Catch Me: Kill Me

by Hallahan, William H. ;

  Watching Geller, Leary remembered how he had rolled on the gum wrappers and cigar butts. He knew he couldn’t follow the crowd in that underground causeway: he couldn’t step indifferently around his own raincoat.

  Geller walked the walk of the badly hungover: head down, eyes squinting against the angled sunlight that probed the pain inside his skull, his mouth astringently gathered against the acid burps of last night’s bumpers; his hand, with cigar, trembling; and his suit even more rumpled than it had been the day before and still streaked with cigar ash, although he wore, as if in penitence, a new shirt, painfully white, and a new striped tie. He walked stiffly, wrynecked, probably from having slept senseless, gapemouthed, in a chair. He looked old and gray and gravely ill, yet defiant, more merciless than ever.

  Last night’s screed had made his face naked, doffing the mask and revealing inner vices, and Leary suddenly read what was on that face: Geller was a lecher; there was something obscene about the expression, something hungry in the forbidding eyes; something about the aging mouth; something about the pink pawlike hands; something, in sum, that said that Geller liked young girls: big pink ones, gigglers, bosomy and none too bright.

  Geller saw Leary, and behind his magnifying lenses his red raw eyes regarded him deliberately, triumphant head raised, passing—a man who had made his point. He said nothing, and Leary watched, without a word, the three move down the corridor and turn, gone on some furtive errand. Leary looked at his own hands: they trembled slightly: he felt an ancient emotion stir.

  At 10:30 Leary was back in the lobby with the thanks of the court for his brief, and in his hand an envelope. Sent by special messenger from his office, It contained a short biography of Boris Kotlikoff.

  Leary put it into his case and walked over to the uptown subway. Just as he was about to descend the steps, he got a glimpse of a man with large mustaches. There was something about the hang of the shoulders that he instantly recognized. He was sure it was the man who’d attacked him. But the man entered an office building and disappeared. Leary took the subway uptown. As he went he read, first by the dim light of the subway platform, then on the rocking uptown express, the story of Boris Kotlikoff.

  BORIS KOTLIKOFF: Profile of the Artist

  Boris Kotlikoff was born in Moscow, Russia, November 30, 1930. Both parents were Jews. The father, Joseph Kotlikoff, was born in a shtetl in the Ukraine, in 1903, and, after the Revolution, was educated in Moscow in engineering and received his degree in 1926.

  The mother, Esther Pinski, was born in a Lithuanian shtetl that was razed during the formation of agricultural collectives in the 1920s. She was educated in nursing in Moscow and married Joseph Kotlikoff shortly after her graduation.

  Boris Kotlikoff was their only child. He received a standard Russian primary education. During World War II, he was thirteen when sent to eastern Russia as part of a large farm work force. His father, Joseph, was killed that same year, 1943, in a German air raid. Boris returned to Moscow in 1946, age sixteen, and completed his secondary education in Moscow. In 1947 he was selected to attend the Timiryazev Academy of Agriculture in Moscow, majoring in agricultural botany and agronomy. He was graduated in 1951 and spent the next five years working on a research project to develop a rust-resistant hybrid strain of wheat. Although the resulting hybrid was later superseded by an American hybrid, his botanical work earned him and his fellows a group citation from the Soviet government in 1956, the Order of Lenin.

  During this period, 1950 to 1956, he began his first efforts in poetry. His first volume of verse was published in 1958, titled Under Russian Skies. Subjects: the war, the heroism of the Russian people, the motherland, nature, forests, steppes. Bubnov, a highly regarded Russian poet and critic, wrote a major article on Kotlikoff’s Under Russian Skies, announcing that Russia had spawned an important new poetic talent.

  In 1961 he was appointed to the post of associate editor on the prestigious international Literary Gazette.

  In 1966 Kotlikoff published his second volume, Brotherhood. It was immediately hailed by the Russian literary world as a major work. Authorized editions of both volumes appeared in fourteen languages, including English.

  In America, Kotlikoff was singled out for his freshness of vision, for the striking originality of his similes and metaphors. Chauncey Wolf, dean of American critics, called Under Russian Skies a triumph, a milestone in twentieth-century poetry. “These are,” he said, “the credentials of a poetic giant!”

