Geistmann

by Singer, Ron

  “Well, that’s about it. We’ll get back to you, probably Tuesday or Wednesday. Meanwhile, let me know if you’re going to be away from the B & B for more than a few hours.”

  “Actually, I’ll probably have to go up to New York for a day or so. The timing might be tricky.” He told Weatherbee about Uncle Ted’s imminent demise.

  Weatherbee’s reply exuded relief. “That’s fine, just let me know. Oh, yes, I almost forgot, I have a surprise for you. Hang on a minute. I hope … I did … this right.”

  After a moment or two, Robinson heard a static-filled recording of what sounded like his own voice. “Hello, you’ve reached John Robinson in Yerevan, Armenia. When the music stops and you hear the tone, please leave a message. I’ll get back to you.” There followed what sounded like a gypsy band, and then the usual beep, after which Weatherbee chuckled.

  “Not bad, eh? It’s from an album called Ari Im Sokhok, by the immensely popular Anoush Hngyhk Quartet.”

  “Ah, yes, favorites of mine,” replied Robinson, who had never heard of the band. “But I’m afraid I don’t know any Hayeren. I’ll try to swat up right away, in case I have to pretend to go there.” He sounded to his own ears like a greedy boy ordering an ice cream cone. “By the way, Arnold, do you accept the Graeco-Armenian hypothesis?”

  “In conjunction with,” Weatherbee replied, without missing a beat, “the Graeco-Aryan one?”

  Robinson spoke a few words in Hayeren. That means, ‘Excellent.’ Roughly.“

  “I thought you said you had no Hayeren?”

  “Well, hardly any. I played around with an online dictionary once when I was looking up something from the Matenadaran.”

  “You’re really something, John.” They said good night.

  Despite the pleasant ending to the conversation, Robinson was agitated. Not only had he kept Fedoruk’s visit to himself, he had not even mentioned his own new work on the profile or his exchange of ideas with Pablo Markowitz. The reason for this reticence was complete lack of confidence in Weatherbee, the Coordinator who was apparently no longer coordinating.

  Once again, too much was happening, too fast. If it was true that Geistmann was walking into a trap, why would that make Weatherbee want to send him, Robinson, running after? Doubting he would be able to get right to sleep, he checked his email messages one last time. There was only one new one, from Aunt Sadie, Ted’s wife (or, as he guessed, widow):

  Hello, John.

  Ted died this afternoon. I called, and your machine picked up, so I thought I’d make sure with this email. The funeral is tomorrow at two, at St. Thomas’. You may never have been there, it’s at Fifty-Third and Fifth. I know you’re busy, John, so if you can’t come, the family will understand. Anyway, I thought I should let you know. Love, Sadie

  Robinson noted the coincidence of names, the Ukrainian policeman, ‘Ted,’ and his own now-dead uncle. He sent a quick reply, indicating that he would attend. He also thought of trying to make a last-minute lunch date with Judy, but decided that, after five years, he really ought to give her more than a day’s notice, With a sigh, he washed up, put his pajamas back on, set the alarm, and got into bed, where he lay awake thinking about his uncle.

  Ted was –had been-- the white-sheep brother, an engineer by training, retired captain of industry, one of the few surviving moderate Republicans, and a pillar of New York’s Episcopal Wasp-ocracy. As Robinson remembered, Uncle Ted had been CEO of a Long Island firm that made engine parts for the Air Force.

  His younger brother, Charles, John’s father, was a historian who had married a Jew. John grew up in Kew Gardens, Queens. His dad had taught at City College until McCarthy, after which he moved on to Flushing High School, where he served with honor for two decades, until his retirement. Shortly thereafter, aged sixty-one, he died from a massive coronary. He was dead before they could get him on the table for a new procedure, the “bypass.” John never felt that having been a red diaper baby affected him much.

