Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

by Rafael Grugman

Our interrogation of the women-who were frightened and spoke almost no English-revealed that the items we had found belonged to a certain Mohammed Atri. They were not lying; the receipts from the flight school were also written out in his name. He had moved into this house a week earlier. Their husband had told them he was giving Mohammed a corner of the living room. The wives had no idea where the guest had disappeared to, or where their husband was at the moment.

  Towards evening the head of the family appeared; he worked at a nearby service station, and he reported that had met Mohammed a week earlier at a mosque. Mohammed had come to New York to study filmmaking (he had introduced himself to me as a specialist in computer networks), and he had asked to rent a room for half a year. The host could not explain where his guest was at the moment.

  By checking various computer databases, I was able to get some information about Mohammed Atri. He was born in Pakistan in 1974. At the age of twenty he came to the USA on a student visa. He got a bachelor’s degree from the University of North Carolina. For about a year he worked as an engineer servicing computer networks for a telecommunications company in Manhattan. In the spring of 2000 he quit his job and made a trip to Germany and France. When he returned to the USA he enrolled in the flight school in Dayton Beach. In February 2001 he got into a serious automobile accident on Staten Island; he lost control on a slippery road in the foggy weather, flew into a ditch, and smashed the car to pieces. He got off easy (it could have been much worse): a broken leg and injuries to the ribs and spine. At Staten Island Hospital I found the medical charts showing the trauma he had undergone. This circumstance apparently prevented him from joining the terrorist attack planned for September 11.

  The terrorists were originally planning to hijack ten airplanes, and the list of their intended targets was significantly longer. This, by the way, was confirmed in the report by the Senate Committee, which summarized intelligence information from various sources. After encountering unforeseen circumstances (the incident with Atri was one of them), the terrorists moderated their appetites, reducing the number of hijacked planes to four. Some of the trained crews were never summoned. Mohammed Atri, Ted’s probable killer, may have been one of them.

  I doubted that the owner of the house was being sincere, but I had no direct evidence proving that he was lying and misleading the investigation. If the interrogation had been carried out by the NKVD (or its successors), the suspect would have broken immediately. He would remember everything, including things that had never really happened. In the USA, using physical force against a prisoner is prohibited. Evidence obtained by unlawful methods cannot be used in court. Criminals take advantage of the democratic nature of the law and often retract the confessions they made during the course of their questioning, maintaining that they were pressured by the investigator. If a prosecutor has no irrefutable evidence or «iron» witnesses, the offender is released, embracing his attorney, who later has the audacity to demand money for the moral damage allegedly inflicted on his client.

  These are the costs of democracy, which the investigator must take into account. At this point I was finished. The observation of the «infiltrated house» and the search for Mohammed Atri were under the jurisdiction of another department. Now they knew exactly whom to start the search for.

  It was time to call Alla and invite her for our next walk. The Brighton backwaters had not yet revealed all their secrets.

  THE MUJAHEDIN PERISH IN IRAQ

  Tuesday, September 23, 2003.

  After Gulya’s departure for Baghdad, ten days passed, and not one source gave me any information about Sophia. Despite the monstrous lack of coordination between special services discovered by the Senate Commission for the investigation of the events of September 11, and its recommendation to create a department coordinating the efforts of the intelligence services, in practice nothing was done. The CIA did not inform the FBI that it had established contact with a criminal wanted by Interpol.

  I was worried about Sophia’s fate. I could see her in my imagination, sometimes in a Russian prison, interrogated and beaten; sometimes in Syria, beheaded by fanatics; sometimes on a small island, lying in the sun with al-Dawalibi. Or with Yandarbiyev. She had wanted to kill him-and she changed her mind. This often happens with women.

  I could not reveal the classified information I had received from Gulya. Moreover, it was long since obsolete. Each day could be fatal.

