Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

by Rafael Grugman

  * * *

  Seven days later. Friday, October 24, 2003. The restaurant table has not yet become a Greenwich Village tourist attraction and has continued to work for the benefit of spies. Thanks to modern technology, we were able to dispense with the services of a stenographer: the recording apparatus was kindly provided by the New York office of the FBI.

  At five to one, I took a place at a table. Viktor was about three minutes late. I was a bit nervous, knowing that I was under close observation by video cameras. Viktor didn't catch on that he was participating in the filming of an FBI movie, and was uninhibited. The coffee drinking lasted for fifteen minutes at the most.

  An hour later, I returned to the office. Lloyd was waiting for me. His eyes were sparkling. «Excellent work!»

  I drew my thumb and middle finger into a circle and expressively demonstrated my mood.

  Lloyd answered in the same way, and impatiently held out his hand.

  I pulled an envelope, received from Sviridov, out of the inner pocket of my jacket and handed it to Lloyd. He opened it and gave a satisfied «Hmm,» peering from all directions at the photograph of the agent; and, with a wave of his hand, called me into the viewing room. I knew he'd be watching the tape for the second time-the first time, he'd observed the meeting with Sviridov in real time, not taking a step out of his office. While the pictures ran across the screen, I sat behind Lloyd and watched his reactions.

  The camera records the exchange of pleasantries with the waiter. Viktor walks up and sits down at the table. The waiter comes over again. I order coffee and a pastry. The waiter leaves.

  Viktor: (passes the envelope): «A photograph of Anatoly Yablochkov. It was he who carried out the liquidation of Doroshenko. The next day, Yablochkov flew off to Moscow. His present location, I don't know.»

  Rivilis (passes a diskette): «What I've been able to dig up. Founding documents on the Texas branch of Yukos, a list of shareholders and the company's federal tax declarations for 2002. No questions about them have arisen at the IRS. The FBI's Department of Financial Crimes has no data that suggests anything illegal in Yukos' activities, either. Although, combined with the information you have, anything can happen.»

  The waiter brings the order. We start eating.

  I estimated: in two or three minutes, our meeting would be over. If they didn't photograph Viktor on the street, the film would end with this.

  While, on the screen, we were still eating pastries, a mischievous thought flashed by: in the future, it should be included in the restaurant menu, and for commercial success, its name should be changed to spystry.

  The videotape came to an end. Lloyd turned around. His face was shining: «Great work! Whatever ideas Sviridov was governed by, he's just 'sold out' an agent. Even if he has left the country and is safe. The rash step has been taken.»

  «The cooperation promises to be fruitful,» I affirmed. «He's already slipped up once.»

  «There's an old joke about curious slip-ups. I don't know whether you've heard it.»

  I spread my hands: «How can I know what I haven't heard?»

  Lloyd grew cheerful. For many raconteurs, a question of this sort is an introduction, after which the storytelling begins.

  «After a meeting with her husband, who was doing prison time in Baltimore, a wife came to the prison warden and asked him to give her husband work that wasn't quite so hard. 'Mrs. Smith, so far, nobody here has overstrained himself gluing paper bags,' he answered. 'Yes, but my husband says that at night, he's also digging some tunnel or other…'»

  Since we were joking, I seized the torch and told about the «grandiose» commercial scheme that had visited my imagination: to open a «spy» restaurant in Greenwich Village. To decorate it in an original manner, and equip it with special effects. Everything, including the menu, must remind people of secret agents. For example, «spystry,» a «James Bond Karate Chop,» or a cocktail called a «Mata Hari's Hot Embrace.»

  Lloyd's reaction was unexpected: it turns out that spystry already exists. This culinary product of the FBI is stuffed with raisins, in one of which an edible micro-transmitter is mounted. After the victim is fed the pastry, for twenty-four hours, acted upon by stomach acid, the product slowly breaks apart and transmits information about the subject's whereabouts to a satellite.

