Книга - Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks

Napoleon Great-Great-Grandson Speaks
Rafael Grugman


The book begins with the story of how Napoleon Bonaparte found himself in the house of Armand-Emmanuel du Plessis, the Duke of Richelieu and governor of Odessa, in 1807. A brief liaison with the duke’s 19-year-old Italian servant girl, Luisa Ravelli, resulted in the birth of a son. The bombing of Odessa by an Anglo-French squadron in 1854 and the landing of French troops in Odessa in 1918 had the objective of finding that illegitimate son.The protagonist of the book, Yevgeny Rivilis, is Bonaparte’s great-great-grandson and a Russian emigre who landed in New York in August 1996. His personal drama is compounded by the fact that his ex-wife, Sophia, from whom he is not formally divorced, proves to be the mistress of one of the terrorist leaders… This fact explains the additional interest that the security services have in him…Part two of the book recounts the cooperation and opposition between the FBI and the FSB, one of the successors to the KGB. The security services’ clandestine operations culminate in murders. Both sides suffer losses. An FBI agent and an FSB agent operating under diplomatic cover are victims of the secret war in New York. Sometime later two related murders occur: the killing in Moscow of Yuri Shchekochikhin, an opposition journalist and a member of the State Duma (July, 2003), and the slaying of Zelimkhan Yandarbiyev, the vice-president of Ichkeria in Doha, Qatar (February, 2004). Both events are indirectly linked to Sophia.The story unfolds in New York, Washington, Las Vegas, Paris, Copenhagen, Baghdad and Damascus.





NAPOLEON'S GREAT-GREAT-GRANDSON SPEAKS

A NOVEL

By Rafael Grugman




Translated from Russian by Geoffrey Carlson






PREFACE


This amazing story began in December 1995, when a man showed up at the Odessky Vestnik newspaper office and introduced himself as Yevgeny Rivilis, Bonaparte’s great-great-grandson. I was skeptical about his statement. Ever since humanity started documenting its history in writing, every civilization has witnessed the birth of imposters who have tried to take advantage of someone else’s name and glory for selfish or political purposes. One after the other, the world has seen the appearance of false gods and false messiahs, false Christs and false prophets, and after them, a long parade of swindlers, opportunists and adventure seekers passing themselves off as dead or slain emperors and kings (or members of their families).

The temptation of fame and power is great. Russian history, which is relatively young (compared to world history), has not escaped invasions of pretenders. There have been three false Dimitris, several pseudo-Peter the Thirds (the most famous was Yemelyan Pugachev), and numerous false children of Tsar Nicholas II, who supposedly escaped after the royal family was shot (pretenders claiming to be Anastasia, Tatiana, Olga or Alexei). These were followed by the swindlers of modern times, people of lower rank who became false veterans and false heroes of the Great Patriotic War in order to receive social benefits. The atmosphere of the Soviet land encouraged their «glorious deeds».

But in a way, the history of the USSR itself is an imposter. The original pages have been rewritten many times, events and facts have been freely re-interpreted, and political and military leaders have shamelessly appropriated the military exploits and deeds of people they themselves have eliminated. Only in an Orwellian country could there be this type of literary parody so close to reality: literary satire depicting fictitious imposters fighting among themselves «for a piece of the Socialist pie,» such as Ilf and Petrov’s «thirty sons and four daughters of Comrade Lieutenant Schmidt, Hero of the Revolution.»

Yevgeny realized that he would be taken for a swindler trying to get some sort of benefits for belonging to a noble family, and he asked me to read a story he had brought along that described several generations of his family. I changed my mind when I read through the narrative, and I asked my friend’s wife, who was a senior researcher at the regional history museum, to act as a reviewer (or to debunk the story, if in fact the author turned out to be a clever opportunist). Once I had received a positive review (the researcher was dumbfounded), I presented this unusual story to the newspaper editor, and I came up with a catchy headline: «Napoleon's Great-Great-Grandson Speaks.»

The story/testimonial was published in the two January issues of Odessky Vestnik. As it turned out later, I was actually doing Yevgeny a great disservice by assisting in the publication. He ran into troubles that forced him to emigrate – and I had no idea that this was happening, since I was absorbed in my own problems during my first years of life overseas.

Eight years later we happened to meet each other in the USA (if I remember correctly, in April 2004). We reminisced about Odessa, his appearance at the editorial office, and the long-ago publication. Yevgeny was preparing to leave for Vanuatu, an island in the Pacific Ocean. He gave me the address of a bank in Manhattan and the number of a safe deposit box that was paid for ten years in advance, where he kept the story of his life in America. He gave me the key and left instructions that if he did not return, the safe should be opened when the payment expired, on December 31, 2014. I don’t know why he decided to trust me; I suppose it had to do with the long-ago publication in which I was involved. Or maybe he wanted to leave something to be remembered by in case anything happened to him, or he wanted to settle a score with someone in hindsight – and it seemed to him that when I turned up at that time, I was suitable for this purpose.

Unfortunately, I have no information about what happened to him after he left for Vanuatu, and I have not the slightest idea whether he is alive or not. However, I am taking advantage of his authorization to dispose of Yevgeny Rivilis’ memoirs as I see fit, and with a minimum amount of conjecture where there are logical gaps in the text, and with some small literary changes that allow me to put my own name on the cover, I am publishing his amazing reminiscences. They may seem incredible and fantastic, just like the long-standing stories of Napoleon Bonaparte (skeptical readers can find them in the newspaper archives), with which I am introducing these memoirs.





Rafael Grugman





NAPOLEON'S GREAT-GREAT-GRANDSON SPEAKS


My grandfather's notebooks, translated from Yiddish to Russian with my mother's assistance, have given me no peace for many years now. This may be difficult to believe, but I am a direct descendant of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.

For many long years, this secret was kept «behind seven seals» in our family, for its disclosure bore the threat of exile-and by no means on the exotic island of Saint Helena. Rather, somewhat farther off…say, in Solovki Prison.

With the passing of two centuries, the world has become a different place. The illegitimate offshoots of crowned families-once seriously feared by the powerful of the world, lest they encroach upon their thrones-today may sleep in peace. They are not put to death, nor are they confined in fortresses. They don't find themselves under lifelong surveillance by secret police. Nowadays, they lead ordinary lives, exciting, at best, the interest of journalists.

