by Allan Topol
“He also had a close relationship with Franz Szabo, who was a rising power in politics and is now prime minister,” Elizabeth pointed out. “That must have helped Peter tremendously in building his business.”
Rajk frowned. “If you’re implying there were payoffs, then you’re entirely wrong. The three of us were close friends over many years. I can tell you that Peter never paid anything to Franz or me for influence.”
“So what happened to end this great friendship Peter had with Szabo?”
“In a word, politics,” Rajk replied with a sigh. “We were all initially liberals, but after becoming prime minister, Szabo started moving the country to the right. So to remain true to his beliefs, Peter supported political candidates who were Szabo’s competitors. He believed Szabo had grown too strong and that he was becoming like Erdogan in Turkey, minus the religious bent.”
“Did you join Peter in supporting candidates on the left?”
Janos shook his head. “I believed it was better to achieve change from the inside. When I became justice minister five years ago, Peter came to me with claims that Szabo was corrupt and had taken bribes from other businessmen. I asked Peter to provide me with evidence and I would prosecute him.”
“What happened?”
“He never did. When Szabo pivoted toward Russia two years ago, Peter went ballistic. He funded a PR campaign against the pro-Russian move. In response, Szabo threatened to confiscate his companies.”
“Could he have done that? You’re the justice minister.”
Janos shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know how that would have played out,” he replied. “I advised Peter to liquidate his business and leave the country. I’m glad he took my advice, mooting the issue.”
“Have you maintained your own close relationship with Szabo?”
Janos was silent for a few moments. Finally, he said, “I would prefer not to answer that question. This interview is about Peter.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Fair enough, let me ask you this: Why was Peter so adamant about Szabo’s pivot toward Russia?”
“He had suffered under the Russians after the 1956 uprising.”
“Suffered how?”
“Peter’s father, Zoltan Toth, left the country in the midst of the revolution in 1956 to plead our case before the United States and the UN. He had been sent by Chairman Imre Nagy. Were you aware of that?”
Elizabeth nodded. “And I’m aware that Peter, who was eight at the time, remained in Budapest with his mother.”
“That’s right. Zoltan had planned to take Peter and Anna with him, but something happened at the last minute and he ended up going alone. Afterwards, Peter and his mother, Anna, were barred from leaving Hungary, and Zoltan wasn’t permitted to return. Once the fighting ended, Peter and Anna suffered horribly. A Russian colonel named Suslov moved into Zoltan’s house and forced Anna to become his mistress. He changed Peter’s name from Peter Toth to Lazlo Suslov, and he beat the child mercilessly. He even branded a hammer and sickle on Peter’s arm. As Peter got older he turned to hockey as a means of escaping the colonel. As a star player, he was able to move into the athletic dorm, where he lived until he defected to the States in 1977 while on a tour with his hockey team.”
“What happened to Anna, Peter’s mother?”
“Peter told me that when he came back to Hungary in 1991, after the Russians left, he spoke to the woman who lived next to his parents’ house in Budapest. She informed him that in 1978 an ambulance had come suddenly to take his mother away. She never returned. The neighbor later learned that she had wound up in a mental institution and died a month later. According to the neighbor, Suslov kept the house until the Russians left in 1989. While he was there, he moved in one young girl after another.”
Janos took a deep breath, hesitating for a few seconds as though reluctant to tell her any more. Then he said, “There’s one more piece to story.”
Elizabeth took a sip of her coffee, waiting for him to continue.
“In 2005 Suslov returned from Moscow to Budapest for a visit. He was on a honeymoon with his new wife. When the maid at their hotel went into the room one morning, she found the wife drugged and tied up in the living room. Suslov was in the bed in a pool of his own blood. He had been strangled and castrated, his penis stuffed into his mouth. The incident was never reported in the media. The police investigated, but no suspects were ever identified.”