  A cat always lands on its feet, no matter how far it falls. I convinced myself that Sophia’s natural resourcefulness would help her get out of trouble. However, it would be difficult for her to take evasive action. She was being targeted from three directions: Abdel al-Dawalibi and the Chechens from one side, and the GRU and CIA from the other two sides.

  In the meantime, the New York subdivision of the Russian intelligence service faded from view. Victor, who had extracted copies of the documents that interested him, disappeared from the horizon. His assistants followed him. Alla found an occasion to take offense. She artistically went into hysterics on the telephone and refused to meet me.

  «How could you leave me on the street, without even walking me to the subway? Is this any way to treat a woman?!»

  I wasn’t about to get nasty and ask if she had received a medal «For valiant labor.» Gulya would be back soon. The amorous exploits of James Bond receded into the past. Would there be any reward for myself? I should at least receive a «National Security» medal for discovering Mohammed Atri. However, Clark limited himself to gratitude.

  After lunch, Lloyd gathered his department for an operative meeting. At the end, he asked me and Sandy to stay.

  «Familiarize yourself with it. This is your area.» He handed Sandy a thin file. «These are excerpts from today’s report. From our embassy in Baghdad.»

  Lloyd looked at me attentively, smiled mysteriously and said significantly:

  «There is one less bandit being searched for.»

  I grew cold, terrified by my unexpected surmise: «Sophia?»

  The telephone rang. Lloyd took the receiver, said «Excuse me for a moment,» and dismissed us. «You are free to go. If you have any ideas, let me know.»

  We left the office. Sandy carelessly held the file which evidently contained information that concerned me personally, and he was in no hurry to open it. In the hall he started talking about his favorite topic, the New York Rangers’ chances for the Stanley Cup in the NHL Championship, which had started a week earlier.

  I listened absent-mindedly; my thoughts were occupied with Lloyd. Why had he handed the file to Sandy?

  If it were not for the look he had given me during his mundane announcement and his mysterious smile directed at me, I would not have worried. They had caught one more scoundrel-thank heaven for that! But unlike Lloyd, I knew about the situation my former significant other was in, and I decided to play it safe. Did this file now contain material about Sopha?

  I was thinking about the contents of the file; Sandy wanted to talk about hockey. After I played up to him a few times, feigning an interest in hockey, he believed I was a fan of the Russian hockey players in the NHL. In the hall he started arguing that the arrival of Aleksey Kovalev, who had been chosen during the previous season by the goal pass system of seventy-seven points, would undoubtedly strengthen the team. Together with Mark Mesye, the new forward would lead the Rangers to the long-awaited Stanley Cup.

  We went into the office. Sandy put the file in a safe and suggested that we go to the kitchen, as he explained:

  «If I don’t I don’t have my coffee after lunch, I tend to fall asleep.»

  I made one last attempt to distract him from hockey:

  «Maybe we could look at the report first.»

  Sandy brushed me off:

  «In twenty minutes. There won’t be any new notes when we get back.»

  Sick at heart, I was forced to agree to go to the kitchen with him and continue listening to the news about the NHL. When he had exhausted the topic of the Rangers, Sandy began t
alking about the Islanders, where another Russian star had begun to shine-Aleksey Yashin.

  The twenty minutes extended for a long time. Sandy received a call on his cell phone, excused himself and retired with his unfinished coffee, leaving me alone with my terrible thoughts: Sophia had been killed.

  The call must have been important. Sandy left the building and did not return for the rest of the workday.

  I was nervous; uncertainty is more terrible than bad news. Should I wait until tomorrow? Even robots do not always have the strength for endurance tests. Metal is subject to fatigue, and if there is a power surge, electrical circuits immediately become disabled. What can we say about a distinct human individual with a worn-out nervous system? Unlike electronic equipment, it cannot be replaced. A human must endure everything. Failures lead to suicides and psychiatric hospitals.

  I made an inquiry on the electronic database, using the key words «Sophia Rivilis» as the key words, but there was no new information. Either it had not been entered yet, or there really was nothing to worry about.

