Russian Resurgence

by Allan Topol

  She had tears in her eyes. “If I talk to you, the Chechens will kill me,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  Craig leaned forward. “Nobody will find out,” he reassured her.

  “People in Clichy always find out who talked to the police. . . .” she replied, looking uncertain. Turning to Habib she asked, “What do you think?”

  “I won’t be able to protect you for very long,” he said. “At least with this man you have a chance. And Abdullah said you can trust him.”

  Ayanna closed her eyes for a minute. When she opened them, she looked straight at Craig. “I’ll talk to you, but on certain conditions.” She sounded like a player who was holding the winning cards.

  “What conditions?” Craig asked.

  “You or the French government have to agree to get me out of Clichy, give me a new identity, and ten thousand euros for resettlement.”

  He thought about what Habib had said. Ayanna had a desire to get out of Clichy, and now she saw a chance to achieve that. He had to respect her for trying to convert her misfortune into an opportunity.

  “I can’t authorize what you want on my own,” he replied. “But I should be able to tell you tomorrow if the French government will approve it. Meantime, it would help me if I knew what information you have about Omar.”

  She thought about it for a minute, then said, “I can tell you where Omar was early yesterday morning when he was with my brother.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Rachid told me where they were.”

  Craig tried to keep his excitement in check. “And where was that?” he asked.

  Habib placed his hand on Ayanna’s shoulder. “She’ll tell you once you let her know that the French government will meet her conditions.”

  Craig nodded. “That’s reasonable.” The savvy Habib was right. Jean-Claude would be less likely to give Ayanna what she wanted if they already had this piece of critical information.

  She turned to Habib, “Can I stay with you tonight?”

  Habib looked uncomfortable, and Craig didn’t like the idea. The Chechens might find her tonight and kill her.

  Craig spoke up before Habib had a chance to respond, “My girlfriend, Elizabeth, could arrange a hotel room for you for tonight. Will that be okay?”

  “Can Habib come with me until I’m settled in the room?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay then. I brought some clothes and other things in my bag. I didn’t think I’d be going back home.”

  Craig called Elizabeth and told her what he wanted.

  “I’ll meet you in the hotel lobby in ten minutes,” she said. “I’ll make the arrangements with the Bristol before that.”

  Craig, Ayanna, and Habib walked down the Rue Saint-Honoré to the hotel. She looked scared, Craig thought. She seemed even more frightened when they walked in to the opulent Bristol lobby. In view of the hour, the lobby was deserted.

  Elizabeth was standing next to the reception desk holding a room key. She immediately came forward. “You must be Ayanna,” Elizabeth said warmly with a smile. “I’m very happy to meet you.”

  “Thank you,” Ayanna said, some of her apprehension fading.

  “I thought you and I would share a room tonight. That way, I’ll be able to get you anything you need.”

  Ayanna smiled.

  Craig was pleased that Elizabeth had thought of sharing a room with Ayanna. It was a great idea. It would make Ayanna more secure and minimize the chances of her changing her mind and leaving the hotel.

  “Let’s go up to your room,” Elizabeth said.

  Ayanna said goodbye to Habib. Then she and Elizabeth headed toward the glass door elevator. After Habib had gone, Craig called Giuseppe.

  “I need your help,” Craig said. “Where are you?”

  “In Paris getting ready to go to sleep like a normal person.”

  Craig knew that Giuseppe lived off Avenue Victor Hugo, a short cab ride at this hour.

  “Well, I hope you still have that 1962 Armagnac we had the last time.”

  “I only drink it with you.”

  “Good. I’m on my way.”

  Half an hour later, as they were sipping the Armagnac, Craig gave Giuseppe a report on what had happened in Sardinia. Then he explained about his meetings with Habib and Ayanna. “This could be what we need,” Craig said, sounding excited. “We have to sell the deal to Jean-Claude.”

