When the Past Came Calling

by Larry S. Kaplan

  Next, the door in the back wall of the right enclosure opened, and the Dobie apes, led by Rocky, disappeared through the doorway and the door closed behind them. Harvey and his fellow Gillises remained in their enclosure.

  “That seemed pleasant enough,” Sandra remarked, apparently relieved that Brisbane’s warning about being squeamish didn’t seem to apply, given what we had just observed.

  “It was pleasant,” Brisbane confirmed. “And it aptly demonstrates how chimpanzee communities have evolved to interact. However, sometimes a negative, aberrant situation occurs that can upset evolution’s intent. Maybe at a time when the food supply was limited, one community raided the fruit trees of the other. Or at a time when female apes became scarce, there was a battle fought for those who were fertile.

  “Memories of intense destructive experiences between ape communities, when they occur, can become part of the inherited chimpanzee genome—in much the same way as the monarch butterfly’s genome includes the memory of the precise location in Mexico where their great-grandparent began its journey.

  “I’m now going to introduce another chimp community into the enclosure on the right. This is the Maynard community, after Maynard G. Krebs from the Dobie Gillis show. Unfortunately, the prior generation of the Maynards and the Gillises engaged in years of bitter fighting at Kibale over a limited food supply. Their hatred for each other was intense, and there were many casualties whenever they interacted.

  “We separated the next generation of both communities and transported several of them here to Argonne before they had an opportunity to experience firsthand the extreme loathing that existed between the parent generations. So keep in mind that the Maynard chimps on the right and the Gillis chimps on the left have never seen each other before now; and they have never experienced the kind of animosity that made adversaries of their parents.”

  The door at the back of the right enclosure opened and five apes, entered in single file, led by the largest one.

  “The chimpanzee leading the group inside is Eli. He is the Maynards’ alpha male.”

  The Maynards took some time to acclimate themselves to their new surroundings. Soon a few migrated toward the rock mound, while others occupied themselves by swinging on the vines.

  “Now, watch carefully,” Brisbane warned.

  He pressed the button to remove the metal barrier between the two groups. As it receded into the back wall, the Maynard chimps—on spotting the Gillis chimps—all began to swagger. Eli retracted his lips menacingly to reveal two rows of sharp teeth. Then he hunched over and waved his arms around to exaggerate his size, following those actions by banging his fists against his chest while emitting high-pitched shrieks. The other Maynards responded with shrieks of their own, and by banging their fists on the floor of the enclosure, they created a sound like the pounding of war drums. After several seconds of the pulsating reverberations, Eli charged toward the Gillis chimps with his cohorts right behind him.

  Eli targeted Harvey immediately, who was clinging nervously to his tire swing, his withered leg dangling beneath him.

  “When ape communities are engaged in hostilities, it is not uncommon for the chimp perceived as the weakest to be isolated and victimized first.”

  I watched in horror as Eli grabbed Harvey by his crippled leg to pull him off the tire and fling him to the ground, where two other Maynard chimps pounced on him. With Harvey on his back and completely defenseless, Eli and the other two began biting their victim on his neck, making deep gouges that bled profusely. The other Gillis chimps seemed to have given up on the idea of protecting their helpless mate, and instead began grappling with the other Maynards by throwing wild punches. Some of the blows made devastating contact that sent their adversaries crashing into the glass enclosure.

  “Can’t you stop this!” Sandra screamed, apparently sickened by what was happening to Harvey.

  “Yes,” Brisbane said with almost frightening calm, as he reached up to pull a lever in the wall that immediately discharged a visible cloud of gas that poured through the ceiling vents into the glass enclosure.

  “I’ve released a strong tranquilizer into the air. In less than a minute, they’ll all be sleeping.”

  Sure enough, the aggressive activity ceased, and within seconds the Maynard and Gillis apes were lying prone on the ground, virtually comatose. When the mist dissipated and I could see the apes more clearly, I noticed by their chest movement that their breathing was extremely slow and shallow. That is, all except Harvey, who was lying on the ground stone-still, with blood still seeping from the numerous deep gashes on his body.