None of this makes it any easier for my forebears, who all swallowed their bitter portion in life. I will give their sufferings their due, and, two centuries later, reveal the secret. Of my family, of Napoleon, and of France. No matter what life throws their way, let my descendants not be ashamed of their name; and let them be proud of their pedigree, which has roots extending back to the shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

One more remark, no less important, but obligatory under today's circumstances. In order to avoid possible speculation and conjecture, I hereby give notice in advance: I am pursuing no political ends whatever, and entertain no pretensions to the French throne.

The sole reason for my decision to publish is a desire to pay homage to the memory of my forebears. Let historical justice make amends for the sacrifices they bore.

Now, after these explanations as to why I have decided to break a silence of almost two centuries' duration, stubbornly kept by my family, it is time to tell with what, strictly speaking, the story began. I am supplementing my grandfather's notes with references to the universally accessible diaries of Bonaparte's ministers, Fouché and Talleyrand.

In August, 1807, unexpectedly for everyone, the Emperor disappeared. His headquarters was on the estate of one of the most distinguished Polish princes, and his courtiers did not worry, supposing that the Emperor, being in excellent spirits after the brilliant victories he had sustained on the battlefield, had decided to transfer his military maneuvers to the bedrooms of Polish countesses.

Only one pair-Minister of Secret Police Fouché and Foreign Minister Talleyrand-while outwardly maintaining their peace, even to the point of supporting the retinue's opinion about the Emperor having a romantic intrigue, were perturbed.

Fouché, observing Talleyrand's impenetrable visage, was trying to understand: either the old fox was bluffing, and was also concerned by Napoleon's disappearance; or, after the conclusion of the Peace of Tilsit with Russia, the Emperor had fallen to thinking of the succession again, and had gone off to Petersburg to seek the hand of some grand duchess in marriage.

Although, mused Fouché in his diaries, in spite of the fact that royalist attempts to reinstate the monarchy have been crushed long ago, anything may happen: some fanatic might suddenly decide to repeat the same joke on the Emperor that they played on the Duke of Angiens and the Prince of Condé. Conspirators supported by England have still not given up on schemes to reinstate the Bourbons on the French throne.

To say that Talleyrand was furious is to say nothing. It was thanks to his efforts that Russia's long resistance after the battles of Putulsk on December 26 and Preussisch Eylau on February 6, and the Battle of Friedland on June 14, had ended on July 7 with the touching Peace of Tilsit.

Napoleon and Alexander I had kissed. Alexander, forgetting the epithet «usurper,» bestowed not so long ago by his Empress mother, had called Bonaparte «brother,» embraced him tenderly, and drunk to brüderschaft…

For the Emperor to disappear without informing him, the main «culprit» in the Peace of Tilsit, did not bode well for Talleyrand. He did not trust Napoleon. The Emperor's decampment, without even wishing to consult him, was additional evidence of the correctness of his thoughts.

It seemed as though no one could disturb the Peace of Tilsit, which promised both sides not inconsiderable acquisitions.

Although Russia, in signing the agreement, ceded its Mediterranean conquests and evacuated the Ionian Islands, in return, she gained the vast Belostok Region. And, in return for Alexander's promise to support Napoleon in the war against England and join the Continental Blockade, Napoleon had promised to support him in the fight against Sweden and Turkey. Although, as he admitted that same day to Talleyrand, he was by no means prepared to yield either Constantinople or the Bosphorus to Alexander.

This, then, was the reason for the next steps taken by the Emperor, who never did become accustomed to unhurried diplomacy. His gaze was turned toward the northern shores of the Black Sea. There, where since 1803, Armand-Emmanuel du Plessis, better known to the world at large as the Duke of Richelieu, had settled as an emigrant.

Richelieu, grandnephew of the well-known cardinal who had governed France during the reign of Louis XIII, had fled after the revolution to Russia and Alexander's protection. From the hands of the Tsar, who affably welcomed the distinguished refugee, he had received a charter to open up new lands, becoming Governor of Odessa and Governor General of New Russia, the area between the Dniester River and the Caucasus.

The Emperor's daring might have been envied. He ought not to have occupied himself with feats of personal bravery as well. His reckless acts, which another might call insane, possibly were just that. But if Napoleon had been lacking in these qualities, he would scarcely have become a marshal, let alone an emperor.

Thus, the ink was hardly dry on the Tilsit Agreement, when, somewhere between July 20 and 25, 1807, the Emperor visited Odessa. He was dressed in women's clothing and bore documents in the name of his sister's governess.

It is difficult to say how his negotiations with Richelieu went. They lasted two days, after which the Emperor, wearing the same clothes in which he had appeared in Odessa, departed whence he came.

From Richelieu's letters to the King's brother in London, it is known only that Napoleon offered the Duke the title of King, should he, in case of a possible war with Russia, side with the Emperor and proclaim the territory under his control the Kingdom of Odessa.

Richelieu answered with a decided refusal. He did not arrest the «usurper»: the nobleman's code of honor did not permit it. Besides, he had always disdained the secret police, and did not want to besmirch his name…Having reaffirmed his loyalty to the crown and explained to the count his motives for not deciding to perform the functions of a policeman, the Duke requested that the contents of the letter not be divulged. So as, later on, not to place himself in an ambiguous position at Court.

Richelieu's devotion was generously compensated. Upon the Bourbons' restoration to the throne, as a reward for his faithfulness, the grateful King gave him the post of Prime Minister of France; and Alexander I, the highest order in the Russian Empire-the Order of Saint Andrew the First-Called.

Be that as it may, during his secret visit to Odessa, while he was incognito, Napoleon found himself holed up in the Governor's residence. And, naturally, he spent the night in the women's quarters. As it turned out, his time there was not wasted.

Nine months later, on April 10, 1808 (at every point thereafter, this day would exert its influence upon our family in a most unexpected manner), 19-year-old Italian servant girl Luisa Ravelli gave birth to a son.