  “I noticed you said could,” Giuseppe remarked. “The problem is, we don’t know what the girl can tell us. For all we know, she’ll say they were on a highway in France or Belgium. That won’t help us. We’ll be shooting blind. That’ll make it a tough sell with Jean-Claude. You know how he is.”

  Craig had a sick feeling in his stomach. What in the world could he do with Ayanna if Jean-Claude wouldn’t make the deal?

  “My gut tells me she can help us,” Craig replied boldly.

  Giuseppe laughed. “I don’t want to hear about your gut. From my recollection it’s wrong as often as it’s right.”

  “Ouch, that stung.”

  Giuseppe laughed and reached for his phone. Craig heard him say, “Hi . . . Jean-Claude. Yes, Craig Page and I want to talk to you tomorrow morning about Omar the Chechen. The earliest you’re available. Good, we’ll be at your office at nine. I’ll tell him that.”

  When Giuseppe put down the phone, he said, “We’re all set for his office at nine tomorrow. And he wants to talk to you about a shootout at Häagen-Dazs last Sunday. You don’t know anything about that, do you?”

  Uh-oh, Craig thought. I’m in trouble.

  The next morning at nine Craig and Giuseppe filed into Jean-Claude’s office. The Frenchman was glaring at Craig.

  “How was Elizabeth’s baseball game last Sunday in the Bois de Boulogne?” he asked.

  “Very good,” Craig replied. “She pitched and hit the game-winning homer.”

  “It’s too bad you didn’t have a chance to finish your ice cream after the game,” Jean Claud remarked caustically.

  “Oh, that,” said Craig, trying to sound casual. “We had a little excitement. How’d you find out?”

  “People in the shop described the shooter and the woman with him. She was wearing a Paris Yanks baseball shirt. I’m not a moron, although you apparently think so.”

  Craig was glad Jean-Claude hadn’t zeroed in on Nick. In the confusion, the shop employees might not have noticed the boy or thought he wasn’t important. Craig had no reason to tell Jean-Claude that the Russians had come for Nick. Instead, he saw a way to deflect Jean-Claude’s inquiry. “I guess I ruffled some feathers in Clichy,” he said.

  Jean-Claude wrinkled his forehead. “Possibly, but these thugs were members of a gang from Moscow. What happened doesn’t make sense.”

  “Right now, none of this makes sense.”

  “Lucky for you the witnesses said it was self-defense.”

  “It was.”

  “And no bystanders were hit.”

  “I do good work.”

  Jean-Claude was shaking his head. “Well, Lone Ranger, you managed to turn the streets of Paris into the American Wild West.”

  “I’m sorry for that, really I am.” At least that’s a truthful statement, Craig thought.

  “Dammit, Craig,” said Jean-Claude raising his voice. “You should have called and let me know what happened right after this incident.”

  “You’re right. I should have,” Craig replied, doing his best to look penitent.

  “Humph. I feel as if you’re hiding something from me. What’s your game here?”

  “To find Omar and kill him,” Craig admitted.

  “Because he killed your friend, Amos Neir?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is that why you went to Grozny?” Jean-Claude asked.

  Craig wondered how he knew about that—Giuseppe never would have told him.

  As if reading his mind, Jean-Claude said, “After the ice cream shoot out, I had the airport customs people let me know
about any Enrico Marino trips.”

  “Yes, that’s why I went to Grozny, but I didn’t find Omar. I think he’s still here in Europe.”

  “We have half the police in Brussels and northern France looking for him—so far not even a trace.”

  What a perfect opening, Craig thought. “That’s why Giuseppe and I are here,” he said. “We have a way of finding out where Omar is.” Craig then explained about his conversations with Habib and Ayanna. “The bottom line is that Omar took Ayanna’s brother, Rachid, and two other young men from Clichy with him to a location outside of Paris. He called her yesterday morning from that location.”

  “What’s the location?”

  “She’ll only tell us if the French government agrees to move her out of Clichy, give her a new identity, and ten thousand euros for resettlement.”

  Jean-Claude looked dubious. “And you think I should agree to this?”

