by Allan Topol
Once they were in the air, Craig breathed a sigh of relief. But he didn’t have a damn thing to show for all the pain and trauma he had suffered in Grozny.
When the plane landed in Moscow, Craig got off quickly and followed the signs for “connecting flights.” He had no desire to talk with Olga. His connection to Paris was on time, and he landed at Charles de Gaulle at five in the afternoon.
Craig fully anticipated that Kuznov would have men following him from the time he arrived in Paris, but that didn’t deter Craig. He rented a premium BMW from Avis, and as he left the lot, a dark blue Mercedes fell in behind him. The Mercedes followed him from the lot to the crowded highway, hanging back behind another car. Craig knew the roads around the airport by memory. He left the highway at the next exit. Then it only took him twenty minutes of fast driving, lane changes, and quick sharp turns, to lose the Mercedes.
Before proceeding to the Bristol, he found another Avis location, told them the engine was knocking, and traded the BMW for an Audi. He drove for ten more minutes, making sure he wasn’t being followed. Then he pulled off the road at a service station, parked, and took out his phone. He dialed Elizabeth, who answered on the first ring.
“Craig.”
“Hi Elizabeth.”
“Where are you?”
“Paris.”
“Oh my God. I’m so glad.” She was crying. “I was so worried. Are you okay?”
“I’m completely fine. I’ll give you the details later. Where are you?” Craig asked.
“Right where you left me.”
“I’m on my way. Love you.”
As soon as Craig entered the Bristol suite, he dropped his duffel bag and threw his arms around Elizabeth. They held each other tightly and kissed.
Pulling away, she said, “I was so worried. You have no idea.”
“I’m really sorry I caused you so much pain.”
“Was it worth going to Grozny?”
Craig shook his head. “I didn’t learn a damn thing. It’s frustrating.”
“Listen, Giuseppe called. He wants to come over at ten this evening if you’re back. He might have something for you.”
“We need a break. How’s Nick doing?” he asked.
“I was up there this afternoon. He’s in good spirits. He just wants this to be over.”
“Don’t we all.”
“Nobody suspicious has shown up at the clinic or here.”
“That’s good news.”
“Why don’t you shower and clean up,” Elizabeth suggested. “I’ll call Giuseppe and tell him to come at ten. Then I’ll order some dinner from room service. We have something to discuss.”
“That sounds ominous,” he said, ducking into the bathroom.
After his shower, Craig and Elizabeth sat down to dinner in their suite. Craig was midway through a bite of steak when Elizabeth put her fork down decisively. Craig looked at her attentively.
“We’ve never spoken about children,” she said, “so I haven’t told you that when I was twenty-two I was diagnosed with endometriosis, which required surgery and left me with scarring. As a result, I can’t have children.”
His forehead wrinkled. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
She hesitated, trying to frame her next words carefully. Before she had a chance to speak, Craig said, “You think we should adopt Nick? The two of us? Is that what you wanted to tell me?”
“How’d you know?”
“I can see how you feel about him.”
“What do you think?” she asked, holding her breath.
“I think it’s a great idea. He’s a terrific kid, and I would love raising him with you.”
“That’s fantastic. I’m so glad,” said Elizabeth excitedly. “I’ll get started on the paperwork right away.”
Craig raised his hand. “We better hold up until this is all over. People are trying to kill Nick. If we begin this proceeding now, we could be endangering him.”
“Can I at least tell Nick?”
Craig thought about it for a moment, then replied, “You don’t want to do that until we’ve seen Peter’s will and we have a legal path forward. You don’t want to raise Nick’s hopes unless we’re confident we can pull it off.”
She nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Think it could ever happen?”
“Why not?”
“Peter’s wife Reka had family in Cleveland. Chances are one of those relatives will want to raise Nick. And I’m not a lawyer, but my guess is they would have priority over us.”
“What if Nick preferred us?”
“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said. “A friend of mine from Harvard, Daniel Metz, who I’ve stayed in touch with, went to Columbia Law and he’s a partner in a big New York law firm. Can I ask him to recommend a lawyer in the field?”