He was christened by a Catholic priest and, according to the young mother's wishes, entered in the church registry under the name of Joseph. Incidentally, this was the name of Bonaparte’s older brother. When, two years later, Luisa chanced to discover that on that very day, April 10, 1810, the Emperor had married the daughter of the Emperor of Austria-Maria-Luisa-she was terribly upset, seeing this as a bad omen. She confessed to her priest; and the latter, having pardoned her sin, counseled her to tell no one of her meeting with the Emperor, and, henceforth, to name her son in the Russian manner-Yosif.

Until the age of thirty-eight, Yosif lived in total ignorance of his true father, firmly believing the story told him by his mother, that his father had died in Odessa in 1812, during a plague epidemic that broke out in the city and carried off a quarter of its people.

But in 1848, through rumors that reached Odessa, Luisa found out that the Bonapartist party had acquired unprecedented influence in France; and nostalgia for the empire outweighed all other feelings. Hoping that her son's fate would take a decided turn for the better, she told him the truth about his real father.

What could Yosif change in his life, having found out the truth? Precisely nothing. Even if the story his mother told him were true, which he doubted, it could reflect in no way on his situation. For to demonstrate the fact of the Emperor's having visited Odessa was impossible.

For this reason, he continued his tranquil life, without taking any steps to change it.

As for the Emperor's many offspring, the French secret police began thinking seriously about them after, in the 1848 presidential elections, three quarters of the French electorate voted for Bonaparte's nephew, Louis-Napoleon; and the latter, taking over as head of the Republic, brought into government service his own cousin, Bonaparte's extramarital son Count Alexandre Walewski.

Four years later, following in his uncle's footsteps, Louis-Napoleon abolished the Second Republic and proclaimed a new empire, taking the title of Napoleon III. This happened in November 1852.

However, the next year began with an attempt on his life. An unsuccessful one, luckily. But, recognizing the danger that could come from the descendants of the Bourbons, Louis decided to insure his life-to save himself from foreign pretenders to the French throne. And at this point, the Minister of Police placed a document on his table-a long-ago dispatch from the dean of the Catholic church in Odessa to the Pope, intercepted at some point by French agents in Rome…

The Emperor demanded a detailed report. It turned out that Luisa Ravelli had died back in 1850, but her son, Yosif Ravelli, was even now alive and well. Moreover, soon after his mother's death, he had married; and three years ago, he had become the father of a son-Grigory Ravelli.

Tension mounted in relations with Russia. The Emperor understood: the presence in Russia of a pretender to the French throne would allow the Tsar to carry on a double game with respect to France, provoking intrigues and coup attempts.

His immediate response was France's joining the Anglo-Turkish coalition and a declaration of war on Russia. The combined army landed in the Crimea and began the siege of Sevastopol. However, Napoleon's primary goal, known only to the most trusted people, was Odessa. Parenthetically, let me say that a year later, the peace treaty announcing the conclusion of the Crimean War would be signed, on the French side, by none other than Foreign Minister Alexandre Walewski. Bonaparte's extramarital son was one of the few who knew the true reason for the war's beginning. Once he became President of the legislative assembly, Alexander Walewski would apply no little effort to searching out and arresting his Russian brother. But this would happen only in the following decade.

A month after the start of hostilities, on April 8, 1854, the powerful Anglo-French navy, consisting of twenty-seven warships, appeared on the Odessa roadstead.

On board one of the French vessels was a group of specially trained police agents, who were supposed to secretly land on the shore, kidnap the family of Yosif Ravelli, and carry them off to France. Should the second part of the operation become endangered, the agents were under orders to kill both Ravellis. Oversight of the operation was entrusted to the Commander of the French Navy, Admiral Hamelin.

On the morning of April 10 (again that fateful day!), the bombardment of the city began. Several thousand cannonballs damaged fifty-two stone houses and produced about fifty-two casualties. The six shore batteries (Lieutenant Shchegolev's battery especially distinguished itself, repelling the fire from seven enemy boats for seven hours), did not permit their opponent to approach the shore and unload a landing party.

Having achieved nothing, the enemy fleet turned around and set sail for Sevastopol. But the French had not abandoned their primary goal, for which they had gone to war. On April 30, under cover of a thick mist, the English frigate «Tiger» and a French gunboat had torn themselves away from the squadron and made a new attempt to land a group for the kidnapping.

However, on that day as well, success did not smile on the French. Having no local navigational charts, the captain of the frigate made an error; and, not far from Station 10 of Bolshoi Fountain, he ran the ship aground.

The motionless frigate became an excellent target for the Russian artillerymen, who, in revenge for the recent bombardment of the city-during which one of the shells had even hit the monument to Richelieu-pulled out all the stops.

The frigate was set afire with several well-aimed shots, and afterwards (and this was a first in the history of world wars!), the cavalry attacked the ship. The valiant hussars saddled their horses and, before the ship managed to sink, captured it with a swift assault, and even carried off a trophy or two.

While the «Tiger,» ripped to shreds, slowly sank beneath the waves, half a mile away, a boat approached the rocky shore.

Three brave men dragged it ashore and, seizing their luggage, began to ascend the rocky precipice.

A short time later, a stagecoach on its way to the city fell victim to their attack. At pistol-point, the stalwart Frenchmen forced the passengers to leave the carriage; and they ordered the coachman to take them to Odessa immediately, waving a pistol and a wad of hundred-ruble notes under his nose as incentives.

The Frenchmen were out of luck: the coachman valued patriotism over currency. He urged on the horses and, with a sharp tug on the reins, sent the poor animals, together with the equipage, off the cliff, while he himself managed at the last minute to leap out on the side of the road.

Upon inspection of the bodies, besides money and arms, a map was discovered on which a house on Novoselsk Street was marked with a cross, and two words were written in French: «Yosif Ravelli.»

For the Odessa police, it was no trouble at all to search out the house marked on the map and arrest the French spy.

At the police station, where poor Yosif was held for several days, he argued in vain that he had nothing to do with the scouts and had absolutely no idea why his good name was mentioned in their papers.

Convinced of the futility of trying to make sense of the case, they let him go, under police surveillance; meanwhile, the occurrence was mentioned in a secret dispatch to Petersburg-an appendix to a report from the Governor-general addressed the Tsar.

Soon, a secret order was received in Odessa from the police administration in Petersburg: to keep Ravelli under close observation.

In order to exert psychological pressure on the «spy,» he was ordered to appear every week at the police station.

