Geistmann

by Singer, Ron

  “So the son was born, and when the little boy was of age, the father sent him to the best schools, day schools at first, then boarding --the best ones that admitted Arabs, that is. What was it like for Armande there? As you may know, corporal punishment was banned in French schools long ago. But you’ve probably also seen Les Quatre-Cents Coups. So the school experience may have reinforced Geistmann’s desire to humiliate others. Anyway… enough psycho-babble.” He sipped some water.

  “When you think of cars burning in the Paris banlieus, you’re certainly not thinking of la famille Amrouche. They even regarded their semi-compatriots, the resettled colonials, the pieds noirs, with uncertainty and suspicion. See, they had known and done business with many of those people in Algeria, even socialized with them, and now they were upset by their apparently newfound racism. I’m telling you all this to make sense of what happened to Armande when he applied to ENA --as you guessed, the seminal formative event.

  This was in 1989, two years after he finished at the lycee’. We surmise that he spent the interval studying intensely for the exams, with parental blessing and support –remember, the father was a francophile. Both parents are dead by now, by the way –natural causes. Well, fairly natural, but let’s not get into that --alcoholism, suicide, never mind.

  “Anyway, as you guessed, Armande was denied admission. Why? They would have known his splendid scholastic and athletic pedigree-- virtually unprecedented. He passed both portals, the written exam and the orals –almost. But at the famous Grand Oral, where they can ask anything, including intensely personal questions, something decidedly odd surfaced. As you also guessed, the “something” may well have been some very violent acts, indications of psychopathy, behavior even more aggressive than the kind that would recommend a candidate to ENA. I suppose this will sound odd coming from an F.B.I. man, John, but, after all, many of the people who run our political, corporate, and other institutions, are borderline psychopaths –and some of them are way south of the border.” He shrugged. Peters laughed, the first indication he had been half-listening.

  “But, besides that –the violence—there may have been something more. From the paper we’ve managed to get so far, and from some fast interviews with old-timers at ENA and DGAFP, we’ve made a few inferences. Oh, and you may remember the 1994 hijacking in Algeria, which is now considered a proto-nine-eleven event?”

  “I do remember, ” Robinson said. Neugeborn came come up for air and water. He carefully picked up, drank from, and put down, his plastic glass. “They had some notion of flying a plane into the Eiffel Tower, didn’t they?”

  Neugeborn shook his head. “Crazy bastards! Anyway, eleven years later, and four years after nine-eleven, Geistmann murdered Toularelle, whose first name, by the way, was also Armande. Is it possible that the hijackings somehow caused the seed planted by the ENA rejection to germinate? We’ll have to ask Pablo about that one –and the coincidence with the name, too, while we’re at it. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  “Back to 1989. Amrouche had been rejected by ENA: too violent. But, as I said, there may have been another reason, a legal reason: the citizenship requirement. Keep in mind that Geistmann’s family was not French-born. In the late 1980’s and early 90’s, when he was in his late teens and early twenties, the age at which most candidates applied to ENA, only French-born citizens were eligible for the formation initiale, the course of study leading to the pinnacles of French power. Others could matriculate at ENA, but only in ancillary, shorter programs of study like the cycle long, the training course for francophone civil servants, to which Algerians had been admitted since ’63. That program would qualify them to work in francophone countries beyond L’hexagone, or metropolitan France, but only as low to middle-ranking civil servants, clerks —or, in Geistmann’s eyes, flunkies.

  “So what was the real cause, the acts of violence or the non-citizenship? Don’t forget the climate in those days. It was a far cry from today. As you may know, ENA is in Strasbourg now, very international, no longer chauvin. Anyway, they disqualified him from the formation initiale, instead offering him –we’re guessing here-- the cycle long. The whole thing was very murky. The disqualification may even have been based on a technicality. Two years before, finally deciding that a return to Algeria would never again be an option, his family had applied for French citizenship, and his well-connected father had been told they would be accepted “after an interval,” to hide the fact that they were jumping the queue. Question: if not for the odd something, or somethings --the hints of psychopathy, why not call it what it was? --would they have disqualified him? Well, they had let him take the exams, hadn’t they? Or was that a sop, too? As I said, the whole business is very murky.

