Russian Resurgence

by Allan Topol

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Ministry of Defense,” Craig replied.

  She looked frightened.

  “You can trust me, Ayanna.”

  “I don’t know if I can or not, but I’m prepared to take a chance.”

  She looked worried as they walked into the ministry building on Boulevard Saint-Germain. A security guard led them to Jean-Claude’s office where he and Giuseppe were waiting.

  When she sat down at the conference table, her hands were shaking. Craig hoped that Jean-Claude would show her compassion.

  “You’re asking a lot from the French government, mademoiselle,” Jean-Claude said.

  Craig was preparing to jump in when Ayanna steadied her hands, leaned forward, and boldly replied, “I have valuable information to give you in return, monsieur.”

  Craig felt admiration for this tenacious Muslim woman willing to stand her ground with one of the powers in French intelligence.

  “I’ll listen,” Jean-Claude said. “And if it’s valuable, I promise we will provide you what you’re asking.

  “Thank you,” she acknowledged.

  Jean-Claude pointed to Craig. It was his show.

  Craig took a photograph of Omar from his pocket and showed it to her. “Have you ever seen this man?” he asked.

  She studied it for a moment. “I saw him once on the street in Clichy when I was walking with my brother, Rachid. My brother told me that his name was Omar. He was a Chechen who came into Clichy about ten days ago. The Chechens seemed to revere him. My brother said it was because he killed many Russian soldiers. Omar had made it known that he was recruiting three men for a job. He promised good payments, and Rachid was interested. But Omar refused to tell the men he was recruiting where they would be going. He said they would find out when they left Paris.”

  “How do you know so much about this?” Jean-Claude asked skeptically.

  “Rachid told me everything. I tried to convince him not to go. I told him he would be a fool to do it. But Rachid, like so many young men in Clichy, couldn’t find work. He didn’t like relying on me to support him. He thought he could gain self-respect if he went with Omar.”

  “So did Rachid agree to go with Omar?” Craig asked.

  She nodded. “Before they left, Rachid gave me five thousand euros and said I should hide it, that it would cover his share of the rent for many months. I pleaded with him not to go, but it was futile. Our parents are both dead, so there are only the two of us. I didn’t have anyone to appeal to for help.”

  “Did you hear from Rachid after he left?”

  A veil of sadness descended over her face. “Rashid called me yesterday morning around six o’clock. He told me that he was fine, and that I shouldn’t worry. They had finished traveling and were in Budapest.”

  “Are you certain he said Budapest?” Craig asked.

  “Yes. That is what he said.”

  She paused for a second. Craig couldn’t believe it. He now knew where Omar was, where the hit would take place. Not Brussels, but Budapest.

  Ayanna continued. “During the phone call yesterday, as soon as Rachid told me not to worry, I heard a man shouting in the background about how he had forbidden them to bring cell phones. I heard my brother cry out for him not to kill him, and then the connection became muffled. I thought I heard what sounded like a shot, but then the phone went dead. I called back several times, but I could not get through.” Tears were streaming down her face. “I am so afraid that my brother is hurt or dead. It’s all my fault. He told me he wouldn’t be able to call after he left, but I pleaded with him to at least let me know he was okay.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” Craig said.

  Wiping the tears from her eyes, Ayanna continued, “A couple hours later I had gone out to the market, and I noticed two Chechen men following me. I was sure they wanted to kill me because of what I had heard on the phone. I ran away from them, and I went to my friend Habib, who owns the Brasserie Rabat. He told me to talk to you.” Here she pointed to Craig.

  “Have you spoken about this to anybody other than Habib and me?” Craig asked.

  “Nobody. I was too frightened.”

  Craig had Ayanna write down Rachid’s phone number and asked if he had more questions.

  The Frenchman shook his head. Then he turned to Ayanna. “This is valuable information. I don’t think you should go back to your place in Clichy. It would be too dangerous.”

  “I thought that might be the situation,” she said. “So I brought some things with me.” She motioned to the duffel.

