by Singer, Ron
Piet’s computer contained some of the choicest secrets of the secret world. To its new owners, it contained gold. The interrogators were particularly interested in ascertaining the identities of the forgers, the hackers (“oranges”), arms dealers, plastic surgeons, bureaucrats, and police, military, and financial personnel who together were thought to have comprised Geistmann’s elaborate support system. Using their normal methods, with an emphasis on fear, they learned a great deal from Dykstra.
One interesting factoid that he volunteered was that the name, “Geistmann,” had been his own idea. He had first used it when Armande failed to show up at the rendezvous in Chisenau in 1999. Obviously, the name had stuck.
April-June, 2008. Krakow.
“London, or maybe one of the Irish towns,” Robinson had opined.
And they might even have bagged their main quarry, had he not once again skidded off into a detour. They had guessed he would snake his way toward the U.K., possibly taking the sleeper from Budapest to Warsaw, or via Munich and Paris, but very likely by a more circuitous route. In the event that his disguise allowed him to elude them at London’s St. Pancras station, Robinson and Neugeborn had strategized a fall back –several fall backs: the cluster of early April squash tournaments scattered around Ireland, and then the big one in London, the Colets, on April 18th-20th. Several of these tournaments were Opens, and Robinson’s guess was that Geistmann, after some training, would try to participate in the qualifying rounds of one of them. He suggested many reasons Geistmann might have squash on his mind, one of which persuaded Peters and Neugeborn.
“After the near-disaster, he’ll want to enjoy one of his main default pleasures.” But Geistmann showed up at neither the station nor any of the tournaments.
When he was halfway across Europe, having newly shaven his head, and having once again donned the clothes he had worn on the plane from New York, which Piet had somehow managed to retrieve from the Chisinau bus station, then left in a locker in Budapest, Geistmann suddenly decided to detour to Krakow for two or three days. He had long wanted to visit the famous cathedral, especially its magnificent Baroque chapel, the Sigismund. After that, he would proceed to U.K. for a long walking tour in the English countryside.
After that, he hoped it would be safe to stay put somewhere in U.K. long enough to do some serious conditioning, which might allow him to join in the qualifying events at the Leinster Open, or even the Colets, in London – surreptitiously, of course. He knew, alas, that he was too old and too far from match fitness to do much damage, but he would try to hold his head up. Perhaps, it would be a last hurrah. When you thought about them, the American killings were pathetic: two old men, both attacked from behind. When had he last confronted a physical equal? Was this why he now wanted to try to faites un pied de nez à certains des goujons plus jeunes de courge [cock a snook at some of the younger squash studs]? If he decided on London, he would appear as a black Irishman, if Leinster, as … something else.
But as soon as he cast eyes on the cathedral and Barecci’s sixteenth-century chapel, with its bronze entrance grill, gorgeous arabesques, and striking grotesqueries, he changed his mind. He wound up staying in Krakow not three days, but three months. He spent the time thoroughly enjoying himself, sketching and dreaming in the church, wandering through the arcades and colonnades from plaza to plaza, and sunning himself outside the cafes. In this mood of reverence and reverie, he did not feel the slightest pull toward lethal violence. He did not even play any pranks.
After the first month or so, he wondered if he should go across to see Elica and the boy, Yosub, who were, indeed, in Copenhagen. He had learned this at the end of April from the Agency website, where it had been trumpeted as a heroic rescue –in the modest Scandinavian way, of course. But he knew it would not be safe to go there now. Anyway, sad to say, he did not really very much want to. There would, as always, have been so much to control, so much to pretend. No, it would be better to go elsewhere. And, as he thought this, it somehow dawned on him that they would be waiting for him in the U.K. He would have to fool them yet again.
Africa! He would go to Africa now. Although he had been “African” enough to be disqualified from ENA all those years ago, he had actually spent very little time on the swarming continent, and even that in a single, god-forsaken country, Gabon. By now, there were so many villains in Africa, so many monsters who were worthy of his worst, the hardest part would be choosing. He could not, of course, kill them all. Life was too short.
After Africa, risk or no risk, he wanted to be back in Manchester by October, for the World Squash Championship event. That, he would not miss, although, of course, he would attend only as a spectator. After all, he had to be realistic. He anticipated that if JOLETAF, assuming it still existed after the latest debacle, or if not, Peters & Co., were still stalking him in October, they would have neither the resources, skills, or discipline to pose a real threat.
