I decided to wait in my car, on the off chance that he’d deviated from his routine to retrieve something he needed. Maybe he’d run out of food or water and couldn’t wait until dark to replenish his supplies.
I kept the battery of my car running from time to time so I could listen to the radio. After an hour and a half of waiting, I started to become concerned. If Benny was no longer living in his backstage retreat, where had he gone? And why hadn’t he let me know? He could have contacted me through his mother. Was he upset with me because of how I’d behaved when he gave me Lena’s letter? Maybe my anger had so unraveled him that he decided to seek shelter elsewhere—someplace he didn’t want me to know about.
When I turned on the radio to hear the seven o’clock news, the lead story was the Oliver North trial. A jury had convicted him earlier that day in the Iran–Contra affair. The reporter continued, “Shifting to local news, we have a report of an alleged crime in Lincolnwood Towers. Our Eyewitness News skycam shows that several police vehicles have converged in front of a house in the exclusive Chicago suburb. We will bring you updates on this story as they become available.”
A crime of any kind in Lincolnwood Towers was unusual; although the Towers wasn’t a gated community, it was renowned for being an extremely safe place to live. Since I wasn’t that far from there—and my curiosity was aroused—I decided to drive over and see what was going on. I figured that if Benny returned to Lincoln Hall in my absence, I would return there soon enough; the diversion would cost me fifteen or twenty minutes at most.
I headed out of the lot and drove west along Pratt Avenue to Cicero, north to Touhy, and west across the Edens overpass to the Towers. There was a police vehicle parked just inside the entrance with a single officer inside. He seemed to be staring directly at me as I drove past the Welcome to Lincolnwood Towers sign.
I drove slowly down Hiawatha Drive, the Towers’ main thoroughfare, looking all around me to see if I could spot where the trouble was. As I neared Longmeadow Circle, before I could actually peer into the cul-de-sac, I saw flashing red lights reflected on the trees that lined the intersection of Hiawatha and Longmeadow. When I reach the junction of the two roads, I saw two Lincolnwood Village police cars—the source of the red lights—blocking the entrance to Longmeadow Circle. I parked my car along Hiawatha Drive, exited my vehicle, and walked toward the police cars.
One of the officers emerged from his vehicle as I approached. “Do you live on this street?” he said, sounding rather annoyed.
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“But I have a friend who lives on this street—June Friedman. She lives over there,” I said, pointing toward her house.
“I’m sorry. I can’t let you through,” he said.
Just then a smartly dressed woman exited from the other police vehicle and headed in my direction. I realized in an instant it was Sandra Newton. What was she doing here? I’d left her at the Argonne lab only a few hours earlier.
“I’m sorry, David. It’s Benny’s mother. She’s been the victim of foul play. We spoke to one of the neighbors who noticed a man leaving the house at about two this afternoon. She said she didn’t get a good look at him but that he was an older man, extremely thin, and had red hair. He seems to match the description of the cameraman you saw at Michael’s funeral—the man with the number tattooed on his arm.”
I was stupefied by this news. I could hardly take in what she was saying. “She’s dead—is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes. Again, I’m sorry.”
None of this was adding up. “Sorry? Sorry doesn’t come close to covering it. What the fuck is going on, Sandra? Why would someone kill her? And what the fuck are you doing here?” I could barely contain my feelings, a mix of extreme anger, pain, and confusion.
“If you must know, we’ve been doing some low-level surveillance on the house, David. We needed to find Benny, and we thought he might pay an impromptu visit to his mother. We’d asked a few of the neighbors to get in touch with us if any unfamiliar-looking men came by the house, since none of them knew what Benny looked like. When one of our people received a call today about the redheaded man, our guy decided to check it out. When he knocked on the Friedmans’ door and got no response, he forced his way in and found her dead in the kitchen, a single bullet hole to the head. I was contacted about it right after you left Argonne.”
“Surveillance! You were spying on her?”
“No, we weren’t spying on the house or on Benny’s mom. We just wanted a heads-up from one of the neighbors if any strangers came by.”
For the moment, I accepted her explanation. “But why would they want her dead? What could she possibly know?”
“I suspect that someone was tipped off when we accessed the archive to link the Truce of God to the real estate trust that sold the Friedmans their home. Maybe they feared we were getting close to connecting the sect with the Greenland bombing incident—that Mrs. Friedman might remember something that could incriminate them.”
“Are you saying that if I hadn’t asked you to search the real estate records, this never would have happened?”
“You can’t blame yourself, David. You drew an association between the Truce of God and Benny’s father that nobody else knew about. And now I guess they want to get rid of all of the evidence—starting with June Friedman.”
“This is crazy—unbelievable!”
“These Truce of God people are every bit as dangerous as we feared—and now even more so. Frankly, I think you should carefully consider all this before you give Conrad your answer. In fact, I don’t think you should take that trip to Omsk because you too may be in jeopardy. You should stay here instead and devote your time to finding Benny—so we can protect the both of you.”
If I thought that Benny could still be found backstage at Lincoln Hall, I would have agreed with her. But he’d obviously moved somewhere else. I couldn’t even bear to contemplate how devastated he’d be when he learned about his mother’s death. Maybe he already knew.
