The American Dossier

By Uri Norwich

Spying Game never stops.
The war is in the Cyberspace now. The payouts are in Crypto Currency. But a good, old assassination cannot be replaced by anything.
“How much time do I have left to live?” asked the man.
“You are the property of Mother Russia! We’ll tell you when to die.” His handler replied.
The year is 2016. The Presidency is up for grabs, again. Once, the man had engineered the election of the first black American President. After eight years of the oblivion, they called on him to prevent losing to an outsider. Just like before, death, destruction, and a trail of assassinations follow him.

This time, it hits home. When the man learns that his KGB handlers are after an innocent young woman close to him, he sets out to save her life. Soon he finds that she too joined the assassin's trade to avenge the deaths of her own.

Russian Election Meddling is here again.

There was no need for the meddling. It has been going on much longer than most people realize.
The novel is a sequel to “The American Deluge,” published in 2014.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Uri Norwich
• Release date: Nov 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463827864

Uri Norwich

Author has traveled to, and lived in some, places reflected in the book. Currently, author lives in a New York City suburb.

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The American Dossier

(Book Two of The American Deluge Series)

URI NORWICH

The American Dossier Copyright © 2018 by

Uri Norwich

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 9780463827864

Smashwords Edition

Published by highwood publishing new york©

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, now known or to be invented, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a connection with a review written for inclusion in a newspaper, magazine, on-line publication or broadcast.

For information regarding permission, contact [e-mail]

Cover Design by URI NORWICH

Manufactured in the United States of America

DEDICATION

To My Mother Sarrah,

who left the world to

Tyler, Ava, and baby Cooper

Also By Uri Norwich

A Sometimes Strange Story ©2017

The American Deluge ©2014-2017

Russian Jews Don’t Cry©2013-2016

If I Was Real... ©2013-2017

A half of our society is in a state of mental disorder. One has to determine which half to belong to.

CONTENTS

1. We’ll Tell You When To Die

2. The Farewells

3. In Search Of Answers

4. Nigel

5. If I Could Only Get My ‘Second Life’ Back

6. The Last Hope

7. A Special Place In Hell

8. The Flight To Nowhere

9. Return From Hell

10. Strangers In The Night

11. Masha

12. Life Or Death

13. A Stranger In A Strange Land

14. Keeping The Donkey In The Barn

15. Nakam

16. Operation Garik

17. The Fall Man

18. A Tooth For A Tooth

19. Rules Are Created, Only to Be Broken

20. The Haze

21. An Eye for an Eye

22. The Closure

23. The Fall Man Falls

24. Copper Is Not Steel

25. Bending Copper

26. The American Dossier

Footnotes

Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, and places is entirely coincidental.

Characters

(Listed in order and at the age of their first appearance)

Joe Potop, 84 years old.

Leonid, 56, Federal Security Bureau (FSB) agent stationed in New York.¹

Mark, 84, Joe’s closest childhood friend.

Nigel, 33, Joe’s personal assistant.

Boris, 55, Russian Federation UN Mission Diplomat, also, Federal Security Bureau (FSB) agent stationed in New York.

Lubov, 42, [loo-bov] (aka Luba [loo-ba]) Russian Federation UN Mission Lawyer, also, Federal Security Bureau (FSB) agent.

Maria (aka Masha), 28, Journalist working for Bloomberg.

Colonel Abel Avner, 60, Israeli Intelligence officer.

Miriam, 54, Avner’s wife.

Dan, 32, Abel Avner’s son. Israeli Intelligence officer.

Nikolai, 35, Russian Federation Trade Mission Diplomat, also, Federal Security Bureau (FSB) agent stationed in New York.

Carlo, 38, A freelance Italian assassin for hire.

Mr. Copper, 52, A former MI-6 (British Intelligence) agent.

1. We’ll Tell You When to Die

How much time do I have left to live?

Joe whispered in Leonid’s ear as they stood up from their table. At that late afternoon hour, Caterina's was almost empty. The lunch crowd was gone, and bored waitresses sat by a large TV upfront. The men stood hugging for a while as if to say a long goodbye.