Craig could tell how much this meant to Elizabeth. He reached his hand across the table and placed it on hers.
“If we do anything now, Elizabeth, I’m afraid it could endanger Nick. But I promise you as soon as this is all over, you can call Daniel for his recommendation.”
She squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Craig.”
Giuseppe came to the hotel at ten.
“Learn anything useful in Grozny?” he asked while Craig poured the three of them Armagnac.
“Not a damn thing.”
“Well, at least you made it back, and you don’t look any worse for it.”
Craig had no intention of telling them what had happened. “Yeah, a pretty uneventful trip. I doubt that Omar is in Grozny. That’s my one takeaway.”
“Well that’s something,” Giuseppe said. “I wanted to talk to you about Sardinia.”
“What’d you learn?”
“I had police in Sardinia show Peter’s picture to cab drivers who work at Olbia Airport. One of them remembered taking him on July 26 to the compound on the Costa Smeralda of Yuri Brodervich, a Russian oligarch. After he fell out with Kuznov, the Russian president tried to have him killed, which is why he’s living in Sardinia in a protected compound. The cab driver said he waited for three hours at the compound before taking Peter back to the airport.”
Craig’s mind was operating slowly after all he’d been through in the last couple of days—and thanks to Olga he had hardly slept the previous night—but the name Yuri Brodervich was familiar.
After a few seconds it clicked into place. “I know Yuri Brodervich.”
“From where?” Giuseppe asked.
“I competed in rally races twice in Sardinia. The first time I crashed and was knocked out. The second time I won. After that second race when I was getting my trophy, Yuri came up to congratulate me. I remember he was accompanied by three thuggish-looking bodyguards. He introduced himself and he invited me to dinner that evening. I told him I had to get back to Milan, but promised to call him the next time I was in Sardinia. He gave me his card, so I could call him.”
“Why don’t you offer to have lunch with him tomorrow?”
“That place is a bitch to get to from Paris.”
“I’ll get you a private plane.”
“Now you’re talking.”
He looked at Elizabeth. “What do you think? Should I go?”
She frowned. “I didn’t think my opinion mattered about where you travel. Of course you should go and try to find out what Peter talked to Yuri about. It would be useful. And more important, I don’t think there’s much chance of you getting killed in Sardinia.” She paused then added, “Although with you, Craig, danger is always a possibility.”
“I’m going somewhere myself tomorrow,” Giuseppe said, trying to change the subject.
“Where?” Craig asked.
“Brussels. I’ve convened a meeting of all the top security people in Belgium and France to go over our plans for apprehending Omar and stopping his attack on September 1.”
Costa Smeralda, Sardinia
The next morning Craig called Yuri from Paris. “It’s Enrico Marino, Mr. Brodervich. I don’t know if you remember me.”
“Of course I do, the amazing race car driver. And please call me Yuri. I hope you’re in Sardinia and we can get together.”
“How about lunch today?”
“It’ll be my pleasure. Come to my place at one.” Yuri provided an address and directions.
Pleased at how smoothly it had gone, Craig called Giuseppe.
“The plane’s waiting at Orly,” Giuseppe said. “I’ll have them fuel it.”
At five minutes to one, Craig approached a walled compound next to the water in his rental car half a mile from Porto Cervo. An iron gate blocked access to the driveway, and two armed guards were standing in front.
As soon as Craig showed his Enrico Marino passport, they waved him through. Driving along a circular road, he approached the Moorish two-story house, which was concealed from the road by a high wall. Inside the front door, two more bodyguards lounged on chairs. An attractive, dark-haired woman came forward and said, “Mr. Marino, welcome. Please follow me.”
Craig followed her through two rooms with elegant damask engravings, horseshoe arches, and turquoise ceilings. The furnishings were Italian with classic wooden pieces. Craig could smell the sea because the second room opened onto a patio facing the water.
