When the Past Came Calling

by Larry S. Kaplan

  My plan of action on arriving in Mexico City was to find Rabbi Salinas, the young cleric who had befriended Benny and was the only person—according to Benny’s manifesto—who could help me find him. Hopefully I would have no trouble convincing Rabbi Salinas that I was Benny’s friend and that it was urgent for me to find him before Conrad did.

  I was traveling light, so I had no checked luggage. After I passed through customs, I didn’t have to wait long in the taxi line to find an available cab. I asked my driver to take me to Polanco, since that’s where Benny said Rabbi Salinas’s synagogue was located. The driver looked at me knowingly and asked, “¿Judío?”

  I still remembered some Spanish from high school so I knew Judío meant “Jewish.” I told the driver, “Si, señor, estoy Judío.” He smiled, proud of himself for demonstrating his knowledge of the Polanco district where the majority of the city’s Jews lived; or perhaps because he could recognize a Jew when he saw one. And then, with a jerky start producing enough exhaust fumes to envelop the entire vehicle, we were off.

  The drive from the airport to Polanco took about an hour. We traveled through an urban landscape devoid of green space. But as we approached our destination, we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a spacious park. “¿Que es este parque?” I asked the driver.

  “Chapultepec,” he replied. “¿Es muy bonita, si?”

  The park was indeed spectacular, and it was teeming with families enjoying the natural beauty of the outdoors. Although it was May and we were in Mexico, the relatively high altitude of the city made it feel like a perfect spring day in Wisconsin.

  Once we got beyond the park, the streets within the district seemed to run every which way: some perpendicular or parallel to each other, others crisscrossing at various angles. We’d reached the commercial center, where we found ourselves surrounded by expansive department stores and numerous luxury hotels. When we arrived in what appeared to be the heart of the Polanco district, my driver pulled over to the curb and asked, “¿Que calle? ¿Que dirección?”

  I didn’t know the name, the exact address, or the street where Rabbi Salinas’s synagogue was located. But on the sidewalk near where we stopped, several men with long beards wearing black clothing and hats—clearly Orthodox Jews—were walking together, engaged in animated conversation. So I told the driver, “Aqui es bien.”

  After exiting the cab, I walked up and down a few of the streets to get my bearings. There appeared to be synagogues everywhere. Some were impressive modern structures built almost exclusively of marble and granite, with huge Stars of David or other Judaic symbols prominent features of their facades. Other temples were older and smaller, relatively shabby looking, sandwiched between large commercial buildings.

  I entered every synagogue I passed, in search of a directory that listed the names of the staff, including the rabbi. I found that nearly every lobby had one. After about two hours of checking at least fifteen of them, I finally came to Temple Beth Am. It was one of the smaller synagogues in Polanco, wedged between a high-rise apartment building on one side and an office building on the other. The second name listed on its directory caused my heart to flutter: Rabbi Alberto Salinas.

  There was no one in the lobby, so I walked further on until I came to a single hall lined with doors on both sides that led to the temple’s sanctuary. As I headed down the hall, a man emerged from one of the side doors. He appeared to be a maintenance man given the blue overalls he was wearing.

  “¿Sabes usted donde es Rabbi Salinas?” I asked.

  The man pointed toward the sanctuary, to a door that was closed. I walked over to it and knocked, and I was greeted immediately by a woman wearing a head covering and a long skirt that almost touched the ground. She was young and very attractive. In Spanish she asked me if I was I looking for someone in particular.

  “¿Sabes donde es Rabbi Salinas?” I inquired.

  “¿Hablas Ingles, Señor?” she replied. Then, “Do you speak English?”

  My accent must have given me away. “Yes,” I said.

  “So, you are looking for Rabbi Salinas.”

  “Yes. Isn’t he the rabbi of this synagogue? I saw his name on the directory.”

  “Yes, he is one of the rabbis here. The junior rabbi. I am his secretary, Anita Alvarez. As it happens, I have been looking for him too. Are you a friend of his?”