She thought about what Gyorgy had told her yesterday. Peter had told him that he wanted to kill Szabo. “Do you think Peter killed Suslov or hired people to do it?”
Janos shrugged. “There were rumors of Peter’s involvement, but I never saw any evidence of that. You should be aware, however, that there were a lot of people in Budapest that hated Suslov. He was one of the most despised Russians from the occupation.” He paused, then added, “Rumors can be false. I trust that you wouldn’t write something based on rumors.”
“Of course not. I would never write about something like this without reliable confirmation.”
“I’m happy to hear that. As I said, Peter was my friend. Even when he liquidated his business and moved back to the US, we saw each other from time to time, either when I visited or when he came to Paris.”
“What brought him to Paris?”
“Some business, I think, and some friends.”
Elizabeth had no intention of questioning Janos about Peter’s relationship with Emma Miller. She had already gotten the facts from Gyorgy, and she was certain Janos wouldn’t talk about it.
As she glanced over her notes to see if she had any follow-up questions, Janos said, “Since you’re researching Peter, you will be interested to know that next Tuesday in Bethesda, Maryland, I’ll be speaking at a memorial service for Peter and his wife, Reka, and their grandson, Nicholas, at the Church of the Little Flower.”
“I appreciate your telling me. Can I ask who invited you to speak?”
“Our ambassador in Washington. He liked Peter as well and considered him to be a true Hungarian patriot, a man to whom this nation owed a tremendous debt of gratitude for its economic rebuilding.”
As Elizabeth left the Justice Ministry, she decided to walk back to the Four Seasons where she would pack and take a cab to the airport. Though it was August it was surprisingly cool, with low humidity.
While she walked, she thought about what Janos had told her. She wondered whether the Russians had killed Peter and his family as payback for Suslov’s murder. It was too early to jump to a conclusion like that, but one thing was clear: Peter Toth had been an exceedingly complex man who had lived a bizarre life.
Paris
Craig expected trouble in Clichy. At noon on Saturday he had rented a small black Renault, then driven north toward Clichy.
Driving with the hot August sun beating down, Craig thought about the divided city Paris had become. Since the 2015 terrorist attacks, Muslim-inhabited suburbs like Clichy, or banlieues as they were called, had become even more separate and cut off from the white Christian majority that ruled Paris. The influx of refugees from Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, and other Middle Eastern countries had only exacerbated the situation. After last night’s riot he realized it would be risky to venture into the area alone. However, he was determined to find Omar.
After arriving in Clichy, Craig parked near a soccer field and got out of his car. He glanced around, but didn’t see anything suspicious, so he walked to a nearby auto repair shop. Abdullah, the owner, had his shaved head ducked under the hood of a truck.
When Craig had been the director of EU Counterterrorism, he had made Paris his base and developed relationships with people in Clichy like Abdullah, warning them when trouble was coming so they could lock up and shutter their businesses. Grateful, they were willing to repay the favor with information. What made today’s visit awkward was that after his plastic surgery, Craig no longer looked like Craig Page—and he didn’t want to disclose his new identity any more than was absolutely essential
to find out more about Amos and Omar.
“Hey Abdullah,” Craig said.
The mechanic pulled his head out from under the hood of the truck and stared at his visitor.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m a friend of Craig Page. He sent me to speak with you.”
A mechanic in the next bay was eyeing Craig warily, and Craig was glad he had a gun holstered under his jacket.
“Why don’t you come into the office?” Abdullah suggested.
Craig followed Abdullah across the grease-stained floor to an office with papers piled on a dingy desk. Old engine parts were scattered around, and several unopened cardboard boxes were piled in a corner.
Abdullah kicked the door shut with a thud. Craig had no idea what Abdullah was thinking, and he didn’t try to figure it out. All he wanted to do was get some information and then get the hell out of there before that mechanic called some of his buddies.
Abdullah sat behind the desk and pointed to a chair in front of it. Craig removed a box of spark plugs and sat down.
