Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

by Rafael Grugman

  I was not mistaken. A few minutes later I heard the insinuating voice:

  «Your face seems familiar. Did you come from Odessa?»

  I opened my eyes and confirmed lazily:

  «You guessed right. From Odessa.» Then I fell silent, following Yurochka Dubovtsev’s advice: «Let the other player play his trump card on his own. He will show his weak suit himself.»

  «Irochka, just a second,» he stammered, imitating agonizing recollections. I did not rush and squinted my eyes slightly. He continued irresolutely:

  «Gendler, I think. Does that name mean anything to you?»

  «My cousin.»

  «That’s it. I recognized you.» His eyes lit up. «Zhenya. Rivilis, if I’m not mistaken.»

  «You’re not mistaken. But pardon me, I don’t remember you.»

  Sviridov was glad and began temperamentally:

  «That’s not surprising. It was twenty years ago, if not more. I was one of Irochka’s suitors, and you arrived,» he hesitated for a second, «on vacation-I don’t remember where you came from…»

  As he gave his explanation, describing the events of the summer in Odessa in detail, I assessed his acting skill: «He is overacting somewhat-very mediocre.»

  «I met you a couple of times on the beach. Do you remember?»

  There you have it. He was lying without any hesitation. What was he counting on, I wondered? Did he assume that in this flow of trustworthy information, I would not catch his lie about our long-ago acquaintance? Although anything was possible; I did not remember him at all-a face in a crowd of admirers-and it was quite possible that I had remained in his memory thanks to my cousin’s attractiveness.

  «Not really. So much has happened. With whom do I have the honor?»

  «Pardon me, I didn’t introduce myself,» the «diplomat» laughed and extended his hand. «Sviridov. Viktor. My colleagues call me Viktor Pavlovich. I used to be one of your colleagues, a staff correspondent for the First Russian Television Channel.»

  He didn’t mention his current position. I followed the rule of not asking too many questions and responded with a silent handshake, without reacting to his unexpected word «colleague.»

  He had no option but to continue his explanation.

  «I met you in Denmark, at the Zakayev trial. You were representing the «Voice of America» radio, and I was representing Russian television. Do you remember now?»

  I honestly admitted: «No.»

  As we talked, I studied Viktor-could he have been one of Irochka’s suitors? Judging from his appearance, I would say yes. He was well-proportioned, with an athletic build, pleasant manners and a lovely voice. In the theatre he would be suited for the role of the hero and lover. Considering his age, it would be a stretch. According to his file, he was a year younger than Irochka. Despite the fact that my cousin had stopped aging at thirty and, like a Hollywood star, had taken a young admirer for her third marriage, back then it was hardly likely that she would have cast an eye on younger boys. However, anything was possible. Viktor might have been on the last page of the «waiting list.»

  While I was conjecturing, he made his offer:

  «Let’s go for a walk on the boardwalk. After that, if you feel like it, we’ll come back to the Volna and have a glass of beer.»

  I agreed. If this partner wanted to show his cards, I had to play along. He had already revealed one trump card: Denmark, Zakayev’s extradition trial.

  Walking leisurely, we came to the Ocean Front Luxury Condominiums. The first buildings had already been sold out, and the outline of a new development had started taking shape. We gossiped about the apartments costing up to two million dollars, and then we turned back. Viktor retold the story of his acquaintance with my cousin in detail, and he joked that if Irochka had not been so superficial, he might have become my cousin. I responded in a similar manner that he was not the only one who desired to be counted among my relatives. The competition for Irochka was as intense as applying for enrollment in a prestigious Moscow institute. My only regret was that I hadn’t taken money from the competitors at the time for examining their documents.