Poor Arnold had managed to trigger the coded message informing Geistmann of Piet’s, and his own, apprehension. Fedoruk, too, had presumably been neutralized. That meant that, after all these years, he was finally on his own again. He knew he should feel sorry for his erstwhile associates, but all he felt was exhilaration. He was on his own again.
Late June-August, 2008. Yerevan, Armenia; New York, N.Y.
“Say something in Armenian, John.”
Lovely Judy walked into the lovely room of the lovely boutique hotel, the “Europe,” in downtown Yerevan. She was wearing a tailored red linen suit with matching sun hat, flat black pumps, and a big cat smile. She put down her suitcase and held out her open arms. Robinson, who had gotten up from his desk when the unlocked door opened, hurried across the room. Turning his head demurely to one side, he squeezed her tight. She smelled the way she had always smelled, wonderful. Luckily, they had phoned up from the lobby, so he had had time to gather himself.
“Say something beautiful in Armenian, John.” She was still in his arms.
He recited something beautiful in Armenian.”That’s from Shushanik’s poem, ‘That’s Her, They Say.’ Translation:
That’s her, they say, the poet,
and stare intensely at my face in silence.
Some are disappointed to see me
in my old formless and plain dress.”
“Thank you, John.” Judy, the fashion antithesis of the poet, began to unbutton his shirt.
“What are…? What about…?”
That triggered a long speech, which slowed down the unbuttoning in a way that became excruciating. “Look, John, Mark’s a fine man. But think about it: I’ve been with him now for more than four times as long as you and I were together. It’s taken me both experiences to realize that being married to a rich, honorable, caring, competent, even formidable man is about a tenth as much fun as being married to ... you.” She finished with the shirt and eyed his bared chest. “And don’t worry, dear, Mark knows. Sauce for the goose, he’s very fair-minded. Anyway, he’s off sailing somewhere in the Bahamas this week with his boys.” As she eyed the bulge in his pants, Robinson tried to remain calm by concentrating on what she was saying. “You can tell me your Fulbright fairy tale later, if you like, dear.” She opened the belt and started on the zipper. “But now, right now, “you’re going to be my –there’s no name for it, is there? I want you to be my … I won’t say ‘gigolo,’ I certainly won’t say ‘master,’ I won’t even say my ‘mister,’ ‘lover,’ or ‘ex.’ No, none of those, you’re going to be my … Oh, the hell with it! “
From: [email protected]
Subject: greetings
Date: August 20, 2008 2:10:43 PM MST
To: [email protected]
Ya’aa’te, Mr. Librarian.
Greetings from Navajo country, where we’re still doing the rain dance, with the usual results. SP gave me this address, told me you’d been terminated –your services, that is. Also told me how you helped knock out Mr. G’s support system. Well done! But we cops on the Rez
will have to change our joke:
How is an FBI agent like the Ancient Mariner?
He stoppeth one of three. (You guys stoppeth two.)
BTW, our rich Uncle bought us a new replacement van. No big GMAC loan for the Tribe this time! Plus, we impounded G’s bike. Boy, can that sucker fly!
Good luck back at the Library next month, where I guess you’ll have to start doing some real work again. Why don’t you come visit us during one of those long vacations they give you guys, maybe even bring along your ex-? (I heard about that, too –SP’s associate FN has loose lips.) Seriously, I miss you, John, haven’t been hit on the head or had my tires shot out once, since you left here five months ago.
Best wishes,
Hank
From: [email protected]/bau
Subject: new offer
Date: August 27, 2008 1:15: 03 PM EST
To: [email protected]
Hey, John,
Scott just authorized me to invite you back on board, to help us w/ a new profile, this one for AW, who hasn’t said another word. The reasoning is that an AW profile might yield info relevant to AA’s current itinerary. (Rumor: Africa.) Same $$ as last time. Realize the timing is not the best, since (not to rub it in) you’re presumably just getting ready to resume your real job. Or maybe you want to go to Africa with us.
Cheers,
Fred
Just as he finished reading, Robinson’s phone rang. Scott Peters laughed. “That’s right, John, somewhere in sub-Saharan Africa. I’d ask you to go, but don’t you have to get back to the Library one of these days? And I don’t think there are many old books in that part of Africa.”
“Well, Scott, I’m afraid you’re wrong. Haven’t you heard of fourteenth century Timbuktu? Anyway, Geistmann and I never finished our intellectual pissing contest. And, Timbuktu aside, it may be time for me to branch out. As you must know, many parts of sub-Saharan Africa have remarkably rich oral traditions. Take the Yoruba, the Bakongo, the … ” End