Counterplay

10

“So now he’s ‘uncle Vladimir’?” Karp inquired as their cabdriver wove his way down Centre and turned onto the Brooklyn Bridge for the ride over to Brighton Beach.

Karp wasn’t sure how he felt about her adopting his “other” family. “Uncle Vladimir” was actually his great-uncle Vladimir Karchovski, his paternal grandfather’s brother and, of greater concern, a power in the Russian mob over in Brighton Beach.

He did not know the man well. He’d always been a distant relative, seen rarely on childhood visits to his grandfather’s house. Back then he’d just been a nice old man who liked to lift him up to eye level, ask if he’d been a good boy, and when he responded in the affirmative, gave him pieces of licorice candy he kept individually wrapped in his coat pockets.

Only when Karp had grown older, probably about the time he entered law school, did his father spill the beans and tell him the truth about his uncle “the gangster.” The announcement had stunned him. His dream was to become a prosecutor with the New York District Attorney’s Office and somehow “gangster” and “prosecutor” didn’t seem to mix well. But his father had assured him that “that” side of the family had always kept their affairs to themselves, and after Karp got on with the DAO, it had been understood that so long as no laws were broken in the County of New York, there would be no cause for family strife.

Other than the rare birthday card, a present of Russian crystal wine goblets for his and Marlene’s wedding, and gifts of Russian nesting dolls when the children were born, there’d been very little contact between Karp and the Brooklyn Karchovskis. That was until that past fall when Vladimir Karchovski asked his son, Yvgeny, heir to his father’s criminal empire, to arrange a meeting with Karp and Marlene on Ellis Island to pass on information that had helped Karp unravel the Coney Island Four case.

A short time later, the Karchovski family crossed paths again with the family Karp. Yvgeny Karchovski’s half brother, Alexis Michalik, an NYU professor, was accused of raping student Sarah Ryder. Ryder had been the one to stick Harry “Hotspur” Kipman with the scissors when Marlene had proved she was a liar out to get Michalik.

The case had gone a long way in getting Yvgeny, a former colonel in the Soviet Red Army who’d illegally immigrated to the United States to join his father, to acknowledge that the legal system in America could and did work. But after that, Karp and his Brooklyn relations had gone back to their respective turfs.

That distance, however, had not included all the members of Karp’s immediate family. Marlene, who’d met the older man and been charmed by his Old World manner and kindness, surprised her husband one evening by announcing that she’d been painting over on the boardwalk at Brighton Beach and decided to stop by that afternoon to see Vladimir at his St. Petersburg Tea Room restaurant. She’d been greeted by both the old man and his son like a long-lost daughter and sister, respectively. Her money had been no good as they dined on honey cakes, cabbage pies, and pickled tomatoes, washed down with lemon kvas and green tea, while they talked about their lives and families.

Vladimir would like to see the twins again, Marlene had said that night.

Now, we’re arranging family visits? Karp had sighed in response.

To be sure, he was curious about his family’s history. They’d all belonged to a Jewish community in the Galicia region of Poland. But Cossacks had burned the village, murdering Jews of all ages and genders. His father’s side of the family had immigrated to the United States; the other side had escaped into Russia where they’d eventually joined the Bolshevik Revolution and became heroes of the Red Army. He knew that Yvgeny had served in Afghanistan until his tank had been struck by a rocket, leaving a portion of his face and upper body scarred.

There were questions Karp would have liked to ask his cousin, and to be honest, in the brief instances they’d been together, he’d found that he liked his Brooklyn relatives. Yet, at the heart of it all, he was ill at ease with the whole criminal enterprise business. The relationship, which both sides understood, would always remain at arm’s length.

Moreover, ofttimes, he wondered how many people they might have killed. Probably no more than Marlene, he mused, which caused him to wince. His wife’s propensity for acting the part of the avenging angel made it difficult to point the finger at others sometimes.

Marlene had taken the boys to see their great-great-uncle and cousin by herself. She’d started to explain to Vladimir that Butch would have come except he had to work, but the old man put a finger to his lips. We are family, and I understand why these meetings are…difficult for him. When you see him, give him my love…an old man’s affection for his brother’s grandson. And thank him for loaning his beautiful wife and darling boys for a few hours to brighten an old man’s afternoon.