  I returned to Brooklyn in a bad frame of mind. My painful foreboding was hanging over me like Damocles’ sword. I didn’t feel like going home, so I came out on West 8th, and crossing the little bridge, I found myself on the embankment. It was the end of September. The number of walkers on the «Russian» part of the boardwalk had not diminished. Despite the late hour, the restaurants were full, families with children were going for a walk, and a police car was inching its way through the crowd.

  With some difficulty, I found an empty bench. Not far away was the black ocean, illuminated by the lights of ships sitting in the roadstead. Somewhere out there, halfway around the word, was Karolino-Bugaz. If I threw a bottle into the water, would it reach Odessa, and would it give my regards to the graves left in the care of strangers? There are many good reasons to flee overseas, but you can never escape the feeling of guilt before those you had to leave behind. Graves are silent, with a wordless reproach.

  «We must live for the present»-this saying is true. Without this auto-suggestion, emigration is difficult. You need to forget who you were in your previous life, grit your teeth and start over. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, pluck up your courage and dig your spurs into the saddled stallion: «Forward, don’t look back!» But memory, as soon as it senses your weakness, returns to the past.

  Odessa. The summer of 1980. I had been married for almost two years. We lived under the same roof with Sophia’s mother, and there was no hint of our future troubles.

  Irochka, my younger cousin, had also settled down already-she had gotten married. I knew the man of her choice. Lively, handsome, jealous and super-persistent, he had put a lot of effort into winning her from her other suitors. The lucky man was in such a hurry to lead her down the aisle that Irochka, yielding to pressure, did not wait for summer vacation. The wedding took place while I was in Novosibirsk. Irochka wrote: Sopha was at the center of attention all evening-she danced with the best man. I was not jealous; did I expect her to sit on a chair all evening during the wedding, fastened by a chastity belt? My older cousin Lenochka, who zealously made sure her cousin would not be offended, added: Sopha observed the proprieties. She did not go off with anyone and did not allow any liberties.

  I remembered the summer of 1980 because of Vysotsky’s death. We were vacationing in Karolino-Bugaz. When we heard about the tragedy, Sophia burst into tears. It was amazing how many different people were combined within her-from the adventurer to the tender and timid goddess. She was a fantastic alloy.

  Over the ensuing years, many things caused offense in our hearts. I cannot even remember how it all began. It was nothing deliberate. Gradually, day by day, irritations and innuendos came up. The lack of children seemed to be the cause of all our troubles. A little miracle would put out the smoldering coals and emanate love. The energy a child would have taken from both parents remained unused.

  Mud on the street is easy to gather into a heap and take away to the dump in a garbage truck. Wounds in the heart take years to heal; the pain becomes chronic, sometimes calming down, lulled by a period of remission, and then flaring up again with a careless touch. Everything flows back immediately from the farthest corners of the brain. Pushing each other apart by the elbows, old offenses come quickly to the tongue. And by then no one feels sorry for anyone else, and no one is thinking about the consequences. The fight becomes more cruel and painful, without any rules. We will regret it later.

  Computer specialists can reformat hard disks and re-record the information. A human memory cannot be reformatted. Even if you try to begin a new life, you cannot rewrite your old one. You cannot delete the past. A touch can make the old offenses flare up like napalm. Just the slightest touch.

  I went to Sandy first thing in the morning. He had already looked through the file, and he handed it to me with the words: «The boss is right. The report should make you happy.»

  I eagerly skimmed through the brief report from the embassy.

  «Not far from Al-Faruji, three half-burned corpses were found inside an automobile that had been travelling from the direction of the Syrian border and had been attacked in an air raid. One of them had a Syrian passport under the name of Abdel al-Dawalabi. Presented with the body, al-Dalawabi’s relatives also recognized him. As a token of gratitude for their cooperation, we handed the body over to them for burial according to the Muslim customs.»