  Jean-Claude reached for the phone and called Corrine, one of his assistants. When she entered the office, Jean-Claude told her, “This is Ayanna. We’re giving her a new identity and relocating her to Marseille in the morning. I don’t want her going back to Clichy where she lives, so I want you to arrange for a new identity and put her up in a hotel for tonight. Also, please make the arrangements for her resettlement. Then in the morning give her a card linked to an account with 15,000 euros in her new name, and put her on a plane to Marseille.”

  Craig raised his eyebrows at Jean-Claude upping the payment to Ayanna of his own accord. The Frenchman wasn’t a total hard-ass.

  After the two women left, Giuseppe said, “Now that we know Omar is in Budapest, we have a problem. Szabo hates all of us in law enforcement in Western Europe including Jean-Claude and me. He won’t even return our calls.”

  Jean-Claude nodded.

  “Craig, you should talk to your friend Betty at the CIA,” Giuseppe continued. “Perhaps Szabo is still talking to the Americans. But even if Betty is on board, you know how reluctant the American government can be to intervene in foreign issues these days. I suspect, Craig, that if you want to avenge Amos’s death, you will have to go to Budapest and find Omar yourself.”

  “Omar’s in Budapest,” Craig said to Elizabeth as soon as he entered the Bristol suite. “We have to brief President Worth and Betty.”

  Elizabeth called Betty on the encrypted phone and told her what they wanted. “Let me check with the White House.” The CIA director put her on hold for a minute.

  When Betty returned, she said, “Can you and Craig get to the embassy communications room in one hour? We’ll call you there on the red phone.”

  An hour later, the call came through on the red phone at the embassy, and President Worth said, “I gather you had some developments.”

  “Bottom line, Mr. President,” Craig said, “Omar is in Budapest. I believe he’s planning to assassinate Szabo and possibly Kuznov.”

  “Well that’s a mouthful,” Worth whistled. “You better explain.”

  Craig took him through his discussion with Yuri in Sardinia and what Ayanna had said. When he finished, there was a silence on the other end.

  Finally, Worth said, “I agree with you that Szabo is undoubtedly Omar’s target, but your evidence that Omar is going after Kuznov as well is extremely weak. We don’t even know that Kuznov will be in Budapest.”

  “Even if I’m wrong on that, Mr. President, somebody still has to locate Omar in Budapest and stop him.”

  “Yes, but that should be Szabo’s responsibility. I intend to call and alert him.”

  Craig got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He saw where this was headed. Szabo would take over the hunt for Omar, which he would probably fuck up, and Craig would lose his chance to avenge Amos’s death.

  Worth continued, “You two stay on the line. If I can get hold of Szabo, I’ll conference him in without telling him you’re listening. You’ll be on mute. That way you’ll be able to hear what he says.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.” Craig said.

  A few moments later, Craig heard a woman’s voice, “Prime Minister Szabo, please hold for President Worth.”

  “Hello Prime Minister Szabo,” Worth said.

  “What do you have to tell me that’s so urgent?” came Szabo’s voice.

  “My CIA director has received information t
hat Omar Basayev, a notorious Chechen terrorist, is in Budapest and that he is planning to assassinate you and perhaps Russian President Kuznov as well.”

  “Thank you for the information,” Szabo replied smoothly, “but I’m afraid your CIA director must be mistaken. President Kuznov has no plans to be in Budapest.”

  “I’m just trying to warn you.”

  “I appreciate the effort on your part, President Worth, however, I have an outstanding security detail. Do you have anything else to tell me?”

  “Nothing.”

  There was a click. Szabo had ended the call.

  Betty said, “Hang up, Craig. We’ll call you right back.”

  Seconds later Worth called back with Betty on the line. “That ungrateful, arrogant, SOB,” the president said.

  “Perhaps you should call Kuznov and warn him,” Craig said.

  “Our evidence that he’s a target isn’t strong enough,” Worth replied dismissively. “And Szabo told us that Kuznov has no plans to be in Budapest. When we have stronger evidence that Kuznov’s a target, we’ll revisit the issue.” Worth continued. “After my conversation with Szabo, what I’d like us to do is stay on the sidelines and let Omar kill Szabo if he can.”

