Instead of my usual route, my feet turned towards the attractions on Coney Island. Having appeared at the beginning of the twentieth century, they had seen much-crowds of dressed-up Manhattaners, come to enjoy themselves on the famous Coney Island beaches; the mid-century stagnation and decay, Mafia dealings, blood-and the renaissance at the end of the twentieth century, arriving at Coney Island along with a wave of Russian immigration. Nowadays the attractions are a border strip between Russian and Afro-American America, which the new arrivals have not tried to cross. They have stopped in mid-stride; and, without even trying to do battle, they have turned back and directed their expansion to the east, across Brighton in the direction of Manhattan Beach. There was something about Coney Island Beach they didn't like. What was it?
End of Part One
PART TWO
A BALL ON THE BOARDWALK
The Mcdonald's at the corner of Neptune Avenue and West 6th, about three hundred yards from the Coney Island amusements, is remarkable for more than the availability of a public restroom. Enormous photographs on the walls have captured the wooden pier as it was before the start of the Great Depression. Crowds of dressed-up New Yorkers-ladies in floor-length evening gowns that accentuate their narrow waists (a reproach to today's generations), in gloves and wide hats with feathers and bows-all the Paris fashions on a runway, the name of which is Coney Island. The men are dressed no less elegantly-dark three-piece suits, ties, top hats and canes. Who is presenting whom-the ladies, their cavaliers, or whether, on the contrary, the cavaliers are escorting the ladies-has vanished into history.
The next photo: rickshaw drivers are pushing carriages for two. The ladies feel like royalty, and apparently are quietly happy. The men bow and doff their hats as a sign of respect. A ball on the boardwalk. All that's left is to put out the lights (or turn them on-whatever one prefers) and begin the dancing. The action takes place against a background of amusements and enormous illuminated advertising billboards. Las Vegas has yet to be born. Coney Island has reached puberty. Young, handsome, alluring. Looking at the photos and calculating the difference in their ages, I'd
call it Las Vegas' grandfather.
T-shirts, sneakers and shorts-the accessories of the future sexual revolution, without which the Coney Island of today is inconceivable, are unimaginable audacities.
I used Mcdonald's sanitary facilities and went on to the next photo-the beach. The changes were striking. Nowadays, on a Sunday, no matter how scorching hot the sun, the five-mile sandy strip is occupied only at the shoreline-to 70 feet, no more; on a weekday, about 15 feet, with big gaps. The photo reveals a marvel. The wide, sandy beach, the size of a soccer field, is full of vacationers. In the photo there is a Babel of people, thirsting to throw off the clothes glued to their bodies and plunge into the ocean. Which year is depicted, it's difficult to determine. Judging by the one-piece bathing suits, the end of the fifties.
It appears that the reason for the former popularity of the Coney Island beaches, and the amusements adjoining them, is banal. The absence of home air conditioners. In summer, New York apartments are reminiscent hothouses. The only salvation from the humidity-saturated air is the ocean. Hardly had mass production of air conditioners begun, in the sixties, when Coney Island lost its allure.
Fascinated, I examined the photographs; I scrutinized the faces and tried to peek into the souls. In the photos, washed away by a wave of time, was frozen a generation that had hardly righted itself after the Korean War, with its losses, loves, emotional dramas, disappointments and hopes. Carefree little boys splashing in the water, not knowing that soon they would have to go off to Vietnam…
Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks Page 19