  Sandy commented:

  «Abdel al-Dawalibi was responsible for recruiting mercenaries from Arab countries and transporting them across the Syrian border to Iraq. His liquidation should bring about a decrease in Al-Qaeda’s activities.»

  There were photographs attached to the report. As I looked at al-Dawalibi’s disfigured face, it was hard to recognize the handsome man portrayed in the pictures taken at the Syrian diplomat’s birthday celebration. The CIA, which had already succeeded in recruiting his Russian wife by catching her indulging in scandalous entertainment in Florida, was celebrating a double victory.

  My heart was set at ease. Not because Sophia had become a widow; this was the least of my worries. The elimination of al-Dalawabi put an end to the GRU’s plan in which Sophia would be involved in Yandarbiyev’s murder.

  I don’t know whether she was involved in sending her «ardent loving husband» to the seventy-two houris, but if she played a part in his liquidation, an absolution of her sins was guaranteed.

  Sophia still had to play the role of the inconsolable widow and fool the deceased’s relatives and friends, who would doubtless begin searching for a traitor who was close to al-Dalawabi. If she proved to be up to her new role, we may assume that this time her outcome would be successful.

  The final scene of the thriller would have to be played without a hitch. As long as she took the proper line of conduct, I didn’t think they would be likely to pursue her.

  A month from now, or a month and a half at most, Gulya and I would be married in Las Vegas. Would the details of al-Dawalibi’s liquidation come to the surface then? Sofochka, this is it! Where are you? What are you hiding in your angelic eyes, hypocritically covered by handkerchief wet with tears?

  * * *

  Mohammed Atri’s name was placed on the «black list» distributed to airlines flying in U.S. airspace. A special computer program that tracks undesirable passengers checks each airline ticket order against the «black list,» and if it discovers a wanted criminal, it automatically notifies the airline’s security service. The security service in turn is obligated to inform the local FBI office.

  To my surprise, the program responded immediately; Atri did not expect such efficiency on the part of the special services, and he disregarded precautionary measures. The computer screen revealed that Mohammed Atri had ordered a ticket for a Swiss Air flight from New York to Madrid on October 1. He was planning to leave the USA on October 2. The payment was made using a credit card issued under the name Basel Gaoun. We checked: Gaoun was flying to Spain on the same flight.

/>   I quickly looked through the information in his dossier.

  «Basel Gaoun, refugee from Syria, permanently residing in Spain. Suspected of belonging to the European Al-Qaeda network.»

  Amazing! Despite the fact that information was available to customs inspectors regarding passengers whose entry into America was undesirable, the computer program had come up short. Two weeks earlier Gaoun had arrived at the Orlando airport unhindered, indicating the innocuous word «tourism» as the purpose of his visit on his customs declaration form.

  After a consultation, Lloyd decided to let both passengers fly to Madrid unhindered, and to request that the Spanish police keep a close eye on all their movements and contacts.

  SPY GAMES

  Thursday, October 16, 2003.

  The morning began with telephone calls. First, by turns, my sisters, Irochka and Lenochka-to wish me a happy birthday. After that, Gulya got through. Right away, she blurted out that she had received a one-week vacation and would fly to Las Vegas on the thirtieth of October. She dictated the flight number and in an overbearing tone, gave the command: «Order plane tickets, make reservations at a hotel, and prepare a program of entertainment.» Once she'd announced the most important news, without pausing, she congratulated me on my birthday.

  Two weeks are obviously insufficient for organizing a wedding. Tours of Las Vegas are planned half a year ahead of time, and the best hotels get booked up early. I called Natasha and informed her of our plans.

  «Mama got in ahead of you,» she answered in a drowsy voice, «I want to sleep.»

  «Sleep,» I answered stiffly. I put down the receiver and swore. She not only perceived the coming event as humdrum, she hadn't even remembered my birthday. Then I calmed myself down: taking offense at children is a pointless activity.

  I went on the Internet and found a nonstop flight on Delta Airlines. The next step was the search for a hotel.