  “No, I’m looking for a friend of mine. From America. I think Rabbi Salinas might know where—”

  “Oh, is it a woman, this friend?” she interrupted.

  “No, my friend is a man. His name is Benny Friedman.”

  “Oh—then never mind.”

  “But why did you think my friend was a woman?”

  “Because at last night’s Shabbat service, there was a woman in the sanctuary I’d never seen before. From her clothes, I thought she might be American. And I saw that she tried to speak with Rabbi Salinas after his sermon, but he needed to leave. He visits a local nursing home after the Friday night services, for the people who cannot come to the synagogue. That’s why I thought maybe she was the friend you’re looking for.”

  “What did she look like?” I asked.

  “She was very attractive. Also, I was a little surprised to see her there because she didn’t look at all Jewish.”

  It had to be Sandra Newton. I had no doubt of it. She was on Benny’s trail, and she’d already spoken with Rabbi Salinas. If anyone could disarm a person and gain their trust, it was Sandra. Who knew what kind of story she’d cooked up to get Rabbi Salinas to tell her where she could find Benny.

  “Ms. Alvarez, you said you were looking for Rabbi Salinas too. Is he supposed to be here today?”

  “Yes, he’s late. He was supposed to be here an hour ago for a meeting with a boy who’s having his Bar Mitzvah next Saturday. You see that boy sitting over there—in the sanctuary?”

  She pointed to a shy-looking, dark-haired boy who had some books in his lap, sitting on a bench just inside the open door to the sanctuary.

  “It’s not like him to be late. I tried calling his apartment, but there was no answer.”

  “Listen, Ms. Alvarez. I’m concerned that Rabbi Salinas may be in danger. The woman you mentioned who came to the service last night—she may be up to no good. Can you tell me where he lives?”

  “I could. But frankly, I don’t know you.”

  “Please. You have to trust me.”

  “Well, then I must go with you. And you can call me Anita, by the way.”

  We left the temple and walked for several blocks until we reached a three-story apartment building.

  “This is where Rabbi Salinas lives,” Anita told me as I followed her up the several stone steps to the building’s front door. “No elevator, I’m afraid, and he lives on the third floor.”

  “Oh, I should be able to handle it. I’m not as old as I look.”

  The staircase was wooden, narrow, and steep. By the time we reached the third floor, I was out of breath. Anita, on the other hand, took the stairs like a finely tuned engine. There were several apartments on the floor, and she walked over to the one that had a mezuzah on the door.

  “This is it,” she said as she started to knock.

  There was no answer. She knocked again.

  “Sometimes the rabbi doesn’t lock the door,” she said. “He is far too trusting.” She turned the knob and was able to push the door open. “I told you,” she said.

  We walked inside.

  “¿Rabbi, esta aquí?” she called out. There was no answer.

  “Strange. His books are still here, on his desk,” she said pointing to a stack of books on a small tabletop in what appeared to be the living room. “He normally takes them with him to the temple.”

  “Can we look in his bedroom?” I asked. “Maybe he’s still sleeping or taking a nap.”

  Anita looked at me incredulously, as if the rabbi asleep in his bed in the middle of the day was the least plausible explanation for his whereabouts.

  “OK,
” she said. “We will see.” She led the way to his bedroom, where the door was closed, so she opened it.

  The room was barely large enough to contain his bed. But on that bed, sprawled on his back with a bullet hole in his head, was a man I presumed to be Rabbi Salinas. And standing next to the bed, gun in hand, was Sandra Newton.

  “She’s the one,” screamed Anita. “What have you done!”

  “David, I can explain everything,” Sandra said, sounding bizarrely calm.

  “I’m going to go call the police,” Anita shrieked through her tears. As she turned to leave the bedroom, a shot rang out, and a bullet whizzed just over her head. It stopped her in her tracks.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Sandra said, pointing the gun at the hysterical woman. “You can’t go to the police about this—not yet. And David, you have got to hear me out. I can’t allow anyone to leave until you do.”