For several years, poor Ravelli conscientiously carried out this order from the authorities, until, convinced at last of his honesty, the counterintelligence officers left the merchant in peace.

Hardly had Ravelli acquired freedom of movement, when, at the very first opportunity, he moved away from dangerous Odessa, settling in a small town not far from Akkerman.

There, he changed two letters in his documents, becoming Rivilli; and after that, so as to thoroughly confuse his trail, dropped one «l» from his surname.

He survived to the age of seventy-two (his wife had died still earlier)-one year too few to see his son's wedding-in constant terror of falling once again under police surveillance.

It is hard to say how Old Man Ravelli-Rivili would have looked upon his son's action, but the latter chose as his bride the daughter of a grocery store assistant, a Jewish woman named Rakhil.

I think Rakhil's parents would not have been happy with their daughter's marriage to an Italian, either, and probably wouldn't have given their consent; but the prudent girl explained to her father that Grigory was a Jew.

His hair, which was curly, thanks to his Italo-French ancestry, could absolutely be passed off as Jewish. And his poor knowledge of the laws of the faith she explained by his coming from an assimilated family, in which they didn't study Torah or send their children to Hebrew school. True, Rakhil taught him some things: first off, not to cross himself; not to eat pork; and, provided no important deal was in the works, to observe the Sabbath.

And, in order that her fiancé's manifestly non-Jewish surname should not arouse her father's suspicions, Rakhil counseled him to add an «S» on the end.

The deception succeeded. All the more so, because in Tiraspol-and it was there that Rakhil's family lived-nobody knew him.

In 1886, a son was born to Grigory Rivilis and entered in the synagogue book under the name of Shmuel. Shmuel (Shmuel is sometimes pronounced Shimon, but Grigory privately took note of the French sound of his name, Simon)-was my grandfather.

Since his mother was Jewish, under Hebrew law, Shmuel Rivilis is considered a Jew. And on his father's side…all of us, in the final analysis, are children of Noah. So, what is there to argue about?

There is not much to tell about his subsequent life. Shmuel grew up in the manner prescribed for boys from respectable Jewish families: he went to the synagogue, studied the Torah, married a girl from a Jewish family-Sara, my grandmother, who, though illiterate, nonetheless had sekhl-or, in Russian, «brains.»

Of his genealogy, he also knew little until a certain time, for his father, fearing exposure, carefully hid the truth from his children-his son and three daughters.

But, if Grigory Rivilis dreamed of being forgotten, the French Secret Service was conducting a careful search for the Emperor's vanished descendant-supposing that, possibly, they had gotten wind of him already in Petersburg, and were only waiting for the right time to play the card they held in their hands.

All the more so since, after the overthrow of Napoleon III-ending with the bloody Paris Commune-people in certain circles had begun to talk again about the necessity of restoring the monarchy.

The efforts of one secret service do not go unnoticed by another. Having pinpointed the location of French Intelligence activity in southern Russia, they took alarm in Petersburg.

The Russian agents in Paris sat up and took notice. After lengthy efforts, which cost the Third Department no small sum, it became clear: this all had to do with the descendants of Napoleon Bonaparte, no more, no less. The news was improbable. They decided not to believe it.

Common sense whispered to the aces of counterintelligence that the story about Ravelli was most likely a cover for some other, more refined operation. But if the efforts of one secret service were directed toward the abduction of Ravelli, then it was in the interest of the other to protect him until circumstances were fully clarified.

These were precisely the instructions that the police chief of Odessa received. But, to find the true reasons for the French Secret Service's anxiety and the recruitment of Ravelli, the head of the Third Police Department himself, trusting no one, traveled in person to Odessa.

But Ravelli had disappeared. A preliminary interrogation of his business associates yielded nothing. Ravelli had dissolved into thin air, and had not reappeared in Odessa.

The search for him went on for more than a year, and what a surprise it was for the chief of the Secret Police, Colonel Zubatov, when it was reported to him that Yosif Ravelli, firstly, was no longer a Ravelli; and, secondly, had given up the ghost three years since. And Colonel Zubatov decided to interrogate his son, Grigory.

This is how Grandfather Shmuel records Grigory Rivilis' talk with Colonel Zubatov in his diary. The translation, I repeat, from Yiddish to Russian was done with Mama's assistance. And polished by his grandson-that is, by me:



«Wouldn't you like, young man, to go to Paris?» in an insinuating voice, the Colonel began his talk with Grigory Rivilis. «The Lord Emperor is preparing to go there soon on an official visit…hunh? Wouldn't you like to associate with Himself?»

Grigory's heart sank into his boots. He felt as though he were just about to fall off his chair.

«Why have you turned so pale?» the colonel inquired politely. «Do you smoke?» He popped open a silver cigarette case and proffered a cigarette.

Grigory started to stretch out his hand, but then refused.

«Thank you, Your Excellency, but I don't smoke.»

«As you know, as you know…perhaps you'd like some water?» and, without giving him time to catch his breath, he inquired with seeming carelessness, «And, by the way, why did your late father change his name?» He bored into Grigory with his gaze. «We, of course, are guessing…,» he added, and fell silent.

«Y-your Ex-excellency,» stuttering in his agitation, Grigory at last managed to say sorrowfully, «how should we know that?»

«Well, think it over. I won't hurry you. Try to remember, if you don't want your wife and father-in-law to find out the honest truth. That you are not a Jew, but a respectable Christian. A Catholic, what's more.» He felled Grigory with this last sentence. «So, let's work together, if you don't want complications for yourself and your family.»

«Y-your Excellency,» Grigory quickly began crossing himself, «I swear by Christ the Lord, by the Blessed Virgin Mary, this is all a mystery to me. Spare me- and he began to cry-I have a son-,»

«By the way, about that son,» continued the Colonel, «why did you make a Jew out of a Christian? And there was probably a circumcision, according to their laws…»

Grigory nodded in agreement.

«I love her, Your Excellency. And, after all, emperors have married commoners before. Nicholas the First's older brother, Grand Duke Constantine, the heir to the throne-,» he babbled, but the Colonel made a face and interrupted him:

«Stop. We will not touch the imperial name. We are talking about you. So, Mr. Ravelli, I am waiting for explanations. And soon. I've wasted too much time on you as it is.»