Yuri, holding a glass in his left hand, dressed in white slacks and a navy polo, came forward to greet Craig. Behind Yuri, Craig saw an elegantly set table.
“So glad you could come,” Yuri said, holding out his hand.
Craig shook it and winced. Yuri’s grip was so strong it sent shock waves up Craig’s arm.
“What would you like to drink?” Yuri asked. “I’m having vodka, but we have a white Arneis being chilled if you would prefer that.”
“That sounds great.”
Yuri pointed to the young woman who had led Craig out to the deck. “Vanessa, white wine for our guest.”
Once Craig had a glass, Yuri raised his and said, “Salute. Now if you don’t mind, let’s sit at the table. I’m having back problems, and the straight chair helps.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Craig, taking a seat across from Yuri.
The table was set with English bone china and Christofle silver. Between the house and the water, perfectly manicured grass with a lap pool in the center gave way to sand. Tied up at the dock was a large yacht sporting antennas and a helipad. Further out in the water a woman was water-skiing.
“Will you be driving in the October race this year?” Yuri asked.
“I’m planning to. I’d like to make it two in a row.”
“I’ll be betting on you,” Yuri laughed. “I’m just afraid I may have to give long odds.”
It struck Craig that Yuri seemed likable—surprising in view of his background as a hard-nosed businessman who some called a thief. Years earlier he had been caught stealing Middle Eastern assets from a large, Russian state-owned ore company. Craig’s information, gleaned from the CIA at the time, was that Yuri avoided charges by paying off Kuznov and some of his friends. When their demands became too great for him to meet, Yuri got word that Kuznov was sending FSB agents to arrest him. His future was already stashed in foreign banks beyond Kuznov’s reach. Leaving behind his wife and children, he escaped into Turkey, pretending to be a truck driver.
“I’ll do my best to have you win your bet,” Craig said.
“Speaking of racing, I read that your benefactor Federico Castiglione was murdered. I’d like to pick up Federico’s share, whatever that was, and sponsor you.”
Craig was flattered by the offer, but also appalled. The idea of being a partner with and in debt to the sinister Yuri Brodervich was a nonstarter. Still, he had to reject Yuri’s offer gracefully. He needed the Russian’s cooperation.
“That’s a wonderful offer, Yuri, but fortunately Federico provided for me in his will, so I’m okay for now.”
“Well, it’s an expensive sport. If that money ever runs out, you know where to find me.”
“Thank you.”
Yuri signaled to Vanessa to refill their glasses. Seconds later, two waiters emerged from the house, one carrying a serving bowl covered by a dome, the other plates and a basket of rolls. Under the dome was an exquisite cold seafood salad loaded with calamari, octopus, mussels, and scallops. The waiters served the two men and withdrew.
“Tell me how it is,” Yuri said.
Craig took a taste. “Outstanding.”
“Good, because I just fired my chef. This one is new.”
“He’s a keeper.”
“All right, Enrico, nobody comes to see me for a social visit. I thought you wanted me to invest in your racing. Now that we’ve established that’s not the case, tell me why you’re here.”
Craig leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t like it when somebody murders one of my friends. I think you can understand that.” Yuri sat up with a start, back pain or not. If Craig were threatening him, he was prepared to call his bodyguards. He reached his hand under the table. Craig guessed he had a call button there.
“I’m not suggesting you had anything to do with it,” he added swiftly.
Yuri relaxed. “Were you referring to Federico Castiglione?”
“No. Peter Toth.”
“How did you know Peter?” Yuri asked, looking surprised.
“When he was still doing business in Hungary, we entered into a joint venture to bring rally racing to Hungary, and we became friends in the process.” Craig sounded convincing as he spun out his yarn. “Then that prick Szabo shut down Peter’s business. Now Peter’s dead, and I’m sure as hell going to find out who’s responsible and make them pay.”
“What makes you think I know anything?”
“Peter told me that he was planning to visit you here in Sardinia a few days before the fire, but he didn’t tell me why. I figured this was a good place to start in my effort to find out who killed Peter.”