  I was taken aback. So that's how it was! Once again, I had failed to get a patent on an original invention. The insane idea had already been realized, confirming once more the old adage: in every joke, there's only a piece of a joke. Oh, well, in this case, I needed to come down to earth. There was less than a week left before the wedding vacation.

  THE LIGHTS OF LAS VEGAS

  On the evening of the thirtieth of October, Gulya flew in to Las Vegas. I had arrived a few hours earlier. I had managed to familiarize myself with the hotel in a cursory manner, have a cocktail in an analog of a famous New York bar, Nine Fine Irishmen, and lose my first five dollars at a twenty-five cent slot machine. Natasha and Timur, while I amused myself, were left to their own devices. A half-hour before Gulya's plane was due in, I met them in the hotel lobby next to the registration counter. We went out the door, took one step in the direction of the taxi stand, and an Afro-American doorman intercepted us: «Do you need a cab?» – Natasha got in ahead of me with the answer: «Yes. To the airport, please.»

  Right away, the doorman turned and, with an urgent whistle, signaled to a driver waiting his turn.

  Ten minutes later, we were already at the airport. The plane from Frankfurt-Gulya had a flight with a transfer-arrived with no delays. Fifteen minutes of impatient waiting in the baggage claim room, and the door opened and a thin stream of people trundled towards us. Gulya was one of the first to come out, with a backpack on her back and a light little purse thrown over her shoulder. Flinging hugs around, she raked the children into her arms. My turn was next-the heat of the Kuwait sun Gulya had accumulated burnt my lips.

  «Did you miss me?» she whispered in my ear.

  On the monitor, the number of the section where baggage could be collected from the Frankfurt flight lit up. We moved a little closer. The crowd had grown. Gulya hugged Timur and shared her impressions of the unforgettable view she'd seen from the airplane window: «Huge, uninhabited tracts of land. A flight in the total darkness, and suddenly-in the middle of the desert-a glittering sea of lights.»

  Even though we'd already had the same experience, I listened to Gulya with my mouth half open. Not just because we hadn't seen each other in a long time. The childlike delight of a forty-five-year-old woman is infectious.

  «The holiday feeling begins at the airport,» Gulya gushed, pointing to a row of gambling machines.

  She never stopped examining the billboards inviting us to visit Las Vegas' best shows. At last she asked, «Have you already determined where we're going?»

  I replied honestly, «We haven't been able to,» and started making excuses.

  «It's dazzling. The selection of entertainment is enormous. It's hard to believe that this casino-city was built in the desert. And yet the gangsters' goal was prosaic-to launder dollars earned from drugs, racketeering, and prostitution.»

  «Is that so?! And here I naively thought you were fussing over wedding arrangements.»

  «Mrs. Rivilis, don't worry. Everything has been taken care of.»

  Gulya didn't have time to answer. The baggage carousel awakened, began to creak, and along its unfurling track, in a leisurely manner, the baggage came bobbing up. Gulya started looking for hers. Catching sight of it, she pointed out two big suitcases to Timur: «Grab them!»

  We'd hardly come out of the terminal, when up rolled an airport shuttle minibus, plying its route between the airport and the casino hotels.

  I joked, «A wedding present from the mayor of Las Vegas. The number of vehicles serving the airport has been increased.»

  The bus filled up. The driver asked each passenger the name of their hotel and, without tolerating any fuss or disorganization, packed the luggage co
mpartment according to where the passengers were getting off. Our suitcases turned out to be the last. Having collected their fares from the passengers, the driver slowly began to taxi away, occupying the left lane.

  Without tearing herself away from the window, Gulya demanded a report: «Tell me what the arrangements are. Where's the ceremony going to take place?»

  «At our own hotel. At New York New York. I invited your sister and her husband to the wedding, but they excused themselves-they won't be there.»

  «Why not?! Is it hard for them to come to Las Vegas for three days?»

  «Yulya said that, at the beginning of October, Alik bought a Caribbean cruise. She said we should have invited them sooner.»

  Gulya was offended: «Big deal! They wouldn't lose that much money if they turned in their tickets.»

