I stopped in the middle of the street and hugged and kissed her. I glanced at my watch, estimated that there was just enough time, and decided to come about.
«Let's not try to bite off too much. We'll have to put off our visit to Paris until our next trip to Las Vegas. Let's go back to the hotel and call for a taxi. In two hours, it's the airplane.»
Gulya agreed. «If you want to be happy in marriage, don't contradict your husband. In Baku, we were raised with just those rules in mind.»
«THERE, IN A FAR-OFF LAND, I'LL BECOME YOUR WIFE.»
The month that ought to have been our honeymoon ended tragically.
The first to call was Natasha. Sobbing, she gave me the terrible news: she had just been brought a notification of death-yesterday, in the area of Mosul, as a result of the explosion of a car bomb a short distance from the police station, Gulya had died.
«At the moment when the explosion happened, Mama was passing through in a jeep. Her wounds turned out to be fatal. Mama died on the way to the hospital.»
Natasha sobbed, incoherently cursed Bush-I stopped her with difficulty.
«Natashenka, get Timur and come to Queens. At this moment, we must be together.»
«Okay,» she answered meekly.
The self-deception had come to an end. I understood that Gulya had been assigned to a war. The quick march through the desert and the fall of Baghdad did not signify the end of hostilities. Every day, one or two Killed In Action notices arrived on American soil. In spite of the CNN News and the numbers of fallen American soldiers that kept lighting up on the TV screen, I had tried not to think that Gulya was in danger. And I had succeeded in convincing myself. She had done everything right by deceiving us: she was staying, she said, outside the combat zone; and she led us to believe that she was sitting tight on a military base in Kuwait-that she was in charge of a group of translators.
When I arrived in Queens, the children were already home. We sat together as a foursome and were silent. Timur had broken up with his Chinese girlfriend, and had arrived with a new girl, a charming, dark-faced Hispanic girl. Timur was still holding up somehow-Natasha ceaselessly sobbed. The Hispanic girl hugged her and wept silently. I made Natasha drink a glass of vodka; then the four of us drank to Gulenka.
Something needed to be said to make the situation less tense. The painful silence was depressing, but I couldn't speak-spasms choked up my throat. Every word burst through the obstruction in my throat with difficulty, trembled, and dissolved in the tear-damp air.
I felt my own guilt. A horrible thought drilled its way into my mind: «It's a punishment sent for the fling with Alla.» But what was Natasha guilty of? Or Timur?
Gulya's sister arrived from New Jersey; neighbors from the building dropped in; the apartment started to fill up with people. Strange as it may seem, the atmosphere lightened. Now I understand: at tragic moments, people must not remain alone. I drank more than usual, but I wasn't drunk: the anesthesia only deadened the pain. A song that Gulya used to sing now and then burned my heart: «My darling, take me with you; there, in a far-off land, I'll become your wife.» With that song, when everyone had gone, I fell into an armchair, choking back tears, and, repeating the refrain, the lines that had pierced my heart: «there, in a far-off land, I'll become your wife.» I fell asleep, drained and worn out, with insane thoughts of a far-off land, where we would be happy.
…A week later, a coffin with Gulya's body in it was transported to Germany, to a US military base. From there it was brought home by charter jet for burial in Arlington Cemetery. Within a couple of days, an announcement came from Iraq about the capture of Saddam Hussein. After the funeral, an officer who had been escorting the coffin came up to me and whispered, «She was involved in his capture.»
I didn't notice the discrepancy in the dates at first-Gulya had died on the fourth of December, while Saddam was taken prisoner on the fourteenth. When the excitement in the international press aroused by Hussein's arrest had died down, Natasha, Timur and I were invited to the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency for a meeting with CIA Director George Tenet.
Nearly a hundred people were gathered in the conference room. The first to speak was Tenet. He announced that Gulya had been awarded a Bronze Star for combat service. And also a National Security medal, which is given for valiant service in the intelligence agencies. He presented Natasha with a Purple Heart, which is traditionally awarded to all military personnel who are wounded or killed in action.