  I was waiting for Viktor to come to the point; his mention of Zakayev had not been idle chatter. Viktor was in no hurry, nor was I. The conversation turned to two other sisters, Lena and Mila; Viktor had prepared thoroughly for his conversation with me. Suddenly he complained:

  «Your mother and her sisters were not adequate. You are the only one in your family who is carrying on the male line of Bonaparte. But you need to have a son…»

  «When were you able to read the publication in Odessky Vestnik in 1996? After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russian newspapers didn’t get through to Ukraine, and Ukrainian ones were inaccessible in Russia.»

  «It happened by chance. A friend sent it to me in a letter. I was working for Novaya Gazeta. The editor took an interest and reprinted his recollections, making references to the source. I was doubly interested-I knew who the story was about. There were a lot of responses, by the way.»

  Victor was convinced that the phrase he had spoken had produced the proper effect, and he acknowledged:

  «I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time and catch up on old times. This would make a great story for television. Bonaparte’s great-great-grandson, now living in New York, formerly from Odessa, and a journalist for Voice of America radio at that. Just think what a hit that would be!

  Good Lord, I didn’t know how to stop him. Any story that passed through television channels would have an audience of millions. This was what Clark had wanted all along, but after the troubles I had experienced, would I be bringing new ones on my head? Spare me!

  We turned around and came to the Volna pub. I had remained silent the whole time, allowing Viktor to display his eloquence. We ordered beer. The bar counter in the open air, the kegs of beer, the dried fish, the seagulls lazily walking along the embankment, and the ocean-for a second I closed my eyes and let my thoughts wander: it was the same kind of beach, only much smaller, on the other side of the ocean, in Odessa. The basketball court where Yurochka Dubovtsev and I had played soccer. One against one, with small goal posts.

  Nostalgia is useful; we cannot delete the past with a single stroke and live carelessly in the present. However, my time for recollections was ill-chosen: the second trump card, which had been carelessly thrown on the table, awaited a response. The main thing was not to let Victor see that I was worried about something. I blew off some foam and had a sip of beer, and only then did I respond to his proposal:

  «Don’t try to fool me. No interviews. Not now, not in the future. The publication in Odessky Vestnik was a mistake. I don’t want to talk about this subject anymore. If that’s why you’re here, get lost.»

  Viktor didn’t take offense. He answered firmly:

  «Not everything depends on you now. Sophia, your wife-current or former, you decide what to call her-she’s been playing tricks on both sides of the ocean.»

  The third trump card was lying plainly on the table. What was the goal he was pursuing? He had not traced me here just to spend a whole hour putting himself out about my relatives, and then to lay everything out on the table: his part in Zakayev’s trial, the history of the Rivilis family and his allusions to Sophia. The last one put me on my guard. The first two cards were easily beaten, but the third one could quickly prove to be the trump ace, depending on what lay behind it.

  I remained silent, continuing to drink my bear in small swallows. Let him think his words did not disturb me.

  «In Russia, like anywhere else in the world, international journalists collaborate with special services. They exchange information,» Viktor carefully pointed out his current occupation. «As I know, you are also involved in counter-intelligence.»

  «Get to the point,» I interrupted him. «Don’t beat around the bush. I’m in no mood to discuss gossip with you. If you’re hinting at something, give it to me straight. Or this conversation is over.»

  «You’re so hot-hea
ded,» Viktor smirked. «Another beer?»

  I refused. Viktor ordered another mug. He took a sip of beer and, as if by chance, blurted out:

  «Does Sophia disturb you like she did before?»

  «What’s that supposed to mean?»

  «About a month and a half ago Sophia crossed the Georgian-Russian border with a group of mercenaries from Arab countries. When they examined the body of one of the Arab fighters, they discovered a video cassette. Sophia was on it.»

  He took a sip of beer, watching for my reaction-I tried to appear unconcerned-and continued.