From his large but not ostentatious home in the middle of the Russian community, they’d walked past the knish shops and furriers to the boardwalk along the beach. Marlene had done her best to ignore the dark sedans that slowly preceded and followed them, as well as the two burly Slavic types who walked behind them at a discreet distance as if out for a mob-guy stroll.

Vladimir wore a light-colored linen suit with a black beret, which she discovered was his favored mode of dress when out for his daily walk along the boardwalk. While the twins ran off to play along the breakers on the beach, the old man and Marlene got a chance to talk about his role in the community. She noticed how ordinary people greeted Vladimir warmly and treated him with extreme deference, but it didn’t seem borne of fear so much as genuine affection for a benefactor.

Yes, they don’t see me as a…a gangster, he said. I dislike that term myself. It is for people who seek a life of crime because that is what they want-it is the way they are made. I suppose it can be argued that I didn’t have to lead this life either. For instance, my brother, your husband’s grandfather, he was a success as an honest businessman. But I came later, with no money and up against a lot of…of discrimination because I was “stupid” immigrant, a Russian Jew, maybe a Bolshevik…. I did not feel I had the choice if I wanted to support my family and myself, and to protect them from bad men with evil intent who would have preyed upon us. It has been this way for many people when they come here-the Irish, the Italians.

Vladimir had walked a little farther, pointing and laughing at where the boys chased through a crowd of protesting seagulls. He stopped and looked out to sea, as if to imagine those ships full of immigrants. We had to organize ourselves, the strong leading the weak, when the larger society wouldn’t help. I made my living by sneaking people into this country, yes, for profit, but I also feel good about that. And I make money off such things as gambling and some of man’s other vices-but those are his choices, I am merely a provider of goods and service. Never drugs, and I would not demean women by making them prostitutes. And if I have…at times…resorted to violence, it has only been in defense of me, my family, or my people. As such, I offer no apologies and any sins I have committed will be judged by God.

Marlene had been over to visit the old man several times since, occasionally running into Yvgeny, who had always treated her warmly. Then one day, while drinking tea with Vladimir at his restaurant, he’d suddenly asked if she and Butch would consider coming to dinner at his house.

I wouldn’t ask…or risk my nephew’s reputation if I did not think it important to discuss something directly with him. It is the sort of thing best discussed in person and not over the telephone lines.

Marlene had accepted. Later, when she told Butch, he’d agreed with an uncharacteristic solemn nod.

As the cab rolled over the Brooklyn Bridge, the couple grew silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Then Butch said quietly so that only his wife could hear. “Fey was murdered last night.”

Marlene blinked hard once. “How?”

“I don’t know much,” he said. “Jaxon called just a few minutes before you arrived and didn’t want to talk until we’re face-to-face tomorrow. But apparently, Fey was strangled…with rosary beads.”

“Kane,” she said, echoing his response a half hour earlier.

“Yeah, looks like it,” he answered. “I’d like to know how Kane found him. The feds had him buried pretty deep.”

Marlene wasn’t so surprised. “The feds had a traitor who got a bunch of kids murdered and Fulton shot to help Kane escape.”

“Yeah, but Michael Grover’s dead, and supposedly he didn’t know Fey’s whereabouts. Anyway, I’ll know more tomorrow.”

Marlene stared out her window. She clutched her handbag to her lap, glad of the heavy presence of the Glock inside but upset that her family was in danger again. “It’s getting dark outside,” she said wiping at the tears that had formed in her eyes.

When they arrived in the Karchovskis’ neighborhood, the streets were oddly empty of cars and pedestrians. As they pulled up to the house, a large man whose head seemed to almost disappear into his massive shoulders waddled out from the gated courtyard to pay the cabbie and escort them into the living room of the house. He then waddled back the way they had come without saying a word the entire time.

They didn’t wait long. Vladimir Karchovski soon appeared, leaning on the arm of his son, Yvgeny. He immediately disengaged himself and came forward to hug Marlene and kiss her on each cheek. He then greeted Butch in the same way. “Welcome, welcome to my home,” he said and led them to the sitting area.