Grigory arrived home only the next morning. Rakhil, catching sight of him, simply threw up her hands.

«Gotenu, why do I have such tsures! Girsh,» she called him by his Jewish name, «what have they done to you?»

Grigory collapsed wearily onto a chair and, slowly enunciating the words, got out: «Things are bad for us. Bad,» and repeated the conversation.

Women are usually more resolute than men. And, without thinking about consequences, they make decisions rashly.

«Girsh, get all our documents in order, and let's go to America. They're never going to leave us in peace.»


After deliberating, the couple decided that Grigory should go to Kishinev and begin petitioning to get a passport for foreign travel. And, at the same time, try to find out whether it would be possible, in the near future, to secretly get on any ship leaving Odessa, and illegally travel abroad. And, once he was there, send for his family.

That very day, without waiting for another summons for questioning, Grigory headed for Kishinev; and a week later, sad news made it back to Tiraspol.

According to eyewitnesses, he was walking down the street. Not far away, students had come out onto the thoroughfare. They were shouting antigovernment slogans, smashing glass in wealthy stores, and breaking signposts.

Cossacks, gathered in the side streets to break up the student demonstration, came out unexpectedly. If Grigory had known about riots, he would have managed to dodge them and run into an entryway. But the janitors, expecting the dispersal of the rioters, had prudently locked the gates. When the Cossacks burst out in an avalanche onto the street, smashing every living thing beneath them, he was unable to hide and was trampled by their horses.

Zubatov found out about it sooner than Rakhil. Ravelli's corpse happened to be recognized by a doctor in the city hospital, who had once known, not only Grigory, but his father as well.

That was how it came about that Grigory was not buried as a nameless victim. As for the fact that no family members were present at the funeral-no one is to blame for that. Where Tiraspol is, and where Kishinev is…you have to understand.

For lack of a prime suspect, Zubatov closed the investigation and went away to Petersburg. Ravelli's widow, as he supposed, was ignorant of her husband's secret. And his sisters… Two had died in childhood. The third was a revolutionary. A fugitive. And had long ago severed family ties with her brother.

Zubatov was mistaken. Probably because he had never really loved anyone. And, therefore, had never trusted anyone. Rakhil knew Grisha's secret. If she could make up her mind to deceive her father and marry a Catholic, passing him off as a Jew, then she could keep a secret.

She understood that the police would leave neither her, nor her son, in peace; and, as soon as an opportunity arose, she went away with Shmuel to Gaisin.

At the police department, she represented herself as the victim of a fire, in which all her documents had burnt up; and, in return for a small bribe, she obtained new ones. (In this, she was helped by her cousin, the owner of a barbershop). In any case, she wrote down a different person as Shmuel's father. Her own cousin. Thus my grandfather became Shmuel (Samuil) Solomonovich.

The family's subsequent history was not as unclouded as might be wished, but the police did not trouble them.

The French Intelligence Service, having rooted around for an unspecified amount of time in the Odessa area, and spent no small sum of money, received information regarding Ravelli's death. And calmed down…until 1912…

That year, the centennial of the Battle of Borodino was celebrated. In one of the Petersburg newspapers information appeared-obtained, God knows where-about Napoleon's secret visit to Russia-that is, to Odessa. They wrote about the appearance in 1808 of an heir, who later lost himself in Russia's vast spaces.

The author (his pseudonym was very soon exposed) was fighting for the establishment of a constitutional monarchy in France; and Russia, as France's ally, ought to assist her in this endeavor…

By the time the article had reached Paris; by the time they had become alarmed in the Élysée Palace and given orders to the Secret Service to carefully, so as not to quarrel with an ally, verify its authenticity-a world war had begun… The problem was set aside until a better time.

On November 11, 1918, at twelve noon, the first of a hundred and one shots rang out through Paris, proclaiming that the First World War, which had lasted four years, three months, and twenty-six days, was over. This permitted the French government to renew the search for the imperial heirs who had vanished in Russia.

With this goal in mind, a military expedition was quickly thrown together, apparently directed towards the protection of French interests. In a secret commission, given to the head of the expeditionary corps, were orders to begin an active search for the Ravelli family along the whole Black Sea coast of Russia.

Less than two weeks later (the new premier, Clemençeau, really hurried his generals), on November 23, the first French vessels visited Novorossiisk. After another three days, on November 26, troops landed at Odessa and Sevastopol. The search for the Ravellis led to a large-scale military operation. After a hundred and six years, a French soldier once again stepped onto Russian soil.

Soon, in all the newspapers printed in cities under the control of the occupying forces, there appeared announcements inviting all Ravellis, in connection with the discovery in France of the enormous legacy of Count Ravelli, to appear at the Commandant's office with documents verifying the ancestry of the bearer of the papers.

The approach was an original one. Russian Ravellis themselves responded to the honey-coated cake, providing the opportunity for the professionals, without arousing suspicion, to root around in their biographies.

In order to speed up the search, bait was placed in the prepared cage: the one who helped to find the lucky owner of the enormous fortune would also be generously rewarded. Thanks to this clause, all those who had dreamed in childhood of treasure hunts were brought in on the search for the Ravellis, and now were provided with an excellent opportunity to realize their distant dreams.

Several Ravellis, nibbling at the bait, whose biographies excited particular suspicion among the counterintelligence agents, were even conveyed on board a ship. But each time, when the engineers were ready to start the ship's engines, it was discovered that this Ravelli was not the right one.

Grandfather Shmuel did not read newspapers, and no citizen, excited by the generous reward, guessed that Shmuel Rivilis was that «heir» to Count Ravelli, for whom the occupying powers were unsuccessfully searching.

I don't know why, over the course of two centuries, precisely on the10


of April, events have occurred that reflected in one way or another on the fate of our family. That day has been both joyous and sad: each time, like the flip of a card, producing a significant outcome.

So it was in 1919. Just before dinner, Shmuel picked up boot-hose, carefully wrapped in a newspaper, from the cobbler. When he got home and opened it, he read the announcement put out by the French. He was terribly upset, being four days too late.

On April 6, the French squadron had left the Port of Odessa, abandoning hope of finding Napoleon's descendant.

