by Singer, Ron
Peter came up for air. “Whatever he’s done, Geistmann is not a terrorist. And the constant airport delays and intrusions into people’s privacy in the name of ‘homeland security’ are already at politically unacceptable levels.” He glanced at Weatherbee, who appeared to be listening with something like parental pride. “The airports are covered as well as we can cover them –Level Orange--dogs, multiple checkpoints, detectors, and the rest. And the roadblocks are in place on every possible route from Luray to all three airports.” He paused. “Who knows, maybe we will get lucky this time.” Everyone, including the speaker, looked skeptical.
“Getting back to my main point, of all the places we could have convened after his escapade at the Lodge, how did he know we’d choose Charlottesville? The University? This building? And this room? I mean, it’s not like we announced the meeting on Facebook.”
Again, he paused. There were no longer even sounds of keyboards clicking or pens or pencils scratching on paper. This was obviously the climax of the meeting. Peter held up the three middle fingers on his left hand.
“Three possibilities. One, he’s a genius; two, there’s a mole in our ranks; three, he’s intercepting our communications --telephone and/or Internet. Of course, it could be a combination. Is he a genius? Yes, obviously, at least a planner of genius. For example, he must have anticipated that the early date of Easter would create a staff shortage at the Lodge that would allow him to get taken on as a server without proper vetting. This, in turn, gave him free movement around the grounds, etc. etc. Next, the mole hypothesis, which is obviously the most anxiety-fraught. These days, after Aldrich Ames and the rest, are there still moles? Of course, there are. But there are several arguments against this hypothesis. First …”
Robinson’s mind raced ahead. What was Peter doing? If he and his master believed that there might, in fact, be a mole at the table, was he trying to lull him to sleep? Could one of the policemen (including the absent Baltazar) be a mole? Motive? Since he would be extremely unlikely to share Geistmann’s bizarre potpourri of animosities, the probable motive would be the usual one: money. Geistmann seemed to have pots of it. Could Peter, himself, be the mole? Highly unlikely, he must have been vetted with extreme thoroughness before he was hired. On the other hand, he was technically proficient and situated right where all the information flowed. Still, if he was a mole, it was just as likely that Weatherbee was one, too –or just as unlikely.
He half-listened as Peter went on about the mole hypothesis. “Spies are in short supply these days. Not only do they cost too much, but we’re all so enamored of technology that we’ve come to assume machines can do the job better. By the same reasoning, why would Geistmann ...”
Once again, the irrepressible Fedoruk interrupted. “But, as you say at the beginning, Peter, why not the combination? You have your mole; he sends to you, Geistmann, the stolen data; and then you use your genius logic to make the best use of the data. Presto!”
Peter seemed unfazed. “Yes, that sounds plausible. But if he can get what he needs without inside help, why risk human error? Why duplicate? A few further examples from his current American odyssey and from some of his prior escapades will …”
Fedoruk bowed politely, apparently indicating an open mind. But Robinson found Peter’s point dubious. A mole could tell you what his fellow members of the Task Force said when they weren’t on the phone or shooting emails to each other. Geistmann would want access to the brains of these focused, capable pursuers …well, not quite everyone had spoken yet, but the Marshal was unlikely to be a dim bulb, either.
Referring to his notes again, Peter launched into new territory, at least for Robinson. “We have two important, earlier examples of Geistmann’s information-stealing: Donduceni, in 1999, and Toularelle, in 2005…
“Toularelle?” The name rang no bell: it was in neither the dossier nor the Red Notices. For no apparent reason, a hoary Czech saying popped into Robinson’s brain: “The fish starts to stink from the head.”
"...I’m sure you recall that he chloroformed Dunduceni, then drove him in that bread truck to the factory. As the dossier indicates, he found him by tapping into the bent Russian policeman’s phone, the guy we had suspected, whom he subsequently dismembered. But he tapped into the Russian’s phone via Interpol’s own tap, hitching a ride, so to speak. We only discovered Geistmann’s tap after both bad guys were dead.”
Peter droned on; “Second, Toularelle. I don’t need to remind you that this was the murder that originally sparked the creation of our group, JOLETAF, in February 2006, which was the seventh anniversary of the Donduceni killing.” He launched into details that were obviously embarrassing to the asembled policemen. “You remember how, in 2005, Geistmann did something he had never done before, and has never done since: he told us he was going to murder Toularelle before he did it. He emailed Interpol an announcement not just that ‘something’ was about to happen, but that he would shoot Armande Toularelle during a DGAFP meeting. Despite the supposedly air tight security laid on by Interpol, via the Surete’, he proceeded to do exactly that –a head shot from two-hundred yards.
“Nor does Arnold need to remind us, does he, about the response of the Surete’? Less than an hour after the shooting, they put out an All Points bulletin for the entire EU. How did Geistmann slip through that? Well, it was as if he was in possession of an advance copy of every single one of their maps and timetables. Forty minutes before a particular checkpoint went up, he would pass through, usually leaving one of his little ‘calling cards,’ some stupid joke.” Several of the policemen shook their heads.