Marlene took a seat on the couch next to the old man. Butch and Yvgeny remained standing, which gave her a chance to compare the two. They were nearly identical in height, weight, and age. Anyone who did not know them might have guessed that they were brothers, maybe twins. They both had high, wide cheekbones and would have had the same eyes, gray flecked with gold and curiously slanted, except that Yvgeny had lost one of his during a battle in Afghanistan and now wore a black patch. They were both handsome men in a rugged way, and even the scars from the burns on his face did not subtract from the overall attractiveness of Yvgeny. Careful, old girl, Marlene cautioned herself, keep thinking this way and you’ll be fantasizing about a Marlene sandwich.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Vladimir said.

“Uh, they aren’t worth that much,” she replied, wondering if the old man’s sly smile meant he’d read her mind.

A chessboard was set up on the coffee table in front of the couch. When Yvgeny noticed Karp’s attention drawn to it, he asked, “Do you play?”

Karp shook his head. “Not really. Or perhaps I should say ‘horribly,’ a real amateur…a sort of ‘last man standing’ strategy that would get me whipped by either one of my sons.”

“Ah, but so very American,” Yvgeny said, picking up a silver cigar box and opening it to offer one to Karp, who declined, and to Marlene, who accepted. “The subtleties don’t interest you, you’d rather…how do you say it…‘slug it out.’ Always rushing in where the proverbial angels fear to tread.”

“Are you saying Americans are fools?” Karp asked with a smile. He knew his cousin was trying to bait him and he was willing to rise to it for the time being.

“Perhaps,” Yvgeny said. “Or maybe just naive, a sort of innocent belief in yourselves. But there must be something to it that allowed the United States to become the most powerful nation ever on the planet, more powerful than even the old Soviet Union. Maybe it is your bigger-than-life mythology…good guys in white hats always beating the bad guys in black hats…you don’t believe you can lose, and so you don’t lose. You are always so reluctant to start a fight-or, more importantly in today’s world, to strike first-even though you know you are being threatened. It is almost as though you cannot fight back until pushed nearly to the brink of not being able to fight at all.”

“How do you mean?”

“Your history is replete with examples of what I am talking about. The easiest is, of course, American reluctance to enter World War Two. If the Japanese had not been so stupid as to attack and waken the sleeping giant, you would have probably not started fighting until it was too late…your allies already gone down in flames, and you would have been standing alone against the darkness. It is the same now with this so-called War on Terrorism. You have been attacked-repeatedly-and yet you treat each incident as if it were some sort of separate crime, instead of an act of war. You worry about such things as ‘profiling’ young Muslim men because of your sense of fair play and not wanting to discriminate, yet it is young male Muslim extremists who are intent on murdering all of us. You have the power to obliterate entire regions where you know your enemy is hiding, yet you send in your troops to do the slow, dirty work-and to die-because you don’t want to risk harming ‘innocent’ civilians.”

“Is that so bad?” Karp asked.

“Only if you want to survive,” Yvgeny countered. “For one thing, those citizens are probably not so innocent if they are lending support, recruits, and a base of operations to your enemies. You cannot fight this war the way you are going about it, not if you want to win it. You are simply not killing them fast enough, or enough of them, to discourage the rest, even in Iraq. But you are reluctant to bring the full force of your military power down on their heads because it would look like you are the bully, and Americans hate bullies.”

Yvgeny shook his head. “Once again, you will wait until you are pushed to the brink, before you will act as you did against the Japanese and Germans in World War Two, brutally, ruthlessly, and accepting nothing except unconditional surrender or death. The problem is that when you wait too long, you start at a disadvantage, which will cost more lives than it otherwise might have-innocent lives as the terrorists kill until finally you say ‘enough’ and do what it takes to put a stop to it. But this time, if you wait too long, you might not win at all, your culture-all Western culture-could be wiped out except what is allowed according to the whims of a despotic religious leader, a Caliph. Even now it will be difficult to turn the tide. I know these people; I fought them in Chechnya and Afghanistan. It is nothing for them to lose their lives.”

Karp’s eyes had widened at the mention of the Caliph and again at Chechnya. He would have liked his cousin’s take on the issue, but Yvgeny reached out and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Come, let us go eat,” Yvgeny said. “This is not the time for political discussions. I am sorry to have climbed up onto my soap stand.”