  Throughout his childhood, he had suffered through family visits to Ted and Sadie’s big, fancy apartment on Riverside Drive, a serious pilgrimage by subway from Kew Gardens. The cadet branch was invited twice a year, on non-holidays, for Sunday dinner. Uncle Ted seemed to get a kick out of the boy’s remarkable memory, invariably trying to get him to perform like a barking seal. Charles would cut him short.

  In 1970, having scored 800’s on both SAT’s, John got into Columbia with a modest scholarship. Uncle Ted sent him a check for $5,000, which had almost certainly been unsolicited by Charles. It came wrapped in a monogrammed sheet of stationery on which was written, “WELL DONE, NEPHEW!” With mild parental prompting, the surprised nephew had written a somewhat longer thank-you note. When he asked his father what to do with the windfall, with one of his tired, dour, myopic smiles, Charles Robinson had replied, “It’s yours to enjoy, Johnny.” The money had helped see him through college and had sweetened his way. Had Aunt Sadie known about the gift?

  Robinson finally fell asleep counting acts of violence, instead of sheep. Just before eight the next morning, he awoke to the buzz of the alarm. The rain had stopped, and the sky looked scoured. He hoped the principle of symmetry would not prompt Geistmann to retrace his steps as he presumably exited the country. Since he had seen Robinson at the sing, he knew now that the dusty letter, the frog, and the photo had all been ignored. A New York confrontation was not out of the question. Robinson wondered if he had been assigned new minders. Of those he had drawn so far, the first had been made a fool of, and the second had coshed the third.

  He moved around the room, dressing as best he could for the funeral. Robinson almost never wore ties, but, luckily, he had packed the same sort of clothes he wore at the Library, a dark tweed jacket and a shirt, shoes and pants that would all be presentable. Since he did not want to have to check his attache’ case at the church, he put the few items he anticipated needing into various jacket pockets.

  Robinson was the unusual American adult who was able to function without caffeine. He would wait for his two cups until breakfast was sent down. His train did not leave for three more hours, so he had ample time before taking the bus to Union Station. He decided what to do with the draft memo he had written over the weekend. Sitting on the bed and ignoring the phone on the night table, he punched into his cell a number he remembered from Weatherbee’s list, which was one of the items he had just put into his inside jacket pocket.

  “F.B.I. Special Agent Scott Peters’ office,” a woman answered. “How may I help you?” Just to be cautious, Robinson identified himself as “Martin Meade.” He was put on hold, but to his surprise, less than a minute later, Peters came on the line.

  “John,” he said. “You’re well, I trust?”

  “Fine, thanks. Yourself?” Should he call him “Scott”?

  “Can’t complain. What can I do for you?”

  Robinson found himself momentarily tongue-tied. “Well, er, Scott,” he spluttered, “I should probably be talking to Arnold about this, but he told me to ask…”

  “I don’t know what Arnold did or didn’t tell you, John, but I’d better bring you up to date. Late last night, he emailed me that his boss, Don Warfield, had just approved an open-ended personal leave for him, and that he –Arnold—had recommended that I step in as Acting Coordinator.”

  Robinson was flabbergasted: Weatherbee on leave! But it made sense: another flop with Geistmann, and his trusted assistant a traitor. Hadn’t Weatherbee known about his impending leave when they had spoken last night? Had Fedoruk known? What was going on?

  “John? You there?”

  “Sorry, you caught me by surprise. He called me last night, but he didn’t mention the leave. You know I’m in Georgetown, don’t you, still working for the Task Force?”

  “Yep.”

  Robinson hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Then, he plunged forward. “I have some important things to tell you about Fedoruk.”

  “Shoot.”

  “He’s
the second mole. As of ten-thirty last night, he was on his way to Moldova, where he said Geistmann was also headed. According to him, Geistmann’s real name is Francois Garzon.” He spelled it.

  Peters took a moment, apparently to digest the information. “Thanks, John, that is important. Fedoruk has been off our radar since yesterday morning. I’ll alert the Field Offices in Chisinau and in Bucharest –the changeover point. Anything else?” Now Peters sounded as if he were in a hurry. Robinson could not resist teasing him for a moment.

