Russian Resurgence

by Allan Topol

  He decided that he had only one option: He’d take a cab to her house. So Nick made his way to the end of the taxi line, and fifteen minutes later he was getting into a cab driven by a tall, dark-skinned man. The radio was playing some kind of African music, Nick thought. He showed the driver Emma’s address. The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb.

  Once they had left the airport and merged onto the highway, they were mired in heavy morning rush-hour traffic. Nick couldn’t keep his eyes open. After the hours of fear and uncertainty, he fell asleep.

  He didn’t know how long he slept until he was awakened by the driver calling to him, “You want 98 Place des Vosges?”

  The cab was stopped. Nick sat up with a start. “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Something has happened in this area. The police have the street blocked off. This is as far as I can go. There’s the place you want.”

  The driver was pointing to a four-story pink brick town house just ahead on the left. It housed a restaurant on the ground floor. In front Nick saw three police cars and an ambulance, all with flashing red lights on the roof.

  Oh my God. I hope nothing happened to Emma, he thought.

  Nick steeled his courage. “I’ll get out here,” he told the driver.

  He paid the cabbie and, with his knees wobbling, got out of the cab, looking around. He had never visited Emma’s home or been in the Place des Vosges before. It had a green parklike garden in the center that was bisected by gravel paths and edged with trees. Two larger buildings were on either side of the square and a number of elegant brick town houses surrounded it.

  Nick walked toward number ninety-eight. After he had taken several steps, he decided this was a mistake. He didn’t want to answer questions from the French police. It’d be better to lay low for a little while and try to find out what was happening.

  Nick ducked behind a parked car, out of sight of the dozen or so police and officers. Looking out from behind it he saw a number of people with steno pads—probably reporters—milling around the entrance to number ninety-eight. A few onlookers had stopped and were gawking, and he saw a man talking into a microphone in front of a television camera.

  They were all speaking French, which Nick didn’t understand, except for one woman, who was speaking in English. She looked like his history teacher, around forty with short brown hair. He heard her say to a man, “I just spoke to the police captain. The victim’s name was Emma Miller. She was a Hungarian national, and she was dead when the police arrived. He refused to tell me the cause of death.”

  The woman’s words cut through Nick like a machete. Emma Miller had been his lifeline. In horror, tightly clutching the black case, he collapsed to the ground. As he sat there he saw a gurney being carried out of number ninety-eight with dark green canvas covering what must have been Emma’s body.

  He thought about the last time he had seen Emma in Paris, about a year ago. Grandpa had to go off to a meeting, and Nick had spent a fun day with Emma. He remembered her taking him up to the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower, and what an incredible view of the city it offered. And she had ordered a flaming dessert with cherries, something he had never seen before.

  What he had liked even more than the dessert was being with Emma. She was so interested in him and everything he was doing—in school and in sports. At the end of the day, he asked his grandfather if they could come to Paris again and spend more time with Emma. He promised they would.

  Nick felt nauseous as he watched the police wheel the gurney toward the ambulance and load it in the back. The door slammed with finality. It was the end of Emma’s life. The end of Nick’s connection with his grandfather. He truly was all alone in a strange city, in a foreign country, with people speaking a language he didn’t understand. He didn’t know a single person. He was only twelve years old!

  On the verge of panic, he stood up and watched the crowd breaking up. Onlookers were moving away while the police climbed back into their cars. The reporters were doing the same. As he looked around, he saw something terrifying. Twenty yards away, a blonde man with a large round face was staring at Nick through the open window of a black Citroën.

  What in the world am I going to do? The onrushing fear threatened to paralyze him. He forced himself to think. There had to be something he could do.

  Run to one of the police cars before they pull away? That was an option, but his grandfather had never trusted the police. Besides, they might not speak English. Then what?

  As he thought about his next step, the police cars drove away. That option had vanished. The man in the Citroën was still watching him. His whole body felt cold, and he was shaking.

  Nick saw the female reporter with short brown hair, the one who had been speaking English, heading toward a dark blue Audi parked close to him.

  Without a second thought, Nick staggered after her. He clutched the black case as he approached the woman. Maybe she would help him. She was his only chance.

  By the time Nick was close enough to speak, she had her hand on the car door. Feeling terrified, he opened his mouth to say, “Please help me.” But nothing came out.

  He couldn’t speak!

  This had never happened to him before.

  He formed the words again and opened his mouth.

  Nothing!

  Silence!

  What?

  He couldn’t speak!

  After all the other terrible things that had happened, now he had lost his voice, too. It was all too much for Nick. The courage he had felt was dissipating. He couldn’t bear the pain and grief any longer. Tears formed in his eyes and ran down his cheeks, and he let out a sob.

  The startled woman turned around and saw Nick standing behind her with tears streaming down his face. She reached into her jacket pocket, took out a handkerchief, and handed it to him.

  “Who are you?” she asked kindly.

  The words still wouldn’t come. Nick shook his head, distraught.

  The woman opened up her bag, removed a pad and pen, and handed them to him.

  She understood.