“I gather you had some plastic surgery,” Abdullah said.
“That’s right. How did you recognize me?”
“I’m good with voices. Yours is distinctive. Now tell me what’s going on, Craig.”
“What do you mean?” Craig asked.
“French intelligence agents and police came into Clichy last night accompanied by soldiers dressed for war. They started breaking the bones of Muslim men, trying to find out where a Chechen terrorist by the name of Omar was hiding.”
“Believe me, I had nothing to do with that. You know that’s not how I operate.”
“It was stupid,” Abdullah said, shaking his head. “First of all, we hate the Chechens. They’re trouble. And second, tell your friends Jean-Claude and Giuseppe this is no way to obtain cooperation.”
“You’re right.” Craig nodded ruefully. He took the pictures of Amos and Omar out of his pocket and put them down on the desk. “Have you seen either of these men?”
Abdullah picked up the photo of Amos and looked at it intently.
“He’s a Moroccan Jew living in Clichy. Polite. Works in some kind of international business.”
Craig was startled. “What makes you think he’s a Jew?”
“He came in here a couple of times to get his car fixed. I was born in Morocco. I knew lots of Jews there. We got along. I can tell. Anyhow, what’d he do?”
“Somebody killed him and dumped his body into the Seine.”
“Can I count on you not to identify me as the source of information?”
“Of course. Haven’t we always operated that way?”
Abdullah pointed to the picture of Omar. “That guy killed the Jew.”
“How do you know?” Craig asked.
“This is a small community. People talk.” Abdullah shook his head and pointed to the picture of Omar again. “He’s no good, that one. A thug from Chechnya.”
“He’s the one the French police are looking for.”
“I hope they catch him. We’re just recovering from the last round of riots. Now this Chechen bastard is bringing more trouble to the area.”
“Who could help me locate him?” Craig asked.
Abdullah thought about it for a minute. “Do you know the Brasserie Rabat on Rue Balzac?”
“Yeah. I was in there once. I don’t know the owner, though.”
“Guy by the name of Habib runs it. I haven’t talked to him about this situation, but he has many Chechen customers, and he hears a lot. He could be helpful. It’s worth a try.”
“Will he talk to me?”
“I’ll call and ask him to,” said Abdullah. “I can’t guarantee that he will, but it’s your best shot.”
“I appreciate it,” Craig replied, feeling like he was finally starting to get somewhere.
“I’d like you to catch this Chechen thug. I don’t like the cops busting the heads of our people on his account.”
Walking from Abdullah’s garage to the Brasserie Rabat, Craig passed the largest mosque in Clichy. Heavy clouds had formed in the sky, and a thunderstorm seemed likely.
He decided to take a detour, heading toward the office in the back of the mosque. There, he found the Imam alone reading a book. Craig knew him from his former job as head of EU Counterterrorism. Unlike Abdullah, Craig and the Iman had never liked each other. Though Craig had looked to the Iman for support, he always suspected the gray-bearded man of fomenting trouble.
Before Craig had a chance to open his mouth, the Imam said, “If Jean-Claude Dumas sent you, then get out of here.”
“Nobody sent me.”
“Then what do you want?” he asked, drawing his eyebrows together.
Craig showed him the picture of Amos. “This man was my friend. Somebody killed him and dumped him into the Seine Wednesday morning.”
“So that’s why Jean-Claude launched a reign of terror on Clichy.”
“My friend was killed by a Chechen—Omar Basayev.” Craig handed the Imam Omar’s picture. “Have you seen him?”
The Imam studied it and handed it back. “He was here for a few days last week and left before your friend was killed. He went back to Chechnya. Go look for him there.”
“What was he doing in Paris?” Craig persisted.
“You’ll have to ask him. So fly to Grozny and stop bothering me.”
“I thought that’s what you’d say. I was hoping your desire to avoid further violence might induce you to cooperate.”
“Get out of here,” the Imam snapped.
