The Red Syndrome (12 page)

"Thank you for agreeing to see me with on such short notice," she said
apologetically.

"Of course," I said. "Would you like a drink?"

"Just water, please," she said, while Pam added, "Nothing for me,
thanks."

I poured Mrs. Lipinsky a glass of water.

"My husband is a good man," she started in. "He would never disappear just like that. He would never change our plans without telling me
first; it isn't like him at all. We used to talk several times a day. Two days
ago, he vanished. We had tickets for a show and planned to meet for early
dinner near the theater." She paused, wiping her eyes.

"And?" I prompted.

"I waited at the restaurant for an hour but he didn't show up. I called his
cell phone but got only his voice mail. I called his office and our home, but there was no answer. The bank's switchboard operator told me that there
was no one in my husband's office. I was so worried. I had no clue. I went
to the theater to see if he'd shown up there with an explanation."

"And he hadn't," I said, trying to make my voice sympathetic.

She shook her head, clasping her hands until her knuckles became white.

"Pam told me earlier that your husband had seemed worried for a few
days before he disappeared. Do you know why?"

"He didn't talk much about his work. He was in midlevel management
at the bank and handled foreign transactions, something I've always
found very boring."

"Why was he distressed?" I wondered if her husband's concerns had
anything to do with our investigation. He couldn't have known about it,
unless someone had leaked him the information. Still ... there could have
been a leak.

"He said something about some strange messages he'd received."

"What about them? Did he tell you their content?"

"There were several of them. Computer messages, all illegible, just a
garbled combination of letters that didn't make sense."

"So why was he worried? Sometimes these things happen in wire or
computer communications."

"I know. That's what Bernard told me, but what worried him was
something else."

I waited, knowing she would go on.

"When he showed the messages to one of his co-workers, he grabbed
the messages out of my husband's hands, said they were intended for him,
and walked out of his office."

"So what's strange about that, other than the fact that a co-worker was
rude?" I asked, keeping my voice bland.

"The co-worker behaved strangely. He wasn't just rude, he was threatening. He told Bernard not to mention the messages to anyone."

"Didn't that immediately telegraph to your husband that something
was wrong?"

"It certainly did, but he didn't know what to make of it. He was, after
all, just a bookkeeper."

"Did he keep copies?"

"I don't know."

"Did he say anything about why he was concerned? Was it something
professional, or personal?"

"He just told me that he was worried about the whole incident.
Something just wasn't right. He wasn't used to co-workers being secretive
and threatening. He liked his job precisely because it was all about numbers and he didn't have to deal so much with people."

"Do you know if he reported the incident to his superiors?"

"I don't know. He didn't tell me."

"So he felt threatened because of that incident, nothing else? Did he
have any reason to feel intimidated other than his co-worker's tone?"

Helen hesitated. "Well, like I said, the man told Bernard not to tell
anyone, basically to forget it ever happened."

"Told him or asked him?"

"I think Bernard felt frightened. He said something about the guy's
conduct being bad. He didn't threaten him explicitly, but Bernard sensed
from his attitude that something shady was going on."

"Do you have the co-worker's name?" I asked, holding my pen.

"Malik Fazal. I think he's from the Middle East."

"The name sounds Afghanistani or Indian."

"Could be," she said. "I saw him once or twice at the bank's New Year's
parties and he looked like he could be either of those."

"Have you heard anything since Bernard disappeared? Any phone calls,
ransom notes?"

Helen shook her head, blinking back tears. "Nothing."

"Let me have a number where you can be reached. I'll try to interest
law enforcement to take this up immediately."

Helen and Pam thanked me and left. I poured myself a new drink, a
shot this time. I mulled over the conversation. Was there a connection
between our investigation and Bernard Lipinsky's disappearance? Was
his disappearance connected to the garbled messages and the incident
with the co-worker? Were they all connected?

I called David Stone at home, despite the late hour, and briefed him on
the surprising developments.

"What do you want to do?"

"Obviously, I can't call the bank while we're still investigating them. A
federal agency's interest in a missing-person case would look unusual and
raise questions that could undermine our investigation strategy. I don't
think we need outside attention now. I suggest we let the NYPD handle
it. But we have to nudge them to take it seriously."

"Did you report this to Hodson?"

"Not yet. I intend to do so tomorrow."

"Dan." There was definite annoyance in his voice. "I don't mind you
reporting to me as long as you make sure you also report to Hodson. In
task force matters, he's your boss."

"I know," I said gloomily.

"Okay," said David, "I'll make a few calls in the morning. Good night."

The following day, during the morning session of the task force, I
reported the contact I'd had the previous evening.

"Do you think there's a connection?" asked Hodson.

"There could be. Everything the wife had to say sounded genuine. I
spoke with my director, and he thinks we should let the New York police
handle this matter. We didn't think it'd be wise to get the task force or
any federal agency involved while we're still in the early stages of our own
investigation."

"Keep me posted when you hear from the police," he said.