“Box…soapbox,” Karp said. “It’s an expression.”

“Yes, soapbox-an interesting concept; you’ll have to tell me the derivation of it sometime,” Yvgeny said. “But I shouldn’t have given such a speech. Besides, what effect can an American district attorney and a Russian…ah…businessman have on such enormous affairs of state?”

“You never know,” Karp said. “It’s why we have a First Amendment protecting free speech and a free press. Without discussion and debate-whether between two people or among two million-we will indeed be lost.”

“Well said, cousin,” Yvgeny laughed. “Spoken like a true American.”

Dinner was soon served in the formal dining room, a collection of dark teak, leather, brass, and crystal that could have been brought piecemeal out of Tsarist Russia with its portraits of ancient nobility, tapestries, and Greek Orthodox icons of varying sizes on the walls. Even the meal was Russian-several courses consisting mainly of pelmeni, which were small balls of minced meat covered with pastry, shashlik, a seasoned and broiled lamb dish, potato vareniki and mushrooms in sour cream sauce, all of it accompanied by a powerful red rkatsiteli wine from Anapa. “That’s a famous wine-producing resort area on the Black Sea,” said Vladimir, who had enjoyed pointing out where each dish and wine had come from in Russia, as well as giving a bit of the history of either the course or the region. His tales were accented by a young man playing the balalaika in the background.

The wine kept flowing and none of them were feeling any pain by the time they rose from the dinner table and retired to the library. The room was another tribute to Russian dramatics with its enormous fireplace in which a roaring blaze had been laid, and row upon row of books from floor to ceiling, some of which could be reached only by rolling ladders. Again Marlene sat down on a couch next to Vladimir, while Karp sank into an overstuffed leather chair next to her.

Yvgeny poured a round of cognac for each and then passed his cigar box. Karp was going to turn him down again, but saw that Marlene had already cut the tip off of another and was happily puffing away with Vladimir, so he decided what the hell and followed suit.

“Thank you for your wonderful company this evening,” Vladimir said, toasting the others. “Still, I realize that it comes at some danger for your political aspirations. I apologize for asking you to come here, but I cannot travel to Manhattan to see you-there are too many people watching you and your family, not all of them well intentioned, but I’m sure you know that. We made sure that you were not followed here; my men were waiting when you came over the bridge and would have intercepted any intruders. The cab driver was also one of my people, and he will take you home.”

Karp, who was feeling a little light-headed after just two puffs and a sip of cognac, waved off the apology. “We should have done this sooner, Uncle Vladimir,” he said. “Marlene’s right: families need to touch base.”

The old man smiled. “Yes, Karchovski or Karp, we are the same blood. Which is why I felt the need to talk to you tonight, but mostly have you listen to my son, Yvgeny. It involves Andrew Kane, which is why I thought it important enough to discuss it face-to-face and away from prying eyes and ears…. Anyway, the first part of this, I can fill you in on. Quite simply, you have probably noticed a large influx of money into your opponent’s campaign coffers. This sooka-pardon my Russian, Marlene-this Rachman has…what is the expression?…hitched her wagon to a dark star. The money behind her campaign is coming from people and businesses with ties to Mr. Kane.”

“Are you sure about that?” Karp asked, sitting up and trying to clear his head.

“Yes,” the old man replied. “I confess to have taken some amateurish interest in your campaign-not to interfere, mind you-and was perusing the campaign contribution public records on the computer and noticed first the influx of money, and then a trend of who it was coming from. Some of it is from members of the social elite, as well as law firms and businesses who had ties to Kane’s former election campaign; some is being generated among a more secretive group of people whose names you might not recognize unless you travel in certain ‘less desirable’ circles more attuned to Mr. Kane’s illegal activities.”

Vladimir leaned forward and pushed a sheaf of papers that had been lying on the coffee table toward Marlene, who picked them up and began looking through them. “I’ve highlighted some of the more interesting contributors,” he said.

Marlene whistled. “There are some heavy hitters on this list. Millionaires, lawyers, doctors, politicians…and a few who, if I’m not mistaken, are in prison. It would appear that Mr. Kane’s influence is still being felt in Gotham’s public and private sectors.”