“Look, David, why don’t you go home and get some rest? There’s nothing you can do for Benny by staying here. But if you learn anything about his location, you need to tell me. You do understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course, I understand.”
Rather than heading directly home, I drove back to Lincoln Hall and knocked once again on the theater’s back door—long, short, short, long, long. Still no response. Benny had obviously sensed danger and found a new hiding place. At least I hoped that was the reason for his apparent absence.
As I drove home, I thought about what Sandra said—about possibly imperiling myself by going to Omsk and about the need to find Benny. But with Benny having gone AWOL on me and my only lifeline to him—his mother—now dead, there was nothing more I could do from here to protect him. Maybe I had a better chance of doing that by helping Conrad find Philip Montgomery before the cult leader’s henchmen found Benny—or me.
As soon as I arrived at my apartment, I called the number Conrad had given me earlier that day. He’d told me I had two days to decide about making the trip to Omsk, but my mind was already made up.
After three rings, I listened to a robotic-sounding voice telling me to leave a message. Then I thought about the possibility that the line wasn’t secure…but I was forgetting: for a CIA agent, how was that possible? Still, the message I left wouldn’t give anything away.
“I’ve decided that I’ll go,” I stated matter-of-factly. “I wait your further instructions.”
Chapter 25
May 6, 1989
Conrad and I met at Sandra’s office in the federal building on Jackson Street in downtown Chicago—although she wasn’t present. He got right to the point, wasting no time on small talk.
“There’s no need to involve Sandra, or the FBI, in this assignment,” Conrad explained. “You will have one handler, one point of contact throughout this entire operation—me.<
br />
“I’ve brought you a textbook on international trade regulation and customs law,” he said, pulling out a moderate-sized tome from the large valise at his side. “Please read it cover to cover. I know you’re a smart lawyer, but this is outside your field of expertise. This book includes all you need to know, and then some, to speak knowledgeably on the subject during your meeting with Lena. So, as I said, please read it—study it. As if you were taking a bar exam on the topic—OK?”
“OK,” I responded.
Conrad reached back into his valise and this time pulled out a three-ring notebook that he handed to me. “This contains all of your trip details. You’ll be leaving the morning of May 9 on an American Airlines flight from O’Hare to JFK in New York. You’ll then fly Aeroflot from New York to Moscow, where there’ll be someone waiting for you from Intourist, a Soviet travel agency popular with international corporations who need assistance for their employees doing business in the Soviet Union.”
“Will this person know…I mean…?”
“He or she is not one of ours, if that’s what you’re asking, David. All the arrangements are made in a completely overt and legitimate manner. Every person you deal with believes you are David Miller, chief legal counsel for the Marshall Consulting Group. Now, as I was saying, the person waiting for you in Moscow will carry a sign with your name on it. Look for it when you land. This person is there to guide you through customs and passport control and then get you to the correct terminal and gate for the flight from Moscow to Omsk. The Soviets don’t like Americans walking around their airports unattended.
“At the passport control station, you will show your passport and visa. We took the liberty of getting you a new passport. Your photo was taken secretly from one of the security guard stations at Argonne when you came through, just in case you agreed to the mission. The passport is in the side pocket of the binder, along with your visa. Your passport needed to indicate that you travel frequently for business behind the Iron Curtain, so there are stamps showing prior visits to Hungary, Bulgaria, and Romania.
“You may be asked about the nature of your trip. Your answer will be simple. You are going to Omsk to meet with Spacebo about US import-export laws and restrictions because they’re interested in ordering materials from US companies. Spacebo is well known. It is also well known that to supply Russian women with high-fashion clothing, Spacebo needs to shop for materials outside the Soviet Union. So the purpose of your trip should not arouse any suspicion.”
Easy for him to say, I was thinking.
“You will have several hours after you land in Moscow before the flight to Omsk. The Intourist guide will remain with you during that time. They will probably speak some English, so be friendly, be engaging. The Intourist guides are often low-level Soviet spies. If they ask you any questions about your trip, be prepared to tell them your story. But keep in mind, they are probably not asking out of idle curiosity.”
“Mr. Conrad, one question,” I said. “What do I tell people here? Like my friends or family—and the people at my law firm, like my uncle Bert?”
“We’ve worked that part out for you, David. You are going to New York. At least on your first flight. But your cover story for people here is that you’re visiting a friend from law school who’s going through a difficult divorce. He’s having a very tough time of it and needs your moral support and companionship for a few days. Have you said anything to your uncle yet?”
“No…well, I mean, I made sure I had nothing going on in court while I’m away. But I haven’t told him anything yet about needing a week off.”
“Do you think it could cause a problem?”
“Probably not. He pretty much leaves me to my own devices. If I tell him I have a law school friend in New York who needs my help—and that I have no court dates that week—it shouldn’t be an issue.”
