by Singer, Ron
“I know I’m not James Bond, John, but this excellent Chianti would go down even better with a nice big piece of Manchego or Asiago.” Five minutes had passed. Robinson’s umbrella had joined Fedoruk’s big black one and his soaked gray running shoes, in the tub. Slumped in the armchair, looking tired and bedraggled, Fedoruk took another sip. He had already finished most of his big first glass. Robinson, facing him in the desk chair, had not yet tasted the half-inch he had managed to pour for himself with shaking hands.
“We can call out for a pizza or something, if you like.”
Fedoruk shook his head. “I wish I could stay that long.” He sniffed the wine, but did not drink any more. “Again, I apologize for startling you before. Luke, Chahn, lat me tal you sahmthink goot…” The fake Ukrainian accent seemed to come and go like an allergic reaction. Robinson’s fear and anger had dissipated. Fedoruk consulted his phone, with which he had been fidgeting since Robinson’s arrival. “I have to catch a plane in less than two hours, from Reagan. I know you probably have a long list of questions, but suppose you just keep quiet and I’ll tell you as much as I have time for.” He sipped his wine.
“How about starting with what you did Friday night at the sing? Are you sticking to your story?”
Fedoruk shrugged. “Do you want to hear what I have to say, or not?”
“Go ahead, shoot.”
Fedoruk made a finger pistol and fired off three shots. “You’ll find this interesting. Let’s see how much you’ve guessed. Where am I going? Chisinau. Did you guess that?” He did not wait for a reply. “Why? To try to save the life of an associate. Do you know whom I mean? Everyone calls him ‘Geistmann,’ but his actual name is Francois Garzon --G-A-R-Z-O-N. Do you know what Francois did in Tiraspol? Have you realized he could not have acted alone? Who were his accomplices? Well …” He stretched.
“As you know, Peter. They were at school together, and Peter never got over his crush on Francois. Was it reciprocated? Honestly, I don’t know, but I doubt it.” He swirled the wine. “The other accomplice? Myself. Did you guess that?” Robinson made no response.
“In fact, I was the one who brought Peter aboard, in the first place. He had already been working several years for Arnold Weatherbee at Interpol, and he had been writing a blog -- Peter was cutting edge, people had just started blogging-- in which he expressed outrage over miscellaneous enormities that the Agency was struggling to stop. One of these involved a particularly awful gang of human traffickers in Moldova --Donduceni’s boys, of course. My first correspondence with Peter concerned that gang.”
“Peter –Piet, really, P-I-E-T, but no one has called him that since his school days, I don’t know why, maybe his perfect English. Anyway, he suggested we recruit an old classmate of his, whom he characterized as ‘a bona fide genius and an Olympic level athlete.’ He gave me Francois’ name. I checked, and discovered only that he had served two contracts with the Foreign Legion during the 80’s, with their notorious combat regiment, headquartered in Marseille. Peter was working for Interpol in Lyons during that period, and they had renewed their acquaintance at an arms conference.
“Peter was vague about what Fr … Geistmann had been up to since he left the Legion (“this and that”). Frankly, I’m still not sure, myself. At the time, I assumed he was just a small-time criminal with skills we might be able to use. I should have been more careful, of course, but you know how it is when you really want something. What I wanted was to crush that gang.”
Fascinated, and with steadier nerves, Robinson reached across and topped up his guest’s glass. “What about Arnold? Was he involved?”
Fedoruk laughed. “No, not him. Arnold is just a mediocrity, John, a bureaucrat. Haven’t you realized that yet?” He sucked in the rest of the wine. “So. In Charlottesville, Peter gave a false account of the Donduceni murder. What really happened was that we learned where we could grab the guy from interrogating that scumbag Russian cop. Without going into the details of the interrogation, let’s just say it got out of hand. The guy sneered at Peter and Francois, called them those homophobic names –you know the ones—and bragged about how much muscle he had behind him. Well, Geistmann --Francois … overreacted. Boy, did he overreact! That should have told me something! Fedoruk shook his head ruefully. “If it had, I might have spared myself ten years of constant anxiety.” He sighed. “Oh, well, by the time we grabbed the cop, it was probably too late, anyhow.”