Gulya's colleagues made speeches. They spoke a great deal, touchingly and lovingly. The official part went on for about an hour. Before leaving the room, Tenet shook our hands and said more words of consolation. A tall, slender woman-one of those who had spoken-approached us and, in the name of Gulya's colleagues, invited us to dinner.
Ten minutes later, in three cars, we pulled up at an Italian restaurant. A waiter took our order, brought us ice water, and withdrew. I was in no condition to handle a conversation. Although it looked disrespectful, I wanted to be alone. I got up from the table, went up to the bar, and ordered a vodka.
I coldly foiled the bartender's intention to dilute my drink: «No ice.» I drank it down at one gulp and stared into the space behind the bar.
A minute later, a colleague of Gulya's sat down and companionably put his arm around my shoulders. I'd met him a couple of times at work, but as ill luck would have it, I couldn't remember his name. Either Joseph, or George.
«Hang in there, dude.»
«Thanks, pal,» I said and, raising two fingers, beckoned to the bartender. «More of the same.»
«The same way? With no ice?»
I silently nodded. On the table appeared two glasses. One, I pushed over to Joseph-George; I raised the other. «To Gulya.»
He repeated, «To Gulya!» and downed it at one gulp. Russian style. I complimented him. «Where did you learn to drink vodka?»
«I worked for two years in Moscow.»
The words the escorting officer had said at Gulya's funeral hadn't left my mind. It's customary not to ask too many questions, but there might not be another opportunity. «I heard Gulya distinguished herself during Hussein's capture. But there are discrepancies in the dates. Do you know anything about it?»
Joseph-George started whispering. «She was one of the search party. She revived connections made during the time when her husband worked in Iraq as a trade representative for the government of Azerbaijan.»
«Did he work for the CIA?»
Joseph-George smiled mysteriously, but remained silent.
The waiter brought our orders, and we were summoned to the table. Joseph-George gave me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder: «We'll have a chat later.» When the meal ended, he bid farewell politely and exited with the rest.
…There were less than three hours left before the flight out to New York. I didn't feel like killing time with a walk. I hailed a taxi and we left for the airport. George's (he had introduced himself to Natasha by that name) admission only lifted the veil of secrecy partway. Clark told me the truth. He knew that we had become husband and wife, and when the opportunity arose to express his sympathy, he removed the shroud of secrecy.
Taking into account Gulya's experience, they used her for spying. She was considered an Azerbaijani citizen, an officially accredited journalist for national television (her acquaintance with Ilhan Aliyev came in handy); and, in accordance with her chosen image, she wore a hijab.
She was feeling out the residents of Tikrit, Saddam's native city. She interviewed his relatives in the hope that some thread would appear that led to his hideout. In the end, she got lucky. A son of a cousin of Saddam's admitted that he knew a man who was looking for a reliable intermediary to get in touch with the higher ranks at the American embassy.
Gulya pricked up her ears, but didn't let on.
To the question, «What did he need the Americans for?» The nephew hesitated and confessed, «There's a chance to bite off a slice of the fifty-million-dollar pie.»<
br />
Gulya guessed that he was talking about Saddam Hussein-for information leading to his capture, fifty million dollars had been promised by the US Government.
She encouraged him: at a recent press conference at the US Embassy, she had become acquainted with a high-ranking diplomat. Through him, she would try to figure out the mechanism for receiving the money. The nephew started talking about guarantees of safety, about his fear for his life and the necessity of leaving with his family for a neutral country, where the promised reward must be paid. He said that his name must under no circumstances be divulged, and the Americans must think up a credible version of Hussein's capture for the press. That was one of the most important of his conditions. He even proposed commissions.
She informed her superiors of the conversation with the nephew. Subsequent negotiations took place without her-the terrorist act cut short her life.
REQUIEM
Catholics say a mass for the dead. Jews read Kaddish over the deceased, Orthodox believers, the psaltery. In India they organize a yagya, a fiery service. Whatever people with different religions and beliefs do, the essence is the same-a prayer for the departed.