  In the midst of his rising literary fortunes, Kotlikoff suffered an unexpected and stunning personal tragedy. His wife was killed in a tractor accident.

  Anna Lusak was born in Moscow in 1932. Boris Kotlikoff met her while they both were botany students at Timiryazev Academy. The marriage took place in Moscow in October 1955. It produced no children.

  Anna Kotlikoff died in May 1967 on an experimental farm in the Ukraine when she was struck by a tractor and crushed. Kotlikoff, in the months that followed, seemed to withdraw more from official activities.

  In fact, privately, he was becoming increasingly restless under Communist life. He saw several of his poet friends sentenced to jail terms in labor camps, vilified by the official press, shunned by former friends and stripped of their professional trappings. Some of them are still today confined in mental institutions; others capitulated—they either silenced themselves or wrote on “approved subjects” and “approved political philosophy.”

  On several occasions, a line of Kotlikoff’s poetry was held up to question by Communist party members. Official journal scrutiny found one of his poems “wanting.” He was more and more aware of the concentration-camp atmosphere that lurked in the corners of Russian life. Yet, the chastisements were minor; he was clearly a “safe” poet who could be trusted with official assignments.

  When Boris Kotlikoff was sent to the World Writers’ Conference in Belgrade, Yugoslavia, he went as the very diamond in the Soviet’s literary crown.

  He seized the opportunity and escaped.

  In many ways, he climbed out of one prison into another.

  Once in the United States, Kotlikoff joined the firm of Harmalov & Son, publishers and translators. Three months later he married his editorial assistant, Amy Corson, a gifted American girl of Jewish parentage and a graduate cum laude of Hunter. She was fourteen years his junior. A year later she gave birth to a daughter.

  This was a period of enormous emotional turbulence for Kotlikoff. He had collided head-on with America’s farraginous culture—a culture at an absolute variance with the orderly, structured, monolithic world of the Soviet Union. There was much about it that fascinated him. All his beliefs, even his most fundamental attitudes, were torn to shreds. He was a man patching up as fast as life and circumstance tore down.

  American English fascinated him. He couldn’t learn it fast enough, yet within a year he had achieved an astonishing control over it.

  His first offerings in English were also his first love lyrics, his first deep love affair—with his wife, with his new language. These poems have not been gathered in book form.

  His emotional life was burst open yet further with the birth of his daughter. He issued a volume named for her, Mindy. He saw in his infant the culmination of thousands of years of Jewish history. He was awed by the eons of suffering it had taken to bring her to her crib in Manhattan, safe but always menaced. With her arrival, Kotlikoff truly discovered the world of the Jew—not the Russian Jew cut off from his cultural heritage, but the European Jew, the American Jew, the Israel-oriented, biblically sponsored Jew who is caught up in the claims of the narrow, competitive nationalism of his homeland, be it France, Brazil or the United States; and caught up with equal firmness in the hurricane of Israel’s demands on his person, purse and soul. Kotlikoff discovered the historical Jew, whipsawed and confused by the conflicting demands of the world around him. More than anything, he sees in the Western Jew the total mental and spiritual state of modern man of all races.

  Boris Kot
likoff works like a man pursued. He is a slight man, not physically strong in spite of the years of crushing farm labor during World War II. He has an enormous capacity for work and a seething need to do it.

  He is a man of Old World composure. He dresses plainly, rather severely, in fact. As a personality, he burns not like a serene candle, but more like a Roman rocket, an intense, rushing flame. He expresses a profound commitment to man and to brotherhood among men. Because of his Russian and Communist background there is a strong political and social bent to his poetry. Some of it comes close to a jingoistic propaganda. His best, however, is among the best in the world.

  He has a very quiet sense of humor. Smiles infrequently. He has great dignity and an almost frosty reserve which masks an innate shyness. He is inclined, also, to be very careful, very suspicious. He can be arrogant, staring, haughty. His American associates find him, when relaxed, to be warm and loving toward his family, almost doting. He has been chided by Western writers for his pessimistic, suffering-Russia outlook. He has moments of blackest despair when he admits he murmurs ‘Darkness. Darkness!’