Not noticing his glass was empty, Fedoruk raised it and tried to drink. Robinson reached across and re-refilled it again. Now there was only enough left in the bottle for about another half glass. Fedoruk must have noticed, for he took only a tiny sip. He looked at his phone again.
“There isn’t time for all the details, John. We took Donduceni in Chisinau. The story Peter told about tapping into the cop’s phone, then chloroforming Donduceni, and driving him to Tiraspol in a bread truck? It was a good lie, to make everyone think Geistmann had acted alone. But this is how it really happened.
“Peter approached Dunduceni in a very narrow alley. As they played a game of chicken about who would step aside, Francois came up behind and sapped him. They dragged him to the police van, where I was waiting, in uniform. With the three of them in back –the van had black painted windows-- I drove across the border to Transniester, without being stopped.
“You have to understand, John, the Soviet Union had just been dissolved, and the Transniestrans had already broken off from Moldova. Cops from both ‘countries’ crossed back and forth all the time. Besides eliminating Donduceni, both to stop what he was doing and to punish him, we had a vague idea of creating an incident, of somehow embarrassing the bastard Russians—a fabrication about murdering a Moldovan gangster to hide their own involvement, and then being punished by the man’s associates. I mean, Geistmann had already shredded that Russian cop. Okay, I see it now: the conspiracy idea was pretty thin.
“When we got to Tiraspol, we dropped Francois and the now gagged and trussed Donduceni at the warehouse, where Francois was supposed to shoot him once in the back of the head with the bastard’s own gun. That was the way Donduceni’s own mob would have done it. Not that they never tortured them first, of course. Then, Francois was supposed to come back across the border by bus. This was also easy, in those days. I had procured papers for him. We would meet at a café, and from there I would drive him and Peter to the airport.
“Well, we waited and waited. But he never turned up, and he didn’t answer when we called his cell. Finally, two days later, I just drove Peter, who seemed about to have a coronary, to the airport, and …” He looked at his phone again. “Look, John, I have to leave in ten minutes. Can you order a cab for me, please, while I finish the story?”
He gulped down the rest of his wine. Robinson handed him the bottle, and Fedoruk helped himself to the last drops. Carrying the glass, he ducked into the bathroom to get his things, while Robinson went over to the night table beside the bed, found a car service in a local phone book, and called for a cab. He sat back down on the desk chair. Sitting on the bed to put his shoes on, Fedoruk continued.
“That was how it all began. Francois disappeared. Later, we heard something about a woman with whom he had gone to ground for a few days before he, too, left Moldova. We all knew this woman, a very nice, very good woman who had been peripherally involved in our plot. I’ll tell you more about her some day. There were rumors that Francois had married her and that they had a child. A boy, I think.
“At any rate, after Moldova, he reinvented himself as Geistmann and went rogue--very. He made the first of his stupid ‘announcements,’ those photos of Donduceni. By the way, I think Arnold showed you those as a trick. He bragged about how he had recruited you by playing both roles, soft cop and hard cop.”
Fedoruk shook his head and sighed, still clutching the now empty glass. “Then, Francois started in with his crimes and pranks. No surprise there, he was –is—completely insane. At first, neither Peter nor myself tried to stop h
im. Oh, we did make a few feeble efforts, but how can you persuade someone with no feelings to do, or not to do, anything? Why, you may wonder, didn’t we just kill him? Ha! You try! Besides, I was afraid of Peter, too, of his treachery.”
