I said, “On the satellite phone and in my e-mail, I dropped a couple of hints, and he picked right up on what I was asking him to do. He’s smuggling information to us. He’s trying to tell us where he is through the biological references. That’s the only interpretation I can…”
I had begun to sit back at the computer to reread the letter, but then I paused, thinking about it, suddenly worried. “Hey, I just thought of something. What are the chances, do you think, that Lourdes-anybody associated with him-would know who Moe Berg is? That they’d figure it out? Lake would be in even more danger than he is now.”
Tomlinson created a circle with thumb and forefinger. “Zero. Hardly anyone in the States even knows who the man was. Central America, it’s got to be zilch.”
Moe Berg isn’t well known, I couldn’t argue that. He’d never been a great baseball player, was remembered by only a few-but he was one of the baseball greats of the twentieth century.
Intellectually, Berg had been massively gifted. Athletically, he had not. About Berg, sportswriters of the time said that the oddball catcher could speak seven languages, but couldn’t hit in any of them, which was an exaggeration, but close. He’d played more than a dozen years in the major leagues, mostly as a benchwarmer and bullpen specialist, yet somehow he’d managed to be chosen for the 1934 All-Star team, and he’d toured Japan with Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and all the other greats.
It wasn’t until decades later that the truth had come out. The. 243 lifetime hitter hadn’t made the All-Star team because of his skills on the field. He’d made it for the same reason he’d been sent to pre-World War II Germany, and then into Latin America on “goodwill” baseball missions. The catcher was a spy for the OSS.
In Tokyo, when he hadn’t been in the bullpen, he’d been out roaming the city, speaking Japanese like a native and using a movie camera to take film of Tokyo Harbor, munitions factories, and the city skyline that would later be invaluable to American bomber pilots.
In Nazi Germany, he’d become “friendly” with nuclear physicists who were also baseball fans.
Berg never married. He died in 1977. His last words, to a hospital nurse, were, “How’d the Mets do today?”
I had to agree with Tomlinson. Berg’s name was the perfect signal flag. My son was telling me that his e-mail included imbedded information.
Now it was up to us to decipher it.
Tomlinson and I both reread the letter several times, the two of us exchanging knowing glances-Lake had given us a hell of a lot of data in just a few sentences-but we kept quiet at first, letting our brains process it.
Finally, Tomlinson said, “What might be helpful is for you to print out a couple of copies of the letter, one for each of us. Make one for Pilar, too. That way, we can read it over a little bit of geography, not tied to one place the whole time. The way my noggin works, the thought process latches onto a kind of rhythm. It seeks its own little beat. So I’m better off looseygoosey.”
As I printed the e-mail, Tomlinson went to the galley. He’d been shirtless, but he returned wearing one of my white lab coats, his bony chest showing.
It was nearly eleven P.M., and the May night was finally cooling.
He was also carrying two cold bottles of beer, each wrapped in a brown paper napkin. As he handed one to me, I said, “When I found this e-mail, it interrupted something you were about to tell me. If you want, go ahead and get it off your chest. Clear the decks so we can concentrate.”
He chugged a third of his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ummm… I’d sorta like to wait, if it’s O.K. with you. From a couple of things the boy wrote, I’ve already got some theories working. My neurons are firing, man. I’d hate to switch turbines now.”
“Is that true, or are you just saying that because you’ve got a case of the jitters?”
He smiled, gave me a what-the-hell shrug, and said, “Little of both. You mind?”
I’d already thought it over, considered the options before I brought it up. It was possible that whatever Tomlinson had to tell me might be so injurious that I wouldn’t want him involved with the search for Lake. Could be the end of a friendship. I hoped that wasn’t the case-it was unlikely-but there was still that potential.
For now, though, I didn’t want to risk losing the use of that big brain of his, so I said, “Yeah, let’s get to work on the e-mail now. We can talk later.”
Relief. I could see it in him, and he relaxed a little as I continued, “You’ve read the thing at least as many times as I have. What do you think Lake’s telling us?”
“A bunch, man. I think he’s told us approximately where they are, geographically. If I don’t miss my guess, I think he’s told us close to everything we need to narrow it down.” He finished his beer with another gulp, placed it on the epoxy counter of my lab station, and began to pace, occasionally glancing at the letter. “First off, though, Doc, I’ve got to make sure of a few things. You have knowledge and expertise in areas I don’t, so I’d like you to tell me a couple of things just to make sure we’re working from the same premise. How do you rate the boy’s English?”
“Better than most kids here in the States. He’s had to study it, really work at getting it right.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say. From his e-mails to me, I’ve got the same opinion. O.K… so I read this thing assuming that, while there might be a typo or two, Lake wrote exactly what he meant to write. He’s probably been thinking about what to say ever since you planted your subliminal message-science is a language. And he’s being careful. He can’t risk giving them a hint he’s being cute. He’s probably scared shitless. I know I’d be.”
Tomlinson was washing his hands together, his concentration intense, getting into it. “Even so, he pulled it off. What I think is, all four animals he mentions, they have a specific double meaning. A place where coconut palms don’t grow? That tells us something. Bright moonlight early in the morning! He’s got a clear view to the west, which tells us even more.”
Then Tomlinson added with the kind of enthusiasm that makes him so endearing, “What I’m willing to bet is, we’ll know where your boy is within the next half an hour or so. You’re the biologist, and your Spanish is a lot better than mine, so I need to ask you a few more questions, or we can check out a few search engines on the Internet for answers. But keep your chin up, amigo. Remember, this is only his first e-mail. If Lake writes us again tomorrow, he’ll nail it down.”
I was already worrying that, in trying to give us more detailed information, my son would take additional risks, get found out, and be made to suffer for it.
Tomlinson asked all the right questions. Most I’d already posed to myself.
In reply to his questions, I told him that there was no exact translation for “alligator” in Spanish. Told him that caiman was the Spanish word that came closest. Cocodrilo was next. And yes, I added, a person who spoke primarily Spanish, when writing in English, might incorrectly translate caiman as “alligator,” even though they were two very different species of reptiles.
I also told him that, in my opinion, no one would have noticed anything suspicious about the use of “alligator,” including Lourdes, who I was certain spoke English.
After listening carefully to my answers, my old friend’s eyes were glittering when he then said, “I didn’t know about the difference between caimans and alligators until years ago, when the two of us were down in Masagua. I mentioned something about one or the other, and you told me there were no alligators in Central America or South America. That was a shocker. I figured there were gators all over the tropical world. Do you think Lake knows that?”
I said, “I’m sure of it. We exchanged e-mails that had to do with saltwater crocs. About how passive the American croc is compared to the ones in Australia and Africa. He knows about gators, too.”