As his wife ticked off some of the names, Karp’s mind was whirling from the cognac, cigar smoke, and possibility that his campaign opponent was being subsidized through the efforts of a man sworn to kill him and his family. He searched for another explanation. “They may just be people upset that we spoiled his bid for mayor,” he pointed out. “It could be that they’d support anybody, so long as it wasn’t me.”

Vladimir shrugged. “Maybe so, but I doubt it. This money poured in almost overnight; there was a sudden push that had to come from somewhere. Rachman had nothing-not so much as a tissue to wipe her…well, I won’t say with a woman present-but now she has what the newspapers are calling ‘one of the best-financed campaigns for district attorney since Garrahy’…I am thinking that if this information got out to the press, it would pretty much sink her airplane.”

“Boat,” Karp corrected. “Sink her boat. But I’d prefer to keep this quiet, at least for now. I don’t want to run a campaign based on innuendo against my opponent. It would be hard to prove that Kane is behind this influx of cash and might even come off looking like I was getting desperate and afraid to run on my record. I’ve got enough accusations of playing ‘dirty politics’ because of the Stavros case. Besides, I’d like to figure out what Kane is up to with this. Why should he care whether I win or lose the election if his aim is to kill me? It doesn’t make sense to call in all those ‘favors,’ if that’s what he’s done, unless he has something to gain by supporting Rachman.”

“It is a good question,” Vladimir agreed. “I will give it some thought as well. And the information stays here for now…. So let us move on to Yvgeny.”

All eyes turned to Vladimir’s son, who was standing in front of the fire, holding his snifter of cognac, watching the flames. Without turning, Yvgeny said, “Forgive me if this is all rather melodramatic. Blame the cognac, good food, good company, and the fact that Russians must turn even the smallest gathering into an occasion to tell a story full of dark moods, tragedy, and impending doom.”

Yvgeny walked over to one of the bookcases and, reaching up, pulled down a map of the world. He pointed to a spot in southern Russia and looked back at his guests. “Chechnya,” he said. “Russia’s pathway to the Caspian Sea, as well as vital oil lines. It is part of a region that has known little peace throughout its history and a succession of invaders from Mongols to Cossacks to Bolsheviks to Soviets to Russians.”

He turned away from the map and faced his audience. “In the late forties, Stalin ordered the Chechen people-mostly Muslim, as well as native Muslim peoples in the neighboring regions-to be ‘relocated’ to camps in Kazakhstan and Siberia. A quarter to perhaps half of these populations-hundreds of thousands of people-died under the brutal conditions of the deportation and the camps. The reason they were removed was twofold. One was to replace them with Russians. The other was Stalin did not want any Muslims, who might have had questionable allegiances, living in the contemplated invasion routes to Turkey, which he coveted for its oil and warm water ports.

“In the fifties, the ‘reeducated’ Chechen-which is a Russian word, they call themselves Nokhchi-were allowed to return to their homelands, only to find that they had been given to Russians and others. They had to buy back their homes and fields, if they could afford it, and many could not. They were second-class citizens in their own lands.

“In 1991, Chechen nationalists declared independence rather than join the new Russian federation. They even held an election and voted for a president. But it was a government plagued by corruption and men looking out for themselves rather than their new country. However, I have come to believe that some of the failings of this government were actually a planned sabotage by the Russians, who used the instability to send in troops and establish their own puppet government. It was the start of a long and bloody civil war with the illegitimate puppet government-a collection of criminals and gangsters, some of them actually released from prison by their masters-and Russians on one side, Chechen nationalists on the other. I personally have seen the results as an officer with the Russian army-before I was sent to fight Muslims in Afghanistan, I was fighting them in Chechnya.”

Yvgeny walked over to the desk and poured himself another cognac and then offered it to his father, Karp, and Marlene, all of whom held up their glasses. “Am I boring you yet? No? Good,” he said. “I promise the point of all this will become clear in a moment. Continuing…this puppet government, which in truth is controlled by gangsters in Moscow, is allowed to prey upon its own people so long as payments are made to their masters and the oil flows into Russia undisturbed. In the meantime, the Russians get to keep their troops in this vital region, supposedly by ‘invitation’ of this illegitimate government, although a lot of what has occurred since 1991 falls more under the description of ‘ethnic cleansing’ than warfare.

