Conspiracy in Kiev (39 page)
I
n a private search chamber at New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport, Sammy Newman—better known to the world as the singer Billy-O—stood with his hands in his inside-out emptied pockets and wondered how things could have gone so terribly wrong.
In front of him, two US customs agents, with their mulish dedication to their job, went through every bit of his luggage, examining the linings, his dirty socks, and underwear. One was a no-nonsense guy with a trim moustache and glasses. The other was an even-less-nonsense female with a big midsection and pinned-back hair. They said nothing as they methodically disassembled his luggage. A Beatles tune, “Yellow Submarine,” mutilated into Muzak, played softly over the sound system.
Meanwhile, Sammy could have used a yellow submarine to get out of there. The flight from Nice,
première classe
all the way on Air France, had been a sweetheart. Hardly a bump, great food, and there had been two flight attendants who had caught his eye, beautiful Gallic girls with dark eyes, slender builds, and sultry legs. They had pushed their phone numbers into his hands. Sammy had booked a week at the Carlyle in New York and was thinking of inviting both girls over and extending the stay to two weeks. He had some fun planned before having to return to Los Angeles and finding out what his agent had lined up as his next film.
But now,
this!
He was breaking a major sweat.
The agents had gone through the lining of his leather suitcase and had found the extra twenty-thousand dollars that he always carried, a violation of currency transfer regulations. He met that with a shrug. He knew his lawyer could get him out of that one.
“Hey. It’s dangerous to show a lot of cash these days,” he said. “Know what I mean?”
“Currency transfer violation, sir,” the male agent said. “Sorry.”
“Aren’t you from this area?” the woman asked. “New Jersey or something?”
“Westbury, Long Island.”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Knew it was something.”
She then returned to her business of putting Sammy in jail.
The money was just the small stuff. Now, as the perspiration moved from his brow to the side of his face, and as it flooded from his palms, these lousy agents were invading his medicine kit.
He watched. They opened his pill containers and examined the contents. They showed the contents to each other. They glanced at him and didn’t say anything.
“I got a prescription somewhere for everything,” Sammy said, “even if some of the pills got messed up. You know, wrong bottles.”
The agents didn’t say anything.
Sammy was already wondering which of his lawyers he would call, or maybe his manager Adam Winters in Santa Monica, when and if they gave him his phone back. Actually, he pondered, thinking it through further, he might need someone in New York. And fast.
Then Sammy’s spirits hit the floor and shattered. The female agent found what would be the grand prize for her today.
She opened a small vial that was within a larger prescription vial. In the smaller container, there were two little tightly folded packets of aluminum foil, thick and plump, and double wrapped.
“Hey. Gimme a break, could you?” Sammy asked. “Please?”
The agents unwrapped the foil. The contents of the first packet looked like oregano. Or catnip. The agents sniffed. It didn’t appear to be catnip or oregano and it wasn’t basil, either. Well, a pot bust was a pot bust. Worse things could happen.
Then a worst thing did. The second agent unwrapped a smaller packet that had escaped notice at first. The contents this time was a single small cube.
“I don’t know how that got there,” Sammy tried meekly.
“Right,” the male agent said.
The female reached for a pair of handcuffs. All three of them knew what hashish looked like when they saw it. And they saw it right now.
“Sorry, Billy,” she said. “And you know what? This is a real shame. I always liked your music.”
Woman’s body found in Rock Creek Park
POSTED: 4:55 p.m. EST August 21
UPDATED: 7:33 p.m. EST August 21
WASHINGTON (The Washington Post)—A woman was found dead in Rock Creek Park near Walter Reed Hospital on Thursday. Police familiar to the case confirm that it was a homicide from gunshot wounds.
The body was found by a jogger at 9:12 a.m. It was about 30 yards off Sherill Drive near 16th and Aspen streets in Northwest.
Police said the woman appeared to be in her late 50s and was of European descent. She was wearing a tan raincoat and appeared to have a valid passport from a South American country.
“A possibility is that the individual came into the woods to walk and was met by a robber. There were no other signs of trauma other than the gunshot. Her purse was open and there was no money or identification in it, other than her passport,” DC Police Inspector Jerome Myles said. “We just don’t know any more at this time.”
Police said they are awaiting further results from the medical examiner and are attempting to locate any relatives of the woman. Her name has not yet been publicly disclosed.
O
n the morning of the next day, the doctors at the American hospital moved Alex out of critical care into a private room on a regular ward. Late that same afternoon, a nurse came in with a name on a piece of paper to see if she would recognize, to see if a prospective visitor would be allowed.