  “I’m surprised you have time to talk to me, Scott.”

  “Light schedule this week,” Peters muttered, “two serial killers and a hostage situation. But I liked what you said in Charlottesville, John. So did Fred and Mauro. We all think you’re pretty sharp –for a civilian and a beginner, of course. Anything else?”

  Robinson ignored the backhander. “I have to go to New York for a funeral today.” He heard murmured condolences. “But can I send you something to look at? I could send it now, before I leave. Oh. This is probably a stupid question, but is your email secure?”

  There was a bark of laughter. “You bet your ass it is! But in light of recent events, that’s not such a stupid question. Use my personal address, it’s …”

  “Arnold gave it to me, thanks.”

  “Huh! Go figure! He gives you that, but he doesn’t invite you to our meetings. People wondered where you were, John. I wondered.”

  “Why didn’t you ask Arnold?” Robinson thought, but did not say. “I’ve never felt that I was in the loop.”

  “Maybe, there was no loop. The ways of Arnold are mysterious to man. What is it you want to send me, John? I’m curious.”

  “A mini-dossier that I just put together on Geistmann, with a few specific ideas about how to identify him. Assuming you draw a blank on ‘Francois Garzon.’ ”

  “Excellent! Send that over, I’ll read it right away.”

  Robinson hesitated. “One more thing, Scott. Maybe you’d better not share this document with anyone.”

  Peters also hesitated. “You think there’s a third mole? Not one of my guys, I hope?”

  “Probably not. But …”

  “Point taken. Frankly, I was already worried about the second-mole possibility. And now that you’ve told me about Fedoruk… Anything else?”

  Again, Robinson hesitated. “Maybe I’ll think of something later. Oh, there is something else --about my new dossier.” He heard the ambiguity. “The ideas will probably dovetail with some of the forensic clues you must already have. Arnold kept me out of that loop, too.”

  Peters paused for two slow beats. “Right. Well, I’ll tell you this much. A lot of the best stuff went down the toilet with Peter. Still, there are a few bits left, and a few others we’re in the process of recovering.“ Robinson heard the FBI man draw breath. “Here you go, I know you don’t have to take notes. He’s right-handed, about five-ten or eleven. As we speak, our artists are developing a very generalized head sketch from the Rotunda video and the few other glimpses we’ve had over the years. They’re also creating a full body sketch, principally from the Brussels squash description and the rear view he gave us when he glided off the escarpment at the Lodge. And Mauro was able to lift two prints from Gordon Billings’ mouth and chin. Surprisingly, Geistmann didn’t bother wearing gloves with his Indian Granny suit.

  “One more thing: the New York Field Office of our Cyber Crimes Task Force –another task force, a new one—discovered some interesting stuff about the way he lifted the data from Mr. Gold’s accounts, then made the bogus contributions in his name. Actually, this seems like the damnedest luck. Someone, either intentionally or not, sent the data to them, the CCTF, a detailed log charting the pathways he used. It might have been a disgruntled associate, it might have been a rare mistake on his part, or it might have been an intercept –but by whom? Well, I guess he has a lot of enemies. Anyway, he used a BlackBerry for the contributions, and left some fairly clear electronic fingerprints. This is important, John. If it turns out he’s two blocks from our office, we’ll want to know about it before the press does. As you’ve probably heard, nine-eleven has opened up some amazing new opportunities to embarrass us. You think the business with Hank Yazzie’s tires was bad? Ha! Sorry about that, by the way.”

  Robinson was amazed by the long speech. “That’s okay, Scott, not your fault. Huh! A lot of what you just said ties in with my dossier.” He heard the phone beep.

  “Got to go now, John, but this is great. Thanks. I look forward to reading your stuff. Oh, in case you need to come in on short notice, do you know where I’m located?”

  “The Hoover Building?”

