by Allan Topol
The Citroën tried to follow. Craig heard the sound of a crash, and through the rearview mirror he saw that a Mercedes had collided with the Citroën and sent it spinning back toward the median barrier. Too bad, Craig thought.
Staying well above the speed limit, Craig drove to the automobile race track where he practiced. He had an office where they could talk.
Without a race that Sunday, the track was deserted. When they were seated in Craig’s office with the door open to afford Craig an unobstructed view outside, he asked Nick, “How are you doing? Are you scared or upset?”
The boy looked a little shaken, but he was still smiling. “Nice shooting, Craig. I . . . I think I’m okay. I saw that man who was driving the black Citroën at Emma Miller’s apartment when I first got to Paris. He was watching me.”
“That’s very useful,” Craig said. “It explains how they knew from the get-go that you were with Elizabeth.”
“Were those men who tried to attack us at the ice cream shop Russian?” Nick asked.
“They were,” Craig affirmed. “How did you know?”
“That evening of the fire I snuck down to the basement to watch a Nats game. It was around midnight, because the game was in Los Angeles, and my grandparents were asleep on the second floor. Suddenly, I heard two men on the first floor. They were intruders who had gotten through the security system—they were talking in Russian.”
“How did you know it was Russian?” Elizabeth asked.
“Grandpa hated the Russians. They made him suffer when he was a boy in Budapest. And he was sure they had killed my parents and made it look like a boating accident.”
“Did he have any proof?” asked Craig.
“No, and the police couldn’t find anything,” said Nick, shaking his head. “But my dad was a good sailor and it was a calm day. My grandpa thought there must have been foul play. At that point, Grandpa made me learn Russian from a tutor. He said I had to know my enemy.”
“Nick,” Elizabeth interjected, “your grandpa told you to go to Emma Miller in Paris if anything happened . . .”
“That’s right.”
“But what about your grandpa’s father, your great-grandfather Zoltan? He lives in the Washington area. Why didn’t your grandpa ask you to go there?”
“Great-grandpa Zoltan lives in Deerwood, a facility for old people. He’s not sick, but he’s ninety-one. He has trouble walking, so he couldn’t take care of me. And also . . .” Nick hesitated.
“You can tell us, Nick,” Elizabeth encouraged him.
“Great-grandpa Zoltan always seemed angry at my grandpa. They did not have a good relationship. I asked Grandpa about it a couple of times and he said that some things had happened between them a long time ago. When I asked what they were, he said he would tell me one day. But . . .” Nick choked up. “Now he never can . . .”
“I know how difficult all this is for you,” Elizabeth said, putting her hand on his shoulder. “You’re such a brave boy, Nick. Craig and I want to protect you.”
Nick nodded slowly, looking at her.
“To do that,” she continued, “we want to find out who killed your grandparents and Emma Miller and make sure they’re punished. While we’re doing that, we need a safe place for you to stay. I think the clinic would be best. Even though you can speak, Dr. Cardin will let you stay there. Everyone, including Dr. Cardin, thinks you’re Jonathan Hart, so that’s some protection. Also, they have good security at the clinic.”
“And I already have a man stationed there,” Craig interjected. “I’ll add a couple more armed men—former French special ops—to watch the facility from the outside.”
“With all of that, are you okay with going back to Dr. Cardin’s clinic?” Elizabeth asked.
“How long do you think it will be for?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know for sure. My guess is a week at most.”
Nick nodded. “That’s okay.”
Elizabeth looked at Nick. “You had a cell phone in the black case when you arrived in Paris. Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth wrote down her phone number and gave it to Nick.
“Call us anytime, day or night, if you see anything suspicious.”
“Wait,” he said. “I just remembered something else.”
They both looked at him alertly.
“About a week ago on a Friday Grandpa and I were watching a Nats game on TV when he received a call from Emma. He seemed upset. I was pretending to watch the game, but I was really listening to him.” Nick looked chagrined. “I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it.”