  “It’s much easier to imagine Geistmann’s rage at the rejection, the reason or reasons for which he may not even have been told: “One grows tired of trying to fit in with these salauds [bastards] All right, then, laissez-les manger de la merde !” [Let them eat some shit!]

  “Something he did in 2002 points in the same direction, the Brussels squash prank. As you must know, world-class professional squash tournaments are notoriously jingoistic. In this case, Geistmann benefited a Moroccan national, a player from an up-and-coming Mahgreb country in the ranks of this snobbish sport, even as he humiliated a Frenchman.

  “But getting back to the point, he obviously did not respond well to rejection. After a stint in the Legion, where he learned the seventy-three best ways to butcher his fellow man, he went postal, or global. For all that followed, see ‘INTERPOL, NOTICES, RED.’ The unifying feature of his targets: L’hypocrisie, or la duplicite’. FIN.” Neugeborn made quotation marks in the air with his fingers “That’s the gist of it, John.” He drained his glass.

  “Quite a story,” Robinson said, for lack of anything better to say.

  After Neugeborn’s long, fascinating briefing, small talk seemed beside the point. Almost in synch, he and Robinson glanced at each other, closed their laptops, folded their hands on top of them, and shut their eyes. By now, they were only about two hours from Bucharest. Over-stimulated, Robinson fell into a half-conscious state in which his mind ran away from him. After an indeterminate period –a few seconds, several minutes, even half an hour?- he woke with a start, sweating heavily in the cool cabin. He had just had a horrific nightmare

  He had been lying, naked and bound, on the table in the factory in Tiraspol. He had been decapitated, and blood gushed from the huge hole where his head had joined his neck. This was like the punishment of schismatics in Dante –“Mahomet,” Bertran de Born, Ali and the rest. The dreamer, Robinson, had viewed this terrible picture from above, gazing at the back of his own head, which had been shoved face down onto his trunk so that his nose pressed into his navel. There was no placard, and no need for one.

  He glanced at Neugeborn, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully. He was relieved that he would have a moment or two to compose himself, that he would not have to explain his panic. As he knew, the idea that people never dream their own deaths is inaccurate.

  The three men from Washington were met at Aeroportul International, Chisinau, by a driver in an armored Mercedes sedan that looked like the ones in which Robinson had seen musicians and other celebrities of the demi-monde arrive at clubs in New York. The drive wore the standard “men in black” outfit, including mirrored wraparounds. He put their bags in the trunk and sped north about nine kilometers into the city. Then, he turned west on Str. Ismail, and northwest through the verdant eastern side of Chisinau, on Str. Mateevici, where he stopped in a no-parking zone directly in front of a big wedding cake-like building. A short, smiling, dark haired, fit-looking man of about forty wearing a short-sleeved red Izod shirt and pale blue golf pants came running down the front steps of the Embassy to meet them.

  “Scott, Fred, welcome –back-- to Moldova.” He shook hands with the two FBI men. “Mr. Meade? Ambassador Mike Dodrescu. Welcome, sir, I’ve heard a lot about you.“ He pumped Robinson’s hand vigoro
usly and flashed a high-wattage smile. “Come in, gentlemen, we’ll sit right down to dinner, you must be starving. I hope you like Romanian cuisine, Martin.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Robinson replied. Mike Dodrescu was the first ambassador he had ever met.

  Episode 19

  Friday, April 11, 2008, 10 a.m. (Chisinau time)

  One way or another, things were coming to a boil. He heard footsteps on the stairs, then the sound of the cell door being unlocked and opened. Footsteps of two men, one large, one small, approached, and suddenly the hood was removed. If not for the murkiness of the windowless cell, he would have been temporarily blinded. He blinked a few times and saw one of the uniformed thugs standing a few feet to his left, expressionless, holding out a metal tray covered with what appeared to be cutlery. The second visitor was a short, heavy man, vaguely familiar, wearing the national costume, a shiny suit, dirty white shirt, and no tie, also expressionless, and in need of a shave.

