Geistmann

by Singer, Ron

  “Where’s your accent, Diodor?” The use of first names had been established toward the end of the telephone conversation.

  Fedoruk smiled sheepishly. “I leaf it in cho-tel, Chahn. I use it only when is needed. It make me sound stoo-peed, no?” He winked, and Robinson guessed that the confession was his way of shifting their relationship into fast forward. For a minute or two, they ate and drank silently, Fedoruk smiling with pleasure. He also appeared to study Robinson, who, remembering that Weatherbee might call Fedoruk at any time, made a mental note to try to hurry this conversation along.

  “Well, then,” said Fedoruk, three or four large bites and the better part of his pint later, “you look almost ready to take the bull by the horns, John –maybe even by the balls. Shall we talk?”

  He pushed his plate away, but held onto the beer mug. Was he waiting for Robinson to finish his own pint and to suggest a refill? Robinson was unfamiliar with Ukrainian drinking etiquette, there having been none at the party with Judy’s cousins.

  “Another one, first, Diodor?” he offered, holding up his own mug, which was still three-quarters full.

  “I’m good, thanks.” He held his palm over the top of the mug.

  Robinson glanced at his watch. “Look, any minute now, the phone will ring, so ...

  Fedoruk made eye contact. “I think I can trust you, John?” They both smiled. “As Peter said, there has to be a mole. Too much data has disappeared for all of it to have been intercepted externally. Interpol has been chasing Geistmann for a decade, and JOLETAF, for over three years, and we still don’t know his nationality? Not a single fingerprint? Really?”

  Robinson felt a sense of relief to hear his own suspicions confirmed by a professional. “That is very strange. And, according to the dossier, he doesn’t seem to have a single known associate. Where does he get the weapons, costumes, documents? Did he kill all his past suppliers without a trace? Impossible, no one would deal with him.”

  Fedoruk wore a wry expression. “Good questions, although these days documents and guns are easy to get and hard to trace. The U.S. State Department, alone, has hundreds of guys running around tracking illegal paper, and the U.N. does the same for guns. But you’re right. No trace? Someone has been covering his tracks, erasing or altering a great deal of data. Maybe, the purpose of Peter’s argument was to smoke out the mole, provoke him into breaking cover.” He looked around the room again.

  “Another question, Diodur. Why did you want to sound stupid at the meeting, when nothing you said was stupid?”

  Fedoruk smiled sheepishly. “The reason is a bit subtle: I didn’t want to alarm the FBI men and the Marshal. Those guys don’t trust foreigners, except for ridiculous ones like my Croatian counterpart. I certainly don’t want them to think I’m the mole! You see, there have been no moles in recent history that have used buffoonery as a cover identity. They were all either arrogantly brilliant –-Burgess, Philby, Blount— or really ordinary – Aldrich Ames. It’s something about the times we live in.” He swirled his beer, but still did not finish it.

  “The number of likely suspects seems very limited,” Robinson observed.

  Fedoruk shrugged. “Frankly, John, it’s not such an active Task Force, anymore. A lot of the old members gave up and went home. Those of us who have stayed the course have plenty of other duties. INTERPOL is chasing a lot of bad guys, besides Geistmann. These days, I suppose you could call JOLETAF a Multi-Task Force.”

  Robinson smiled. “Very good. But why did Weatherbee hire me? He said it was because he needed ‘fresh eyes’ and to get Warfield off his back.

  “Look, John. Arnold treats Donald Warfield like an Aztec deity, but, if you ask me, the deity forgot about our existence years ago. I’m surprised he even bothered writing that notorious toilet memo.”

  “Toilet memo?”

  “Didn’t he show it to you? I know it by heart: ‘Arnold, my boy, if you don’t start shitting soon, I’m personally going to throw you off the pot.’ “

  Robinson laughed. “So what was Weatherbee’s real motive?”