That year, God was merciful, preserving my grandfather from temptation. This he came to understand later. But at the time, he cried bitterly. The opportunity to pull himself out of beggary had been so close…

By that time, he had two daughters-Khaya and Golda…but his firstborn, his only son, had died after living less than one year…

Twice more, April 10 has proven memorable. On that day, in 1944, while living as evacuees, our family found out about the liberation of Odessa. Forty-five years later, on April 10, 1989, Golda, my mother, was buried in Odessa in the Third Jewish Cemetery. Grandfather had wound up there quite a bit earlier. But he managed to leave her two notebooks, written in a minute hand.

In a language unknown to me (Grandfather, although he learned to write Russian in his old age, fearing the evil eye, preferred Yiddish), he handed down to his grandchildren the history of the family. Two years before his death, Mama translated it into Russian; and now I, Yevgeny Rivilis, have taken the liberty of telling you all about it.



Yevgeny Rivilis, great-great-grandson of Bonaparte


Rafael Grugman: After this lengthy introduction, it is time for the reader to get familiar with the manuscript. I cannot vouch for whether everything in it is accurate. It is possible that its author, Yevgeny Rivilis, deliberately changed some of the names; after all, the earth-shattering historical events he describes are not that distant, and he could not disclose the true names of existing FBI and CIA agents, which are a state secret in the United States of America. Or perhaps he chose not to do this, because he was not thinking about publication. But since I am not able to address this question to the author of these memoirs, and since I do not wish to become the next Edward Snowden by accident, I have at least changed the names of U.S. intelligence officials mentioned in his manuscript. However, the events described are authentic, with the exception of a few minor details in which I had a hand, as I mentioned previously, in order to fill the gaps in the narrative. And since the main events did in fact take place in New York, I have left the title the same as the one chosen by Rivilis: Coney Island Laughs Last.




CONEY ISLAND LAUGHS LAST


For Mikhail Godkin







PART ONE





SOME STRANGE THINGS HAVE BEEN HAPPENING RECENTLY


While having dinner once, the Almighty dropped a plate, and it shattered into many pieces. Don’t rush to pick them up. Take a closer look. Call the biggest fragment Long Island and draw the outline: Brooklyn, Queens, Nassau and Suffolk. Call the smaller fragments Manhattan, Staten Island, Roosevelt…

Now give each fragment the exotic-sounding name of «island.» Put together a mosaic and place the biggest plate right next to it, upside down. Once you have it, make it a dessert and call it «the mainland.» Since there may be several dishes, your mainland is North America. Call a tiny part of the mainland adjoining the mosaic The Bronx. Connect everything with invisible Scotch tape. And then take off!

That’s how I imagined the picture of the creation of the world when I first saw the majestic panorama of New York City from the cockpit of the police helicopter.

Today’s flight is a routine necessity: traffic jams are the plague of the multimillion-strong anthill. We are taking off from a heliport next to the Coney Island beach. The helicopter should land in Westchester in half an hour. New York City is under us. A multitude of islands and a piece of mainland. Why did I ask you to use Scotch tape when you created it? So that the islands wouldn’t yield to temptation and float out to sea. But let’s return now to Long Island, New York’s most populous island. It’s so large that only Brooklyn and Queens are within the city limits. Nassau and Suffolk are suburbs.


* * *

Some strange things have been happening recently in my apartment, which is on the sixth floor of a prestigious co-op in the southern part of Brooklyn. As you can see, I’m not going to give the address.

To be rigorously precise, the trouble started exactly two weeks ago. When I came home from work that day, a few minutiae-or so it seemed-indicated that someone had been there and had left traces that you couldn’t avoid noticing even if you wanted to.

Cups and saucers had appeared on the dinner table even though their regular location was the kitchen cabinet, second shelf on the left. But what was most surprising was that despite the fact that I lived alone, and because of my line of work I try not to have guests, the table was set for three people. No fewer and no more. Finally, there was tea residue in the cups-yet I didn’t have the bad habit of leaving dishes unwashed when I left home.

In my search for the teabags I even examined the garbage can, but there was nothing unusual in it; I checked the fridge, but the food was untouched. Other than the unwashed cups that had found their way to the dinner table God knows how, I found no traces that anyone had visited my apartment.

I left the cups on the table, and the next day I encountered part two: the dishes, washed clean, were in the cabinet. On the third day the miracles recurred as the cups moved themselves back to the table. Someone was not only having fun with the dishes, but was taunting me by drinking tea in my apartment to boot. While enjoying the occupant’s helplessness.

I carefully inspected the apartment. At first glance, nothing was missing. So there was no need to call the police. But even if something had disappeared, the police wouldn’t have been able to do anything to help. They would have come over, prepared a report, which at the end of the year I could use only for tax deductions, and that would have been the end of it. No one in the police deals with such trivialities. And if someone demanded an investigation and began to make a nuisance of himself, they might decide that the complainant is off his head and send him to the loony bin. Forget it! I won’t provide any excuse to get rid of me!

First I began to recall women who had visited my apartment and could have keys. Who knows, maybe they’d decided to settle scores with me this way. Just to be safe I changed the locks, but even that didn’t spare me from surprises-the brazen tea-drinking continued. And this time there was an incomprehensible note in the most prominent place: «Stick your nose in the fridge and don’t take it out before you’re supposed to.» An unambiguous threat.

I didn’t have a chance to react-it would have been interesting to know what my «benefactors» were alluding to-and I even tried to get wacky in front of the mirror, asking, «I wonder, what don’t you like about my precious nose?»

The following day came the lightning bolt-an attempt on my life. Let’s write down the date: July 20, 2003.

I stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the first floor as usual, but the elevator rocketed upward, reached the twenty-third floor, jumped a little, then dropped like a rock to the first floor. If I were a woman, I definitely would have gone into premature labor-even without being pregnant. Even then, the elevator didn’t think about stopping. It tore upward, then kept whizzing up and down without end. I was almost out of my mind with fear. I remembered Ted’s unsolved murder in my apartment last year, and I saw my life flash before my eyes. What was worse, I couldn’t sound an alarm, because none of the buttons on the panel worked. After half an hour the light went out and the elevator came to a stop. It seemed to freeze between the eighth and ninth floors. Within minutes, I began to gasp for air. When the rescuers pulled me out of the booby trap, I was unconscious. They administered CPR to me, apologized and attributed the incident to defective electronics. I pretended to believe them. Maybe that would have been true if not for what had happened eighteen months ago, when I became an FBI agent. That is probably where I should begin.