  “Definitely. Omar’s attack could take place at any time. Ayanna is our only hope of finding out where he is and stopping him.”

  Giuseppe interjected, “For her information, she’s not asking much in return.”

  Jean-Claude tapped his fingers on the table. “I could have my men bring her in and toss her into jail. She’ll talk eventually.”

  Craig couldn’t let that happen. “Based on talking with her,” Craig said, “I don’t think she will talk. Still, even if you’re right, we’ll lose precious time that we don’t have. The clock is ticking.”

  Creases marked Jean-Claude forehead. Craig could tell that he’d finally gotten through to the Frenchman.

  “I can’t authorize this myself,” he said. “I’ll need the minister’s approval.”

  “How soon can you get it?”

  “It’s August. He’s at his house in Saint-Tropez.” Jean-Claude turned to his computer. “Let me check his schedule.”

  After a couple of minutes, Jean-Claude said, “He’s out on his boat this morning. He’ll be back in his house for lunch. The earliest I can talk to him is one o’clock this afternoon. You two come back a little before one. I want you to be here for the call in case he has questions.”

  “By the way,” Craig said, “we haven’t confirmed that the attack will take place in Brussels. Why don’t you tell the minister it could occur in the south of France, perhaps even Saint-Tropez—the perfect place for a terrorist attack in August?”

  Before the scowling Jean-Claude could reply to that, Giuseppe said, “We’ll be back a little before one.”

  Jean-Claude turned to Craig. “That gives you a few hours. You can take your girlfriend, Elizabeth, for an ice cream,” he said sarcastically.

  Craig fired back, “What a good idea. I heard they have a Häagen-Dazs near the Bois de Boulogne.”

  Jean-Claude didn’t put the phone on speaker, but listening, Craig had to admit that he made the case clearly and forcefully for giving Ayanna what she wanted, even tossing in the possibility that Omar’s attack could take place in Saint-Tropez.

  When Jean-Claude put down the phone, Giuseppe asked, “What’s the verdict?”

  “He approved the deal Ayanna wants. He’s afraid of another terrorist attack happening somewhere in France on his watch. I just hope what she tells us is helpful. I went out on a long limb for her, and a relocation like this costs money.”

  “Right now she’s our best chance,” Giuseppe pointed out.

  “That’s what I said. How soon can you get her in here so we can talk to her?”

  Craig took out his phone and called Elizabeth. “You can tell Ayanna we have good news—the answer is yes. Have her meet me in the Bristol lobby in half an hour, and tell her to bring her clothes and other things with her.”

  Craig turned back to Jean-Claude and Giuseppe. “I’ll have her here in an hour.”

  Lucerne

  Peter had spent the night at the stately and grand Palace Hotel along the lake in Lucerne. Though his room with a view of the lake was comfortable and modern, having been recently renovated, the stone exterior harkened back to an era of a hundred years ago when European aristocracy customarily stayed in Lucerne. Now it was tourists from around the world shopping for watches and eating the most incredible chocolate.

  After breakfast, Peter walked along Lake Lucerne into the heart of the city. He crossed a wooden covered bridge into the business center. Three blocks from the railroad station on Pilatusstrasse, he saw the Republic Bank. Afraid that Hans Gerber might not want to talk to him now that Emma was dead, Peter had decided not to call in advance. He would do best just showing up and taking Gerber by surprise.

  The Republic Bank occupied a four-story, gray stone structure that reminded Peter of a fortress. It had small windows and an armed guard posted on each side of the large metal front door. They didn’t stop Peter as he entered the building. Inside, he saw a young blonde woman with a tight, drawn face sitting behind a large wooden desk. Facing out was a nameplate that identified her as Hilda Werner.

  “I’d like to see Hans Gerber,” Peter said in English.

  “Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

  “No, but please tell Mr. Gerber that my name is Thomas Leahy and Emma Miller suggested I talk with him.”

  Peter took the Thomas Leahy passport from his pocket and showed it to her. After studying it, she directed Peter to a sitting area across the room.