  «It's not so bad; when you come back, we'll celebrate a second time, in the extended family circle. On the other hand, here's an occasion to invite my sisters, Irochka and Lenochka, for.»

  «It won't be difficult to invite them,» Gulya agreed, «But I'm not sure they'll be able to get a visa. You know how strict things are now.»

  «Another scenario. Next year, in August, my aunt is turning ninety. Maybe we can go to Odessa? What do you say to that?»

  Gulya said nothing, and I kept trying to persuade her. «At the same time, you'll get acquainted with your new relatives. With my sisters and nephews. Larochka, despite her age, has a clear head. Her memory is remarkable. Our family's history is fantastic. You won't believe it, but if you listen to Larochka, and then read my grandfather's notebooks…»

  «Oh! Look!» – Gulya roused herself, having caught sight of a majestic copy of the Statue of Liberty.

  I bit my tongue-it was still too early to start telling stories about my family.

  The minibus exited onto Las Vegas Boulevard and pulled up at the hotel. Gulya's eyes sparkled. The holiday had begun.

  The four days and four nights in Las Vegas were scheduled down to the minute. Every evening was a new show. After that, a nightclub with dancing. In the morning, a tough time getting up, a light breakfast, cocktails at the Nine Fine Irishmen-so as to shake ourselves and wake the rest of the way up. Gambling, to raise our adrenaline levels. And, when the sun was at the zenith, a doze on a lounger by the pool. On one afternoon we hammed it up a little-we carried out a wish of Natasha's. We lowered a Styrofoam table into the water and placed the little flag on it that summons a waiter. We ordered four cocktails, respecting Natasha's request: all different. The selection was made by Timur, who turned out to be a connoisseur. The waitress brought a tray with the drinks, placed it on the table, and started to leave. Natasha stopped her and asked her to open her purse, which was lying on a lounger, take out her camera, and snap our picture in the pool. Natasha imitated choreographic sketches; then she wanted to be photographed with her mama, then with Timur…

  We were lucky with the weather-the nighttime temperature went as low as fifty-five, returning to eighty by midday. Imperceptibly, our bodies were refreshed with Nevada suntans.

  Sunday at three o'clock in the afternoon was the time appointed for the wedding ceremony. Prior experience, called up to help me deal calmly with the change in my familial status, didn't work. Nervousness revealed itself in every word. Gulya sensed drop in my mood and reproached me: «You, I think, are not yourself.»

  «I'm getting married for the first time in the twenty-first century,» I answered in self-justification, and I turned to Natasha: «You're next.» She smiled mysteriously.

  I remembered what an inexperienced and timid youngster I'd been at her age. If only I grew up a couple of years earlier! The Siberian beauties, who had left no significant trace on my life, rose up in my memory. How Mama had feared them! I grinned and calmed down. The tension relaxed. The marriage ceremony passed without a hitch.

  …The morning of the third of November, the last day of our vacation. Not the time or place to ask about Sophia. But what twirls on the tip of the tongue, jumping back and forth from one cheek to the other-who knows what may happen? – peels off its wire and falls with a clang to the floor. Tightrope walking is a dangerous profession. When we were getting ready for breakfast, out of my mouth came: «What news is there from Sophia? Did she send me greetings at your usual meeting?»

  Gulya smiled secretively. «She's been being successful.»

  «Well, now! Share it, since we are now a family.»

  «She informed us of the day when Dawalibi was going make his next trip to Iraq and the number of his car. The rest was a matter of technicalities.»

  «So! That means she really deserves credit for his liquidation! I thought so when Lloyd announced the destruction of a vehicle, which they found Dawalibi's corpse in afterwards.»

  «After the successful outcome of the operation, it was proposed that she take refuge at the US Embassy. From there, they'd have delivered her to a military base in Qatar and offered her the chance to return to America. If she wished, she could have used the Witness Protection Program, changed her first and last names, and chosen a new place to live.»

  «And what happened?! She refused?!»