Oh yes, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Yevgeny Rivilis, if my name means anything to you. I’ve lived in New York for eight years, since August 1996, and I’ve been in this apartment for almost three years, since October 2000. And I had never gone through an inconvenience like this one.

Today is July 24, 2003. Two weeks ago, someone I don't know yet began following me in a strange manner. But before starting the investigation, a little background. I don’t know if it’s pertinent to what’s going on, but I must be completely honest. Only by emptying out my memory can I hope to find a key to the truth.




A VISIT TO THE PAST


I landed in New York in August 1996. The customs officer carefully studied my passport, which had been issued in the name of Leonid Nevelev, compared the photo with the original, and waved me through. Starts like a mystery novel, doesn’t it? But I’m not going to hold back any secrets. As I mentioned, my real name is Yevgeny Rivilis. The alias is something I was forced to do, a ruse that enabled me to cross the border without any problem. You’re probably baffled and have a bunch of questions. Well, I have nothing to hide. Just don’t rush-the story of how I left isn’t worth a hill of beans.

At that time (I’m talking about the early 1990s) newspaper ads such as «Seeking commercial marriage to a woman moving permanently to the U.S.» were not a rarity in the Ukraine. A lot of my ex-countrymen were trying to move to America by making use of the female factor. I wasn’t any different. A marriage, even a fictitious one, would enable me to cut the knot called Sophia. When that name is uttered, please remove your hat, because my wife is onstage. Just for a short time, I hope, because it’s really because of her that I decided to emigrate. Our marriage had run out of steam, and it seemed to me that the best way out was to secretly move (you can call it «flee»-that’s probably what it looked like) overseas.

First Sophia vanished with some Chechen, and for a few weeks I was beside myself, searching for her among friends and acquaintances. Then she came back, acting as if nothing unusual had happened. She announced that she had been on a peacemaking mission to the Caucasus, and had even met with General Dudayev, the president of Chechnya at the time. She couldn’t come up with a better alibi! I hadn’t yet recovered from the shock when, without even catching her breath, she touched off a flirtation with Doroshenko, who was staying with me. Then the Chechen suitor resurfaced. What normal man would endure that kind of abuse! Cling to a nonexistent marriage? It’s stupid. Everything comes to an end. If Sophia had decided to test my patience, she got the result she was looking for: it had limits.

I put an ad in the newspaper under the rubric, «I’D LIKE TO MEET A WOMAN.» The text was straightforward: «Seeking a woman…,» followed by the usual list of attributes, including the main one-a ticket to the U.S.

A man responded, somebody named Leonid Nevelev. The routine questions of a phone interview, «Are you still interested in a commercial marriage?» and «How old are you?», didn’t put me on my guard. What I was secretly thinking was, some discreet young woman had decided to use a middleman.

«I’ve hit forty.» I wanted to ask, «How old is the bride?», but I held back.

The man happily replied, «That’s terrific! You and I are the same age!»

I ignored his remark-the law doesn’t recognize marriages between men, even if you have an American visa-and I continued mentally to «digest» the portrait of the bride.

As the Russian saying goes, the wood grouse in the mating ground hears nothing but himself. I had gotten stuck on the image of a discreet young woman, and when Leonid suggested, «Would you like to meet?», I immediately bit, honestly assuming that Leonid was the «bride’s» commercial agent who was supposed to negotiate the terms of the contract. Deep down in my soul I heard a cherished hope sing out in a tiny voice: «A discreet, intellectual woman, a shy and devilishly sexy cutie.» If the image I had conjured up matched reality, then goodbye Sophia. I would get married without a second thought. Really.

The Pushkin statue is a perfect meeting place. It’s hard to get lost. After we exchanged greetings and sized each other up, the surprises began. Leonid said he had won a green card and was to go to the American Embassy for an interview in two months. If I had $5,000, he was prepared to sell me his prize. He would also take care of obtaining a domestic and international passport from the police in his name, but with my photograph.

I refused on the spot. The prospect of being Leonid Nevelev for the rest of my life didn’t please me. «What if I’m caught? Then what?»

«Who? Where? When?» Leonid was sincerely surprised. «Your documents will be authentic. Both the passport and the birth certificate. And when the time comes in five years to become an American citizen, go change your name to anything else if you want. Even George Washington. Or remain Nevelev-what do you care? You’ll have achieved your objective. Or do you have other options available?» he said tartly. «Are brides just besieging you, one prettier than another, and you don’t know which one to marry?»

I didn’t answer-I was wavering-and Leonid continued to goad me. «Do you have a long waiting list? Maybe you’ll share it?»

The outlandishness of the proposition made me wary. Thinking about it was agonizing. Leonid sensed a change-the customer was coming around-and modified his tactics.

«Don’t worry, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last. This arrangement has been well tested. And you must agree, it’s a lot cheaper than a commercial marriage. But most important, it’s easier. Get involved with a woman?» He curled his lips with contempt. «They’re unpredictable creatures. Change their minds a hundred times a day. How can you trust them?» And without waiting for a reply, he summed up: «A woman says one thing one day, another thing the next.»

I had no comeback. There was nobody to choose from, because all of the desirable «brides» had been snatched up long before the summons to the American Embassy. Leonid hinted that he was prepared to lower his figure (within reason, of course), and after a prolonged discussion we shook on it: we agreed on $4,500. I don’t know how it is now, but at that time in the Ukraine everything for which there was the slightest demand was for sale. And if you had connections, getting new documents done by the police was no problem. But we digress.

Knowing Sophia, or to be more precise, since I didn’t know her completely, I executed Operation Green Card in secret. This was not a major offense, considering that Sophia had had her eye on Doroshenko. For a while now the word «family» for her existed only on paper. Security is first and foremost, and the only way to protect yourself from needless blowups is to keep your mouth shut. This rule applies to anything you do.