  “Who knows, to add a warm body to our depleted ranks? To make sure he spends his annual budget, so it won’t be cut?” He finally drained the mug, but, when Robinson gestured to it, he shook his head. “I do have one idea. Maybe, he thinks bringing you in will show that he doesn’t trust the rest of us. Maybe, it really is your fresh eyes, John. Maybe, you’re supposed to smoke out the mole!” As he gathered steam, Fedoruk’s tone changed. “Or maybe there are two moles. Maybe, we’re all moles! ” He laughed uproariously.

  “Very funny. What’s Colonel Erceg’s role?”

  “Well, aside from Arnold, myself, and Peter, his man Friday, JOLETAF has had a very fluid membership. People come and go. Frankly, the only reason the FBI and USMS are on board now is that Geistmann has made a dramatic move onto their turf. They don’t like that, they want his blood. As for Andelko, as far as I can see, he was seconded to the Task Force for two reasons: to make the table look less empty and to make the rest of us feel less stupid. He’s been with us for about eighteen months now, but I’m sure Zagreb doesn’t miss him.”

  ”What about you?”

  “Me? Like Arnold and Pete, I work mainly on other INTERPOL projects. As to why I’m involved in this particular case … as you’ve probably inferred, I came on board right after the Donduceni killing ten years ago. But that’s a long story, we’d better save it for another time.”

  As if on schedule, his cell rang, a single beep, no music, and he took it from the side pocket of his jacket. “Hello, Diodor speaking … I mean, your order has arrived. Yes, Arnold. Okay, right.” He closed the phone, but made no move to get up.

  “Quick, John, tell me something important!” He smiled a gentle smile.

  Robinson did not hesitate. It was a pleasure to confide in this intelligent, apparently forthright man. (Not that the small voice of caution was completely silent.) “Geistmann threatened me. He’s left three specific warnings. One, in my apartment shortly after I started working for Weatherbee, and two more this morning at the Lodge.” He added the details.

  Fedoruk raised his eyebrows. “Have you told Weatherbee?”

  “I just did. I said I was through, that I was quitting.”

  “And you’re telling me because you want my advice, correct?” Robinson nodded. “Okay. Don’t quit yet, John. Two reasons. First, you’re still intrigued by your new adventure, aren’t you? You’re normally a librarian, correct? So you’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “My goodness, how did you guess?”

  Fedoruk ignored the irony. “And, second, he –Geistmann-- has never so much as injured, let alone killed, a single one of our members. I mean, he did force that Frenchman to resign from the Surete’. But I think killing you would violate his insane system of justice.”

  “Thanks for the reassurance,” Robinson said sincerely. Were his options already opening back up? The long day was like riding a roller-coaster --drunk.

  “You’re very welcome, John. Look, we’re like brothers already, aren’t we? This is a great pleasure for me, because for years now I’ve lived without the luxury of open comradeship with an equal. My world is very murky, John.”

  Robinson smiled. “ ‘Comradeship’? That’s an odd word for a Ukrainian to use.”

  Fedoruk laughed. “True. Look, we’re setting up a partnership this evening, aren’t we, and we’re doing it very fast, almost recklessly, because we already trust each other, and because we need to establish certain procedures while we have this window of opportunity, and without anyone else knowing we’re doing it. Is all of that correct?” Robinson nodded again, and without further preamble, Fedoruk recited his cell phone number.

  “Thank you.” Robinson did not need to write the number down. He reciprocated, and, taking out his cell, Fedoruk punched in the number.

  “Whenever you call,” he added, “please use the code words, ‘no packages today.’ ” As if on cue, his cell rang again. He
released the beer mug he had been clutching, held a finger to his lips, then said, “Yass?” He listened for a moment. “Tan minutes. Yass, I will be there to time. Goodbye, sir.”