It was Leonid who had discovered this small eatery on the Midtown’s East Side. He suggested to Joe moving their Friday-night’s dinners from the downtown joint called Fraunces Tavern. Joe and Leonid’s predecessor Victor had been using that place for many years before.

Zagat’s listed Caterina's as "an Italian restaurant with Hungarian offerings and live Gypsy music." It couldn’t be any stranger combination. The place was small but homey. It reminded Joe of family Italian places with that red and white checkered linen on the tables. It was also a walk-away from Joe’s office on the corner of Broadway and West 57 Street. Joe loved the move.

Leonid, two years ago, I had asked you this same question right here. It was right at this table. I have never gotten an answer yet. I am not getting any younger, you know. You have to hurry up if you want to beat the Grim Reaper to it.

Joe tried to laugh it off, putting on a brave face. But deep down in his gut, he knew that his Russian comrade didn’t joke. Especially, if it was on the subject like that. What surprised Joe the most was that the Russians didn’t hide their intention to dispose of him. They even told him why.

Since that day in October of 2012, every minute that Joe was awake, he kept hearing Leonid’s words in his head, Bad news is that they wouldn’t let you get away this time around. They think you have completed your mission, Joe. Everyone hates you now. The Russians, the Israelis, and even the CIA. Wonder why?

Although Joe had celebrated his eightieth birthday four years ago, he felt himself full of energy and renewed life. He wasn’t ready to depart yet. Just that morning, he looked at himself in the full-length shower mirror. The last time, Joe took a close inventory of his body was six years ago. It was 2008, and his protégé-Candidate had just won the highest office in the land for the first time. Now, in February of 2014, the President had started already his second year of his second term in the office.

Not bad, not bad, Joe murmured, looking at himself in the mirror.

He didn’t look anything like an eighty-four-year old man. In fact, he looked at least a decade younger.

Good food and exercising still keep me in check, Joe said aloud, satisfied.

His face was smooth, with almost no wrinkles, and without any sign of those puffy, rosy cheeks so customary to old folks. He brushed his hand over his full-head of hair. Although they were dirty-gray now, there was no sign of thinning. The broad forehead opened the way to his large, brown eyes. They still had a bright spark, but started losing their vivid color. A sizable nose was a prominent feature on his face. Yet, it didn’t distract from his inquisitive intelligence projected by his eyes. His large ears were still perked up like antennas, searching for anything useful to hear.

Just some minor blemishes..., Joe murmured again.

Skin bags under his eyes became his permanent feature. Just six years ago, Joe caught himself thinking, Why don’t I take care of them? They got it down to the science now. Nay... Looks so artificial, just like that old witch in the Congress. She’s done so many facelifts that she could barely open her mouth. It is a good thing though. The less she talks the better.

Joe took off his bathrobe and inspected himself in the mirror.

Not bad for an old motherfucker... No belly, almost no love handles. He said aloud.

Not long ago, Joe heard somewhere that eighty was the new sixty. And why not? With advancements in modern medicine, people now live well into their nineties. Suddenly, he froze, catching himself by saying,

Then why was I trying so hard to ruin our healthcare? Why was I bankrolling the destruction of our entire way of life? Hah? Ours? Since when had it become ours?

Joe’s lunch companion Leonid hadn’t changed a great deal in the twenty-seven years they had known each other. Joe noticed he started losing some of his hay-hair on top, but they were neatly trimmed. Leonid’s face was long, like a well-bred horse. It sat well on his frame. His eyes were light-blue, moving in a slow motion, carefully surveying the surroundings. His eyebrows matched his hay-hair. Leonid’s nose wasn’t anything to dwell on, but he had a wide chin with a dimple. Two rows of well-taken-care of white teeth were always shown off. Leonid had good manners, and was soft-spoken. He must be around fifty-six now, Joe thought. There was always something European about him. He never lost it, even after Leonid had spent most of his adult life in the United States.

They met in 1988 for the first time. A couple of years before, Leonid had graduated the Columbia Business School on a full scholarship, and on top of his class. He could’ve gotten into any Wall Street house, but he preferred to work in his family’s enterprise. His classmates were genuinely puzzled when they heard about his choice. Leonid didn’t have to lie. The KGB was his family’s enterprise, for life.