  «The captured fighters confirmed that she had been in their group. Afterwards she had gone off somewhere with the local guide. Where she is now, no one knows. Maybe in Chechnya. Or maybe she had left Russia. Or returned to Georgia. I know the FBI is searching for her through the Interpol lines. So far the Attorney General’s Office of Russia doesn’t have anything to charge her with, except for crossing the border illegally. On the other hand, her involvement in the Zakayev trial on the side of the suspected terrorist says a lot. The moment Sophia sets foot on Russian territory, she must be apprehended and turned over to representatives of the FBI. After all, we are partners in the anti-terrorist coalition. By the way, she could also be tried in Russia, for crossing the border as part of a gang.

  Viktor turned to his beer. I flared up, not giving him the satisfaction.

  «What kind of trash are you telling me?»

  Viktor silently shrugged his shoulders. I broke into a near-shout.

  «I’m going to explain this very simply. To you and to the people you represent. I myself would be happy to see her in an American prison. Along with her current patrons, the Arabs and the Chechens.»

  Viktor looked at me encouragingly, and his gaze grew warm, as if he were my relative. His voice softened.

  «Don’t get so excited.»

  «Why have you come here?»

  «The so-called human rights activists, without realizing it themselves, are accomplices of the terrorists. The late Shchekochukhin was one of them. The things he dug up against the Attorney General’s Office played into the hands of the swindlers and bandits. They are ready to pay any amount of money to overthrow the people who are truly fighting against them. The plan is simple: they find unscrupulous or overly trusting journalists and slip provocative materials to them, and the journalists then use the mass media to inflame public opinion. To these negligent scribblers, everything is the same. They are happy just to make an effort, to put in their work for thirty pieces of silver. Do you understand who you are involved with? And who you have helped?»

  He fell silent, and when he did not get a response, he asked me again:

  «Do you understand what I’m getting at? I’m sharing this with you as a friend.»

  I didn’t try to develop his thought, and asked him straight out:

  «Do you know who killed Shchekochikhin?»

  «Not who-what. It was binge drinking. Anything can give out from too much drinking. The kidney, the liver.

  «I take it you are here because of Shchekochikhin?»

  Viktor nodded.

  «We found documents in his computer that had been sent by you. Some people are interested in everything you have dug up. For the reward, naturally. The right amount of money will get things moving.»

  He acknowledged indirectly that Shchekochikhin and those around him had been shadowed, his e-mail had been examined and his telephone conversations recorded.

  The time came to wrap things up. I promised to think it over and asked for a contact telephone number. Viktor handed over a business card and boasted that he had left television after receiving a prestigious offer to work at the UN. He finished his beer and hurried off to Manhattan.

  I related the content of our discussion almost verbatim to Lloyd. He promised to report to Clark on the proposal to start working with the FSB, and if permission was granted, I would be given the role of a double agent.

  There was one more trump card left in the «diplomat’s» deck. Alla. He was keeping this card in reserve. In Victor’s plan, her time had not yet come. He was not original. Women, money, homosexual relations-all intelligence services use the standard set of master keys in an attempt to compromise the victim.

  In the evening, as I strolled near my house (I had become accustomed to reflecting on things while I walked), I once again tried to unravel my conversation with Viktor, to analyze it and come up with hypotheses. There were a lot of things in Sophia’s behavior that were unclear. Her flight from the USA, and then from France, was caused by her fear of being locked up in an American prison. Was she seeking refuge in Syria? That was logical. Interpol’s authority didn’t extend to Syria. Also, her current lover al-Dawalibi was in Damascus.

  Was she completely safe? That was doubtful. If Viktor’s tale was true, she was in Chechnya now. This was a risky venture, but if you considered Sophia’s adventurous nature, it was quite plausible. I didn’t think the fighters would intend to use her as a live bomb. The women who became suicide bombers taking part in the seizure of Nord-Ost had personal motives for risking their lives. Sophia did not have that. Most likely, she had decided on a senseless quest to look for her mother, turning to al-Dawalibi for help, and he had aligned her with the group of Arab mercenaries. The fact that they separated later and each pursued their own business confirmed the hypothesis.