  I looked at Anita, feeling totally helpless. “I’m sorry, but I guess we have no choice…OK, Sandra, we’re listening.”

  “First of all, I did not shoot Rabbi Salinas. Conrad did—I am certain of it.”

  “Please, Sandra,” I blurted, “enough of the lies and double-dealing.”

  “No, you have got to believe me. I received a phone call two days ago from a Russian—Kostay. I know you know him, David. It was right after you left Omsk. It was too late for him to reach you. He told me everything. He said he finally figured out that I had been manipulated by Conrad—just like you.”

  “You were manipulated?”

  “Yes. This goes back to the beginning, David. It’s the reason Conrad had me transfer to Chicago. I’d worked with him in Houston on several assignments. He used my looks to get him information when he thought it might help. When his targets were young men like you and Michael.”

  “Chumps like us, huh?”

  “Yes, chumps like you. Only this time, I was the chump. He told me that your friend Benny had worked for him. Conrad said he’d hired Benny to infiltrate the Workers’ Revolutionary Party—the WRP—in Mexico. It’s a communist group that was formed here in 1976. Benny was going to school in Mexico and had answered a blind ad for the CIA at the University of Guadalajara, according to Conrad. The ad claimed to be seeking an American student interested in foreign relations.

  “Conrad said Benny was willing to join a student branch of the WRP at the University of Guadalajara and report back to him on their activities. After a while, though, Conrad said he became suspicious, believing that Benny had started sympathizing with their cause. Something like the Stockholm syndrome—where the victim comes to identify with their adversary. Conrad told me he was convinced that Benny had, in effect, become a double agent—sharing with the WRP the confidential information he received from Conrad about destabilizing the organization.

  “Conrad said he tried to meet with Benny in Mexico, but Benny disappeared. He was desperate to confront him to find out exactly what he’d told them. He also told me that Benny had started communicating with a childhood friend, Michael Eisenberg, who was now the US Attorney in Chicago. Conrad said we needed to get to Eisenberg in order to find Benny.”

  “So that’s why you went to Michael with the whole Dr. Whidden and Truce of God story?” I interjected.

  “Yes. Conrad dreamed it up. He discovered that Benny’s family lived next door to some cult leader back in the sixties. So the missing scientist story was to convince Michael to deliver Benny to us, to help us find Whidden.”

  “But how do you explain Michael’s murder, Sandra?”

  “At the time I thought it had to do with the WRP—or maybe even suicide. But now I know the truth. Conrad had him killed because he was afraid Benny had told Michael what he knew about the Kennedy assassination. But I didn’t know anything about the Kennedy assassination until Kostay told me what was really going on.”

  “And Conrad manipulated you when it came to me too?”

  “Yes, David. When he learned that Michael had sought you out for information about the Truce of God—and that you were also an old friend of Benny’s—he wanted me to spin the Truce of God story to you too—to convince you that we needed Benny in order to find Whidden.”

  I didn’t believe her. Not for a second. But she was the one with the gun. Still, she could have killed me right there in Rabbi Salinas’s apartment, and Anita too, and no one would have connected her to the crimes. But she didn’t, and I wasn’t sure why.

  “David, do you remember when I tried to convince you not to go to Omsk? After Benny’s mother was killed?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Why do you think that was?”

  “Given all of the bullshit that’s been flying around, Sandra, I couldn’t begin to venture a guess.”

  “Because I was starting to have feelings for you, David.”

  “Oh, please,” I said, disgusted with this new attempt to win me over.

  “No, it’s true. I didn’t want you to see Lena again—I was jealous.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence, Sandra.”

  “I didn’t know that Conrad wanted you dead. I thought he just wanted you out of our way. He told me he suspected you were protecting Benny—helping him stay one step ahead of us. He figured that if he lured you to Omsk with the chance to reunite with your childhood sweetheart, you’d be out of the picture and no longer an obstacle in tracking Benny down.”

  “But—why now, Sandra? Why now do you suddenly see the light about Conrad?”