As a result of the successful transaction, I found myself in New York, where the Russian-speaking area of Brooklyn had been selected for a start. But no sooner had I heaved a sigh of relief than I received a jolt: Sophia appeared at my door. Since she and I were not officially divorced, I don’t know what to call her. It’s still a mystery to me how she tracked me down, but there she was, with two steamer trunks and a bag flung over her shoulder, at the door of the house on West 12th Street. She had a grin from ear to ear, as though clothespins were holding it up, and fire in her eyes-a portrait of Napoleon after his victory at Austerlitz.

My delight and amazement vanished in a split-second. Hovering quietly behind Sophia was her aide-de-camp, Grishenka Doroshenko.

«We’ve come on student visas!» she burbled as she threw herself around my neck and, despite my timid protests, gave me a couple of pecks on the lips. Having made sure that she was in control of the situation, Sophia glared at Grisha and with a tone that brooked no argument ordered him, «What are you doing standing there like a statue? Pick up the suitcases and bring them into the house!»

I won’t lie: I once made a blunder, believing Grisha’s rubbish about a hoard of gold buried on the banks of the Missouri River, put my trust in him, let him into my house for a short time-and I don’t even want to think about what followed. I had personally let the fox into the chicken coop.

Now, it would have been better to kick them out. There were plenty of vacant apartments in Brooklyn. But once again I weakened, and opened the door. Sophia had arrived acting like a queen. Plus she had with her $60,000 that she had received from Chechen friends, maybe to work as their representative, maybe to set up a Chechen information center in New York-I couldn’t figure out from her explanation what the money was for. But as soon as Sophia saw my tiny room, she snorted. «You couldn’t find a better shack to live in? It’s impossible to live here!» And three days later she rented a spacious one-bedroom on Emmons Avenue. With a view of the canal.

The truth is a lie that has been repeated over and over. Sophia swore that Grisha was a traveling companion, and exclaimed with feeling: «How could a defenseless woman like me cross the ocean by herself?»

Then came the rebuke. Since I had left her (I wonder who left whom first!), Grisha would live with us for a while, until he got a job. And finally, a new vow (thank God, she had no need to sin or to take the vow with her hand on a Bible): she loved me and so forth. The Song of Songs. Again I swallowed the bait-for the last time, I told myself-and resigned myself to the idea of Grisha’s staying temporarily.

They both enrolled at Kingsborough Community College and began to conscientiously attend English classes. The idyll didn’t last long. Within a short time Sophia disappeared, without even leaving a note. I decided not to notify the police, because I didn’t want to attract attention to myself. Besides, where was she going to go? New York City has a bewitching effect on newly arrived young women, and maybe she found herself a wealthy sponsor, an American, and packed her bags. Hello to you, husbands and traveling companions!

Like me, Grisha was completely in the dark about where she had moved. He was still preoccupied with the crazy notion of a buried treasure. So he moped around for a while-a broken heart, after all, does deserve to be nursed with Stolichnaya-he abandoned his studies and took off for Kansas City to be close to the Missouri River. I breathed a sigh of relief. Good riddance!

Sophia suddenly turned up, by phone from Maryland. She reported that she was working as a nanny for an American family. The reason she went into hiding was about as unoriginal as you can imagine: money. A representative of Chechen leader Aslan Maskhadov had found her at Kingsborough Community College and demanded that she return the money immediately. She had spent it all, and in order to avert any trouble, which could have also been in store for me, she made the only correct decision-and she disappeared. And that’s that. You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to.

Our relationship hit the skids; I don’t feel like getting into it. There’s no point in dredging up the past and going through dirty family laundry. To this day, thinking about her escapades makes me ill.

To be candid, I loved her, and I forgave a lot, even though I could see that she had no equals when it came to scheming. Consider, for example, the business with the old lady for whom Sophia later worked as a companion.

First of all, you have to be lucky enough to find a rich grandmother who doesn’t have a dozen heirs hovering over her, and second, you have to distinguish yourself in a such a way that the millionairess doesn’t forget you in her will. Sophia succeeded in both aspects of the program. When the grandmother died, it turned out that the companion had been left a five-room condominium on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan worth $10 million.

I thought that once she received this money that tumbled from heaven she would ease up. For a time, that’s just what happened. Once again she came back to me. She bought an apartment and registered it in my name. Her student visa had expired, but she didn’t want to change her immigration status. She would have been required to remarry me and become Mrs. Nevelev.

We lived under the same roof for slightly more than six months, after which Sophia vanished again. Frankly, I was fed up with her erratic behavior and sudden comings and goings. I didn’t give a damn whether she was sleeping with Grisha or, as she did with me, was taking him for a ride. I came unglued. Just like before, Sophia was in no hurry to give notice of her whereabouts after she disappeared. So in order to forget her as soon as possible, I got involved with a woman. Then with another one…

In August 2001, I marked five years since my arrival in the States. At the time I was working as a programmer for a small Internet company in Lower Manhattan. Life was like the exuberant song of my childhood: «Orange sky, orange sea, orange greenery, orange camel…»

On September 11, the world became different: New York City saw Pearl Harbor. I was late to work, and I arrived when the first plane crashed into the North Tower. Amid the throng of gawkers I watched a slow-motion rehearsal of the end of the world. In the finale, I thankfully survived. I saw tiny figures on the upper floors of the skyscrapers waving their handkerchiefs, then jumping out of the windows. May God spare me from ever seeing anything like it again. America was at war.

I didn’t work for a week after the attack on the World Trade Center, because the company had suspended operations. Overnight I had lost everything: my job, confidence in the future. Lower Manhattan, the pride of New York City, was shut down up to 14th Street. I took advantage of the hiatus and in an hour prepared the required package of documents in Brighton Beach to apply for citizenship. Until Sunday I was completely in the dark. There was the milky haze-the ashen sky, the ashen sea, the ashen greenery and the ashen camel-and the phrase, like a slap in the face, that came by e-mail on the evening of September 11: «Wait until things clear up, then we will let you know…» Wait how long? A day? Two days? A month? On Sunday a ray of hope peeked through as I was summoned to work. The company had found space at the Brooklyn Business Center and… lasted a month. The market collapsed, re-enacting what had happened to the twin towers. Millions of Americans lost their jobs. I was one of them, as the wave of layoffs killed the Internet company and smashed a prosperous business to bits.





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