In the course of less than two years, there has been a sequence of untimely losses. In chronological order: Ted's murder, Dubovtsev's death, Shchekochikhin's mysterious end, Doroshenko's shooting. The final bereavement: Gulya's death.
Ted. A colleague who happened to be in my apartment and became an accidental victim. The culprit was in a hurry, and made a mistake in choosing a target. The two bullets meant for me went off course.
Shchekochikhin. An acquaintance by correspondence: e-mails and telephone calls. He paid for opening Pandora's box. A snake delivered a fatal bite and, fast as lightning, hid itself in the government maze. As for when and on what floor it will slither out again-keep an eye on the latest news.
Doroshenko. He got fascinated by the search for the gold of the Zaporozhian Sich, carried away beyond the borders of the Russian Empire by Hetman Mazepa's comrades in arms. Whether or not the treasury exists in reality-whether it's resting at the bottom of the ocean, in the safes of the Royal Bank in London, or really is buried on the lower reaches of the Missouri-there is no one to search for it. As once Kochubei's young daughter captured the heart of the old hetman and was his undoing, so, in the end, Grisha's passion for Sophia led to his death.
Once he cited evidence that the treasury was in the dungeons of the Surb-Hach Monastery in the Armenian quarter of Rostov; he promulgated the version about Colonel Polubotok, who managed to get around the Tsar's cordons and, through Arkhangelsk, send the gold to England. Fate took Doroshenko on a different path. He lived an altruist, hoping to return the military treasury of the Zaporozhians to the Motherland, but perished after being sucked into spy games.
Yurochka Dubovtsev. Had he been by my side, I'm sure that many mishaps would not have happened. With Yura's character, intuition, and fearlessness, we would have overcome adversity. Without being the descendant of the Zaporozhian Cossacks, in spirit, he belonged to that unruly cohort that preferred to go away across the Danube, rather than doffing its hat to a fearsome empress.
Gulya, Gulenka, Gulnara, my second wife. We had known each other for nearly a year and a half. Married for a month.
Intrepid, energetic, resourceful. Much is hidden behind a veil of secrecy. I don't know when you began to collaborate with the CIA. Were you really, when we met at Guantanamo, working as a translator for the FBI, or was that another role, analogous to the one in Denmark, where you presented yourself as a Fox News correspondent, or in Iraq, as a correspondent for Azerbaijani television? You were successful everywhere-both in television, and at your primary job. You prospered in love, and bore two marvelous children. There was room for everything in a brief forty-five years. Including the war in Iraq. Now and forever, your refuge will be: Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia. Not much has been left to me: a memory a year and a half long, during which we were together hardly at all.
Her favorite song is still drilling its way into my brain: «My darling, take me with you; there, in a far-off land, I'll become your wife…»-now, with a different meaning and a different sound.
* * *
I almost forgot to mention Klara Yakovlevna on the funeral list. Apparently, she's fated to remain in my memory in a separate paragraph. My mother-in-law poisoned our family life, taking a hand in my first conflicts with Sophia, but the grass has grown over those insults now. I wouldn't wish the fate she wound up with on anyone: to die a hostage in Chechen captivity, and be buried in a strange land in an unknown grave. Whether Sophia has suffered the same fate, only the wind knows. Sophia has left nothing behind…
A CALL FROM VANUATU
The three months that have passed since Gulya's death are an insignificant amount of time in which to recover after a terrible bereavement. It's easy to reformat a computer's hard drive and wipe out any memory of the past. It can be replaced. The computer will not react, and will continue its work as before. The very same thing happens with humanity's memory-it's short-lived and substitutions are easily made in it. Only a specific individual has a long-term memory. But even here, the more packed the weekdays are, the faster the bleeding wound heals and is covered over by a hard scab. One event pushes another into the background. A new day, packed to the limits, displaces the preceding one. But there are days like a machete blow. When a fresh pain eclipses the previous one.On Thursday, March 11, 2004, New York's Black Tuesday was repeated in Spain. Between the two bloody dates lay 911 days. For numerology buffs, the sinister «Nine eleven attack» took place on September 11. The phone number for police, ambulances, and firemen, incidentally, is also 911. What explanation will the ESP folks think up? Come on, guys, here's an opportunity to earn some extra cash.