  He is a very precise individual. Punctilious. Never late for an appointment. Maintains an accountant-like control over all his affairs, professional and personal. He has a rich speaking voice and a commanding platform manner.

  Kotlikoff’s position in twentieth-century letters is already assured—yet it is the consensus that his most important work lies ahead of him.

  (Written for the Department of State, United States Government, by Dr. Thomas Gregg, Department of Slavic Studies, University of Parkersburg.)

  As an officer in one of the world’s largest banks, Mr. Abernathy was a man who had had too many unpleasant contacts with his own government. In consequence, he spoke reluctantly, with deliberation; a careful man giving a courtroom deposition.

  “It was perfectly legal, Mr. Leary. We were the repository for all of Mr. Kotlikoff’s royalties from his American publisher—who later, of course, became his employer.”

  “Harmalov.”

  “Yes. Harmalov. The royalties were held in trust while Mr. Kotlikoff was a citizen of the Soviet Union. When he arrived here in the United States, the trust was terminated and the money was paid over to him. He placed it in an account with us, and we invested it for him.”

  “How much?”

  “In the trust?” Abernathy frowned unhappily again. “Well, there’s no sense playing games, Mr. Leary.” He stood up and, walking away, said: “Excuse me.” But having made an abrupt decision, he returned to his desk. “Have you read any of it?”

  “What?”

  “Have you read any of Kotlikoff’s poetry?”

  “No. Not with any pleasure.”

  Abernathy studied Leary’s face for a moment. Then he opened his desk drawer. “You know, Mr. Kotlikoff must be released. He’s worth a—a war.” He nodded deliberately to convince himself as much as Leary. He removed a book from the open drawer and put it before Leary, and then he walked away again.

  Brotherhood, by Boris Kotlikoff. Inside it was inscribed: “Mr. Abernathy, I cannot tell you how much you have helped a bewildered stranger. I’m indebted to you always. Boris Kotlikoff.”

  When he scanned the pages loosely, Leary saw penciled marginalia throughout: a dialogue between a poet and a banker—Communist and capitalist, Russian and American, statement and response.

  The bank building was all steel and glass. From his desk Abernathy could look out over the crowds of people passing in the street for several blocks in two directions; he could also see up along the sides of a number of high office buildings.

  And people passing on the street and standing at office windows could clearly see Abernathy’s desk—a great bowl looking at and being looked at by the world. Leary’s eyes roved over the street. He felt exposed, open, vulnerable; felt secret eyes gazing at him.

  He looked at the book again. Composed by a poet on the steppe in Russia, annotated by a banker in a glass building in New York: the global village. Brotherhood.

  Abernathy returned with a piece of paper and, sitting down, glanced around at the passing crowds. He said in a confidential voice, “One hundred fifty-six thousand and some change.”

  “A hundred fifty-six thousand dollars?”

  “Yes. Dollars. One hundred fifty-six thousand dollars and twenty-three cents, to be exact.”

  “Is the money still all invested?”

  “Mr. Leary, may I see your credentials again, please?” Abernathy regarded the wallet that Leary held out to him. Then he watched the crowd passing through the glass vestibule of the bank and along the crowded sidewalk outside. Thoughtfully his eyes studied the slow herd of single-file buses and the quick yellow of the taxis in broad sunlight. He sighed. “What I’m doing is quite illegal. Mr. Kotlikoff could sue me personally and the bank and even you. You didn’t happen to stop for a court order?” His eyes pleaded for a court order. “Tell me, is there any hope? The newspapers are terrifying. There’s talk of war. The market fell. Can you rescue Mr. Kotlikoff? Is he still alive?”

  “There’s always hope, Mr. Abernathy.”

  “Is there? Always, Mr. Leary? We’ll see.” He referred to his paper again. “On December thirteenth last, he withdrew thirty-three thousand dollars. On February fifteenth, he withdrew another thirty-three thousand dollars. And he withdrew thirty-four thousand dollars just Monday.”