  “It’s like I told you. Kostay called me after you left Omsk. He said there was something in what you told him that convinced him I’d been duped by Conrad, too.”

  “And what was that?”

  “You apparently told him I’d asked you about the WRP—when we first met at your office, remember? There was a letter with a law firm’s logo—WRP. I asked about it because I thought it might be the letterhead of the Workers’ Revolutionary Party. When Kostay learned that I zeroed in on it, he became convinced that Conrad used that WRP story on me as the reason for finding Benny—that I too had been duped. Why else would I be so interested in such a letter? So after that, Kostay proceeded to tell me everything. Everything about Conrad and the Kennedy assassination.”

  “Then why are you here, in Mexico City?”

  “Kostay asked me to find out if Conrad was still in Houston and report back to him. When I discovered he’d left for Mexico City, I immediately told Kostay. He, in turn, said that Conrad would be hunting down this Rabbi Salinas, because he knew where to find Benny.

  “Kostay said you were on the same trail. So I came down here to stop Conrad, David, and to protect you. That’s why I was looking for Rabbi Salinas. When I met him at his temple last night, I tried to warn him, but he was too busy. When I mentioned Benny’s name, he suggested we meet at his apartment this morning. But I obviously got here too late.”

  I wanted to believe her, but there was still so much to doubt about her story. “But what about the Lincoln Hall business, Sandra? Benny saw you and Conrad there, in the audience. How did you know about that?”

  “Well, you gave that away.”

  “I gave it away?”

  “Remember, when we met for drinks at Harry’s. You pulled out a large blue handkerchief…when you started sweating from the vodka. It was so curiously huge, I had to examine it. I saw the words Silly Players stamped in one of its corners. So I did some checking. I learned there was a Silly Players Theater Company and that it currently had a production of Oliver! at Lincoln Hall. So that’s why we went looking for Benny, there. We figured you must have met with Benny at the theater and taken one of the props.”

  “But what about June, Sandra? You covered up for her death by blaming it on the Truce of God.”

  “I did cover up for it. I know. I was following Conrad’s instructions when I blamed it on the cameraman you told me about. Because Conrad told me that June Friedman had been interrogated by members of the WRP to find out whose side her son was really on—and the expe
rience had resulted in her fatal heart attack. I stupidly fell for Conrad’s explanation.”

  At that moment, I heard a noise at the front door followed by rapid footsteps. Before I could turn around and see who it was, Sandra screamed, “David, watch out!”

  I dropped to the ground, taking Anita with me, and heard three rapid-fire gunshots whizzing around me. I thought surely I would be killed, but then the shooting stopped abruptly. When I raised my head, I saw that Sandra had toppled over onto the bed—on top of Rabbi Salinas. Before I could look in any other direction, I heard what was unmistakably the voice of Tristan Conrad.

  “The bitch managed to get me in my shoulder,” he grumbled, sporting a deep-red blood spot just above his right arm. “But I think I got her better than she got me.”

  Conrad was standing in the bedroom doorway with his gun pointed at Anita and me, where we were still huddled on the floor.

  “She was telling you the truth, David. She wasn’t in on it. In fact, she was almost easier to fool than you were. And who is this young lady?”

  “Anita Alvarez,” the young woman replied flatly with no hint of fear, undoubtedly trying to suppress her rage.

  “And how do you relate to all of this?” he asked.

  “I am Rabbi Salinas’s secretary,” she said boldly, “or at least I was until you killed him.”

  “Oh, listen to her, David. Isn’t she brave! Well, if you’re his secretary, then maybe you can help me. I need to find his Bible.”

  “His Bible?” she replied incredulously. You mean his Tanakh?

  “Yes, his Hebrew Bible, his Tanakh. No harm in showing me that, is there?”

  She thought about this for a minute. “It’s on his desk. In the other room—the living room.”

  “Both of you,” he said, still pointing his gun at us, “come with me there so I can see if you’re telling the truth.”