She recognized the name and was very pleasantly surprised. “
Oui
,
bien sûr
,” Alex answered.
“
Cinq minutes seulement
,” the nurse said, limiting the visit to five minutes.
“
Oh
,
mais pour lui
,
dix?
” she asked. For him, ten? “
S’il vous plait?
”
The nurse rolled her eyes, gave a slight smile, and shrugged, which meant, yes, okay.
The nurse left. A moment later the door eased open. A large man with a slight limp entered the room, carrying a huge bouquet of fresh flowers and a small shopping bag. He wore a dark suit and a dress shirt open at the collar and was a day or two unshaven. More importantly, he was walking very well on one real leg and one fake one.
Alex sat up in the bed and thought of pickup games of basketball back in Washington for the first time in several days, not to mention the dark in March when this same man had deterred her suicide.
“Oh my,” she said. “You sure show up at the strangest times.”
“Hope you don’t mind,” Ben answered.
“Not at all.”
Impetuously, he leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She accepted it. They exchanged as much of a hug as IV tubes would allow. He stepped back and placed the flowers at her bedside table.
“You sure know how to find trouble, no matter where you go,” he said.
“It finds me. What are you doing here?”
“Right now,” he said, “I’m visiting you in the hospital.”
She laughed for the first time in days. It hurt.
“I can see that much,” she said, “but why are you in Paris?”
“I’m visiting you in the hospital,” he repeated.
“I don’t follow,” she said.
It was very simple, he explained. The group that she played basketball with back in Washington, the family at the gym, had heard that Alex had been hospitalized in Paris.
Critical condition, but improving.
“Who did you here that from?” she asked.
“Laura. Laura Chapman.”
“Ah. Of course.” It made sense. Laura would know through government channels.
“Did Laura mention what happened?” she asked.
“No,” he answered hesitantly. “What
did
happen? Some sort of accident in the subway?”
“You could call it that,” Alex said. Then she shook her head. “Long story, actually. For another time, okay?” She motioned to a chair.
“Okay,” he answered.
“Well, anyway,” he continued, sitting down. “There are about fifteen of us regulars who you play with. Dave. Matt. Eric. Laura. A couple of guys whose names you don’t know but who you’d recognize. We all sat around talking a couple of nights ago after a game. I said someone should go visit. So we each dropped a hundred bucks into someone’s sweaty gym bag.”
Alex could feel herself smiling.
“We called it our ‘Alex fund,’ ” he said. “We put everyone’s name in another bag. Whoever’s name got drawn would make the visit, the ‘fund’ covering the expense of the trip, time lost from work, and so on. Since it had been my idea, I was selected to make the draw.”
She laughed. “And you drew your own name?”
Hesitantly, he said, “Yeah. I drew my own name.”
“The hand of God?” she asked.
He smiled. “Nope. I cheated. I palmed the slip of paper with my own name. I wanted to make the trip.”
She laughed. “Good of you,” she said.
“Look at this,” he said, reaching into the bag.
He pulled out a miniature basketball hoop and a foam ball. The hoop was about six inches across, the ball about four inches in diameter. It was one of those $4.98 toys that one sees in offices or children’s rooms.
She laughed again when she saw it, and laughed harder when he stuck it up to the wall and flipped her the ball.
“Should I pass to you so you can dunk it or should I shoot?” she asked.
“Oh, by all means,” he said, “go for the three pointer.”
Her arm hurt too much to raise it. So she threw a random underhand shot up against the wall, about six feet away. It hit the front of the hoop, flew upward, then dropped straight down.
It swished.
“Whoa!” he said. “The hand of God?”
“I’m sure God is too busy to busy to worry about three-point shots in hospital rooms,” she said.
She looked across the room. “See that window over there?” she asked.
“I see it.”
“I’d like to get to it. Will you help me?”
“I’d be honored.”
She slid her legs around so she could slide off the side of the bed. Ben helped her stand, steadying her as she stood. She ached all over. She was again conscious of how she must have fallen because there were bad bruises on her legs and elbows. In a hospital gown she could still see the scratches on her legs from the brambles in the Venezuelan mountains, as well as the hard fall in the French subway.
She looked as if she had been beaten up.
“I don’t know how many individual injuries I have,” she said, “but you know all about stuff like that, right?”
“We’re all wounded in some way. We’re all mutilated. You know that old Paul Simon song, ‘An American Tune’? Goes something like, ‘Don’t know a soul who ain’t been battered, ain’t got a friend who feels at ease …’”
“I know it,” she said.
“One step at a time,” he said, helping her walk. “This is great. You’re doing fine.” He helped the IV-pole trail her.