Fedoruk smiled ruefully. “In a way, it was my fault. The whole business began because I had a personal grudge against Donduceni, and because I loved the idea of disgracing the bent Russian cop. I even made sure I was appointed investigating officer for both murders. But when it became clear that Geistmann would not resurface, when he would not even agree to meet us again, Peter and I were caught in a real jam. If we did not keep silence, Geistmann could expose us both.
“A pattern developed. Later, in 1999, I applied to represent the Moldovan Police Force on Interpol. This was before Geistmann showed up on their radar. My appointment was supposed to last for one year. I had a good record. In fact, I was one of the people who had pioneered the anti-trafficking initiative that ultimately, in 2006, led your State Department to train our special unit to fight the traffickers. This is something I’m still proud of.
“In 1999, however, the reason I applied to Interpol was not only to unwillingly protect Geistmann, but to protect myself --from the Moldovan Mafia. I had to get out of Dodge, John. My superiors, some of whom were on their payroll, supported my application. ‘Good riddance!’ they must have told each other. Imagine my joy when I was posted to the U.S. After that, thanks to Peter, I was signed on to contract after contract. I’m on my ninth one now, practically an American, God help me!”
Again, Fedoruk shook his head and sighed. “But, as time passed, it became a soft trap, and I still haven’t found my way out of it. The incidents multiplied. Piet and I drifted into damage control, mixing in as many rationalizations as we could think of. My posting, as I said, was his doing. By then, he was already in the U.S., himself, and he wanted to keep a close eye on me. As you must have noticed, Arnold had a huge blind spot for his clever young assistant. Has it ever occurred to you, John, how often semi-competent bosses glom onto capable young employees who pretend to adore them?” Fedoruk smiled the little smile again and raised his eyebrows.
“I think Peter was also motivated by lingering puppy love for Francois, and maybe even by the thrill of vicarious mayhem. So, for almost a decade, before, and then during, the JOLETAF era, we soldiered on or, if you prefer, we went on playing our game of blind man’s bluff. Did I like it? Well, okay, sometimes I found what he –what Geistmann—did, amusing, even a little … admirable. I mean, let’s face it, he took out some major scumbags --not just Donduceni.” He shrugged. “But, still … I mean, I am a cop. Still.
“Then, a little over a month ago, Arnold recruited you. Why? Of course, he already had more research consultants than you could shake a stick at. Without going into details, let’s just say the recruitment was one of the ways he tried to cover his backside over his inability to catch Geistmann. Warfield doesn’t tolerate fools. In fact, if Arnold’s previous record with Interpol hadn’t been pretty good, he would probably have fired him long ago. And your work, the report you did for JOLETAF in New York, then your ideas at the Charlottesville meeting, really did represent progress –to everyone’s surprise. You should have heard what Peters and the other FBI guys initially said about you!
“Of course, it was Francois’ recklessness that forced Piet to break cover in Arizona, to keep him from being caught or killed. Besides, it had become obvious that there was a mole. Your insights may have added to Piet’s sense of a tightening noose. And what I told you about my role the night of the Billings murder? As you must now realize, it was Francois’s back I was watching, not yours.” He shrugged. “In fact, Piet had mentioned that he would not mind if I killed you.
“His defection was the last straw. Even the distant Donald Warfield could not ignore that! I can imagine what he said to Weatherbee: ‘Take a leave, Asshole, maybe don’t come back!’ The defection also means I’m in deeper shit than ever. Piet, you see, has nothing more to lose from betraying me. So I have to keep doing exactly what he tells me, and hope for the best.”
They heard a horn honk twice in the street. Robinson went to the window and saw a black and white cab. Fedoruk stood up, still holding his empty glass in one hand and his umbrella, in the other.
“Why do you think I’m on my way to Moldova, John? You think I’m homesick? Crazy? Ha! To be continued,” he said, trying to drink the dregs. “Thank you for this delicious wine.” He placed the glass on the desk between Robinson’s glass and the bottle. Briefly clasping Robinson’s hand, he moved toward the door. “So, my friend, I hope I’ve satisfied some of your legendary curiosity. Oh, and, John: I promise I’ll never kill you.”