  “But when we were in Washington, Mr. President,” Craig said, “you concluded that we couldn’t stand by and let Omar assassinate Szabo.”

  “I did say that, didn’t I? Well, we gave Szabo ample warning. We did our part. If you feel the need to go to Budapest yourself, that’s your decision.”

  Craig was disappointed, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He would go to Budapest, with or without Worth’s backing.

  Budapest

  Prime Minister Szabo was sitting at his desk, staring at the phone and replaying in his mind the call with President Worth. He doubted that the Americans knew that his Friendship Pact with Kuznov would be signed on Wednesday. If they had, Worth would have threatened him or tried to offer incentives to persuade Szabo not to go through with it.

  As far as the possibility of Omar assassinating him and Kuznov, he would alert his personal security detail that he had received word of an unsubstantiated threat against his life and ask them to tighten security. That should be sufficient.

  He would also inform his chief of Military Intelligence that a Chechen terrorist, Omar Basayev, might be in Budapest planning some type of attack. They would obtain a photo of Omar from Interpol and begin a search for him in Budapest.

  Szabo had no intention of calling Kuznov and warning him—he didn’t want to take the chance of Kuznov calling off the agreement and refusing to pay Szabo the rest of his money. Fifty million euros was too much to risk losing.

  Szabo picked up an economic report on his desk. But as he began reading the dismal forecasts for the next year, he couldn’t concentrate. He kept thinking about the events that had occurred in the last couple of weeks. Kuznov, having learned from Szabo that Peter knew about their plan, must have arranged the deaths of Peter and Emma. But now Omar Basayev, a Chechen, planning to assassinate him. . . . The Hungarian prime minister had never even heard of Omar. That meant someone had hired the Chechen. But who?

  Szabo’s immediate thought was Peter Toth, the most likely candidate, but Peter was dead. All of these facts somehow had to be interrelated. Suppose Peter had hired Omar before he died in the fire? That would make sense. If he had hired Omar to kill both Szabo and Kuznov and the Russian had found out, he would undoubtedly have Peter killed. The fire might have been murder, not an accident.

  Szabo had a burning desire to get to the bottom of this, but he didn’t dare approach Kuznov. That might put his fifty million euros in jeopardy.

  He racked his brain trying to think about how he could gain some additional information. Then it struck him—Gyorgy, Toth’s business partner and confidante, might know what Peter had planned.

  Szabo summoned the head of military intelligence and told him, “I want you to arrest Gyorgy Kovacs. Interrogate him to find out whether he knows anything about a plan by Peter Toth to hire a Chechen by the name of Omar Basayev to conduct a terrorist attack in Budapest.”

  “Are there any limitations on what I can do to Gyorgy Kovacs?” the head of intelligence asked.

  Szabo thought about it for a minute. Gyorgy’s father was still revered by some for what he had done in the 1956 revolution. Those people would be upset at Szabo’s plan to give Russia a role in Hungary. He couldn’t do anything to further incite them.

  “Yes, you can only keep him twelve hours, and you cannot do anything that will leave marks on his body. We have to be able to deny any charges he makes after he is released.”

  Paris

  After they had ended the call with President Worth and Betty, Craig had reserved a seat on the first plane to Budapest the following morning at eight, and Elizabeth hadn’t tried to stop him.

  Then they went to Market on Avenue Matignon for a casual dinner. As soon as they ordered—sole meunière with salad for both of them, and a Latour Meursault Blagny—Elizabeth said, “I should be going with you to Budapest. Having just been there, I could be of help.”

  “I know you could,” Craig replied, “and I’d love to have you, but what about Nick? Do you really want to leave him by himself in Paris?”

  Elizabeth looked glum. “I guess you’re right,” she said.

  An hour and a half later, they were walking back to the Bristol when Elizabeth’s encrypted phone rang.

  “Where are you?” Betty asked.

  “Craig and I are on the street fifteen minutes away from our hotel.”