She nodded and continued the faint tune as he acted as her support. “Don’t know a dream that’s not been shattered,” she sang softly. “Or driven to its knees.”
They sang together. “But it’s all right, it’s all right.”
She hung on his arm, got stronger with each pace, and traveled the dozen steps to the window. She gazed out on the courtyard. Over the roof of the hospital, in the distance, she could see part of the Parisian skyline.
“Well, I’m alive,” she said.
“You’re alive,” he answered. “Against the odds, we both are.”
She nodded. He helped her back to the bed. She sat down, then lay down. Her energy was already gone.
He sat in the chair by the bed for the remaining minutes of his visit. She felt weak but inside she started to feel good. He looked at a small object in a dish by the bedside.
He reached to it. “May I?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He picked up the remains of the stone pendant that had saved her life. It was in three pieces. The center of it had been smashed into dust by the ricocheting bullet so that, if the pieces were pushed back together, one could see, right where the engraved cross came together, a deep gouge. Aside from that, the three pieces fit together perfectly, as if designed by a master carver.
“What’s this?” he asked.
She smiled.
“Come back tomorrow and I’ll tell you,” she said.
He put the pendant back into the dish and then back onto the table. The pieces fit themselves back together. She admired the small cross that Paulina had carved in the stone, thousands of miles away—the small carving that had saved her life.
Distantly, she thought of Paulina.
“It’s a deal,” Ben said. “I’ll come back tomorrow. And you can tell me.”
A few minutes after Ben left, Alex’s strength again ebbed. She settled again into a comfortable sleep.
T
he following morning, for the first time since her arrival at the hospital, Alex felt good enough to sit up and read. Her physician passed by at about 8:00 a.m. There were newspapers in French and a few books at her bedside. Ben’s bouquet sat at her bedside, and now a second one did too, from her former coworkers at Treasury in Washington. Word either traveled fast or not at all these days.
She reached for the papers and began to glance through them. A nurse came by shortly after ten.
“
Il y a encore un visiteur
,” the nurse announced. Another visitor.
“
C’est qui?
” Alex asked.
“
Un médecin étranger
,
je crois
,” the nurse answered. A foreign doctor.
Alex shrugged. “
Bien. Pourquoi pas?
” she said. Well, why not? The more medical advice, the better. Or, she wondered, was the opposite true? Well, she would listen.
She set aside her newspapers and leaned back in her bed. She drew a deep breath as the nurse left the room.
She reached to the side table and pulled out a hand mirror. She glanced into it. To her mind, she looked tired. But, she now realized, she would survive.
Ben’s visit the previous day and the gifts he had brought from America had done more to rally her spirits than she could have imagined. For the first time since arriving there, she began to entertain a restless spirit. How long would she be in the hospital? How long before she could be discharged and go home? How long before she could resume a normal life?
She brushed at her hair with her fingers, instinctively sprucing up for her visitor, even if it was a doctor. Plus, Ben would come by later. The pain in her chest had subsided. Maybe, she wondered, if Ben were staying a few days, he could help her pack her things and return to Washington.
The door opened and a man in a white lab coat entered, his physician’s ID clipped to his lapel. Alex saw him first out of the corner of her eye.
The visitor was tall, strikingly tall, maybe six foot three. He was sturdy with a slight beard, about a week’s worth, and wore a tie. He almost looked like an old priest and he had a faint smell of cigarettes about him. And what type of doctor smells of cigarettes?
She put down the mirror, looked at him, and smiled.
He spoke softly in Russian. “
Zdrastvuyeeti. Dobraye utro.
” Hello. Good morning.
“
Dobraye utro
,” she answered instinctively. Good morning in return.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better today, doctor,” she began. “I—”
She looked into his eyes. With a surge of horror, she pegged the face.
“That’s very good, hey,” he said. “Glad to hear it.”
She sputtered in Russian. “What are you doing here? How did you—?”
She reached for the alarm button to call the nurse. “Please don’t make a sound,” Yuri Federov said. He reached under his lab coat and pulled a gun from his hip. She eyed it. It was a small compact piece, snub nosed and sleek. Chinese.
Fear shot through her. Her hand froze.
“Your security people need to do a better job,” he continued. “Both the Americans and the French. I showed the French police a fraudulent physician’s ID badge,” he said, motioning to the one he wore. “And I walked right past them. And your American guards are down at the nurse’s station, flirting with the pretty French girls, trying to get home phone numbers. What kind of security is that?”
“So you’re here to kill me?” she asked.
“It’s not that simple,” he said.