  He wrote on the pad: “I lost my voice. Will you help me?”

  She nodded her head. “Tell me where you want to go.”

  He wrote: “I came from Washington to see Emma Miller. Now she is dead. I don’t know anyone else in Paris.”

  After he passed the pad back this time, she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder while she read his words.

  Then she looked at him with compassion. “I’m Elizabeth Crowder. I’m an American living in Paris. Would you like to come with me? I will help you.”

  When he nodded, she opened the back door of the car for him. He looked in the direction where the black Citroën had been. He wanted to tell her about the man who had been watching him, but the Citroën was gone. So he climbed inside her car and fastened his seatbelt.

  She got into the front and started the car. As she did, he was clasping the black case tightly with both hands, as if his life depended on it.

  Elizabeth thought how bizarre her unexpected encounter was while she drove the young boy back to her apartment, glancing from time to time into the rearview mirror to check on him. An American kid doesn’t just appear out of thin air on a Paris street—and at a murder scene, no less.

  Also, something was radically wrong with this child. His note had said he’d lost his voice. Maybe he had suffered some trauma that had rendered him mute. He had come from the States to meet Emma Miller and arrived at the scene of her murder. He looked terrified. Was he related to Emma Miller? Or a witness to her murder? Was he in shock because of what had happened to her? Elizabeth mulled over the possibilities.

  Whatever it was, he needed sympathy and care. She was unwilling to turn him over to the police, who might not be understanding—at least not until she found out who he was.

  She parked in front of her apartment, helped him out of the car, and led him up the stairs to the second floor. Once they were inside, it occurred to her that he might be
hungry. She took him to the kitchen and pointed to the butcher block table. The boy sat down, still clutching his case.

  “Would you like something to eat?” Elizabeth asked.

  He nodded.

  She toasted a baguette from the day before and fixed a plate with three different types of cheese and some melon. She placed the food on the table, and he ate eagerly, nodding to her to say thank you.

  She poured a glass of water for him and fixed a coffee for herself. Then, without saying a word, she sat down across from him.

  When he had finished all the food, she asked, “Would you like more?”

  He shook his head.

  To help him, she had to find out who he was.

  “Can I see your passport?” she asked.

  He reached into the case and pulled out a US passport, which he then handed to her.

  After looking at it and his picture, she said, “I will try to help you, Jonathan.”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, he started shaking his head vigorously.

  She was puzzled. “You don’t want my help?”

  He shook his head again, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it and placed it on the table. As she watched, he slid it across to her. It was white with a gold border.

  Elizabeth read: “Potomac, MD, Bears Baseball Team—Most Valuable Player Award Presented to Nicholas Toth.”

  He reached across the table and pointed to the name Nicholas Toth, then he pointed to himself.

  “Oh my God!” Elizabeth put her hand to her mouth in surprise.

  While passing the time at the murder scene earlier that morning waiting for the police to provide information, she had been watching CNN. She had seen the report about the fire in Potomac, Maryland, and remembered the announcer stating that twelve-year-old Nicholas Toth had died in the home along with his grandparents. But Nicholas Toth was here in her apartment. He had either not been in the house or had escaped after the fire started. And after these horrific events, this boy had then flown to Paris to see Emma Miller. He had arrived in time to witness Emma’s dead body being removed from her apartment. It wasn’t surprising that he couldn’t speak.

  Just then she heard the front door open. From the living room, Craig called out. “Elizabeth, are you home?”

  Terrified, Nicholas sprang to his feet. He dashed toward the open walk-in pantry, climbed inside, and pulled the door shut.

  Walking into the kitchen in his running clothes carrying a baguette, Craig asked, “What are you doing home?”

  “It’s a long story,” she replied, walking to the pantry. “I’ll tell you in a moment.” Standing in front of the pantry door she said, “It’s okay, Nicholas, you can come out.”

  The door slowly crept open, and with small steps and a frightened expression, the boy reappeared.

  A startled Craig dropped the baguette on the floor. Nicholas moved behind Elizabeth, watching him warily.

  “This is Craig,” said Elizabeth comfortingly. “He’s a good man. He lives here with me. He’ll help you, too. Won’t you, Craig?”

  “Who is he?” Craig asked.

  “Patience. Tell him you’ll help.”

  “Of course. I’d be glad to help.”

  She turned back to Nicholas. “Would you like to take a shower and get some sleep?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. I’ll get you some of Craig’s clean clothes. They’ll be large, but they’ll do for now.”

  After Nicholas had showered, Elizabeth provided him with a pair of Craig’s pajamas and led him into the second bedroom, where she motioned for him to climb into bed. Seconds later he was sound asleep.

  She found Craig in the kitchen munching on bread and sipping coffee.

  “Now do you want to tell me what the hell’s going on?” he asked. “Sh, keep your voice down. Nicholas is sleeping.”

  “Okay. But tell me.”

  She explained how Nicholas had approached her on the street outside of the murder scene. Then she told Craig what she knew based on the CNN report and what she had learned from the boy. “He had come to Paris to see Emma Miller.”

