by Allan Topol
Budapest
Omar left Shamil at the castle to watch the remaining two Frenchmen. Then he climbed into the white van, and for ten minutes he drove around the sparsely inhabited hills of Buda, taking random turns to make certain he wasn’t being followed. He had a pistol in his jacket pocket and an automatic weapon on the floor in the front of the van.
If someone tried to tail him, he had a simple solution. He’d pull over the van to the side of the road and wait for his pursuer to do the same, then he would open fire on them with his automatic weapon.
After ten minutes of driving, once Omar was convinced he wasn’t being followed, he started heading in a northeasterly direction. He wanted to make his way down from the hills of Buda to Pest on the east side of the river, but by a less trafficked route to minimize the chances of being stopped by a policeman. After fifteen minutes, he reached Margit Street, then crossed the Danube on Margit Bridge. Two blocks into Pest he turned right on Honved Street, where he parked his van. Omar concealed the assault weapon under the seat. Then, with the pistol in his pocket and a guidebook in his hand, he set off on foot parallel to the river for the parliament.
As Omar walked, he admired the majestic parliament building, which was modeled on the British Houses of Parliament. Hungary had managed to copy England’s legislative palace, but was never able to duplicate Britain’s governmental institutions.
It was a gorgeous summer day, and as Omar entered the large square in front of the parliament, he encountered thousands of tourists from around the world. While he heard a myriad of languages, a significant number were speaking Russian. That didn’t surprise Omar. The former history professor was familiar with the Russian occupation of Hungary in the twentieth century and the 1956 revolution.
But most young Russians had no sense of history or familiarity with those events. For them, Budapest was a fun city, a great place to visit and party, a magnet that attracted young people from around the world.
Standing in the center of the square and looking around, Omar saw the drab office building that Peter Toth’s company had occupied. On the west was the parliament building. From viewing photographs and videos of other ceremonies that had taken place in Budapest, Omar was sure that on Wednesday they would set up a platform on the side of the square in front of the parliament building. That’s where the speakers would be, including Kuznov and Szabo. Hundreds of chairs would be arranged in rows for the audience on the concrete square in front of the speaker’s platform. But at this point, none of these preparations had been made.
Omar closed his eyes and envisioned what would happen as he had planned it. Shamil and the two Frenchmen would be positioned near the square. When Omar gave the three of them the signal via an electronic communication device, they would each set off bombs they had planted very early that morning by remote control. They would then make their way back to the castle. This would produce chaos and pandemonium among the crowd. Omar, who would be waiting on the perimeter of the square, would shoot Kuznov and Szabo, and escape himself. Once they were all back at the castle, Omar and Shamil would direct the two Frenchmen to climb into the back of the van, telling them they were headed to France. In a deserted area of Western Hungary, Omar would direct Shamil to turn off onto a back road. After parking in a cluster of trees, Omar and Shamil would execute the two Frenchmen and hide their bodies in the woods. From there, Omar and Shamil would drive back to Grozny. It was a good plan, and Omar was confident it would work.
As he stood taking in the scene around him, his cell phone rang. Omar pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the caller ID. The number was blocked.
“Yes,” Omar answered the phone as he moved away from the tourists to an isolated area.
“This is Peter Toth,” Omar heard on the other end. He was so startled that he almost dropped the phone. What the hell? he thought. “But . . . I heard you died in a fire.”
“Well, I’m still alive,” said the man on the other end.
Omar was good at voice recognition, and he was convinced Peter Toth was on the phone, not an imposter. But how had Peter escaped what must have been a catastrophic fire?
“What happened?” Omar asked.
“That’s not relevant. I’m calling to tell you to cancel the operation. You can keep the money I gave you, but I want you to abort. Do you understand?”
“Why?”
“That’s also not relevant. It’s my decision.”
It only took Omar a few seconds to decide he would not obey Peter. He had worked too hard on his plan. Blood had been spilled to pay for his success. He was so close to his dream of killing Kuznov and avenging the murder of his wife and children. He would never quit now.
“No,” he said in a firm voice. “I won’t stop.”
“It’s my decision,” said Peter, sounding incredulous.
But Omar had no intention of yielding. “It was your decision when you hired me. Now I’m in control.”
“I won’t pay your second installment.”
“Keep your money. I don’t care.”
“You can’t do this,” Peter snarled.
“Watch the news. I will do it. And let me tell you something else. You are in this with me, whether you want to be or not. So if you go to the authorities to turn me in, you’re going down as well.”
The line was silent. Peter was too stunned to respond.
Omar continued, “When you came to talk with me in Grozny, I recorded our conversation. If I am arrested or anything happens to me, that recording, which fully identifies you, will be made public in addition to the details of my payment. So I would advise you against taking action against me.”
“You dirty bastard,” Peter rasped.
Omar laughed. He hadn’t made a recording of their conversation, but he was confident Peter would never call his bluff.
“Goodbye, Peter,” Omar said before hanging up on him.
Paris
Peter Toth was sitting on a bench in the Place des Vosges in Paris staring at the phone in his hand. Omar had hung up. Though the humidity was low, perspiration was dotting his forehead, running down the sides of his face, and soaking his white shirt under a dark blue, pin-striped Lanvin suit jacket.