  “Right. No one calls it that anymore, but that’s the place. Have Security ring me, I’ll come down and get you. Meanwhile, again, may I offer…” He murmured what must have been repeated condolences. “When will you be back in D.C.?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Safe journey. We’ll talk again soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  As soon as Robinson hung up, he had several pensées sur les escaliers [afterthoughts]. Who had initially vetted him, the FBI or the Secret Service? Did it matter? Had Rocker been reinstated? And why was he, Robinson, being sent to Moldova, possibly pretending it was Armenia? He realized, to his amazement, that neither he nor Peters had even mentioned that he was about to be sent to Moldova. Wasn’t that why he had called him in the first place? Were events moving forward too fast even for him, Robinson, the Encyclopedia cum Computer, to process? That was upsetting. Pacing the room, he revisited another question: why was an FBI Special Agent willing to lead –temporarily, of course—an international Task Force?

  He could imagine Peters’ answer. “We’re territorial, John. Normally, we don’t like foreign cops trampling all over our crime scenes, mucking up the evidence. Of course, that’s happened many, many times. But this case is different. Mr. Geist-fucking-mann sneaks into our country, kills two of our nationals, both corporate executives, moves around the country as if we weren’t there, and otherwise repeatedly blows smoke up our you-know-whats. That sort of thing catches our attention.”

  Moving to the desk, Robinson sent the dossier, cutting-and-pasting to avoid the possibility that it might be spammed.

  Episode 16

  Episode Sixteen

  Monday, April 7, 2008. New York, N.Y. & Washington D..C.

  THE ORDER FOR THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

  TOGETHER WITH

  THE REQUIEM EUCHARIST

  THEODORE MOORHEAD ROBINSON

  MARCH 15TH, 1924-APRIL 6, 2008

  From both parents, Robinson had inherited a deep cynicism about institutional religion. His mom, Renee’ Robinson, nee’ Jacobs, a longtime clerk at the Legal Aid Society, had shared her husband’s distaste for “the opiate.” Their cynicism had not been weakened by Robinson’s extensive work with early Christian manuscripts. Almost as soon as the service was underway, his brain misbehaved. “Ribbit!” it croaked. He realized he had not thought about Geistmann since early that morning.

  As the high church shenanigans proceeded, his thoughts pin balled back and forth from New York (the Library, his apartment) to Washington (Weatherbee, Fedoruk, Peters). By the time he tuned back in, they had reached the midway point in the lengthy proceedings. In other words, according to the program and what he had taken in while he waffled, they had completed the Prelude (Bach, nice big organ); the Introductory Rite (five anthems); the Collect; Liturgy; Psalm (23, not as Robinson would have chosen, 136, “By the Rivers of Babylon,” in the inimitable Sir Jimmie Cliff rendition); the Reading (something against money, from Second Corinthians –whited sepulchers!); Hymn; Homily (Go gently, Brother Robinson); Concluding Collect; Peace; and Greetings (Amen & Thank Goodness). In the course of The Homily, which was actually The Eulogy, but which he thought of as The Flattery, he learned why Uncle Ted had been accorded the Full Episcopal Monty: he had been a Deacon, no less, and so presumably a pillar of the church’s financial Establishment.


  Hard on the heels of Part One came Part Two, The Liturgy of the Eucharist. It opened with six or seven blurred rites, punctuated by the popping up and down of the congregation. Becoming giddy, Robinson imagined the service’s taking place in a giant popcorn maker. Then, it was time for the love-in, i.e. the Agnes Dei, or Communion. Bored out of his skull, and just for the sake of moving, he went up and knelt down in the middle of the long row of communicants. As the Rector moved slowly along the row, the man to Robinson’s right, a slender, smiling suit with a polished pate, extended a hand.

  “Ed Hartley,” he said, his voice a trifle too loud. “Ted was my boss. Beautiful service, riveting.” Robinson shook the calloused hand. The man had a serious grip and spoke an upper-middle class Long Island dialect.

  “John Robinson,” he whispered. “Family.”