  Despite the late hour, I didn’t feel like going home. After the sauna of the New York day, the evening was like a swallow of fresh air. If the global warming promised by scientists sets in, and the heat of the two summer months extends to the ten remaining, New Yorkers will get out of their apartments, put on diving suits and stay outside as long as the supply of air in their oxygen cylinders allowed. It would be analogous to the cosmonauts, who emerge for a short time to work in open space.

  My thoughts returned to my conversation with Viktor.

  Why did he tell me about Sophia? Did he want to sound me out? Perhaps she had already been arrested, and the FSB, not wishing to acknowledge this fact, was carefully initiating a trade. The documents that interested them in exchange for humane treatment of the captive.

  If this were not the case, then what was preventing the prosecutor’s office from submitting an official request to the US Embassy? An FBI communications post had been opened in Moscow in 1994 especially for this purpose, headed by a Bureau representative with the rank of «Attaché for Legal Issues.» Perhaps after the recent disclosures by Pitts and Hansen, the Russian foreign intelligence service was searching for moles within the FBI system. Yevgeny Rivilis had fallen into their hands, and they were beginning to work on him.

  So they had figured out that I was an FBI agent. It was not by chance that Viktor had mentioned meeting me at the Zakayev trial. They knew that Sophia was my wife. They had compared facts and determined that Sophia also represents the Bureau. Then they had begun the trade. I was convinced that Sophia’s work as a translator for Vanessa Redgrave had been regarded by them as proof of the CIA’s involvement in the Chechen conflict.

  In its maniacal aptitude to accuse anyone-particularly the USA-of being responsible for any misfortune, the Russian intelligence service had already lost its most valuable agent in the CIA system, Harold Nicholson. Furthermore, it was due to stupidity. The story of his discovery had made it into the textbook for counter-intelligence agents-instructors at the FBI academy would use it as an example.

  In March 1996 Nikolay Kovalyov, the Director of the Federal Security Service, presented an official request to the Director of the FBI to share information about Chechen terrorists. He received the response: Chechnya is not part of the sphere of American interests, and there is no intelligence data on the Northern Caucasus region.

  The Moscow officials did not believe this, and they assigned their «mole» to gather the necessary information. In April Nicholson arrived at the CIA headquarters, and under the pretext of fulfilling a certain «training assignment,» he requested the file on Chechny
a. This caused some surprise-the CIA had no interest in Chechnya, and there were no training sessions planned for employees. There are no random events in the intelligence service-the same request from the FSB was lying on Mueller’s desk. Nicholson began to be suspected of treason.

  In July he made his second attempt. The agent’s persistent attempts to obtain information that was not part of his sphere of professional interest strengthened the suspicions. Nicholson was placed under surveillance. His computer was secretly checked. It turned out that he had been scouring the CIA information databases, making many electronic inquiries. They key word he used in his search was «Chechnya.» This was enough to charge him with spying on behalf of Russia. On November 16 Nicholson was arrested.

  I returned home without reaching any decision. However, none was necessary; the main thing was to comprehend what I had heard and to arrange it in categories. Only in the movies do counterintelligence agents hide in ditches with pistols and engage in spectacular car chases. The Hollywood scenarios have nothing in common with real life. Hollywood is a show with an obligatory happy ending. The scenario does not allow for September eleventh.

  A day later Lloyd gave his consent for Clark to begin negotiating with Viktor.

  «In exchange, you most demand the file on Sophia. Including a copy of the video cassette that proves she was in Chechnya. You will tell him your condition-before the exchange can begin, he must present evidence confirming the authenticity of the video cassette.»

  Lloyd was right. There would not have been any doubt, except for the fact that the day before Grisha’s murder, Sophia had called Grisha and persuade him to fly to Damascus. Their conversation had taken place on July 29. She promised to call him back a week later-which proved that she planned to be in Syria during the first week of August.