  “Is he dead?” Sandra asked, terribly distressed.

  “He may be,” Brisbane replied softly.

  “Was that necessary?” Sandra protested, unable to contain her sense of outrage at Harvey’s cruel fate.

  “It’s unfortunate, but yes, it was necessary. Necessary to prove the point. These two communities had absolutely no reason to be aggressive toward each other, but for the memories they inherited from their parents’ generation. You had to witness firsthand the potentially destructive impact of these inherited memories.”

  “Perhaps you can explain how Whidden intended to transform what we have just seen into something good for mankind,” Conrad suggested quietly, attempting to defuse the hysteria exhibited by his colleague.

  “Let me try. Whidden hoped to use his discovery to end ethnic and racial violence—among humans. It was his belief that wars are the result of inherited memories, and that by manipulating the DNA strands where these memories are stored, we can bring everlasting peace to humanity.”

  Tristan Conrad rose slowly from the bench, signaling that the presentation was over. “Thank you for sharing your time with us, Paul. The experience was very enlightening. If you’ll excuse us, Sandra and I would like to speak privately with David now. Could you perhaps lead us back to the lobby?”

  I think all three of us wanted to get as far away as we could from the sight of the glass enclosure where poor dead Harvey was still oozing blood.

  As Brisbane escorted us out of the restricted area, I felt a sick feeling start to fester in the pit of my stomach—and not because of the carnage I’d just witnessed. I was anticipating that whatever Tristan Conrad wanted to speak with me about would change my life—perhaps forever.

  Chapter 23

  May 4, 1989

  “We believe Montgomery’s Truce of God sect managed to brainwash Dr. Whidden,” Tristan Conrad explained as the three of us sat around a circular table in the conference room at Argonne. “They convinced him that we would use his ability to manipulate the genes that govern inherited memories for destructive purposes—to foster war, not peace.”

  “Just after Whidden disappeared,” Sandra interjected, “we found some Truce of God literature in his locker here. One of the articles, written by Philip Montgomery and dated just days before Whidden vanished, accused the US government of planning to manipulate the genes involved in inherited memories to destabilize our enemies.”

  “Montgomery must have possessed inside information available to only a handful of people in order to know anything at all about Whidden’s research,” Conrad added.

  “Whidden didn’t have any family,” Sandra continued, “and he didn’t maintain any close friendships. But several of the people we interviewed who knew him slightly indicated that he’d become more religious recently. They said he referred to a new church he’d discovered that was loosely organized around a specific belief system—as he explained it.”

  “It all adds up to the Truce of God,” Conrad said matter-of-factly. “And the problem is, Whidden was also a lone wolf when it came to his research. He didn’t work with a team, so no one here at Argonne can replicate his findings. In other words, the man is indispensable.”

  “Right now you’re probably wondering how you fit into all of this,” Sandra said, looking at me carefully.

  “Frankly, I was hoping I wouldn’t fit into it,” I quippe
d.

  This remark prompted Sandra and Conrad to exchange quick glances, as if signaling to each other who would respond. Finally, it was Conrad who spoke.

  “You already know that the Montgomery trail the FBI was tracking dead-ended in 1966. After you and Sandra learned about the Omsk connection, the CIA was able to confirm that he indeed had relocated there in 1966. We have been able to track his general movements and presence there until sometime in 1985. But since then, there hasn’t been a single sighting of the man. It’s as if he just evaporated.”

  “But they have been able to locate his daughter, David,” Sandra added.

  “Yes, the lovely Lena Olinsky,” Conrad continued. “I understand you knew her when she was a young girl.”

  “Olinsky?” I exclaimed in bewilderment.

  “Yes, David, but not because she’s married—if that’s what you were wondering,” Sandra clarified. “Olinsky is their real family name. They changed it when they moved to America from the Soviet Union, when Lena was a baby.”

