Authors: Greg Dinallo

Red Ink (20 page)

He leans back in his chair and smiles wistfully. “There’s one difference, Katkov—your people stuck it out. You’ve got good genes. You’ve got guts.”

“I also had no choice. Now, you didn’t agree to see me to massage my ego. What are you after?”

“An even shake. For me and for your country.” He pauses briefly, reconsidering. “Make that
our
country. You realize the enormity of what’s going on there? It took Margaret Thatcher twelve years to privatize fifteen percent of the British economy. Yeltsin’s trying to do it all overnight. He doesn’t stand a chance without private investment; but it’s hard for investors to think long-term with all this corruption going on. It hasn’t scared off Mike Rubinowitz, because it’s personal with me, emotional, but it’s already scaring the shit out of other guys. Banks that did business with the Soviet Union for years are backing away from Russia now. A lot of them won’t even touch loans for grain purchases anymore.”

“Yes, unfortunately, but what does that have to do with me?”

“With your line of work. I said we’d get back to it. You’ve written some interesting things lately.”

“Nothing that was published here, or in English, as far as I know.”

“You know
The New Yorker?
” He sees my reaction and quickly adds, “No, no, not in there. Great magazine, though, especially if you’ve got nothing to do, and all week to do it. Anyway, they had a cartoon once of an author cornered by some people at a party. The caption was: ‘Loved your book. Heard all about it.’ ” Rubineau laughs to himself, savoring the irony.

“So, someone happened to mention my stories?”

“It was a little more calculated than that. The point is you can do a lot of damage by making a big deal out of this so-called scandal.”

“Me? I’m quite flattered, Mr. Rubineau. But what about the thousands of other newspapers and magazines?”

“You’re on the inside, Katkov. You’re going to be first. Your story’s going to set the tone, and they’re going to follow. The
Russian economy—what there is of it—is like a house of cards. One push, one little bit of negative publicity, could bring it down; and that would have a devastating impact on what I’m trying to do.”

“Frequenting casinos run by mobsters might have the same effect.”

“You mean Barkhin?”

“Precisely.”

“You’re right. When it comes to hiring hit men, I’d be pointing a finger at him if I were you.”

“The thought’s crossed my mind. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Moscow’s movers and shakers think his club is hot, which makes it a good place to make connections. Just because I do business with him doesn’t mean I like him. He’s smart and selfish, building his own little empire. Believe me, Arkady Barkhin doesn’t give a fuck for Russia.”

“That’s not surprising. Russia didn’t give a fuck for him, either. Nor for a lot of people. It’s every man for himself now, you know that. Communism fell and the
apparatchiks
became capitalists overnight. Instead of managing State industries for the Party, they’re selling them off as if they were their own.” I pause, unable to suppress a grin before adding, “Take our distribution system, for example . . .”

“Hey, I could’ve ‘taken’ it; but I decided to pay a fair price instead. Keep your fingers crossed the deal works out, because what’s there now is a joke. I mean, what’s the point of selling industries to private investors who can run them more efficiently, if they can’t get raw materials to their factories? If they can’t get their products to market? I’m going to make sure they can. The bottom line is, an integrated distribution system is critical to economic growth. An efficient one can accelerate it; one that isn’t can bring it to a screeching halt.”

“Yes, as I recall, your Teamsters Union figured that out a long time ago.”

“You can question their tactics, but not their performance. You realize, only twenty-five percent of your crops get to market? The rest is either stolen, damaged in transit, or rotting in storage. Profits vanish, prices skyrocket, inflation goes through the roof—twenty-five hundred percent last year—and the public
gets screwed. Your shelves aren’t empty because you don’t produce, but because you don’t distribute.”

“And because any hustler can get much more selling his product outside the country than in.”

“Look, there’s nothing wrong with, say, buying oil for a buck a barrel in Odessa and selling it in London for twenty, Katkov. That’s what free enterprise is all about. You people better learn it, and learn it fast. That’s what brings in capital; and God knows, Russia needs all the hard currency it can get.”

“Quite true, but we’re
not
getting it. The hustlers are taking more out than they’re bringing in.”

“Not this hustler. I’m putting in plenty. I’m an ally, not an enemy, and you can tell your friends at FinCEN that all my deals are bona fide.”

“They’ll find out on their own, believe me.”