To unsuspected passerby, Joe and Leonid could look like father and son. They got together for lunch, ate, and were about to leave, but something kept them standing, and staring at each other.

How much time do I left to live? Joe repeated.

How much time do you need to turn over all your finances to someone else?

All?! Joe couldn’t believe what he just heard.

Startled by Joe’s loud reaction, the waitresses up front turned their heads towards them. The TV in the corner was blasting away. An endless procession of the ruling party apparatchiks were singing praises to their supreme leader, or the golfer-in-chief, as the opposition party labeled him.

All the fucking money that I have made?

Well…

Leonid deeply sighed, pretending that he didn’t notice Joe’s last remark.

Well, Joe. Remember Victor? My predecessor Victor? Oh… How long ago was it? 1987, I think.

How could Joe forget Victor? He remembered every moment of that day as if it happened yesterday. Victor called and demanded to meet him by the tennis courts on the Upper West Side of Central Park.

Did you watch TV this morning, Joe? Did you hear what he said in West Berlin?

Victor tried to imitate the American President. It didn’t work. His Russian accent killed it, and it sounded funny,

"Mr. Gorbachev, open this gate. Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"²

Victor was screaming at Joe, but suddenly switched to whisper,

They called me back to Moscow, Victor’s voice was trembling. Finally, he erupted. I am not going back! No way!

He sat down on the bench, and caught his breath. Then, he whispered again,

No fucking way!

Overwhelmed by these distant memories, Joe stood next to Leonid staring at him with an empty look.

Are you listening to me, Joe?

Leonid’s voice burst through his thoughts. Joe finally realized that Leonid was answering his question.

I had a good reason to ask you about Victor, Joe. We could never prove it, but I had a suspicion that he asked you to squirrel away some money for him before he had defected back then.

Although Victor had been dead for five years now, Joe could never betray him, or rather the memory of him. After twenty-seven years, Joe still remembered every word Victor said on that bright day in June of 1987.

"You are not going down with me, Joe. Can you guess how much Macallan’s we had drunk in those years that we worked together? Twelve hundred bottles! Can you imagine? Two hundred and forty fucking gallons! One can drive to LA from here on that." Victor paused for a second. And you think I am going to rat you out after what we had been through together… I ask you only one favor in return. Set up two numbered bank accounts for me. One in the Cayman Islands, and another, in Switzerland. I trust your wisdom for the amounts to last me until they would last...

The money had lasted him for twenty-two years, Joe said slowly. The money had lasted him for twenty-two years, he repeated it again.

What the hell are you talking about? Leonid seemed losing his patience.

Do you want me to set up a few accounts for you, Leonid?

You read my mind, Joe.

Leonid seemed to relax. He sat down back at the table, and waved at Joe to join him. He quickly poured vodka in both glasses from the bottle on the table, then moved his chair as close as it permitted him to get to Joe’s ear.

I hope to last much longer than those twenty-two years Victor was on the run.

Are you defecting, too, Leonid?

I didn’t say that!

Leonid pushed his chair away from Joe’s as if afraid to contract a contagious disease. He gulped some vodka from his glass. His face turned red. Vodka didn’t go down too well. He started choking, and waving violently towards waitresses upfront. One of them raced to the table with a pitcher of water and poured it into his glass. Leonid grabbed it and quickly emptied it. For a while, he sat quietly. His face returned to a normal pale. He moved his chair back to Joe’s.

Remember, Joe, I didn’t say it, whispered Leonid.

Do you want me to set up a few accounts for you, or not, Leonid?

Joe stopped, and continued,

I remember a young man said to me once, ‘We don’t forget our enemies. We always find them. No matter how long it may take.’

Joe sighed and looked at Leonid. His face was so close to Joe’s that he could smell the goulash Leonid had eaten a half-hour before.

Poor Victor...

Joe couldn’t believe that he found strength to joke when he himself was pronounced with a death sentence just a few minutes ago.

I know… I know. That’s why I would need much more money than Victor had. Much more money, Joe.