“Fortunately, most of the worst atrocities committed by Russians are done by the ‘special purpose detachments’ of the Ministry of the Interior and the Federal Security Service, OSNAZ, which used to be the KGB. These are paramilitary units created to deal with internal conflicts and terrorism, although they are certainly quite capable of terrorism themselves. They call it bespredel, which translates literally to ‘no limits.’ It means acting outside the rules, violently and with impunity. Women and children are raped, tortured, and killed. Prisoners are maimed and executed. The barbarity of this war-out of sight of most of the Western media-is unimaginable.

“Meanwhile, Chechnya has become a quagmire for the Russian army, which is taking significant losses-sort of like your Vietnam and Iraq, and our Afghanistan. Meanwhile, young, half-trained Russian soldiers are being sent to fight and die there, but for what? There has been no effort to bring peace to the region, either by winning this war or by negotiated settlement with the nationalists. It is more like the Russian government would rather keep the region inflamed so as to explain the presence of their troops and legitimize the present government to the outside world. Russian officers who question these things and try to rein in the excesses of the troops are sent home or on dangerous assignments from which they often do not return. Some of my friends and former fellow officers have been among these.”

Yvgeny paused long enough to throw back his cognac and pour another. “One of the effects of this civil war, especially in the past five years or so, has been to attract other groups to the fighting. The worst of these are the Muslim extremists, many of them influenced and supported by al Qaeda and other groups from the Middle East. Their purported goals are the same as the nationalists: to kick the Russians out of Chechnya. However, they do not want to see the formation of a secular democratic republic, but rather an Islamic theocracy that would eventually be melded into a single Islamic state, the caliphate I mentioned earlier that would stretch from North Africa to the Far East. Imagine such resources all brought under the control of a single religious fanatic whose rule would be based upon a hatred for Western culture. Such a man might be impossible for even the great United States to stop.”

Yvgeny let the image sink in for a moment. “The Muslim extremists brought a new form of fighting to the battle. While the Chechen nationalists are fierce fighters and would slit the throat of any Russian soldier for fun, their targets have always been primarily military. But these new Islamic hard-liners favored the terrorist acts aimed at the civilian population of Russia-”

“The nationalists don’t commit acts of terror?” Karp asked, thinking of Ellis’s description of the nationalists as murderers and thugs.

Yvgeny pursed his lips and nodded. “Sure, there are some in the nationalist movement who, either through frustration or because it fits their personality, welcomed the new tactics. But they are not the mainstream of the secular independence movement, which has been trying to negotiate a peace settlement so long as it includes an independent state of Ichkeria. The moderates in the nationalist movement struggle to disavow the acts of terror against civilians and being aligned with Islamic extremism. But there is an interesting marriage occurring: the Islamic extremists and certain powerful people within the Russian government seem determined to link the nationalists to the more fanatical groups, especially al Qaeda, which almost guarantees that whatever the Russians do to suppress the nationalists will be accepted here.”

Karp put his cigar down, it was making him queasy. “You fought these Chechen nationalists, but now you sound more like you’re on their side. Why is that?”

“Why?” Yvgeny repeated, looking over at his father who had seemed to be nodding off but suddenly perked up. “Because I am a Russian patriot. I do not like what has been done and what is being done in the name of the Russian republic to a people who want only independence. What’s more, I am a former Russian officer who led good, young men into battle and watched them get killed. But it is one thing to die for your country, and another to die for a lie. Myself and some like-minded others think that the Russian government is actually in…how is the expression? In cahoots?…with the Islamic extremists to prevent the Chechen nationalists from forming a legitimately elected democratic republic. They want chaos and instability, even if it costs Russian lives.”

“But why?” Marlene asked.

“From the Russian government’s point of view, it’s easy,” Yvgeny replied. “If there was a stable, independent Chechnya, they would no longer have an excuse to station troops there to ensure that the oil pipelines kept delivering. Access to the warm water ports is also important. And, not unimportantly, if the corrupt government in Chechnya was replaced, the graft and bribes, as well as the proceeds from criminal enterprises, would stop coming to Moscow to line the pockets of government officials and gangsters.”