  He winked at Robinson, folded the phone and, standing up, reached into his back left pants pocket and threw two twenty-dollar bills on the table. Robinson groped for his wallet. “No, John, please. You American guys always want to pay. But, if you let me do it, you’ll be telling me, a Ukrainian, that you accept my friendship. So, please.”

  “Thank you.” He did not spoil the moment by correcting Fedoruk’s misapprehension about who would really have paid if Robinson had grabbed the check.

  Standing beside the booth and looming over him, Fedoruk spoke rapidly. “Next time, John, I’ll tell you the real reason I think Weatherbee hired you. No, not to help him catch moles! We will also have a very interesting discussion comparing two tribal groups, Moldovans and Native-Americans.” He stood smiling at his own conundrum, seemingly loath to leave. “And I’ll tell you what really happened to the odious Mr. Donduceni, and why the records and even Peter’s little speech this afternoon-- are not so … ingenuous about this matter. And you, in turn, can recount Geistmann’s upcoming Navajo escapades.” He patted Robinson’s shoulder. “We still have a lot to talk about, John. Do be careful. Take every precaution to try to prevent him from getting anywhere near you. Yes, I know what I just said about your not having to be afraid, but there’s a first time for everything. I mean, he waited for your arrival before his noisy shenanigans this morning.”

  Fedoruk extended a hand, and Robinson, standing up and leaning across the table, shook it. Fedoruk hitched up his pants and set his face in preparation for departure. Robinson indulged his urge to prolong the conversation a few more moments. “But how do you know that I’m going to Navajoland, Diodor, and you’re not?”

  “You seem to be the Navajo expert, John –you and Born-Again Fred. The reason I’m not going is that Weatherbee would not want two guys as smart as us working together.” He winked again. “When next we meet, my friend, I’ll explain that, too.”

  “But doesn’t he think you’re stoo-peed?”

  Fedoruk laughed. “Arnold? Of course not, I was only playing with him just now. My act is intended exclusively for American audiences.” He looked Robinson in the eye. “Watch out for Arnold, too, John. He’s a cold customer.”

  Was that a mistake in idiom? With a nod and a wave of the hand, Fedoruk was gone. Leaving the money on the table, Robinson sat back down in the booth. A minute later, he got up. Exiting the bar, he crossed the street to the campus for a stroll through the gardens, which he anticipated would be lovely just now, at dusk. It was the light he wanted, the light of perfect contemplation.

  At eleven p.m., the planning meeting for Arizona, the centerpiece of which had been another diatribe from Scott Peters, finally reached its tired conclusion. As the other agents filed out of the conference suite, Weatherbee kept Fedoruk behind. With Peter looking on, the Coordinator, wearing a grin, or grimace, shook Fedoruk’s hand.

  “Well done, Diodor!”

  “You listened to the tape already?”

  Weatherbee smiled sourly. “Didn’t I tell you? We had a live feed. Anyway, I think you’ve kept him on the hook, at least for now. Maybe, our friend Geistmann will finally get the message and start to play it safe –safer.” He looked off into space, signaling the end of the conversation.

  Grim-faced, Fedoruk left the suite. “You fucking bastard!” he muttered to himself. “ ‘Play it safe’? What about me?”

  Weatherbee and Peter sat in silence for a few moments. Then Peter said, “I thought you wanted the Librarian to quit.”

  Weatherbee shrugged. “Either way.”

  Peter shook his head. “It’s your party, Arnold. Anyway, I’ll try to finish the Navajo contingency plan tonight. I should …”

  Weatherbee turned beet red, possibly raising the temperature in the climate-controlled suite a degree or two. “As I’ve told you at least twice, Peter, I do not want to hear about that plan!”

  In his comfortable hotel bed, John Robinson slept a dreamless sleep. The next day, he drove back to New York without incident –and without enthusiasm. Now that Jeanne d’Arc had been dispatched, his horizon seemed filled with earnest graduate students in need of his expertise. Robinson had never liked this part of the job, which made him feel like a factotum, an adjunct to all the search engines. As he drove mile after mile in the light-to-moderate traffic, it occurred to him that, in some ways, his long years at the Library had required him to tamp down his natural curiosity and enthusiasm.