“You’ll remember, too, that during the same manhunt, which went on for weeks –no, months--he ambushed one of the Surete’s best operatives, Pascal D’Amboise. He seemed to have advance notice of D’Amboise’s exact whereabouts and timetable, and he seemed completely familiar with his M.O. An hour after D’Amboise went missing... ” He scanned the room, looking as embarrassed as everyone else.
“I guess we can reveal this to Dr. Robinson, since he already knows what fools Geistmann has made of us. He sent the Surete’ another email: ‘Recherchez-le la première chose demain, à sa maman. Look for him first thing tomorrow, at his Mummy’s.’ “
“Ha ha! The next morning, just before the Louvre opened, a guard noticed an extra mummy standing in a corner of one of the rooms in the Egyptian wing --with a breathing straw.” Peter shook his head in disgust. “Later, we backtracked and discovered that every single detail of D’Amboise’s assignment could be found in encrypted emails between Interpol and the Surete’. And, before the murder, after he had forewarned us, the same was true for Toularelle’s itinerary. Apparently, in trying to protect Toularelle, and then in monitoring D’Amboise, we handed Geistmann every bit of information he needed, on a silver platter.”
Peter came up for air, ticking several points off from his notes before continuing. “His recent movements here in the U.S.? They, too, suggest that he’s intercepted many, if not all, of our communications. Take, for instance, the timing of the roadblocks, in both New York State and Virginia. How did he...”
Anticipating these points, Robinson took a closer look at Fedoruk. This must be the policeman who knew the most about the Donduceni murder. Having rehashed the details from Montreal and Glens Falls, Peter moved into virgin territory, once again waxing technological.
“How, exactly, does he operate? He could be tapping our phones or spying on our computers. He could be doing either or both of these things via any of our --Interpol’s—offices: Lyons, Paris, Bucharest, New York, Washington, you name it. These offices are all hooked up. But since our data encryption is pretty good...” He was interrupted by a booming new voice, which belonged to Robinson’s namesake, the enormous African-American Marshall, “W. Robinson.”
“If doing that stuff is so easy and undetectable, how did VICAP –he gestured to Neugeborn—manage to catch Anthony Pelicano?” (North Carolina, probably Piedmont, with a New York overlay.)
“So, Peter,” asked Colonel Erceg, “which method do you think Geistmann uses?”
Before Peter could continue, Weatherbee, who was looking at his computer screen and shaking his head, held his hand up like a traffic cop. “Oh, shit! It looks like he pulled another caper on his way down here. On Saturday afternoon, March 1st, he ‘donated’ about a hundred-and-twenty thousand dollars to an eccentric assortment of charities from the Master Card account of a New York hedge fund manager named Alex Gold.” The reaction around the table ranged from headshaking and frowns to knowing laughter. “This time, he doesn’t seem to have done it by lifting data –the pin number, etc.—from Mr. Gold’s computer or his phone. He photographed Gold’s credit card number at the checkout counter in a supermarket.”
“Jesus wept!” said Peters.
“Where did this report come from?” asked Wes Robinson.
“NYPD. At 9 p.m. the same day, 911 got a call from a checkout clerk at the Whole Foods market on Union Square, in Manhattan. Sometime before noon, the clerk had served an old woman –a tall old woman—who was carrying a heavy gun in her shopping bag.”
“Whoa!” said Wes Robinson. “How did the clerk know that?”
“She asked him to put her lunch in the bag.”
“Save a tree,” commented Peters.
“He also remembered that the old woman got angry when someone –Mr. Gold, presumably—cut the line. She said he deserved a spanking or an hour in the meat freezer.” Again, a few of the policemen laughed.
“Too bad the clerk took nine fucking hours to make the call,” Peters said.
“You know how it is, Scott,” said Neugeborn. “People see something odd. They don’t want to bother doing anything, but it nags at them.” Robinson: could imagine Fedoruk’s explanation of this little FBI pissing contest: “Dr. Frad haf pig erection for Spaacial Agent Beaters.”
Weatherbee brought them back on point. “Gentlemen, amusing as it may sound, I don’t see how this episode adds much to our knowledge. Shall we continue? Peter?”
Peter cleared his throat. “I agree, just another example of …”
At this point, the door burst open, and Baltazar leapt in. Although he was still wearing his suit, it was now stained with dirt, and his tie was missing. In his hand, encased in a polyethylene glove, he triumphantly held aloft a white scrap of paper about the size of a fortune cookie slip.
“ ‘Ah-so,’ ” he quoted. “That’s all it says.” Was this some kind of ethnic joke? Everyone looked puzzled. Baltazar spelled out the message: “h-o-z-h-o.”
Neugeborn and Robinson spoke in unison. “Hózhó.”
“After you,” said Robinson.
“It’s Navajo,” explained Neugeborn. Weatherbee was frantically typing. “It means …”
Robinson interrupted. “ ‘…in beauty, it was born. Walk in beauty.’ It’s their mantra.”
They all stood up and gathered around Baltazar, peering over his shoulder at the scrap of paper.