Once again, a huge number of victims: Christians, Muslims, and Jews. The enemy was unseen. The fighting methods were of the guerilla sort. He struck from around a corner and hid himself in a sympathetic crowd of old people and children. How to disarm him? Dzerzhinsky, Trotsky and Stalin, struggling against their opponents, thought up a sinister means of pacifying malcontents: shooting hostages. Hitler learned his lesson well, and followed in the footsteps of the Communists-he pacified the partisans with death squads. For each German killed-ten, fifty, or a hundred civilians. To answer Pearl Harbor with Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Emotions are not the best advisors. Especially if one of one's friends or relatives has perished as a result of a terrorist act.
The explosions in Spain displaced a topic that had been discussed in the media for a month: the killing of a hundred and ninety-two people eclipsed the death of one.
A month before, on the 13th of February, north of Doha, the capital of Qatar, when a bomb planted in a car went off, former President of Ichkeria Zelimkhan Yandarbiyev was killed.
That Friday is sharply incised in my memory. The first thought that came into my head when CNN played sequences of a jeep, twisted by the explosion, was: «Sophia!»
Doubts arose when I started analyzing the first possible versions of the event. They mostly indicated that the clients behind Yandarbiyev's liquidation should be sought in the Kremlin. On her own, Sophia would not have been able to sneak up on him. The assassin could only be a man. Wasn't it with that goal in mind that she had tried to drag Doroshenko to Damascus?
At the end of the workday, Lloyd summoned me. When I entered his office, the first things that leapt to the eye were, scattered all over the table, photographs of the jeep twisted by the explosion. Lloyd caught my glance, gathered the photographs into a pile, and proffered it to me.
«Familiarize yourself with them. The experts have determined that the bomb was placed beneath the automobile's underbody.
I looked through the photos quickly and returned them to him. «A professional job.»
Lloyd gazed at me intently and, as it seemed to me, got out a question reluctantly: «What do you think, could Sophia be mixed up in this business?»
I shrugged my shoul
ders and, in addition, spread my hands-an eloquent answer. Lloyd repeated the question, changing it just a little: «She didn't succeed in convincing Doroshenko. It's possible that for Yandarbiyev's liquidation, she managed to find other assassins. What's your opinion?»
«Anything could have happened,» I acknowledged dolefully. «There's no evidence: neither 'pro,' nor 'con.'»
'«That's the problem…»
Lloyd fell into thought for a long time, and began slowly sorting through the photographs. I waited patiently, striving to follow his train of thought. Finally, he laid the photographs aside, gave me a strange look, and squeezed out through his teeth, «So, you really think Sophia's not involved in this?»
There was a hint of distrust in his voice. As though he were putting me through a lie detector test. Looking him in the eye, I repeated: «It's impossible to prove anything with a hundred percent certainty, but there's no evidence against her. She wasn't alone in wanting revenge against him.»
It sounded convincing, although I felt sick at heart.
«Perhaps you're right.» Lloyd fell to thinking and stroking his chin, «Request, in any case, transcripts of the radio interceptions done that day in Doha. Maybe something will show up.»
I left his office in a bad mood. A dark foreboding weighed me down. In my memory there rose up the parable about Caesar, used to good effect in the old days by Feliks Krivin: «'Leave, Pompeia,' Caesar said, 'Caesar's wife must be above suspicion.' His wife left. The suspicions remained. Caesar's wife was above suspicion.»
And what about Caesar? Was he also above suspicion? It looked as though Lloyd suspected me of untruthfulness. Thrice, with different variations, he had asked the question about Sophia's participation in the terrorist act in Doha. Did he really think that after Gulya's death, I had decided to revive relations with my ex-wife, and possessed information that I had decided to hide from my superiors. If the supposition were true, it would be terribly sad.
Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks Page 29