Leonid moved his chair back, away from Joe’s, but just a bit.

I have an insurance, you know, Leonid whispered. They may think twice about killing me. Both, the Russians, and the Americans, too.

In that case, you may live till you are a hundred. Let’s figure this one out, Leonid.

Joe forced a small smile on his face, and said,

You have worked for your government for at least thirty years. Have you not, Leonid?

I gave them all my fucking life, Joe. You know it.

Joe seemed undisturbed by Leonid’s remark. He calmly continued,

I am going to use the formula the American government uses to figure out a Social Security benefit for a regular Joe-Shmoe. I am an economist, after all. Suppose you would qualify for the highest benefit our government allows. That will give you about thirty grand a year. Providing you are still alive for the next ten years, you would need to buy your own Medical coverage till you get to a ripe age of sixty-five to get Medicare. Meanwhile, I suggest to use the Obamacare. Joe smirked.

Are you serious? Obamacare? I hope that you are kidding, Joe. Leonid’s face got long.

Hey, it is dirt-cheap and subsidized by hardworking American taxpayers. Anyway, you can’t get it. You are a fucking Russian spy, after all. Joe’s smirk became a grin.

Leonid was waiting. Joe continued,

Obamacare doesn’t work. With its high premiums and killing deductibles, it is doomed sooner than later. Buy your own Medical. Spend another twenty grand a year on that fucked-up proposition. That would make it a fifty grand a year total for your humble needs. Right? Let’s say, we double that, and give you a hundred grand a year for the next forty years. It seems you could get away with four million dollars, Leonid.

Are you fucking with me, Joe? All of a sudden, Leonid got serious.

Of course, I am, Leonid. Just keep in mind that half of my fellow-Americans will not have anything when they retire. Joe forced out a smile. I will arrange for setting up for you two numbered bank accounts. One in the Cayman Islands, and another, in Switzerland.

Skip Switzerland, Joe. Do Panama, instead. You know very well the IRS is going to get everyone flushed out of Swiss banks soon. First voluntarily, then, by force. It is easy money for the government to get their hands on. They will sell it to the American people as getting back ill-gotten profits hidden in foreign lands.

Okay, as you wish, Leonid.

Fifty million, each account. Would it be a problem, Joe?

I was thinking about the same number. After all, you deserve it. Where do you think those ‘petty’ hundred million dollars should come from, Leonid?

This is easy, Joe. This money will come from your own savings.

My own savings? Joe screamed.

For the second time, Joe’s loud reaction startled the waitresses up front.

Yes, your own savings. Have you ever wondered, why you lived such a long life, Joe? Eighty-four years! Why have we kept you around for so long?

I suppose I have been doing a great job making money for you.

That is one reason…

Leonid smirked. He sipped some vodka from his glass, and continued,

The main reason was that you always knew that the money were not yours. You always expected the money to be called in, to use your Wall Street parlance. Am I right, Joe?

Joe sat motionless. Leonid read him like an open book. In fact, that was the absolute truth. Joe had never considered the billions he had made as his own money. Meanwhile, Leonid continued,

At least, this explained that you have never given to any charity, ever. Even to any Jewish one, or to Israel… Am I wrong, Joe?

I had my own reasons for not giving to the Jews, said Joe quietly.

But you gave to the Palestinians a plenty. To the terrorists, Joe!

Leonid shifted in his chair, and continued,

Our governments may say anything they want about the Palestinians, but we all know that they are motherfucking bunch of sorry terrorists. Well, let us get back to your question about where the money should come from. It should be no problem for you to dispense some paltry hundred million from your personal billion dollars for the benefit of your old friend Leonid. After all, Joe, I had saved your ass too many times.

I suppose you are right, Joe said in a small voice. And what about that insurance, you mentioned, that would keep you alive till you are a hundred?

Leonid poured more vodka in his glass and took it in his hand. Then he moved his chair back to get closer to Joe’s ear.

"Remember that late summer in Chicago in 2003? You had attended a farewell party for that radical Muslim dude. Of all places, Columbia had offered that so-called scholar a teaching podium. You, Joe, were quite disgusted yourself. So much for us, transforming the American education… The President, he was the Candidate back then, showed up there, too. Remember, you urged us to vet our Candidate?"