Yuri tapped his fingers on the table for a few seconds, then said, “When I was still in Moscow, Peter showed up at my energy company one day. He wanted to do a deal with me to buy oil for Hungary. We got to know each other. I liked Peter. We were close to finalizing an arrangement that made sense for both of us when I decided my health required resettlement to a warmer climate. That was the end of my Russian energy company.”
“So why did Peter visit you here?”
Yuri drained his glass, picked up the vodka bottle on the table, and refilled it.
That isn’t water, Craig thought with astonishment.
Yuri took a gulp and said, “Peter wanted me to recommend an assassin, somebody who hated Russia.”
“Holy shit. Who did Peter want to have killed?”
“Peter told me he wanted to have Szabo killed because he was planning to enter into an agreement with Kuznov that would permit Russian troops into Hungary. By killing Szabo, he would block this agreement from going into effect—a huge blow for Kuznov.”
“Did you give him a recommendation?” Craig asked.
Yuri nodded. “Omar the Chechen. I even told him where he could find Omar outside of Grozny, and I gave him a letter of recommendation.”
“You’ve done business with Omar before?”
“Let’s just say we know each other.”
“So Peter flew off to Grozny to meet with Omar.”
Yuri nodded again. “You should know one other fact.”
“What’s that?”
“Like Omar, I have reasons to hate Kuznov. So I told Peter that if he arranged for Omar to take out Kuznov as well as Szabo, I’d pay half his fee to Omar.”
“What’d he say?”
“He was noncommittal. He told me he was willing to pay Omar ten million euros up front and another ten when the job was done. I told him if Omar got Kuznov as well as Szabo, I’d cover the second ten, but I never heard any more from him or Omar. Then I found out Peter was dead. Of course I’m convinced Kuznov arranged the fire outside of Washington. It was a good preemptive move—vintage Kuznov. He found out about Peter’s plans and had him murdered.”
“How do you know Szabo wasn’t responsible for the fire and Peter’s death?” Craig asked.
Yuri laughed. “The Hungarians, like the Poles, the Romanians, all of those Central Europeans, are too inept to light a fire in their fireplace at home.”
Yuri may not be in Russia, Craig thought, but he certainly hadn’t lost his Russian arrogance and contempt for Central Europeans that characterized the Soviet Union in the period from 1945 to 1991.
Craig asked Yuri, “Suppose Peter made the deal with Omar, as you described it, and Peter paid Omar ten million up front. Then suppose Omar found out that Peter died before Omar had a chance to do the job. What do you think he would do? Pocket the money and go back to Grozny? Or carry out the assignment?”
Yuri thought about it for a moment. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“If Omar’s only target was Szabo, he’d quit,” Yuri explained. “On the other hand, I’m sure you know about Omar’s hatred for Kuznov.”
Craig recalled what Gideon had told him in Israel. “The man brutally killed his wife and children.”
“Correct, so in view of Omar’s hatred for Kuznov, if both men were his targets, or if Omar saw a way to kill Kuznov as well as Szabo, Omar would keep going.”
After they had finished their lunch, Yuri walked Craig to the door. “You’re always welcome here,” he said. “Stay longer next time. We could have some fun. Women in Sardinia are incredible.”
“For sure,” Craig agreed as he made his way out.
Driving back to the airport, Craig tried to evaluate what he had learned. It seemed unlikely that Omar would miss a shot at taking out Kuznov, who had destroyed his life so utterly. So he had to assume that Omar was continuing his operation even after Peter’s death—and that he had Kuznov as well as Szabo in his crosshairs.
But Kuznov wouldn’t be coming to Brussels for the EU conference. So if Yuri were correct, Kuznov and Szabo must have plans to meet somewhere else, and that’s where Omar planned to kill them.
The possibilities were endless. Moscow or Budapest? After that, anywhere else in Europe. He planned to brief Betty and Giuseppe when he returned to Paris. He would need their help.
The search for Omar had just gotten more difficult.