  “Monday? The day before yesterday?”

  “Yes. Thirty-four thousand dollars. Monday.”

  “But he was kidnapped on Monday. When was he here?”

  “About nine forty-five, I should say. He sat in that chair you’re sitting on, and we chatted for a few moments. It was pouring rain outside.”

  “He withdrew a total of one hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Yes. In about three and a half months.”

  “Did he give you any idea what he was going to do with all that money? I mean—”

  “No. I handled the transaction personally, and he told me nothing. Absolutely nothing. A shame—his portfolio was going beautifully—but I don’t ask questions. His firm is a valuable account to this bank, and so is he.”

  “Who did he pay the money to?”

  Abernathy referred again to the paper in his hand. “The man’s name is Jay Simmonds.”

  “Is he one of your depositors?”

  “No. I have no idea who he is or where he banks.” Mr. Abernathy seemed, also, very reluctant to go find out. Instead, he put his copy of Brotherhood back in his desk drawer, stood up and waited for Leary to leave. He’d answered enough questions.

  Leary returned to the sidewalk, doubt-filled again: thousands had been able to watch him sitting in that glass building talking to Abernathy. He looked up and saw Abernathy on the telephone. Behind him Abernathy could watch him walking the streets, so he strode purposefully away, glancing betimes over his shoulder. It was quite simple to follow him; thousands had seen him sitting in the glass building interrogating Abernathy. Someone on that busy street surely was one of Geller’s men, ready for a push under a bus, a stabbing in a phone booth, a shot through the head between subway cars. Even on a brilliant spring day, the city abounded with dark corners, stair angles, booths, corridors, empty rooms, lavatories.

  To go on with his investigation, he was going to have to exceed his legal authority even more, and it was already beyond justification; he had just pried privileged information illegally from a very reluctant banker. Leary’s instinct told him to get off before he went one step further.

  It was like a magnet: Leary was again in the vicinity of Grand Central Station—this time, with an expensive lunch lying caged behind the still sore ribs of his torso. Through his head ran the English refrain: In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Leary went into Grand Central and located a bank of phone booths. There was one entry in the Manhattan directory for J. Simmonds.

  Leary dialed the number.

  “Hello?” It was an old, cracked voice.

 
“Mr. J. Simmonds, please.”

  “You got him, mister. I’m J. Simmonds.” Mr. J. Simmonds had a heavy foreign accent.

  “My name is Leary. I’m with the Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization. Is your first name Jay? J-A-Y?”

  “What do I have to do with Immigration and Naturalization?”

  “So far as I know, you don’t. But Boris Kotlikoff does.”

  “Kotlikoff? Boris Kotlikoff? Why are you calling me about him?”

  “I think you can help me.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Grand Central Station.”

  “And you’re with the Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me your phone number.”

  Leary did.

  “Stay there. Wait for the phone to ring.”

  Leary looked at J. Simmonds’s address. It was downtown, not far from the Kotlikoff apartment. The time on the station clock was 2:35. It was Wednesday afternoon, not much more than forty-eight hours since the kidnapping, which, he realized anew, had occurred just a few yards away from the phone he was using. A few yards and forty-eight hours. It seemed more like weeks.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello. This is Jay Simmonds.” This was a younger voice, harder, more resonant. “What do you want?”

  “I’m investigating the Kotlikoff case.”

  The man exhaled heavily, audibly. It was almost a heartfelt sigh. “Who are you?”

  “Leary. Bureau of Immigration and Naturalization, Department of Justice.”

  “Okay. We’ll talk. I don’t think it’s going to help you a bit, but we’ll talk. How did you get my name?”

  “It was very easy. Where can we talk?”

  “Not here. Not here. Let me think.”

  “Not where?”

  “Listen, I’ll meet you at the place you just phoned. Okay? In about forty minutes or so. Okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Leary took the Lexington A venue line downtown. On an impulse, he turned as he mounted the subway steps and in the crowd of faces saw a man with thick mustaches. The man abruptly turned back, and Leary pressed through the crowd back to the bottom of the steps. The man was gone.