“What happened?” Elizabeth asked.
“Grandpa was angry. He wanted Emma to do something, and she was refusing. Grandpa shouted something about how he wouldn’t let Szabo and Kuznov get away it—that it would take them back to 1956 with Russian troops in Hungary again.”
“He said Szabo and Kuznov?” Elizabeth asked.
“Uh-huh. I don’t know what Grandpa wanted Emma to do, but finally she agreed to it. When he hung up I wanted to ask him what they were arguing about, but I didn’t want him to know I’d been listening, so I didn’t say anything.”
Craig checked the date on his phone. “That Friday was July 28. The Nats played the Mets at home, an evening game. Is that right?”
“For sure. The Nats won three to two with a homer in the ninth.”
“Glad you remembered that,” Elizabeth said. “It could be important. Now let’s get you back to the clinic.”
As they stood up to leave, Nick examined the photos in the office of Craig in a racing uniform next to his rebuilt blue Jag XK8.
“Hey, Craig,” Nick said. “When this is all over, will you take me for a ride in your car on the track?”
“Absolutely. And we’ll get that sucker up to 125 miles per hour.”
“That’d be awesome!” said Nick.
“No, you won’t,” cried Elizabeth.
“We just won’t tell her,” Craig added in a mock whisper.
After dropping off Nick, Craig and Elizabeth returned to their Bristol suite.
“We have to decide on our next move,” said Craig.
“That can wait until morning.” Elizabeth picked up the phone and reserved a table downstairs at Le Epicure, the Bristol’s gourmet restaurant. “We’re going to celebrate,” she told Craig.
“What are we celebrating?”
“Life. We dodged bullets today. That calls for a party. So let’s clean up and get going.”
Two hours later, while eating some of the most incredible food they’d had in a long time, including duck and line-caught seabass from St. Gilles, accompanied by a 2005 Chambertin by Latour, Elizabeth and Craig talked about trips they hoped to take and places they wanted to go. They didn’t say a word about Peter Toth or Amos. Then for dessert they shared an ethereal orb of dark chocolate with a gold leaf on top. They finished off dinner with glasses of Armagnac.
On the elevator ride back up to their suite, Craig put his arms around Elizabeth and held her tight, leaning in to kiss her deeply. Their bodies fused together until the elevator stopped.
Back in their suite, on fire with passion, Elizabeth tossed her bag on the floor and Craig pulled her close to resume kissing her. Tugging at his shirt and fumbling with the buttons, they began to undress each other.
“I love you so much,” she said.
“And I love you.”
Suddenly, he heard a cell phone ringing in the bag Elizabeth had dropped on the floor.
“Ignore it,” Craig said.
She pulled away. “I can’t. From the ring I can tell it’s Betty on the encrypted phone she gave me. It might be about Nick.”
“Thanks, Betty,” he grumbled.
Elizabeth picked up the phone. Craig heard her say, “Hi Betty . . . I can talk. . . . I’m here with Craig. Just the two of us. I’ll put it on speaker.”
Elizabeth placed the phone on the desk. His erection withering, Craig pulled up
a chair and sat down near the desk. Elizabeth grabbed a robe and tossed him one.
“Can you hear me?” Betty asked.
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied.
“Hi Craig.”
“Always happy to hear from you,” Craig replied, suppressing his annoyance.
“I just received information from the FBI director.”
“Go ahead.”
“They were examining Peter Toth’s finances.”
“What’d they find?” Craig asked curiously.
“On July 28 Peter transferred ten million euros to Emma Miller’s bank account at Credit Suisse in Paris. A day later that same sum was transferred from her bank to an Andorra bank, to an account in the name of Omar Basayev, a Russian citizen from Chechnya.”
Craig was astounded. He didn’t think Peter was perfect, but he wouldn’t have guessed that he’d hire a terrorist. He also wondered how Peter knew Omar.