  “The woman who was murdered?”

  “Exactly. So with the terrible shock of everything that happened he lost his voice.”

  Craig thought about it for a minute. “Makes sense. There has to be a relationship between the fire and Emma Miller’s murder, doesn’t there?”

  “For sure. According to CNN the boy’s grandfather, Peter Toth, had extensive Hungarian connections. From the Paris police I learned that Emma Miller was a Hungarian national.”

  “What will you do with the boy?”

  “He has to be at serious risk,” said Elizabeth. “Whoever killed Peter and Emma must have a great deal at stake. Once they found out that Nicholas is still alive—and they probably will at some point—they’ll come after him to find out what he might have learned from his grandfather. Or if he saw the people who set the fire.”

  “Definitely,” Craig agreed. “So we have to protect him until we find out what’s happening. Any ideas?”

  “I have a friend, Jules Cardin, a psychiatrist, who runs a clinic outside of Paris for children suffering from trauma. It’s a good place and safe. Lots of security to keep troubled kids from leaving the facility. Also, Nick has a passport with a phony name so they won’t be able to locate him there.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  “My thought is that Nick should stay here tonight in the hope that being with us in a home environment might bring his voice back. And you and I can protect him. Then if he still can’t talk in the morning and he agrees, I’ll take him to the clinic and check him in for treatment. While he’s staying in the clinic, I’ll try to find out what the connection is between Emma Miller and the Potomac fire.”

  Craig pushed back some hair that had fallen over his eyes. “There’s only one problem with that plan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll be in Tel Aviv tonight.”

  “Tel Aviv? What for?” asked Elizabeth in surprise.

  “Amos Neir was murdered. They pulled his body out of the Seine.”

  “Oh, Craig, I know how much he meant to you.”

  Craig narrowed his eyes. “I sure as hell am going to find out who killed Amos.”

  “You’re going to Israel for the funeral?”

  “That and to get some information that will help me find his killer.”

  “Don’t worry about me tonight. I’ve got my gun. I can protect the boy.”

  “It would be better to take him to the clinic today.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “He’s been through so much, and a night in a home environment might help him talk.”

  Craig sighed. “I can see that I won’t change your mind. I’ll arrange for a couple of security men who used to be with EU Counterterrorism to get over here as soon as possible. They’ll provide protection for you and Nick.”

  “But tell them to remain outside and be unobtrusive.”

  “Of course. They’ll do that. I’ll call you when I’m on the way to the airport and give you a contact name and number. It’ll probably be Pierre, who was with the French special ops. You met him once. At any rate, keep the security men here as long as you need them. Nick should be okay at the clinic, provided they don’t follow you there.”

  “Agreed. I’ll make sure they don’t.”

  “Now come into the bedroom while I pack. I have a suggestion for you.”

  As Craig tossed clothes and toiletries into a suitcase, he said, “I think you should call Betty Richards and tell her about Nick. With the Hungarian connection, there’s an international component.”

  “Good idea. I’ll call Betty. Also, as the CIA director, she’ll be able to get the cooperation of the FBI on investigating the Potomac fire.”

  Craig kissed Elizabeth at the door. “I’ll call you from Israel,” he said. “And be really careful. A lot’s going on here.”

 
; “Is it conceivable that Amos Neir’s murder is somehow related to Emma’s?”

  “I’ve been wondering that. As you know, I’ve never been big on coincidence in a situation like this.”

  Once Craig had left, Elizabeth reached for her phone to call Betty. Then she reconsidered. She had to learn more before she could involve the CIA director.

  In view of the Emma Miller murder, she was convinced that the fire at Nick’s grandparents’ house had been intentional, but she didn’t have any factual basis for her conclusion. The CNN announcer had said the cause of the fire was believed to be accidental, most likely caused by the rupture of a gas line. To Elizabeth, that seemed wrong given the intensity of the fire and that the bodies were burnt beyond recognition. But she was no expert on fires.

  She did know one, however. Her dad had been a member of the NYPD, and one of his drinking buddies was Kevin Collins, former head of the New York City Fire Department. She had sought his opinion once before when she had been working in New York, and he had told her to call him anytime.

  She checked her watch. It was almost seven in the morning in New York. She gave it a try.

  Kevin answered in a sleepy voice. “Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Elizabeth Crowder, Mr. Collins.” She always called her dad’s friends mister. When Elizabeth was growing up, her mother insisted on it, and she never got out of the habit.

  “Sean’s girl. Good to hear from you. I liked that book you wrote a couple years ago about Muslims in Europe.”

  “Glad to hear that, Mr. Collins.”

  “With all that’s happened since, you should write a sequel.”

  Elizabeth had considered doing that but didn’t know where she’d find the time. “I’m thinking about it. Meantime, I need help.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  She described the situation for Collins. When she was finished, he asked, “The house was totally destroyed, and the bodies were burnt to the point of being unidentifiable?”

  “That’s what they said on CNN, quoting a police spokesperson.”

  “Had to be arson. For a huge house like that they must have used a highly flammable liquid as an accelerant and lots of it.”