“But why would Islamic extremists cooperate with the Russian government?” Karp asked, feeling a bit slow. “Don’t they want the Russians out of Chechnya, too, so that they can establish their caliphate?”

“Yes and no,” Yvgeny replied. “Eventually, they want the Russians to leave. However, there are several reasons they are willing to delay that fight. One, every time they strike a blow at infidels, in this case Russian civilians and soldiers, it is a wonderful recruiting and money-raising event. Without Russians to attack in Chechnya, they’d be left to fight other Muslims, the Chechen nationalists, which wouldn’t go over as well in other parts of the Muslim world, which is part of why the hard-liners publicly are careful to align themselves with their ‘Muslim brothers’ within the nationalist movement.

“Another reason is that a foreign infidel government is not nearly the threat to the Islamic caliphate as a single Islamic democracy. Once even Muslims taste freedom and get used to the concept of self-determination, they are not going to want to turn everything over to a single man to make decisions for all the rest. And if there is one such democracy, there will be more-the concept of a caliphate would be shattered by the formation of separate states based on national and even ethnic, but not religious, identities. Why else do you think they are fighting so desperately in Iraq and Afghanistan, killing Muslims by the thousands in direct violation of the Quran, to prevent the establishment of stable democracies? It is the democracies, not you Americans, which are the real threat to their plans. So in Chechnya, they are willing to work in an unholy alliance with their enemies the Russians to first defeat the nationalists.”

Karp cleared his throat, privately swearing off cigars and booze. “I don’t mean to be dense,” he said, “but what has this got to do with Kane? If it still does.”

Yvgeny looked at Karp quizzically, as if to tell him that he was on to him. “I am taking it that by now you have heard that a woman called Samira Azzam was instrumental in Kane’s escape and that she is a member of al Qaeda,” he said. When Karp didn’t answer, he nodded and said, “I understand you have probably been sworn to secrecy, so let me tell you what you already know and, perhaps, add a little to it.”

The tall Russian picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and handed it to Karp, who gave it to Marlene. It was a fuzzy photograph of a young, dark-haired woman walking down a sidewalk, looking back over her shoulder. Marlene noted the large mole on her cheek.

“That is the only known photograph of Azzam, whose real name is Nathalie Habibi. It was taken accidentally in 1999 by a tourist as Azzam walked away from an Israeli shopping mall. Moments later, a suicide bomber blew himself up inside the mall, killing thirteen people, including a new mother with an infant. As you may already know, she was also behind the seizing of hostages at a musical theater in Moscow that ended with more than one hundred deaths, as well as the slaughter of more than three hundred innocent people, mostly children, at a school in Beslan. In both instances, the theater and the school, nearly all the terrorists were killed along with their victims, but Azzam always walked away unscathed and undetected by authorities even though the scenes were cordoned off.”

Marlene frowned. “You’re saying the Russian government allowed her to escape to fight again another day. And that means they’re allowing terrorists to murder their own people.”

“Exactly,” Yvgeny said, “though it should come as no surprise. We Russians have always been good at killing our own people. Stalin killed millions more than Hitler ever dreamed of.”

“But all those children,” Marlene said.

Yvgeny nodded sadly. “Yes, I know. It is a cold thing to contemplate. But you also have to understand that after all this time, Western journalists were beginning to actually look into complaints by the main nationalist party about Russian atrocities, including the bombardment of noncombatant towns and cities, and examples of ethnic cleansing-sometimes the population of entire villages wiped out-by the OSNAZ. The press was beginning to lend a sympathetic ear to the cries for independence and human rights abuses. A few brave journalists were even writing stories about the corruption and organized crime that dominates the Chechen puppet government. But then Beslan happened and good-bye sympathetic press. Despite denials by the main body of Chechen nationalists that they were involved at all, the Russian government went to great lengths to link Chechen nationalism to Islamic extremism for the massacre; for all intents and purposes, they were one and the same. Of course, any mention of a connection to Islamic terrorists to the Western press sets off their alarm bells. The Chechen nationalists went from being called freedom fighters to Islamic terrorists, thugs, and murderers.”

“Which brings us to why Azzam is in the United States helping Kane,” Karp said.