Pushing that aside, Craig noted, “Our two strands are converging—Omar’s killing of Amos and the murders of Peter and Emma.”
“What’s your next move?” Betty asked.
“I want to call a time-out,” Craig said. “Let me and Elizabeth think about this for a little bit, and we’ll get back to you.”
With his mind fuzzy from the glass of champagne, three glasses of red wine, and Armagnac he had drunk at dinner, Craig went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. When he returned to the living room of the suite, Elizabeth was sitting at the desk writing.
“What are you doing?” Craig asked.
“Making a timeline,” she explained. “I think better when I can see it. According to Betty, Peter transferred the ten million euros to Emma on July 28. That evening in Washington Nick said Emma called Peter and they argued.”
“She must have been resisting whatever his arrangement was with Omar.”
“Exactly,” Emma agreed. “What Nick overheard Peter telling Emma is critical. Peter must have learned that Szabo had made a deal with Kuznov that would enable Russia to bring troops into Hungary. Betty told me Szabo was negotiating a trade deal with Kuznov for the supply of nuclear energy, so this must be what Russia is getting in return. Once Peter found out, he could have hired Omar to kill Szabo.” Elizabeth put down her pencil. “That would make sense. Gyorgy told me that at one point Peter mentioned wanting to kill Szabo, but he didn’t think he had ever attempted to act on it.”
“That’s valuable information,” Craig said. “This time Peter was prepared to act on it and Emma was balking—for whatever reason. I’m sure she didn’t have the same level of hatred toward Russia that Peter had, since she didn’t suffer in the same way. Peter was asking for a helluva lot to make her an accomplice in a political assassination of the Hungarian prime minister.”
“But she caved,” Elizabeth noted. “And wired the money to Omar the next day.”
“Once Omar got his money, he must have gone to Paris to arrange the hit on Szabo,” Craig added, excitedly pacing around the suite as he talked.
“Why Paris?”
“Possibly he was recruiting helpers there. Or perhaps Szabo is planning to come to Paris and that’s where the hit will be. Regardless, Amos was trying to find out what Omar was doing in Paris, so Omar killed him. Meantime, Kuznov found out that Peter wanted to wreck his alliance with Szabo and arranged to have Peter killed.”
Elizabeth looked down at the paper on the desk. “I think we’re right,” she said, “but our analysis raises one big question: Once Peter was dead, why didn’t Omar close up shop and head home to Grozny? No doubt Peter’s ten million was only a down payment. Peter’s estate would hardly have sued Omar for breach of contract.”
Craig laughed. “You hang out with a lot of lawyers.”
“But I’m serious.”
Craig thought about it for a minute, and then threw up his hands. “I can’t answer that. What I do know is that this situation is now too large for the two of us. We have to go to Washington and brief Betty. This is so important I’m sure she’ll want to involve President Worth. We can work with Betty and the president on a strategy going forward. Worth and I parted on good terms after that Ascona business. Fortunately, I kept my mouth shut for a change.”
“Even though he used and manipulated you.”
“You don’t have to put it that way.”
“Those were your words,” Elizabeth reminded him.
“Fair enough. But the bottom line is that President Worth was grateful to me and I have an entrée to go back to him. Let’s call Betty back and ask her to set it up. We can fly to Washington tomorrow.”
“We?”
“Yes, I’d like you to come because you have firsthand knowledge and have been closer to the Hungarian angle. Is there any reason you can’t go?”
“One twelve-year-old boy,” she said. “I can’t leave Nick here alone while you and I are half a world away. I would never forgive myself is something happened to him.”
“We have security at the clinic.”
“I don’t care.”
She was looking hard at Craig, and he could tell it was hopeless to argue. But then it occurred to him that Nick could be an asset in Washington.
“We could bring Nick,” Craig proposed. “Having him with us could be an advantage. If President Worth hears from Nick what Peter said about Russian troops moving back into Hungary, it will underscore what’s on the line for the US. Knowing President Worth, I doubt that he will want to be another Eisenhower.”