“No? Then why is your hand still on your gun?”
“Because it’s not that simple.”
He went back to the door and locked it. Then he walked slowly to the window and peered out, downward to the courtyard, as if he were looking for someone or trying to determine if he had been followed.
“Your two bodyguards are dead,” she said. “Anatoli and Kaspar. I’m sure you know that.”
“At the time of their deaths,” Federov said, “they no longer worked for me. They betrayed me.”
“Could have fooled me,” she said.
He scoffed, turning back to her. “I wouldn’t have given the order to kill you, hey? You should know that,” he said. “My competitors in the underworld purchased the loyalty of those around me,” he said. “Anatoli and Kaspar were hired away by those who wanted me out of a position of influence. I was not upset with their deaths.”
“Americans?”
“Maybe. Who knows?”
He turned back from the window.
“Who attacked me in Venezuela?” she asked.
“My competitors,” he said. “To keep the heat on me. So that your government would continue to hunt me, as they do to this day. They don’t know where I am. They don’t know what I do. They are endlessly stupid. It will take them five years to figure out I’ve withdrawn from my businesses.”
“No, they already know that,” she said.
“They tell you that,” Federov said, “but they think otherwise.”
She pondered it. “Why should I believe you?”
“I don’t know. Why should you? Maybe because I’m here. Maybe because I saved your life at least once.”
“What about the attack in Kiev?” she asked. “The attack on the president.”
“I told you at the time. Not my people.
Filorusski
, but not my people.”
“But you knew?”
“Everyone knew. Even your president knew. But your leader was a camera-whore who persisted with the visit.” He paused. “Don’t you realize that you were part of a conspiracy to get
me
killed?” he asked. He coughed. “That’s where the conspiracy began. You were to be next to me. If they knew where you were, they had a sniper ready to get me. So I moved. Can you blame me? They wouldn’t have cared much if they had killed you too!”
“Prove it,” she said.
“Why should I? You already know I’m telling you the truth.”
“You sure you’re not crazy?”
“I’m not crazy like that! I’m Russian. Now I’ll prove both. Insanity, plus a flair for the grand dramatic gesture.”
He raised the gun with startling speed and spun it in his right hand. He removed the loaded clip, checked it, and slammed it back into the magazine again.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said.
He reversed his grip on the pistol and held it by the barrel. Then he handed it to her.
“Take it,” he said. “With guards like yours, you’ll need it.”
“What?”
“Take it! This is your opportunity,” he said. She reached out and took the pistol from him. She aimed it at the midpoint of his chest.
“Very good,” he said, stepping back half a pace to not crowd her. “If you feel you need to kill me,” he said, “do it now. If you feel I’m responsible for your fiancé’s death, avenge yourself. I’m in here illegally. Your story would be that I threatened you. No one would question further. This is my gift to you, a chance to set everything even.”
For what seemed like a long, long while, she held the gun on him.
“But if you do not pull the trigger, I will be out of France by nightfall. I am going somewhere to keep my money warm.”
“Switzerland?”
“Somewhere,” he said. “Hey.” On a piece of notepaper, he wrote down the names of a hotel and a restaurant in Geneva. He handed it to her. “If I can ever do you a favor,” he said, “come visit. Go to the restaurant and ask for me. But come alone.”
She held the weapon steady. She set the notepaper aside.
“I should be going,” he said.
“You should be going,” she agreed.
Yuri Federov, onetime kingpin of crime in Ukraine, turned and walked to the door. At that moment, as if on cue, someone tried the door from the other side and, finding it locked, rapped sharply. A male voice from the other side called out in English.
“Alex? You in there? You okay in there?”
A beat and she answered.
“I’m okay, Ben,” she said.
She pushed the weapon under her top sheet.
“Go,” she said to Federov. “Now.”
Federov unlocked the door. The door opened. Ben stepped in. Federov gave him a nod. Ben gave him a nod in return.
“Sorry,” Ben said with a shrug. He labored in an alien tongue. “
Je ne parle pas français.
” I don’t speak French.
“And I don’t speak English,” Federov lied quickly in English. He turned back to Alex. He smiled. “
Dasvidania
,” he said. Good-bye.
“Uvidimsia
,
”
she answered. See you.
He gave her a final grin and a nod. “
Da. Uvidimsia
,” he agreed. See you.
Federov clasped Ben on the shoulder for a moment and gave him a nod. Then Federov left the chamber.
Ben came in and sat down. He looked at the door, then back to Alex.
“So?” he finally asked. “Who was that?”
A moment passed.
Then, “A friend,” she finally said. “An unlikely friend, but a friend.”