“Wasting their time. You and I care about our country. These law enforcement types—Russians, Americans—they get their kicks breaking people, regardless of who it hurts.” He angrily shoves back his chair and stands. “They’re cracking down too hard. Killing entrepreneurial spirit. You have to be a gambler, a con man, a genius, and lucky as hell to get a business off the ground. Believe me, Katkov, it takes steel balls the size of cantaloupes to make something from nothing. . . .” He pauses, his silver mane glowing in the spotlights as he locks his eyes onto mine and adds, “And that’s what all those hustlers you’re out to destroy are trying to do.”

“I’m not out to destroy anyone. Crime and corruption are running rampant in Russia. We—”

“So?!” he interrupts heatedly. “You think it was any different here a hundred years ago?! This country was a hotbed of greed, bribery, and political corruption that makes you guys look like fund-raisers for the B’nai B’rith. It was run by ruthless men with vision and chutzpah who bent the rules and took it to the cleaners: Vanderbilt, Carnegie, Rockefeller, Morgan. Sure, they were robber barons. Did they have a positive impact? Did they build a democratic nation with a powerful free-market economy? Bet your ass they did; and they’re still at it. Look at Milken, for God’s sake.” Rubineau gestures angrily and groans in disgust. “The guy creates a new industry; a financial market that didn’t exist until he singlehandedly cooked up the idea of junk bonds; a market that’s still making billions for people,
billions.
And what’s he get? Some ex-Playboy bunny—who I’m loathed to admit went to Harvard—puts on a black robe and locks him up. If these people don’t back off, they’re going to snuff out any chance Russia has to develop a free-market economy. Remember, you heard it here first.”

Rubineau made the speech, but I’m the one who’s winded. I’m far more moved by his passion than his argument, though I can’t deny there’s a certain twisted logic to it.

He crosses to the window and looks out across the city. “Come here, Katkov,” he orders in Russian, waving me over. His tone is softer, familiar, as if he’s going to confide something in me. I’m caught off guard by the sudden shift in languages. I’d no idea he spoke Russian, and it takes me a moment to react. “See that?” he prompts, still speaking Russian. He gestures to the shimmering ribbon of liquid copper that splits the landscape. “The East River. That’s what most people see, anyway. Not me. I see the Volga. Interesting thing about this planet. The water’s all connected. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, yes, I think I do,” I reply in Russian, impressed with his accent and fluency.

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” He breaks into a satisfied smile, taking his measure of me, then shifts back to English. “Now, you didn’t come here to listen to me pontificate. What are you after?”

“The truth.”

“It’s often a matter of opinion. The truth about what?”

“The name Vorontsov ring a bell?”

“It might.”

“Really, Mr. Rubineau. You were doing business with him. You know what happened. ITZ documents were found in his briefcase. They put you square in the middle of the very scandal you’re asking me to ignore.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying.”

“Prove me wrong.”

“In my experience, Vorontsov was a fine man and dedicated public servant. I enjoyed doing business with him.”

“Legitimate business?”

“That’s right. Why? What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. It’s of no concern to me. To his daughter. She thinks his reputation’s been smeared rather unjustly.”

“No thanks to guys like you.”

“I assume you’re referring to journalists. I’m afraid we don’t make up news, we report it.”

“We? Look, Katkov, I’m not interested in we. I’m interested in you.” He smiles thinly, glances again to the family snapshots, then locks his eyes onto mine and, in a threatening whisper, warns, “I’d sure hate for my daughter to find herself in the same boat as Vorontsov’s.”

M
y return flight to Washington arrives well past noon. I loosen up Mrs. Churkin’s purse strings and take a cab back to FinCEN. The driver makes a right into Pollard and drops me off in the parking lot. I’m crossing to the main entrance, savoring a cigarette, when I notice a yellow sheet of paper fluttering against the windshield of Scotto’s car. Printed in the same neat hand is another four-letter code for where her informant will meet her.

The security guard in the lobby recognizes me, but has his orders: All visitors must sign in and out, wear badges, and be accompanied by a staff member inside the building. He’s about to call Scotto when Tom Krauss returns from lunch and escorts me.

I can see Scotto through the doorway as I approach her office. She’s on the phone, pacing back and forth in front of the windows as she talks. I lean against the doorjamb, rather taken by her animated gestures and eye-catching dress. The blue-purple wool sets off her complexion and hugs her generous figure alluringly. It’s a marked change from her usual jacket, slacks, and blouse. Furthermore, there’s a cheerful, almost bubbly air about her; and though the bureaucratic nitty-gritty of getting search warrants seems to be the topic of conversation, she’s twisting
a curl of hair around her finger like a schoolgirl. A few seconds go by before she senses my presence and waves me in. Her demeanor is immediately more businesslike and self-conscious.