““Hózhó. John, can you tell us a bit more?“ Weatherbee asked, still banging away at his keyboard.
“Yes, Navajo,” Robinson repeated. “It’s another link in the chain. Snake and Eagle –on the glider-- are related to Coyote, a major trickster in that part of the world. As we speak, Geistmann is on his way to the Big Reservation. Dr. Neugeborn?”
“Concur.”
With that, the meeting sped to its end. Weatherbee complimented Baltazar, who hastily pulled off the glove so his hand could be shaken. Then, announcing to the table that he would call them all --on their cells-- sometime during the early evening, Weatherbee sent everyone but Robinson and Peter off to “check in, eat, drink, walk around, relax.” But they should be available to reconnoiter on command at “the hotel,” the name and location of which seemed to be known to everyone but Robinson.
When the others had gathered their things and left the room, Weatherbee stretched and rubbed his eyes. Robinson sat back down. Peter remained in his place across the table, head bowed in thought, or from fatigue.
“Well done, Peter,” Weatherbee said, looking old. The head nodded. Weatherbee glanced at his watch. “He may be there already,” he said, bending once again to his computer, which was flashing messages. He looked to his left, at Robinson. ‘The Big Rez,’ they call it, don’t they? Not an easy place to find a man like Geistmann.”
Instead of answering, Robinson decided it was time to stop keeping his own secrets from Weatherbee. Without preamble, he informed him of the dusty “G” on the desk in his apartment and the frog and photograph at the Lodge. Weatherbee looked mortified.
“My God! I’m so sorry, John. Do you want to call this off?”
“He may even have known about our timetable theory, Arnold. Yes, thanks, I think I’ve had enough. But give me a few days, just to be sure. For now, I think I’ll head home.” He stood up laboriously.
“No, no, please! It’s getting late, and this has been some twenty-four hours for you. There’s a room reserved tonight in your name –Martin Meade-- at the Holiday on Emmet Street, 1901 Emmet, right near the Jefferson statue. That’s where the rest of us are staying. But you can have dinner wherever you like. Keep the chit, please, we’ll reimburse you. After a good night’s sleep, you can drive back to New York safely in the morning. How does that sound?”
Robinson was, indeed, exhausted, and the prospect of a six or seven hour drive through the night was daunting. “Good, thanks.”
Weatherbee stood up. “Since I may not see you before you leave, John, suppose I call you in a few days, once Scott and Peter and I have put the Arizona plan in place. You can decide, then, whether or not to continue consulting –I guess I should say, ‘working’-- for us. Of course, I’d love to have you stay on, but I’ll understand if you decide not to. No hard feelings, I hope? And thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Arnold. ‘Bye.” As they shook hands, Peter lifted his weary head and waved. Robinson waved back. Already hearing the rapid clicking of Weatherbee’s keyboard, he left the room.
“This may be the best way,” Weatherbee said, continuing to type.
“Yes,” replied Peter’s bowed head. “If he really does decide to quit.”
Chapter Nine
GEISTMANN, Episode Nine.
Tuesday, March 25th and Wednesday, March 26th, Charlottesville, Virginia (and New York, NY).
Parking his car on the first level of the hotel’s spiral garage, Robinson hefted his things, and, in a fiftieth of the time it had taken at the Blue Ridge Lodge, he checked in, then took the elevator up to his room. Without hesitating, he slipped the key card into its groove, opened the door, and flipped on the lights.
This time, there was no ghost at the policemen’s ball. Robinson’s heart did not skip a beat. There were no sounds of wind rattling the windows or of rodent feet scrabbling across the bathroom floor. No frogs or initials, either. He dropped the laptop, backpack, and attaché case onto the double bed, used the toilet, and washed up. Then, perching on the edge of the bed, he picked up the phone from the night table.
“Mr. Diodor Fedoruk, please,” he said, hoping the Ukrainian would be registered in that name, which he spelled out for the operator. A moment later, Fedoruk came on.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Fedoruk? This is … Martin Meade, I guess.”
“Oh, right. How are you, my friend?”
“Xopomo, cnacxbo. A cami?” Robinson replied. (“Fine, th
anks, and yourself?” Judy’s cousins.)
Fedoruk laughed uproariously. “I’m wonderfully well!” Robinson suggested a meeting place.
They had just been served their satisfactory hamburgers and very good beer at a grill directly across from campus, ten blocks from the hotel. It was the kind of place you could find within a few hundred yards of half the colleges in the United States. Fedoruk still wore the shiny blue suit, but sans tie now, and beneath the jacket he sported a screamingly new crew-necked navy and orange University of Virginia sweatshirt. His short dark hair and clean-shaven face glowed, an advertisement for the hotel’s facilities. Had he already managed a workout or massage?
“Ah,” he said, as he tucked in and glanced around the room at the big pulsing jukebox, the long polished bar, and the dark wainscoted walls with their elaborate collegiate regalia. “What a wonderful place! The genuine American experience.” Robinson wondered if he was scanning the room for minders. But what had happened to the heavy Slavic accent? More and more, he had the sense of having wandered into a hall of mirrors. He took a pull from his pint.