counterintelligence scrapbook he’d been studying when he came across the face of Stella’s father: it was the one filled with mug shots of Soviet defectors. “Your daughter told me you were Russian,” Martin said lazily. “She didn’t say you were KGB.”
Kastner, nodding excitedly, gestured toward a plastic kitchen stool and Martin scraped it over and settled onto it. Stella leaned back against a folded stepladder, half sitting on one of its steps. “You are a quick wit, Mr. Martin Odum,” Kastner conceded, his bushy brows dancing over his heavy lidded eyes. “My body has slowed down but my brain is still functioning correctly, which is how come I am still cashing my annuity checks. It goes without saying but I will anyhow say it: I checked you out before I sent Stella over to test the temperature of the water.”
“There aren’t that many people in the neighborhood you could have checked me out with,” Martin observed, curious to identify Kastner’s sources.
“Your name was suggested to me by someone in Washington, who assured me you were overqualified for any job I might propose. To be on the safe side, I made discreet inquiries I talked with a Russian in Little Odessa whose ex-wife stole his Rottweiler when he missed some alimony payments. The person in question compared you to a long distance runner. He told me once you started something you finished it.”
Martin put two and two together. “Oskar Kastner can’t be your real name,” he said, thinking out loud. “A KGB defector living in Brooklyn under an assumed name there will surely be an elaborate cover story to go with the pseudonym means that you, like the other Soviet defectors, must be in the FBI’s witness protection program. According to your daughter, you came here in 1988, which means the CIA has long since wrung you dry and probably doesn’t return your calls if you make any. Which suggests that your friend in Washington who gave you my name is your FBI handler.”
So that was how Crystal Quest had gotten wind of Stella’s visit to the pool parlor! Someone in the FBI had heard that an ex-CIA type was playing detective in Crown Heights and passed Martin’s name on to Kastner. The FBI clerks who keep tabs on people in the protection program would have circulated a routine “contact” report when a former KGB officer announced his intention of employing a former CIA
officer even if the case in question had nothing to do with CIA operations. Somewhere in the labyrinthian corridors of Langley, a warning buzzer would have gone off; it had probably been the one wired to Quest’s brain.
Did this mean that Kastner’s missing son-in-law had some connection to past or present CIA operations? Martin decided it was an angle worth considering.
“He is pretty rapid for a long distance runner,” Kastner was telling his daughter. “My FBI friend said you were discharged from the CIA in 1994. He did not explain why, except to say it had nothing to do with stealing money or selling secrets or anything unpleasant like that.”
“I’m relieved you’re both on the same side,” Stella ventured from her perch on the ladder.
Martin batted a palm to disperse Kastner’s cigarette smoke. “Why didn’t you ask the FBI to try and find your missing son-in-law?”
“First thing I tried. They stretched some rules and searched the computer database for missing persons who had turned up dead. Unfortunately none of them fit Samat’s description.”
Martin smiled. ” Unfortunately!”
Kastner’s craggy features twisted into a scowl. “I speak American with an accent Stella never stops correcting me but I pick my words as if my life depended on their accuracy.”
“I can vouch for Kastner’s accent,” Stella said with a laugh.
“You call your father Kastner?”
“Sure. You’ve already figured out that’s not his real name it’s the name the FBI gave him when he came into the witness protection program. Calling my father Kastner is a
Kastner, nodding excitedly, gestured toward a plastic kitchen stool and Martin scraped it over and settled onto it. Stella leaned back against a folded stepladder, half sitting on one of its steps. “You are a quick wit, Mr. Martin Odum,” Kastner conceded, his bushy brows dancing over his heavy lidded eyes. “My body has slowed down but my brain is still functioning correctly, which is how come I am still cashing my annuity checks. It goes without saying but I will anyhow say it: I checked you out before I sent Stella over to test the temperature of the water.”
“There aren’t that many people in the neighborhood you could have checked me out with,” Martin observed, curious to identify Kastner’s sources.
“Your name was suggested to me by someone in Washington, who assured me you were overqualified for any job I might propose. To be on the safe side, I made discreet inquiries I talked with a Russian in Little Odessa whose ex-wife stole his Rottweiler when he missed some alimony payments. The person in question compared you to a long distance runner. He told me once you started something you finished it.”
Martin put two and two together. “Oskar Kastner can’t be your real name,” he said, thinking out loud. “A KGB defector living in Brooklyn under an assumed name there will surely be an elaborate cover story to go with the pseudonym means that you, like the other Soviet defectors, must be in the FBI’s witness protection program. According to your daughter, you came here in 1988, which means the CIA has long since wrung you dry and probably doesn’t return your calls if you make any. Which suggests that your friend in Washington who gave you my name is your FBI handler.”
So that was how Crystal Quest had gotten wind of Stella’s visit to the pool parlor! Someone in the FBI had heard that an ex-CIA type was playing detective in Crown Heights and passed Martin’s name on to Kastner. The FBI clerks who keep tabs on people in the protection program would have circulated a routine “contact” report when a former KGB officer announced his intention of employing a former CIA
officer even if the case in question had nothing to do with CIA operations. Somewhere in the labyrinthian corridors of Langley, a warning buzzer would have gone off; it had probably been the one wired to Quest’s brain.
Did this mean that Kastner’s missing son-in-law had some connection to past or present CIA operations? Martin decided it was an angle worth considering.
“He is pretty rapid for a long distance runner,” Kastner was telling his daughter. “My FBI friend said you were discharged from the CIA in 1994. He did not explain why, except to say it had nothing to do with stealing money or selling secrets or anything unpleasant like that.”
“I’m relieved you’re both on the same side,” Stella ventured from her perch on the ladder.
Martin batted a palm to disperse Kastner’s cigarette smoke. “Why didn’t you ask the FBI to try and find your missing son-in-law?”
“First thing I tried. They stretched some rules and searched the computer database for missing persons who had turned up dead. Unfortunately none of them fit Samat’s description.”
Martin smiled. ” Unfortunately!”
Kastner’s craggy features twisted into a scowl. “I speak American with an accent Stella never stops correcting me but I pick my words as if my life depended on their accuracy.”
“I can vouch for Kastner’s accent,” Stella said with a laugh.
“You call your father Kastner?”
“Sure. You’ve already figured out that’s not his real name it’s the name the FBI gave him when he came into the witness protection program. Calling my father Kastner is a
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