  Several minutes later she returned, saying, “Please wait here, Mr. Leahy. Someone will come down and take you to Mr. Gerber.”

  After another several minutes, a tall, comely, gray-haired woman fashionably dressed in a burgundy suit got off the elevator and walked over to Peter.

  “Mr. Leahy?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Peter, standing up.

  “Please come with me.”

  They rode in the elevator to the top floor. Then, with Peter following her clicking heels across the marble floor, she led the way to a corner office where Hans Gerber was sitting behind a red leather-topped desk. Gerber, wearing a three-piece charcoal suit and wire-framed glasses, had a large, round face and shaved head.

  Gerber stood up and introduced himself.

  I’m one-third of the way home, Peter thought. Now comes the hard part: getting the information.

  “I was very sorry to hear about the death of Emma Miller,” Gerber said as they both took a seat. “We knew each other for many years. I was fond of her.”

  Peter decided he had the best chance of getting Gerber’s cooperation by leveling with the banker.

  “Emma was murdered,” Peter said, “because she was helping me investigate corruption in Hungary.”

  When Gerber didn’t respond, Peter continued, “I’m sure you’ll want to help me, as she told me you promised to do. In that way, you’ll be doing something to avenge her death.”

  “Help you how?” Gerber asked skeptically.

  “Provide me with information on recent transactions in your numbered account 26-512-640.”

  The banker leaned back in his chair and linked the fingers of his two hands together. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,” he said. “We have strict banking regulations in Switzerland that prohibit divulging such information. I would be dismissed if our president learned I had ignored these legal requirements.”

  Peter had been anticipating this response. “My dear Mr. Gerber,” Peter said calmly, “you have already broken these regulations by telling Emma that on July 31 of this year that account had five million euros, funds which were deposited approximately two years ago in a transfer from a Hungarian National Bank account in the name of Franz Szabo. If I were to disclose to your president that you had given this information to Emma Miller, you undoubtedly would be dismissed.”

  Gerber’s face turned bright red. “I gave her that information because we were friends.”

  Peter ignored him and kept talking. “If your president asked me why you provided the information to Emma Miller, I would simply show him a picture of Emma in a bathing suit, which I took last year at the Eden Roc
in Ascona. She’s such a beautiful woman that I’m sure he would understand that you hoped for some sexual favors in return for this information. Or perhaps you received them.”

  Gerber pounded his fist on the desk. “You’re totally reprehensible. You defile Emma’s memory.”

  “No, Mr. Gerber. You defile her memory by refusing to give me information that will enable me to bring to justice those who killed her.”

  When Gerber didn’t respond, Peter realized he was wavering. “I can assure you,” he said pressing ahead, “I will never disclose how I obtained this information. If asked, I will say that I had the assistance of IT experts who hacked into the bank’s computer.”

  Gerber shook his head with an angry expression on his face. He was an intelligent man, Peter thought. He had to realize that he had no choice.

  Without saying another word, Gerber swiveled in his chair to the computer on one side of his desk. He punched in some numbers, then said to Peter, “On August 7, fifty million euros were transferred from the Moscow Federal Bank to this account.”

  “I need a printout of this information,” said Peter, keeping his excitement in check.

  “You ask for too much.”

  “I promise I won’t give you away.”

  Gerber unwillingly hit a couple more buttons. Then he stood up and reached over to the printer behind this desk, which was spitting out a document.

  Gerber studied it, and then handed it to Peter, who glanced at it briefly. This was exactly what he needed, including the names on the two accounts, France Szabo on the Republic Bank account, and the Russian Treasury on the Moscow Federal Bank account.

  “Thank you,” Peter said.

  “Take it and go,” Gerber said angrily.

  Peter was thrilled. He now had a way to destroy Szabo and block the Friendship Pact from going into effect without killing Szabo or Kuznov.

  At last the killing would stop.

  Paris

  Craig rode with Ayanna in the back of an unmarked Ministry of Defense car. She had her duffel bag at her feet.