  “What we suspect,” Conrad said, “is that Philip Montgomery may have been acting for the Soviets all along. He was a mesmerizing orator and writer. We think he hijacked the Truce of God church—there were only a handful of adherents when he came to the US, and this band of gullible followers didn’t know his true motivations. They still don’t. He continued to write on behalf of the church after he returned to Russia, probably so he could continue to control and influence them from a distance—perhaps to sabotage certain US operations in their name. But Montgomery’s writings stopped as of 1985—a date consistent with the lack of any further sightings—that is, until the article about inherited memories turned up in Whidden’s locker.

  “You asked how you fit into this, David,” Conrad resumed after a brief pause. “Although we have no information regarding Montgomery’s whereabouts at the present time, we do know how to find his daughter. Lena Olinsky is a successful businesswoman in Omsk with Spacebo, a popular women’s fashion line in the USSR. She is in charge of buying the various materials—fabrics like cotton and silk—from suppliers around the world. We believe that if we can get to Lena, she’ll be able to tell us where her father is.”

  “Which is exactly where you fit in, David,” Sandra added.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said nonplussed. “How?”

  Conrad inhaled deeply before he replied. “We’d like you to visit Omsk in the guise of the chief legal counsel for a consulting firm that assists importers with the tax and customs implications of trading with Soviet companies. You’d be traveling under your own name. We’ve already arranged a meeting between you and Lena at Spacebo’s corporate headquarters for May 12. That’s eight days from today. Given Lena’s senior position, she delegates the scheduling of all her meetings to her secretary, so she won’t know about yours until possibly the day before. Even if she spots your name on her schedule, there’s little chance she’ll relate it to a boy she met long ago at the age of sixteen.”

  Neither Conrad nor Sandra, of course, knew about Lena’s letter. As far as they were concerned, ours was just a momentary encounter, one that she probably had forgotten all about by the time the sun rose the next day. But I knew otherwise. I knew Lena had felt strongly enough about me to write that letter. But still, that happened twenty-three years ago. It probably was true that the name David Miller would mean nothing to her now.

  “Excuse me,” I interjected, “this is going way too fast. How can this possibly work? For one thing, I know nothing about tax or customs laws. And for another, she’s bound to recognize me—if not by seeing my name on a schedule then by a combination of that and seeing me in person.”

  “That’s the whole point,” Conrad explained. “We want her to realize it’s you when she sees you—that you’re not some total stranger. That way she’s more likely to trust you. And what’s more, when you ask her the personal questions we want you to ask—like what her father is up to—it will make sense that you would ask her what a stranger never would. Since if he did, she would definitely become suspicious.”

  “Wait a second. I mean, I’ve got to tell you both that this whole thing sounds way too implausible to me. When she realizes who I am, isn’t she going to think that it’s some impossible coincidence? And won’t that make her suspicious?”

  “It might,” Conrad said, conceding the point. “But don’t forget, you knew her only as Lena Montgomery, not as Lena Olinsky. So you’d have no reason at all to think the person you’re scheduled to meet is someone you met years before.”

  “I didn’t even know her as that. I thought her name was Mary…”

  “Well, there you go…and more importantly, coincidences happen all the time, especially among exceptionally successful people. In fact, the top one percent of overachievers—regardless of their field—is bound to have dealings with each other at some point in their lives. It’s just the law of averages.”

  “Really?” I said, skeptically.

  “Look, David, I’m not expecting a commitment from you today. Sleep on it—sleep on it for two nights, if need be. But let me know by Wednesday—five p.m. at the latest. Here’s a card with my phone number. Call me once you’ve decided. If we have to cancel your meeting at Spacebo and come up with a Plan B, I have to start setting the wheels in motion no later than Thursday.”

  “What if she doesn’t tell me?” I asked, still doubtful about Conrad’s imagined scenario.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Where her father is.”