  «It was an unexpected reaction.»

  «Don't torment me. Did she agree?!»

  «Basically, yes. But Sophia was happy to have an opportunity to be in Qatar. In Doha lives her blood enemy-Zelimkhan Yandarbiyev.»

  «I don't understand how she can possibly get at him. He lives in a closely guarded villa. Surrounded by bodyguards.»

  «Let her think whatever she wants. Nobody can repair her brain. But they won't let her indulge in paying off old scores. As soon as she steps outside the law, they'll clamp down on her.»

  «And?!»

  «They've given her permission to live in Doha for a month or two, in a hotel for foreign workers, while they find her a sanctuary and prepare the necessary documents. Meanwhile, they've given her a severe warning to behave herself.»

  «Well, well…The fox promised the rooster not to steal hens.»

  Gulya smiled. «Where she's located, I don't know. Since Dawalibi's liquidation, she and I haven't seen each other.»

  The subject was exhausted. We left our room and, without waiting for the elevator, descended a narrow, winding stairway to the buffet. Once we'd had a bite to eat, we went back to the room, packed our bags, and went out for a walk. The flight to New York was in two and a half hours.

  Four days and four nights in Las Vegas-that peerless fairy tale, created in the desert during the years of the Great Depression-had come to an end. Las Vegas is a symbol of the American Dream. A city of sin, pleasures, and delights, receptacle for all the vices, towards which people have strived since the days of Imperial Rome, and which were accessible only to the chosen ones. A place where one can «get away from» the interdictions of the big cities, and then return to one's skyscraper office angelically pure, with a starched collar and an unimpeachable reputation.

  This den, where weaknesses and vices reigned, flung wide its doors to those wishing to come and wallow in it. Despite the fact that it was separated from New York by a distance of over two thousand miles, and in defiance of the expectations of pessimists, Las Vegas became the most-visited spot on the North American continent.

  An attempt was made to create something similar on the East Coast, in the little resort town of Atlantic City, with the same casinos, hotels, shows and gambling. They created it. It works. It puts a not-inconsiderable sum into New Jersey's treasury. But to repeat the wild success of the marvel in the desert, which appeared after the repeal of Prohibition and the ban on gambling, was something they couldn't do. There wasn't enough energy and imagination. The hands that touched Las Vegas, were not clean-«dirty money» has a stubborn odor, which, incidentally, with the proper treatment, is quickly ventilated. But a mighty impetus was given to the city of entertainments. At all times, returns are proportional to outlay. Such a «privilege» hasn't appeared at Atlantic City. This baby was born during the good times of Reaganomics, an
d has inherited neither the vices of his older brother, nor his splendor.

  By bus from New York to Atlantic City it takes three hours: to Las Vegas by plane, five and a half. New Yorkers prefer Las Vegas, sans the allure of the ocean. That says it all.

  Along the way to the Paris Las Vegas casino hotel, Gulya started telling stories about the famous gangster Bugsy Siegel, who had a brain wave about building a gambling heaven in Nevada.

  «With the help of money from his friends, the same kind of gangsters he was, Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano, Siegel built the first casino in Las Vegas, naming it, in honor of his redheaded lover, Virginia Hill, The Flamingo. Money is capable of making the most devoted of relatives get into fights. It's not for nothing they say, 'If you want to lose a friend, open a business with him.' To make a long story short, Siegel started stealing a little. His appetites grew-he opened accounts in European banks in his lover's name. When Siegel's friends found out about it, they didn't wait around for retribution-they shot the poor guy through the window of his own house.»

  I was tired, and listened inattentively to her; I was thinking about how much my life would change once Gulya got back from Iraq. I involuntarily interrupted her, summing up my thoughts: «On our family's passport, Las Vegas will be its birthplace.»

  Gulya added, «There are Hollywood stars who can boast of that just as much as we can-Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford, Kirk Douglas and Anne Buydens, Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward.»

  «You're right. To list everybody who's touched a wedding cake here is pointless: there isn't enough paper.»