Hodson turned to his assistant, John Dunn: "John, call the New York
State Department of Banking and get anything they have on Bernard
Lipinsky and Malik Fazal. Do the same with the FDIC."

I went back to my makeshift task force office, where I found a Post-it
note indicating that Helen Lipinsky had called me. I dialed her number.
There was no answer. Moments later, David Stone called and informed me
that the New York Police Department was already investigating Bernard
Lipinsky's disappearance. "They've assigned Detective John Mahoney of
the Midtown South Precinct," he said. "You'd better talk to him directly."

I decided to try to get my hands on the garbled messages Lipinsky was
holding. They could mean something. Lipinsky's disappearance had
given us an unexpected, back-door opportunity to find out whether there was any connection between the two cases without having to approach
Malik Fazal prematurely. Always get intelligence before you move, said Alex,
my former Mossad Academy instructor. Even when your actual move is to
gather intelligence, that by itself should be preceded by intelligence. Get to know
your source before any approach.

I called Mahoney and introduced myself. "I'm calling in regard to
Bernard Lipinsky."

"Yes," he said. "We've just gotten the matter. Your name was mentioned
as a contact. Is this connected to a federal case?"

"We don't know yet," I said evasively, adding, "but you should know
that just before he vanished, Lipinsky had an argument with a co-worker,
a person named Malik Fazal. Apparently some garbled messages had
come into the bank; Lipinsky stumbled on them, and Fazal snatched
them away. There could be something in the messages that points to the
origin of their dispute, or maybe even to the subsequent disappearance of
Lipinsky. The way it was described to me, something didn't sound right.
We'd be most interested in these messages; they could be connected to
our case and also to yours."

"So what's the government's role in this?" he asked again.

"All I can say is that Lipinsky could be a material witness in a federal
matter. I'm sure you understand there are limits to how much I can discuss. At this point we can't stick our nose into the missing-person case,
so I hope you can interview Malik in a benign manner. If you don't mind
the suggestion, as part of the routine investigation into Lipinsky's disappearance, you could interview everyone in Malik's department, including
him, so that he won't suspect that he is being singled out. I don't want
him to take off."

"I hear you," said Mahoney. Any competent detective, of course, could
think of this tactic on his own, and wouldn't need me to suggest it. I'd
been prepared for him to bristle, but he seemed cool.

"If anything develops," I continued when no objection was heard,
"please call me at my temporary office in the FBI in 26 Federal Plaza." I
gave him the number.

"All right," he said, and hung up.

t was time to call Benny Friedman, my Mossad buddy. He has always
been a good sounding board for my ideas. Although many years had
passed since we'd trained together at the Mossad Academy, we were
still friends, helping each other when we could without compromising
our respective allegiances. Benny was one of the few people I've really
respected. His shrewd mind, low-key demeanor, and noncondescending
attitude made him many friends and only a handful of enemies. His burly
appearance didn't reflect the easygoing and no-nonsense top Mossad
executive that he was.

I remembered well how Benny and his wife, Batya, gave me moral support and true friendship during my divorce from Dahlia. Although a
Mossad career was usually for life, I'd left after only a three-year stint.
Things had changed. I'd been burned in an operation in Europe: An Arab
informer joining a Libyan diplomat in a rendezvous in Europe turned out
to be a former landscaper at my parents' home in Tel Aviv who knew me
well. My cover was instantly blown. My future as a Mossad operative was
fatally compromised, and the best assignment I could expect after that
disaster was a desk job. No thanks. In the dynamic, continually fluctuating profession of intelligence, even if you were sitting pretty, someone
would run you over if you didn't keep moving. So I moved. Besides, I
needed the change. My divorce, my resolve to turn around my life, all led
me to the United States.

But Benny had stayed on and climbed through the ranks. Now he was
the head of Tevel, the organization's foreign relations department.
Although Israel and the United States exchange intelligence regularly,
the direct contact I had with Benny was simple and personal. Each of us
knew his own limitations and the other's. I called the Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv at ro:oo A.M. - 5:00 P.M. in Israel.

"Been awhile, Benny," I said, when I reached him.

A good friendship never goes stale," he answered. "In fact, I was thinking
of coming to the U.S. soon and wanted to call you."

"Something that needs to be done? Or just a decent kosher meal?"

"Both," he said.

"I'm here. When are you coming?"

"Next week. I'll call you a day ahead."

I was glad Benny needed something from me; lately the flow of favors
had been unidirectional. I know Benny never kept an accounting, but still.

I then called Helen Lipinsky again at her home.

"Mr. Gordon? Any news?" She sounded worse than she had during our
meeting. Her voice broke.

"Not yet. We pushed the New York police to look for your husband.
Have they contacted you yet?"

"Yes, that's the reason I called earlier, to thank you. Three detectives
came over, interviewed me for two hours, and searched my husband's
home office."

"Did you agree to the search?"

"Of course, what do I have to hide?"

"Did they find anything?"

"I don't know. They lifted his fingerprints from his cup, took hair samples from his comb, and a few of his recent photographs from our family
album."