  “Call me as soon as you get into your suite.”

  Elizabeth put away the phone, saying, “It sounds important.”

  “I wonder what could have happened in the last two hours,” Craig mused. They hurried back to the hotel and immediately called Betty, putting the call on speaker.

  “You will not believe this,” Betty said.

  “Go ahead,” Elizabeth told her.

  “I just received a call from the FBI director. He had no idea why it took so long, but the analysis of dental records of the two dead bodies in the fire in Peter’s house just came back. They are not Peter and Reka.”

  “What?” Craig blurted out. “Then who the hell are they?”

  “The FBI has no idea. Their dental expert thinks that based on the dental work they had done, both bodies were Russian males.”

  “Of course,” Craig said. “I get it.”

  “You get what?” Betty asked.

  “Nick heard two Russian intruders in the house, but he didn’t stick around long enough to find out what happened next. After he had left, Peter must have killed the intruders and burnt down the house himself. Then he and Reka escaped and hid away somewhere, pretending they had died in the fire.”

  “But why do that?” Elizabeth asked Craig.

  “Peter realized Kuznov had a hit out on him. He wanted to make sure Omar killed Kuznov before they could get to him.”

  “If you’re right,” Elizabeth said, “Peter will be in Budapest. He’ll want to make sure that Omar completes the job. He’ll also want to celebrate Szabo’s death and help shape the new Hungarian government.”

  “Correct,” Craig said. “So if I can talk to Peter before Omar strikes, I might be able to convince him to call off the attack. He may know where Omar is hiding—he may have even arranged that hiding place.”

  “Terrific,” Elizabeth said. “You’ll be able to tell Peter that we know he planned Omar’s attack. Unless he calls it off, he’ll spend the rest of his life in jail. After everything he’s put at risk, I doubt if that will influence him, though.”

  “Why don’t we find Peter first,” Craig said. “Then we’ll decide how to play it.”

  “I hate to prick your balloon, you two,” Betty said, “but how do you think you’ll be able to locate Peter in Budapest? He’ll no doubt be in hiding himself.”

  “What about your friend, Gyorgy Kovacs?” Craig said to Elizabeth. “Maybe Gyorgy
can lead us to Peter.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I doubt that he’d let Gyorgy know he was alive, and even if he did, Gyorgy would never tell us.”

  “I can’t argue with that. You know Gyorgy better than I do. But there has to be a way we can get to Peter.” Then it struck Craig. “Nick. Of course. That’s the answer.”

  “What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked.

  “If Nick called Peter—he must have Peter’s cell phone number—and asked Peter to come and see him in Budapest, Peter would never turn Nick down. Then you and I would take Nick with us to Budapest.”

  “I don’t like it,” Elizabeth said.

  “Why not? From everything we know about Nick’s relationship with Peter, Peter would come.”

  “That’s not what’s bothering me.”

  “What then?”

  “With all Nick’s been through, you think we should raise the kid’s hopes that his grandfather is still alive and in Budapest when we have no evidence of either of those facts? I’m afraid if his hopes were dashed, he’d never recover emotionally.”

  “What do you think Betty?” Craig asked.

  “It seems to me that you’re making a wild guess based on no facts that Peter will be in Budapest, even if he is alive. For all we know Kuznov may have learned that Peter escaped the fire and found another way to kill him.”

  “Thanks, Betty,” Craig said glumly.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Betty clarified. “I hope you’re right. And as for Elizabeth’s concern about Nick and the impact of all this on him, I think you need the advice of a professional on that.”

  “Great idea,” Craig said. “Elizabeth, why don’t you call your friend who runs the clinic and ask him?”

  “I guess I can do that,” she conceded reluctantly.

  “Can you trust him?” Betty asked.

  “Absolutely,” Elizabeth replied.

  “Good. Talk to him and let me know how it turns out,” Betty said. Then she added, “So I guess you’re going to Budapest either way, Craig.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll alert Douglas Caldwell, our station chief whose office is in the embassy in Budapest. As a favor, I’ll tell him to give you anything you need.”