Leonid shifted in his chair, making himself more comfortable,

Well…, we took your concerns very seriously, and looked into his past. Especially, into that time when he had been ‘missing’ for some time in Asia, and later in Africa. While everyone ate up with a big spoon all his stories about visiting his mother and the estranged father, my comrades had found a few curious things about the President. I have absolute proof that the guy you had helped to elect twice, is not who he claims to be. If I had released to my superiors in Moscow our findings back then, that would’ve been the end of him. Instead, I saved the information for a rainy day. I suppose that day has come. The minute I die, that evidence will surface in every major publication around the globe. It will be all over the Internet and in all other media. That, I hope, could buy me protection from anyone, him included.

Joe poured into his glass the remaining vodka from the bottle. For a long time, he stared at it with an empty look. Finally, he stretched his hand to grab the glass, but stopped halfway.

Why did it take you two years to come back to this conversation, Leonid? You can be frank with me. I am a dead man now.

Frank?! When I wasn’t frank with you, Joe? Who gets a two-year notice before his death? I bought you two years of your fucking, precious life, using every excuse in the spy book.

Leonid, stop it! You did it for yourself.

Joe got up and went to the front. He stopped by one of the waitresses and whispered into her ear. Then, he returned and sat at the table. Soon, the waitress came over and took away dirty dishes. She returned with a bottle of the Hungarian apricot brandy pálinka, clean glasses, and two plates with traditional Tiramisu-like cake, Galuska. Joe took his time, arranging their dessert on the table. He slowly poured heavy, yellow pálinka in their glasses. Immediately, a pleasant apricot aroma surrounded the table. Joe pushed one of the glasses towards his companion.

Look Leonid. It was nice of you to gift me with two more years of being alive. Although every second of those two years has been a torture for me, not knowing when my time would be up. I still appreciate that.

For a while, Joe went silent. He tried to buy more time, thinking carefully about every word he was going to say,

Don’t you think we need time to find a right person before we transfer all my financial assets?

Nope! We have the man already, burst Leonid.

A man who would always know that the money couldn’t be his?

That’s right, Joe. We have the man.

Joe finished his pálinka. He poured another full glass for himself and drank it. He tried grabbing for the last straw. If that didn’t work, then…

Leonid, what makes you think that ratting you out to your comrades wouldn't spare me from dying?

Joe said it in a quiet but determined voice. He was genuinely surprised how quickly Leonid replied, as if he had this rehearsed already,

I assume you mean my defection, Joe. Who are you going to tell it to? Leonid shook his head. Just think back. Anything and everything you had ever achieved had been a set up. We had rigged every event to make each of your ‘genius trades’ go through your way, our way. You are nothing, comrade. You are the dust. You are as disposable as a next guy. You have outserved your purpose. Sorry, I couldn't find any better way to put it to you Joe.

Leonid emptied his apricot brandy in one gulp, quickly filled another glass, and emptied it as fast as the one before. He then stuffed a piece of cake in his mouth, and still chewing said,

Joe, you have three weeks. I will see you with the last instructions the second Friday of March. Use your time wisely. It starts now.

Leonid, the least you could do is tell me what is going to happen on that Friday. Shall I ware a clean underwear?

You are right, Joe. I owe you that.. He paused, and said, You will pick the way you want to die.

Leonid got up, and was about to leave, but turned back. He poured more brandy in his glass, gulped it, and threw the glass back down on the table. It turned on its side, rolled down, and stopped just before falling to the floor.

"Do Svidaniya, Tovarisch! ³ "

Leonid walked over to Joe’s chair. He put both of his arms around Joe’s shoulders. He hugged him briefly, then walked away.

*****

2. The Farewells

When Leonid started the clock on Joe’s life, Joe couldn’t believe that they would actually follow through on it. They will do away with him like he was nobody. He couldn’t come to terms that he would become disposable as an old gadget they didn’t have any more use for.