What have I done? What in the world have I done?
He realized now, albeit too late, that his desire for revenge against the Russians had clouded his judgment, causing him to set in motion a horrible set of events, resulting in the death of Emma, the woman he had loved, and undoubtedly causing tremendous pain and suffering for Nick, the only son he had left.
He now regretted everything he had done. If he had it to do all over again he never would have taken that fateful trip to Grozny to hire Omar. He felt as if he had released the brake on a freight train at the top of a steep grade, and he was now powerless to stop it. But perhaps he still had one chance. Perhaps Emma could still help him undo some of the damage.
Before exploring that, he had one other thing he had to do: walk by 98 Place des Vosges, the house he had bought for Emma, the house they had shared when he was in Paris, one final time and pay his respects to that remarkable woman. Peter wasn’t worried about being recognized—he was sufficiently disguised and carrying a US passport in the name of Thomas Leahy.
Peter rose from the bench and exited the center grassy square. On the sidewalk he passed number 6 Place des Vosges, once the house of Victor Hugo. Now a museum, there was a line of tourists in front.
Approaching number ninety-eight, he saw the yellow police tape stretched across the front steps, forbidding access to the murder scene. Tears welled up in his eyes. Over the course of his long life, he had been intimate with three women: Tracy, Reka, and Emma. But Emma was the only one he had loved.
He stopped in front of the house and looked up at the second floor window of the bedroom they had shared. Emma had been beautiful, brilliant, intellectually challenging, witty, fun to be with, amazing in bed, and the mother of his child. And despite all of that, he had dragged her into a vendetta
that wasn’t hers, brushing aside her wise objections, and causing her death.
He closed his eyes and imagined being in the house with Emma—in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bedroom. After five minutes, he couldn’t take it any longer. He forced himself to walk away.
Walking through the Marais, he worked his way to the Hôtel de Ville, the city hall. Across the street was a branch of the Bank of Paris. It had been Emma’s idea to investigate Szabo’s finances and Emma’s idea that they open up a vault box in the bank with access by Emma and Thomas Leahy, the alias he had been using in Europe for the last month. When he had questioned the need for the vault box, Emma had told him that if anything happened to her, everything she had discovered would be waiting for him in the vault.
Peter climbed the cement steps of the majestic gray stone Bank of Paris with trepidation. He took an elevator to the lower level where he presented his Thomas Leahy passport and the vault key to a somber looking man in a dull gray suit and incongruous bright red tie.
The man removed the vault box and led Peter to a small windowless room. He pointed to a white button and said, “Please ring for me when you are finished.” Then he closed the door, leaving Peter alone.
Peter’s hands were shaking as he opened the gray metal box. He saw two sealed envelopes and opened the one on top. Inside he found a letter in Emma’s handwriting. He began reading:
My dearest Peter,
If you are reading this, then I am no longer alive. I wanted you to know that I have no regret for anything I did and only great love for you.
I have used my contacts and relationships from many years in the banking community to obtain the following information.
Approximately two years ago, Prime Minister Szabo opened a numbered account at the Republic Bank in Lucerne. The other envelope contains all of the information about that account, including the name of a good friend, an officer of the bank, who promised to help you.
I hope you will take good care of Nick. I regret not seeing the fine young man he will turn out to be.
My eternal love,
Emma
Peter dropped the letter on the table and wept. When he had gotten himself under control, he dried his eyes and opened the second envelope.
Inside he found a piece of paper also in Emma’s handwriting. Peter read: “Numbered account 26-512-640 at Republic Bank of Lucerne, opened by Franz Szabo two years ago with an initial deposit of five million euros from an account belonging to Szabo at the Hungarian National Bank. As of July 31 of this year, the account had five million euros. The bank’s vice president, Hans Gerber, promised to be of assistance to you.”
Peter read the note a second time with enormous disappointment. He had been hoping that Szabo’s account would show the deposit of funds from a Russian bank that could be linked to Kuznov, implying that Szabo had accepted a bribe in return for entering into the Friendship Pact. But alas, Emma hadn’t uncovered that. The five million euros deposited two years ago must have been a bribe for something else Szabo had done, but that didn’t help Peter now.
Normally an optimistic person despite everything that had happened in his life, Peter had trouble finding a ray of hope in this dismal situation. Perhaps, he told himself, the payoff from Kuznov to Szabo hadn’t come until after Emma’s death.
He would fly to Lucerne that night. Hopefully he would be able to meet with Hans Gerber the next morning and convince him to disclose any recent activity in Szabo’s account.
While he was driving from Orly Airport, stuck in Paris traffic, Craig’s phone rang. It was a French number he didn’t recognize.
He answered it, and a man’s voice asked, “Is this Enrico Marino?”
The voice sounded familiar, but Craig couldn’t identify it.
“Who’s calling?” he asked.
“Habib from the Brasserie Rabat in Clichy.”
Craig perked up. “Yes, Habib.”