Elizabeth seemed relieved. “Good point. We can pick Nick up at the clinic in the morning on the way to the airport.”
They called Betty on speaker. The CIA director was a quick study. She interrupted Craig after his opening few sentences and said, “Hold tight. I’ll check with Karen and see when I can get you on the calendar.”
A minute later, she came back. “Tuesday, 3:00 p.m. is your slot. She blocked out an hour but hopes you won’t need it all.”
“Excellent,” Craig said. “One other thing.”
“With you there’s always something else.”
“Can you arrange for two armed FBI agents to meet us at the airport and stick with us 24–7 while we’re in Washington? We’ll be staying at my Georgetown house, but we need two units in case Elizabeth and I decide to split up.”
“Will do.”
“And restrict the purpose of our meeting with Worth on a need to know basis.”
“What are you concerned about?” Betty asked.
“The Potomac fire shows that Kuznov has a powerful Washington presence.”
“You can say that again,” she grumbled. “I heard last month from the FBI director that Kuznov now has scores of agents in Washington. He wants to bring back the Cold War. There is definitely a Russian resurgence.”
As soon as they hung up the phone with Betty, Craig called Giuseppe. “Can you come by the Bristol for breakfast at seven tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there.”
When Giuseppe entered the suite, Craig and Elizabeth’s suitcases were packed and standing next to the door.
“You two going somewhere?” Giuseppe asked.
“Your perception of the obvious is acute,” Craig said.
Elizabeth came forward to greet Giuseppe, and he kissed her on each cheek. “I’m glad one of you has good manners,” he said.
“I have a piece to edit,” she said. “I’ll be in the other room, so you boys can talk.”
Over coffee and croissants, Craig told Giuseppe about everything that had happened the day before and their decision to go to Washington.
“I heard about the ice cream parlor incident,” he said. “The surveillance camera in the shop was broken. The French police are going berserk trying to figure out what happened.”
“The world’s a better place without those two thugs.”
“Agreed. What do you need from me at this point?”
“Not a thing. I just wanted to brief you.”
Giuseppe tapped his fingers on the table. “
I have a thought for you. On September 1, EU member heads of state are meeting in Brussels and Szabo is scheduled to attend.”
“With the proximity of Paris to Brussels and the ease of hiring thugs here to help, that could explain why Omar came to Paris to plan his operation,” Craig interjected. “Chances are the hit will take place in Brussels. Assuming Omar left Clichy, which is likely, he and his entourage may already be in Brussels, hidden by one of the numerous jihadists cells in that city.”
Giuseppe linked the fingers of his hands together. “Brussels is a terrorist’s dream: a nightmare to defend and almost impossible to locate a terrorist in. The police don’t have anything like the organization in France or Germany. And there are so many damn jihadists, I think they outnumber the police.”
“That’s a sobering thought,” said Craig.
“Well, regardless,” Giuseppe replied, “I’ll head up there this morning. Get them to launch a manhunt for Omar and beef up security for the September 1 summit. I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”
Moscow
Monday morning, Russian President Kuznov was becoming increasingly angry as he listened to his finance minister and the chief economist report. He had never known such negative people in his life. Every slide they put on the screen had numbers in red and only red. According to them, GDP, investment, wages, and consumption per person were all sharply down.
To be sure, he realized the Russian economy was encountering stiff headwinds because of low oil prices and declining manufacturing. At the same time, consumer prices were rising sharply. Even with all of that, these Cassandras of gloom and doom were unbelievable. He was seriously considering having them both arrested for crimes against the state and finding replacements that were more optimistic. At that moment, Kuznov’s secretary opened the door and said, “Dimitri is here. He says it’s urgent.”
Kuznov turned to the two officials, “We’re finished today. Come back next week with a more realistic assessment.”
“But—” the economist began.