As Craig left the mosque, he mulled over what the Imam had said. He wasn’t sure he believed him, though it was possible that Omar had returned to Chechnya after Amos’s body was discovered.
Leaving the mosque, Craig saw three young men on the corner, watching him with hostility. He ignored them and kept walking.
Ten minutes later he entered Brassiere Rabat. He took in his surroundings through the lens of the heavy, cigarette smoke-filled air. In Clichy, the government didn’t enforce regulations like those that banned smoking in bars and restaurants. The place was about half full. Craig went up to the zinc bar, and a woman in a black uniform, her head covered by a brown hijab, came forward to take his order. After requesting an espresso, he dropped two euros on the bar and asked, “Where’s Habib?”
She turned and pointed to a heavyset man leaning over a griddle behind her. He was scraping it down with a spatula. At the sound of his name, Habib wheeled around. He was a middle-aged man wearing a stained white apron and black-framed glasses, and his black hair was interspersed with gray. Habib must have realized Craig was the man Abdullah had called about because he pointed toward the swinging door that led to the back of the brassiere and headed that way. Espresso in hand, Craig followed him.
They went into a cramped office where a small desk was piled high with various papers, most of which looked like bills.
Habib remained standing. “You just spoke to Abdullah,” he said.
“That’s right.” Craig nodded. “He thought you could help me find someone.” He handed Habib Omar’s picture. “His name is Omar Basayev, a Chechen.”
Habib gave the photo a quick glance and handed it back. “I’ve never seen the man.”
From the cursory way Habib had glanced at the photo, Craig was confident he was lying. “Are you sure?” he asked. “This is important. Perhaps you want to take a closer look.”
“I told you, I’ve never seen the man,” Habib repeated, sounding irritated now.
“Abdullah said you have a lot of Chechen customers. Perhaps you could introduce me to one who might help me.”
“That’s impossible,” Habib replied curtly. “Now you had better leave. I have to get back to work.”
Observing Habib’s demeanor, Craig was positive he knew something and wasn’t talking, either from fear or to protect someone. But he had no way to force him to divulge what he knew.
Craig picked up a blank piece of paper and a pen f
rom the desk, wrote down his phone number, and handed it to Habib.
“If you remember seeing this man or can help me in any way to find him, please call.”
Habib tossed the paper on his desk among the many others, grunting in reply as Craig walked back out through the kitchen.
As he left the brassiere and walked toward his car, Craig was certain the three young men he had spotted earlier were following him. The sky had turned very dark now, and the air was heavy with moisture.
Craig pretended not to notice the men as he crossed the street to his car. One of the three had gotten there first. He was standing between Craig and the car door. The others held back on each end of the car near the edge of the soccer field.
“You want something?” Craig asked coldly.
“Yeah. You don’t belong here,” said the young man, his face contorting in anger.
“You don’t have to worry. I’m leaving. Now get out of my way.”
The young man pulled out a switchblade and snapped it open, holding it toward Craig hostilely. He looked as though he were preparing to lunge when suddenly the skies opened up and released a torrential downpour.
It was the diversion Craig needed. Ignoring the rain soaking him to the bone, Craig swung his right arm sideways in a single swift motion, grabbed the man’s right forearm, and smashed it against the car, knocking the knife from his hand. Craig then raised his leg and slammed the pointed toe of his shoe into the man’s groin in a powerful blow. The man screamed in agony as he dropped to the ground.
One of his friends charged Craig from the right, but Craig took him down with a powerful fist to the head. As he did, the third man jumped on Craig and knocked him to the ground into a puddle. Craig was on his back, his assailant on top raising a fist high in the air, ready to shatter Craig’s skull. Nearly blinded by the rain, Craig quickly rolled to the side, pushing him off, then spun around, smashing him in the face and breaking his nose. Blood mixed on the ground with the rainwater.
Craig pinned the battered man to the pavement by his throat, shouting, “Where’s Omar?”