“Something has happened.” Habib sounded anxious. “I would like to talk to you, but not in Clichy. Tell me where and when we can meet discreetly.”
Craig gave him the location of his office at the race track, and they agreed to meet there in an hour. Craig was hoping this would be the break he needed.
Forty-five minutes later, Craig arrived at the track. It was deserted, which suited him perfectly.
When Habib arrived, he looked nervous. They sat down in Craig’s office.
“Something to drink?” Craig asked.
Habib shook his head. “Your friend from the garage told me to call you.”
“Abdullah?”
“Yeah. He said I could trust you.”
“And you can.”
“I hope so. When we spoke the last time, I knew some things that I couldn’t tell you. Let me explain.”
“I appreciate your coming to see me,” said Craig.
“You showed me a picture of Omar Basayev and asked if I had seen him. I told you no because I wanted to protect someone. . . .” Habib hesitated. “In truth, Omar came into my brassiere several times in the last couple of weeks.”
“Who was he with?”
“The most recent time he came in by himself. A little while later he was joined by three young men. Not Chechens. Men from North Africa who live in the area. He was recruiting them for a job. Eventually the three left with Omar and his assistant, Shamil, in a white van. It was around noon that Friday, the day of the police raid in Clichy.”
“Where were they going?”
“I don’t know. I tried to hear as much as I could without Omar noticing. I was afraid of him.”
“Because he killed Ahmed Hussein?”
“I heard that from people . . . but I don’t know for sure.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when we spoke the first time?”
Habib looked down at his hands. “One of the three men who went with Omar is Rachid. His sister, Ayanna, is an employee of mine—I care about her well-being. That’s why I was trying to hear what they said. I was worried about her brother. But I didn’t tell you when you came to the brasserie because I didn’t want to do anything to endanger them.”
“So what’s changed?”
“Ayanna came to see me this morning in tears. She was on the phone with Rachid when she heard something happen—she believes that Omar may have hurt or even killed him. She asked me who she could reach out to.”
“Did she tell you why she thought Omar might have killed her brother?”
Habib shook his head.
“Do you know where they were?”
Habib shook his head again.
“Where can I find Ayanna?” Craig asked.
“She stayed at my apartment after she came to see me this morning. She was terrified. She was convinced two Chechen men were following her and that they wanted to kill her.”
“Why did she think that?”
“She heard Omar screaming at Rachid for having a cell phone, and she thinks he’s probably afraid that he told her something.”
“Is she sure that Rachid is dead?”
“She heard Omar and Rachid screaming. Then there were a lot of muffled noises and something that sounded like a shot, but she wasn’t sure. After that, the phone went dead.”
“What did Rachid tell her?”
“She wouldn’t say, she just begged me to help her. She was sure the men following her hadn’t seen her come to my place, so I told her she could hide out there. I didn’t know what I could do to help her.”
Craig thought about it for a minute, then said, “I think I can help her.”
“How?” Habib asked.
“I have some connections in the French government. But I’ll have to talk to her before I can try to use those. Where is she now?”
“In my apartment. I live alone.”
“I could come there and talk to her.”
“It’s too risky,” said Habib, shaking his head.
“Then suppose you hide her on the floor in the back of your car and bring her to me?”
“Good. Use that.”
“Where should I bring her?”
“There’s a wine bar called Vino Italiano about a block up from the Bristol Hotel on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. They have a private room in the back where we can talk. How about ten o’clock this evening?” When Habib hesitated, Craig added, “It’s important that I talk to her. I won’t harm her. Believe me.”
Habib took a pack of Turkish cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Craig, who declined. Habib lit one and closed his eyes meditatively.
“The girl has had a tough life,” he finally said. “She works as a dishwasher at Rabat. She’s only twenty-five.” Habib took a puff of his cigarette before continuing, “Her parents came from Algeria, but she was born here. She still has dreams of getting out of Clichy, but she’ll learn. What chance does a poor Muslim girl have?”
“You like Ayanna,” Craig commented.
“After my wife died last year, she was kind to me. Her parents died a couple of years ago. It’s just Ayanna and her brother now, and he hasn’t been able to find work so she supports him.” Habib narrowed his eyes at Craig. “You better not do anything to harm this girl.”
“I promise you that I won’t.”
“Okay. I’ll bring her to the wine bar this evening at ten.”
A little before ten o’clock, Craig was sitting in the front area of the wine bar nursing a glass of Barbera when Habib walked in followed by an attractive woman wearing a black hijab. She was carrying a duffel bag, and she looked scared.
Craig motioned to Habib to follow him to a private room in the back with a table surrounded by four chairs. When they were seated, Habib said, “Ayanna, this is Enrico Marino. He’s a friend of Abdullah who runs the garage. I think he can help you.”
“Would you like something to drink?” Craig asked.
She nodded. “Just Perrier. I don’t drink alcohol.”
Craig went to the bar and returned with the Perrier and a glass of wine for Habib.
“I’m working with French intelligence,” Craig said. “The man who may have killed your brother is Omar, a terrorist from Chechnya. If you tell me what you know, I may be able to protect you and find out what happened to your brother.”