“Thanks. One more question, Diodor. Tell me again, why are you going to Moldova?”
“Why do you think? Francois may already be in Chisinau. Piet thinks he’s been lured into a trap, and he’s ‘asked’ me to help.” Fedoruk’s hand was on the doorknob.
“And you’re going to do it?”
Fedoruk froze. His hand still on the knob, he glanced at Robinson and frowned. “Look, John,” he said softly, “I just explained all that, didn’t I? Besides, you haven’t dealt with the guys on the other side, the really bad guys. I hope you never have to. And I wish I didn’t have to, either.” He shrugged and was gone. It was exactly ten-thirty.
At that point came proof of God’s existence. The phone rang.
Episode Fifteen
Sunday, April 6 – Monday, April 7, 2008. Washington, D.C.
“John? Arnold Weatherbee.” In manic mode, he did not even bother with the code, or perhaps he had needed Peter to work the beeps and clicks. “Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you, we’ve been in non-stop meetings since Friday night. We’ve decided to send you someplace else for about a week. To …”
“Yes, Arnold, I know, Moldova, Chisinau. Or is it Transniester, Tiraspol?”
“Huh! You must have been speaking to … “
Robinson interrupted. “I haven’t been speaking to anyone, except waitpersons when I go out to eat. I figured it out, myself, from the dossier.” The lie came easily. Robinson surmised that Weatherbee might not have fathomed Fedoruk’s real role. Or, if he had, perhaps he didn’t want Robinson to know that he had. Murkier and murkier.
“I just got off the phone with Ian Bostridge, John, who told me they can manage without you for another week or two. By the way, have I mentioned that Ian and I were at Oxford together? Of course, that was dog years ago. Will you …”
“Sure, in for a dime. What’s the new timetable, Arnold?” He did not bother muting his sarcasm, since Weatherbee was now zero for two at timetables.
“You’ll be leaving in a few days. Can you be ready?”
“Sure. If Dr. Bostridge doesn’t mind, I don’t.” In fact, Robinson’s helpful hosts had already done his laundry.
“Good. Look, John, I know it’s late, but, in case the trip takes longer than anticipated, we’ve –I’ve- prepared a cover story for you. Are you too tired to listen?”
“I’m all ears. But, before we get to that, aren’t you going to say why you want me to go to Moldova?”
“Well …” Again, he heard Weatherbee hesitate, or pretend to. “Actually, I’m afraid this is now Scott Peters’ operation, so I’d better have you get it straight from him.”
“But the cover part is yours?” He remembered the Czech proverb again. What if the malodorous fish had several heads? Logically, the whole fish could stink if one, or more, heads did.
Again, Weatherbee paused. “I can tell you this much. Geistmann is on his way to Yerevan. We think he’s walking into a trap.”
“But I have to ask Scott what that has to do with me? Okay, fine. What’s my cover story?”
“Armenia, John. You’re supposedly going to Armenia to examine some ancient manuscripts.” Weatherbee elaborated. The centerpiece of the plan was the supposed availability of a last-minute Fulbright, vacant because of sudden illness, to the Papazian Library at the
American University in the capital, Yerevan. You’ll supposedly be working in their ancient manuscript collection, the …”
“The Matenadaran!” Even though it was only a cover story, Robinson felt a rush of excitement. The collection dated from before the fifth century, C.E. He was still tied to his real job, after all.
Weatherbee explained that, if and when the cover plan needed to be activated, there were many details Robinson would have to remember. Sounding much more comfortable, Weatherbee proceeded to list them. He made Robinson recite them back –twice—and added a touch of flattery. “I don’t have to be afraid of overloading your memory, do I, John?”
He also explained that, if necessary, the cover story would be relayed to Bostridge, who had now been told that Robinson was doing “some work for the Government.” Bostridge would be instructed to retail the story to the rest of the Library senior staff.