“Yes, my impatient cousin, forgive the lengthy discourse,” Yvgeny said. “As effective as Beslan was at discrediting the nationalist movement, it wasn’t enough. It was too far away and would be soon forgotten in the United States. They needed something here, something so horrific and international that any sympathy for an independent Chechnya would evaporate forever.”

“So what do you think they are going to do?” Karp asked.

Yvgeny paused and looked at the fire. “We are concerned that it has something to do with the Russian president’s speech to the United Nations in September. He is supposed to talk about the situation in Chechnya and the continued Russian presence there.”

“But I thought you said the Russian government was in on this,” Marlene said. “Are they willing to assassinate Putin, not to mention blowing up the United Nations?”

Yvgeny shrugged. “In some ways it does not make sense. You’ll remember that Putin is an ex-colonel in the KGB, the secret police that is now the Federal Security Service, which runs OSNAZ. It was our feeling at first glance that this conspiracy against the Chechen nationalists might go to the very top of Russian government and that he might be involved. After all, a leopard does not change its spots and this leopard was under pressure to withdraw from Chechnya both at home and abroad.

“It is no secret that the Russian people’s support for the war in Chechnya was waning; mothers were tired of their sons coming home in body bags. After Beslan public opinion in support of the war soared, as did Putin’s approval rating for his promises to root out terrorism, which by the way was met with great enthusiasm at the White House and Ten Downing Street. There has been a lot of discussion on the internet as to whether the terror bombings in Moscow and the massacre at Beslan were actually tailor-made for our president and his government.”

“So we’re barking up the wrong tree on that one?” Karp asked.

“Barking up trees?”

“An expression meaning ‘concentrating on the wrong possibility,’ ” Marlene said. “In other words, Putin wouldn’t be a target.”

“Ah, thank you for the explanation, but no, not necessarily,” Yvgeny said. “Assassination is a time-honored tradition in Russia, especially among its secret police agencies going back to the tsars. There are plenty of powerful people in Russia who would not shed any tears over the death of Vladimir Putin-some find him too weak, some find him too strong…sort of like your fairy tale of Goldie and the Three Bears. It would certainly mean all-out war in Chechnya, perhaps the use of nuclear weapons, to destroy the nationalist movement and complete the permanent absorption of Chechnya into the Russian federation. There would be no one left who opposed it. His death would serve that purpose.”

“But if Azzam and al Qaeda have this working agreement with the Russian government,” Marlene said, “that means the Russians were involved with the escape plot too…and the murder of those children and police officers.”

Yvgeny hung his head. “I am ashamed to say it, but yes, I think it is possible.”

“I still don’t understand what this has to do with Kane,” said Karp, who was wishing he had not had the last cognac. “Maybe it’s the liquor, but I seem to be the only one who doesn’t get where he comes in.”

Yvgeny smiled. “No, cousin, the liquor I’m sure has us all well grease-”

“Lubricated-” Karp said.

“Well lubricated, then. But we are all in the dark on that question. It may be that Azzam and al Qaeda need his connections with the New York Police Department, which provides security for big events at the UN. He also had a lot of nefarious dealings with some of these rogue governments, so who knows which ones might be willing to listen to him and his schemes. But it could be as simple as his banking connections, too. Something big like this will cost a lot of money, preferably untraceable cash, and it’s a lot harder to move cash around without getting noticed than it was before 9/11.” He laughed. “I can tell you that from personal experience…. We have little to go on at this moment…just rumors being passed to us by associates in Moscow and in Chechnya…but an attack on Putin, real or not, makes sense. Azzam was sent to Chechnya to help destroy the nationalist movement-our spies know that much-and this would be the coup de grace for that mission.”

“So what does that leave us with?” Marlene asked.

No one answered right away. Instead, everyone was tuned in to their thoughts and the crackling of the burning logs.

Inside one of the logs, boiling sap built up pressure until the wood exploded with a shower of sparks and a sound like a gunshot. The hosts and their visitors all jumped, then laughed in embarrassment at their discomfiture.

“What does that leave us with, my dear Marlene?” Vladimir Karchovski chuckled. “Why, the most Russian of all stories…a dark mystery full of intrigue and danger. I bet if you look outside that window, the snow will be falling in the moonlight and somewhere in the distance wolves will be howling.”

Marlene shivered at the thought. “Can I have another cognac, please?”