He sat motionless at the table where Leonid left him that afternoon. The place was empty. Dinnertime was still a few hours away. Joe didn’t pay any attention to the waitress who came around cleaning the table. The only things she left behind were half-empty bottle of apricot brandy pálinka and the glass in front of him. She asked Joe something, but he couldn’t hear her. She left, but returned soon. This time, Joe understood. She wanted to know if he would stay for dinner. He nodded, and asked for a sheet of paper.

Joe pulled out of his jacket’s pocket a fountain pen, and murmured,

How many people would even know what it is. He paused, It is a relic. Apparently, just like I am. It is almost impossible to find ink for this pen. I think Nigel gets it from China. Everything comes from China nowadays. Ink? Why would I need ink? I will be dead soon.

Joe poured just enough brandy for a shot. He lifted the glass up to the light, admiring its deep-yellow color. Then he stuck his nose into it. A pleasant peachy-apricot scent brought back Joe’s childhood memories. It was a favorite drink of his parents in summertime. Sometimes, they gave him a teaspoon of it for a taste. The heavy liquid was pleasantly biting into the tip of his tongue. Then Joe would feel a strong aftertaste of a poorly-distilled vodka.

He put the glass back on the table, took the sheet of paper the waitress brought, and drew a line down the middle. He bent low over the table, and looked through the glass again as if in search of what to put down on paper. Then he neatly wrote Lily’s name on one side of the line, and abruptly stopped. Joe took the glass and sipped from it. On the other side of the line, he wrote, wife for fifty-four years. Joe stopped again, looked at the words he just wrote, and murmured,

Fifty-four years… It was 1960 when we had gotten married. Although we had been divorced for the last seventeen of them, I have never stopped thinking of her any other than my wife. I was against a religious ceremony, but Lily had insisted. After all, the rabbi who married us was right. I suppose there always will be a tie between us.

Joe picked up the pen again. He continued with more names, putting them one under another with a brief comment across the line. Ava — Daughter; Mark — A friend for seventy years…; Jákob or Jáiky — Brother; Nigel —??? Joe’s hand stopped in the midair. He didn’t know who else to add to his list. He was so astonished, that he screamed at the piece of paper.

This is it? These are all the people I could account for? I have lived for eighty-four years, and I just have five names to relate to?

The restaurant was completely empty. Even waitresses left till dinnertime. He kept staring at the list, while talking aloud,

Who am I kidding? You don’t even have them. Lily couldn’t care less about me. Ava… I never understood her. What the hell she wanted from her life? Mark is probably dead by now. And Jáiky… God only knows where he could be. There is Nigel, of course.

For a long time, Joe sat motionless, shocked by the simple truth that he didn’t have anyone to turn to. Through his entire life, he had only one true friend to the very end. It only happened because it was his friend’s end. All of a sudden, Joe’s memory took him back five years.

It was in a house overlooking Lake Lucerne in Switzerland. His friend Michael Poore, the king of the Castle, as Joe jokingly used to call him, was lying in a hospital bed in front of a massive panoramic window. Electric wires snaked from under his blanket to a table packed with electronic gadgets. Both Michael’s daughters were in the room, standing beside the bed, and holding his hands. At that moment, Joe caught himself thinking, I wonder if my daughter Ava would come if I was dying?

He recalled another thing that seemed to him odd at the time. Two lonely white sails were sliding along the blue waters of the lake. As soon as Michael had passed away, Joe slowly closed his friend’s empty eyes. He turned around and looked at the lake below. One sail was gone.

Michael wasn’t the only friend Joe had recently lost. Just two years ago, his best childhood friend Mark made it clear that Joe wasn’t welcomed into his life any longer. It had happened with Joe before. Another close friend András Lorre, told Joe to take a hike, too. They were more than friends. Mark and András had saved Joe’s life. Later, András helped him to build his entire investment business on Wall Street. Too bad, Joe couldn’t put his name on the list. Five years ago, András had passed away. Joe could still recite by memory the obituary from The New York Times,

"With painful regret and sorrow, we would like to announce the passing of András Lorre, a great man, husband, father, philanthropist, and one of the top retail stockbrokers in Wall Street history. He