  But what was this? Without preamble, the short man washed his face with a warm cloth, applied lather with a brush, and then expertly skimmed away his whiskers with a very sharp straight razor. Wiping the razor on the cloth, the barber returned both to the tray. What was next? Oh, no, the short man took a bowl from the tray and was unzipping the prisoner’s fly. Could he smash this man’s shins with his running shoes? Oh, no! Or … was the man possibly about to administer a state-sponsored blowjob?

  “Aici! urineze!’ he said flatly, extracting Geistmann’s penis from his pants and holding it over the bowl. The urine flowed instantly and copiously. When Geistmann’s bladder was empty, the barber shook the penis twice, put it back, and zipped him up.

  “Va multumesc, prietenul meu,” Geistmann said. [Thank you, my friend.] The barber glanced at him without replying, but as he put the half-full bowl back on the tray, Geistmann was sure he saw a gleam in his eye.

  After the shave and the piss, they left him alone in the cell again, un-hooded, but still handcuffed and bound to the chair. Without a word, they marched back out, not even closing the door behind them. Of course, all this could just be their way of softening him up, of making the pain worse, which might have worked if they had been the prisoners. But, assuming they were about to start in on the torture, allowing him to urinate first had wasted an important means of humiliation.

  Or –did he dare hope?-- their apparent kindness might mean the plan was kicking in. If this were the case, he thought, remaining calm, he could permit himself the further hope that Elica and the boy would already be speeding through the countryside in the Dane’s comfortable sedan, on their way to the border at Iasi, then on to Bucharest and, ultimately, to asylum in Copenhagen.

  Like many bad organizations, this good one took care of its own people. He had always wanted to visit Copenhagen. He knew the Danes were heroes to many of the world’s poor and oppressed. Where they hypocrites? Undoubtedly, many of them were, since, in modern life, hypocrisy was the name of the game. He heard footsteps again and allowed himself to feel the controlled excitement he always felt at the beginning of a possible action. It was the best way to start the adrenalin pumping.

  10:15 a.m. (Chisinau time.)

  At the prison, Ambassador Mike Dodrescu’s liveried driver, the limo with its diplomatic plates, the official-looking letter on official stationery, and, especially (Robinson presumed) the advance phone call from the President of the Republic, had opened every door. Peters and his men were parked directly across from the front gate in three unmarked vans with the motors running, waiting to take delivery from the guards.

  “That will make them feel less like we’re treading on their toes,” the Ambassador had said, “than if you just broke in.” However, if Robinson, Geistmann and the guards did not emerge in half an hour, all bets were off. Meanwhile, Robinson would try hard to keep to a strategy of remaining on Geistmann’s hero list. The tricky part would be to probe for useful information without being too obvious, which would subject him to demonization –and, probably, murderous rage.

  The uniformed ape that escorted him down the three flights to the dungeon carried a wooden straight-backed chair. Inside the cell, he placed the chair so that it faced the prisoner, at a distance of about twenty feet. For the second time, Robinson was perfunctorily patted down, the guard’s expression betraying his thoughts “I have to do this, honored sir, but I’d much rather tear off your … (unspeakable).” Clanging the door shut, he exited the cell. The plan was for him to wait in the corridor.

  Wearing a bland smile that belied his galloping heartbeat, Robinson sat down. He was surprised. Not only was Geistmann apparently uninjured, they had just shaved him: he could smell the perfumed soap. Geistmann’s skin was good, light brown and weathered, but without visible scars. The two men gazed at each other in silence, Geistmann smiling broadly, as if he did not have a concern in the world. There, at last, he sat. The FBI sketches had been uncanny. Except for the long-distance stare of his intensely black eyes, you might have taken him for a bright, pleasant sort of fellow.

  Robinson wondered if it had been his warders who had dressed him up in this workman’s outfit with the incongruous running shoes. Robinson, himself, was wearing a baggy, shiny blue FBI jacket with conspicuous white logo, but not the hat, because everyone had burst out laughing when he had put it on.

  If Geistmann, who faced the door, could see the guard through the small glass window, he did not give any indication. Suddenly, Pablo Markowitz’s words of warning flashed through Robinson’s mind: Whatever he says, he will want to maim or kill you. He felt a surge of panic and was relieved when, for the moment, at least, he found he could control it. For a few moments, Geistmann scrutinized him. Then, he broke the silence.