  “She might not. But you are the one person she is most likely to tell. Please think about that while you sleep on it.”

  As we all rose to leave and I approached the conference room door, I noticed a brochure perched on the rim of a wastebasket. For some reason, it piqued my curiosity, so I bent down to get a closer look. It was a playbill for the musical Oliver! by the Silly Players Community Theater Company—at Lincoln Hall.

  Conrad apparently noticed me studying it. “Great show, Oliver! Have you ever seen it?”

  “Yes. In sophomore year, my high school drama group performed it. I saw it then.”

  “A timeless show,” he commented, “one of my favorites.”

  Chapter 24

  May 4, 1989

  When I left the Argonne National Laboratory, I drove east along the 290 Tollway toward Chicago. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, and the early May sun was still high in the sky behind me, illuminating the remote downtown skyline. The glass and steel towers of the Loop reflected the powerful solar rays as if they’d combined to form an elaborate beacon. Even from thirty miles away, the intensity of this shimmering light was not only visible, it was mesmerizing. It caused me to blink repeatedly as I looked straight ahead, musing that Chicago could have passed for the city of Oz that afternoon.

  Perhaps my vision of an emerald city twinkling on the horizon was colored somewhat by the task I’d been asked to consider. The idea that I might find myself involved in a secret mission to the Soviet Union—a mission that might unite me with the girl I’d been obsessed with for twenty-three years—seemed no less fantastical than a world where munchkins and flying monkeys were ruled by witches and wizards.

  And speaking of flying monkeys, I couldn’t dislodge from my mind’s eye the horrific sight of lame, defenseless Harvey being pummeled and bitten to death by members of a rival ape community. I pondered whether mankind’s tendency toward ethnic violence was indeed the result of ancestral memories that impelled us to maintain our separate tribes at any cost in order to survive—and that the conflicts our forefathers fought had no basis in present-day reality. If a tiny life-form like the monarch butterfly could inherit the memories of its ancestors, why not humans? And if inherited memories resided in a particular area of our DNA strands, might a more peace-loving humanity be genetically engineered from Whidden’s discoveries—if he’d indeed found the secret to wiping those strands clean of hereditary hatreds?

  As if I didn’t have enough to oc
cupy my overloaded brain, one more image vied for equal screen time in my mind’s eye. It was of a fifteen-year-old Benny Friedman, looking innocent and vulnerable, decked out in an outsized black overcoat and top hot for his role as the undertaker, Mr. Sowerberry, in the 1965 Niles West production of Oliver! What on earth made me think of that? Then I realized it had been the playbill in the Argonne conference room that resurrected the memory.

  The recollection made me smile as I motored east on 290. But it also made me wonder. Was it merely a coincidence that someone working at the Argonne National Laboratory had attended a community theater production at Lincoln Hall, which was also Benny’s hiding place? It had to be since no one there connected with the search for Dr. Whidden had any reason to look for Benny now, and even if they did, how would they know to look for him there? The focus of the investigation had shifted to the Soviet Union, probably rendering irrelevant any information Benny could provide about his former Truce of God neighbor.

  Still, I was not a big believer in coincidences. So when I reached the junction of the Kennedy and Edens expressways, rather than proceeding toward my Lincoln Park apartment, I decided to head north, toward Lincolnwood—and Lincoln Hall. I needed to check on Benny, to make sure he was OK.

  It was about five thirty when I reached my old junior high school. There were still several cars in the parking lot. Teachers tended to work later these days, what with all the pressure on the school districts to outperform each other.

  I parked my BMW in the back lot near the door to the backstage area. Before I approached the building, I made sure there were no people around to observe me. I knocked on the door using the code for my name—long, short, short, long, long. There was no answer, so I knocked again. Still no answer. I decided that Benny had probably stepped away momentarily—until I remembered that he’d specifically told me he would never leave his hideaway while it was still light out. He should have been safely tucked in there at five thirty on an early May evening.