  Episode 10

  GEISTMANN, Episode Ten

  Wednesday, March 26-Thursday, March 27, 2008. Albuquerque, Nageezi, and Farmington, New Mexico.

  After a refreshing night’s sleep followed by a busy day and night, all in Albuquerque, Geistmann spent a pleasant second day, once again combining business with tourism. Aware that the Navajo gods love the dawn runner, he left the city at first light Thursday morning, driving his newly acquired battered gray pickup 100 miles north-northwest on Route 550 to Nageezi, New Mexico. This was the site of the thousand year-old Anasazi settlement, Chaco Canyon. Leaving the truck in the lot at the Visitor Center, he signed in, using a random name. Then, he hiked into the park a few kilometers to Chetro Keti, one of the largest ruins in the settlement, where he spent more than two hours in the shadows behind a rear wall, standing or sitting on the ground. The silence of his communion with the wind spirits was broken perhaps six or seven times –by cars arriving or leaving the parking lot, car doors slamming, and the running footsteps and excited, high-pitched cries and laughter of children, as their families approached Chetro Keti, wandered around, then left.

  Afterward, feeling spiritually cleansed, he took Reservation and state roads up to Farmington, arriving at noon. The place was almost as deserted as the ruins had been, most of its businesses, he guessed, having decamped to the highway malls. Geistmann deplored the mall-ification of this big, rich, astoundingly greedy country. He proceeded to break several of his own rules. Leaving the truck locked in a meter-less zone on the main street in the center of town, he slept for more than three hours in an adjacent park. But he slept sitting up on a bench, so he would not be rousted by the local gendarmerie. He was unsurprised that the drug dealers and prostitutes gave him a wide berth. These people often possessed sharp instincts for avoiding invisible danger. Even the drunks left him alone. Geistmann had no interest in the cruising women or boys, Indian, Mexican, or “white.” Not only had he not particularly enjoyed the few serendipitous sexual encounters into which he had blundered over the years, but last night he had refreshed himself with a sex professional in Albuquerque. As usual, he had waited exactly one month since the last coupling, which had been with a department store sales clerk in Montreal. Geistmann believed that, so far as other factors permitted, his sexual program should mimic the menstrual cycle. He was aware that this belief, which had something to do with empathy, was eccentric.

  The previous day, he had cleaned and organized his equipment, made a few last-minute purchases, picked up the truck and motorcycle, and exchanged a few coded emails to make sure his cover and escape plans were in place. That night, he ate well, packed everything in the truck, and left it in a municipal lot across the street from the Phil Chacon Memorial Substation of the Albuquerque Police Department, southeast district. Then, he studied a map of the city, guessing the location of the so-called red-light district. Wandering in on foot, he chose, or was chosen by, a slender young Mexican woman, very sad, quiet, and clean looking, who was standing on a corner.

  “Para la noche entera?” she had asked immediately.

  “No, apenas una hora, thanks.”

  “Cincuenta dollar.”

  The lie was a precaution. As soon as they were inside her small, neat room, he renegotiated to stay the night, after all. Using two of the prophylactics he always carried, he made love to her twice, in both cases courteously allo
wing her an opportunity to finish first, if she so chose. (She did not.) After the second coupling, she fell asleep, and he got up to have a look at her baby under its nightlight. The baby, swaddled, seemed to be a girl, perhaps six months old. After a few seconds, he sensed the woman at his shoulder.

  “Un que’ nino encantador,” he said. [What a lovely child!]

  When they were back in bed, she turned to him and said, without perceptible emotion, “Espero que usted venga aqui.” [I hope you will return.]

  “Quien sabe’.”

  “Una que’ persona buena usted.” [What a kind person you are.]