  “Ahhh. Mr… John… Robinson. At last! Good to see you again, my friend. I hope you’ve recovered from the recent death of Uncle Ted?” If he expected a reaction, he must have been disappointed. There had been nothing to recover from.

  “De quel langage préféreriez-vous se servir?” Robinson asked. [Which language do you prefer?]

  “L'anglais, svp. Après tout, j’suis votre hôte, monsieur, en quelque sorte de parler.” [English, please. After all, sir, I’m your host, in a manner of speaking.]

  “Est-ce que c'était un calembour?” [Was that a pun?]

  Geistmann shrugged off the question, still smiling. “I’m sorry I can’t serve you coffee, or anything, John. But perhaps we should eschew further pleasantries, unless you think we have time for them.” If Geistmann was trying to find out how long they were going to be left alone, Robinson did not oblige.

  Other than the few words in the church, this was the first time he had heard his voice. It was a pleasant baritone, cool and measured. Realizing he was trying to calm his own fears, he observed how the Frenchman could pronounce the “oo” in “eschew” with the American inflection, mid-Atlantic dialect. He smiled stiffly and waited for Geistmann to take the initiative. Geistmann also waited. After a very long thirty seconds, he scowled.

  “Please, John. You came to see me. Why not just skip the little games and say why?”

  Having been rehearsed by Peters and the ambassador, Robinson began his speech. “Fine. The ambassadors and consuls of several countries where there are warrants for your arrest have found out you’re here. They decided our ambassador probably has the best relationship with President Snegur. So.” With a shrug, also as instructed, he paused. His voice had sounded shrill and, once or twice, it had even squeaked. His throat was dry, and his tongue felt swollen.

  Geistmann turned bright red. He cut the speech off with a flood of startling, barely controlled molten rage. (Whatever he says, he will want to maim or kill you.) “Yes, Dodrescu would ‘have the best relationship’ with this Communist piece of shit, who has held office for eighteen years, and has metamorphosed into a well-known free mouseketeer. I like your costume, by the way, John. And?”

  To still his rising panic, Robinson recalled a detail from Markowitz’s disquisition on malign
ant cerebral narcissists: he must try to humor this one. “Well, I would have worn my JOLETAF suit, but it has less recognition value.” When the weak joke produced no reaction, he fell back on the script. “I’m here to deliver a letter to the warden, authorizing him to release you in my custody.”

  When Geistmann responded with a roar of laughter, Robinson flinched. Feeling dizzy, he began to consider strategies to keep from fainting. Geistmann poured it on.

  “Very good! Let’s leave right now, shall we? But, unless you have wire cutters and handcuff keys, you’ll have to carry me in my chair up all those stairs. Can you manage that, John? Are you strong enough?” He made the joke straight-faced. “How much time do we have before Peters and Co. burst in?”

  “Thirty-five minutes, maximum,” Robinson lied.

  “You’re learning to lie well, John, by skirting the truth. A worthy adversary. You know what Satan means, don’t you? ‘Adversary.’ Are you a little devil, John? Thirty-five minutes, good. What should we do with this small … window?” His tone was a prolonged sneer. “Perhaps we can discuss our contrasting world views. Suppose I tear yours to pieces and leave you in total despair. But you wouldn’t like that, would you? Would you rather try to wheedle some information out of me, some secrets? That’s why they sent you, isn’t it?” He paused, staring so disconcertingly that Robinson felt as if he were the one who was bound and handcuffed. Geistmann seemed to read this thought. “By the way, John, how would you be feeling right now if they had removed my … bonds before they left you alone with me?” Robinson did not trust himself to reply. Geistmann changed his tone to mock sympathetic. “I’m so sorry, that was very rude, what a bully I am! Well, then, suppose I begin notre peu de confab --oops, sorry, again, our little chat.” Robinson spread his hands in the “proceed” gesture. Luckily, they were not shaking too much. Geistmann grinned. “We’re not in the library anymore, are we, Toto? Are you a casuist, John?”