“OK. Next thing. When you land in Omsk there will be another Intourist guide to meet you. Again, with a sign—so look for your name. This guide will have a car waiting to take you to your hotel—the Intourist Hotel in Omsk; not surprisingly, they have a monopoly over the entire Soviet tourist industry. Once you’re checked in, you’ll be on your own. Your meeting is scheduled for the next morning at Spacebo. An Intourist car will pick you up at your hotel at eight a.m. The car will wait for you at Spacebo during your meeting and then take you back to the Omsk airport afterward.”
“That’s it, then? I stay in Omsk only long enough to have the meeting?” I asked, surprised and disappointed at the same time. I thought I’d have more time than that to get reacquainted with Lena.
“It should be all the time you’ll need, David, to discuss whatever legal issues are on her mind. And then ask her about her father—and hopefully find out where he is. Then that’s it, you’re done.
“You’ll return home the same way you came—it’s all in the notebook—flight times, flight numbers, etc. There will be an Intourist guide awaiting your arrival at the Omsk airport who’ll stay with you until you board the flight for Moscow and another one waiting to meet you at the Moscow airport to see you through customs control and stay with you until you board the flight to New York.”
“And what if Lena tells me where her father is? You don’t want me to call you with the information before I leave?”
“No. We thought about that. It’s true that it would get us the information a full day sooner than waiting until you get to New York. But since the Soviet phone lines are closely monitored, the call might arouse suspicion. Even if you were to use a pay phone—at the Omsk airport, for example—we can’t be sure about who might be listening in. Wait till you get to New York, then call me. It’s only one extra day. And if you do find out his location, I can dispatch our people who are already on the ground in Omsk—if that’s where he is. And hopefully, if they can find Montgomery, we’ll be able to locate Dr. Whidden as well.”
During the next two days, I spent long hours each evening reading the textbook Conrad had given me. The complicated system of international trade regulation and customs law was not exactly simple stuff. But eventually I felt I’d absorbed enough information to pull off the meeting with Lena. In a way, it was good to have the distraction of learning about an area of the law that was new to me. Otherwise I would have been completely overwhelmed by the thought that in just a few days, I would be seeing the raven-haired princess I had met twenty-three years earlier beneath the Friedmans’ willow tree…a girl I had never expected to see again in my life.
My uncle Bert had no problem with my trip to New York to help a friend, since he was all about doing mitzvahs—that is, good deeds—for people. He offered to handle any matters I was working on that might need attention in my absence. I reassured him there was nothing outstanding that couldn’t wait for my return. Then he asked for my flight information to New York. He was an uneasy traveler with a fear of flying that probably derived from an experience in the war, when his plane lost an engine over the Pacific and barely reached a tiny atoll where the pilot pulled off a miraculous landing. Consequently, whenever I traveled, he always wanted to know the flight number in case there was a crash.
On the morning of May 9, I arrived at O’Hare about an hour and a half before my American Airlines flight was scheduled for takeoff. I spent my time at the gate rereading the law book Conrad gave me and just generally trying to keep my mind calm. Since it seemed to help me feel more comfortable with the nuances of US customs law, I planned on reading it a few more times during my flights.
It wasn’t long before the gate attendant announced that my plane would be boarding in about ten minutes, so I decided to use the men’s room one more time. As I rose from my seat, I saw a sight that so surprised me I thought I must be dreaming: it was my uncle Bert, racing down the concourse toward my departure gate. He spotted me when I stood up and covered the last twenty yards in a sprint. He was breathless when he reached me.
“Uncle Bert,” I said in amazement, “what is it?”
“I’m
sorry to startle you, David, but I had to get this to you before you boarded the plane.” He handed me a small sealed package.
“What is it?” I asked. “I thought you were coming to tell me not to go. Like you had a premonition of a plane crash or something.”
“Don’t say things like that, David…Listen, I received a call from my rabbi last night. He told me this package arrived at my synagogue yesterday with an envelope attached to it addressed to me. It was sent from a synagogue in Mexico City.
“When I picked it up this morning on my way to work, I opened the letter. It was written by a rabbi in Mexico, who explained that the package is for you. He helped one of his congregants locate me. This congregant knew you had an orthodox uncle in Lincolnwood, which easily narrowed it down since mine is the only orthodox temple in the Lincolnwood area. The congregant’s name is Benny Friedman. I remembered you had a friend Benny from high school.”
When he paused, I nearly gasped in astonishment.
He continued, “The cover letter said it was ‘extremely urgent’ that I get the package to you as soon as possible. I haven’t looked at it, David, but I can feel that it’s a book. Maybe I overreacted, racing over here, but after all the trouble your friend went to—well, I wanted to get it into your hands before you left.”
I squeezed the package to get a better sense of its contents. It did feel like a book. I wondered why Benny was back in Mexico. Possibly he learned about his mother’s murder and fled the country to avoid the same fate. Well, at least now I knew where he was, and it probably meant he was safe—for the time being.
I thanked my uncle profusely for tracking me down at the airport, whereupon he gave me a quick hug and wished me a safe trip before he started back to the concourse.
When I heard the loudspeaker announce my flight was boarding, I decided my bathroom break would have to wait until I was on the plane. I jammed Benny’s package into my jacket pocket, where it just fit.
When the Past Came Calling Page 12