I stand inside the doorway, staring at her until I have her attention, then hold up her informant’s message.

Scotto’s eyes widen in reaction. She reaches across the desk and snatches it from my hand. “Hey, listen, something’s come up. I gotta drop off.” She finishes the call, then changes focus and fetches her coat. “It was on my car?”

“The windshield. Like the last one.”

“Thanks.” She stabs an arm into a sleeve. “I thought you’d be in here first thing. I tried the hotel a couple of times. Where you been?”

“Sight-seeing,” I reply with a little smile.

“Sight-seeing . . .” she echoes flatly.

“Yes, I started at the Lincoln Memorial and worked my way to the Empire State Building.”

“Hell of a walk in this weather.” She scoops up her shoulder bag and heads for the door.

“I caught an early shuttle out of National.”

Scotto stops in her tracks, sensing it wasn’t a joke, and questions me with a look.

“You know the little computer-tech in Ops who was tracking down Rubineau?”

“Jennifer.”

“Jennifer. She found him in New York. He and I had a rather lovely breakfast.”

“You’re putting me on.”

I shake my head no and grin smugly.

“Geezus.” She takes a step in one direction, then the other, torn between Rubineau and her informant. “What’d he have to say?”

“Quite a lot, actually. For openers, you’d be interested to know he thinks cops are basically ruthless.”

She makes a face, pretending she’s crushed. “Well, I’m sure you put up a spirited defense.” The phone twitters. “Damn. This always happens when I’m trying to get out of here.” She spins back to her desk and answers it. “Scotto. . . . Yeah, shoot. . . . Uh-huh. . . . uh-huh. . . . You’re sure?” She groans, clearly unhappy at the reply. “Okay, thanks.” She hangs up
slowly, and frowns. “That was Ops. They finished running those ITZ deals. They’re legit. All of ’em.”

“That’s what Rubineau told me. He said you were wasting your time.”

“Guess so.” She leads the way from the office and hurries down the corridor toward the elevator. “What else he have to say?”

“Well, after a lecture on the sorry state of the Russian economy, he requested I refrain from doing anything that might hurt our country.”

“Our
country?”

“Yeah, Russia. It seems Mr. Rubineau’s developed a late-in-life passion for the land of his birth.”

“What a pile of crap.”

“No, really. He has a rather compelling sincerity. I found him quite credible.”

“Well,” she sighs, nervously pressing the elevator button, “where the hell do we go from here?”

I sweep my eyes over her and smile. “Someplace quite special, I imagine.”

“Katkov,” she coos, coming closer to blushing than I ever thought possible. “How nice of you to notice. Nothing like scoring a basement full of cash to warm an agent’s heart. I felt so good when I got home last night, I called my husband. To make a long story short, he’s got a meeting tomorrow somewhere near Hilton Head. That’s a resort in South Carolina. Right on the coast. You’d love it. Anyway, he said he was thinking of taking a couple of days off . . . one thing led to another . . . and I’m flying down with him tonight.”

“A couple of days? I just got here.”

“I know. I thought about that. But if Marty’s thinking we can put our lives back together, I have to give it a try. Besides, think of how much more sightseeing you can get in.” The elevator door opens. The tip of her forefinger stabs me square in the chest and keeps me from following. “Far as you go,” she says, hurrying off to meet with her informant.

“No friends,” I call out as the door rolls closed. “I remember.” I stand there for a long moment, thinking about Vera and wondering if there’s any chance to put
our
lives back together. It’s been a little more than a month since we broke up, but it seems like years. I start drifting back toward Scotto’s office,
feeling a little empty, then detour to Ops to get a cup of coffee. Jennifer, my favorite computer-tech, is putting in time at a copying machine.

“I want to thank you for tracking down Rubineau for me.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Katkov. Put me onto something I wouldn’t’ve found otherwise.” She hands me one of the copies she’s made. It’s the flight plan that Rubineau’s crew filed with the FAA. “The D-sched covers everyone who’s working on Shell Game.”

“The D-what?”

“Distribution schedule, sorry. We sort of have our own language around here.”

“Oh. How come? I mean the D-sched.”

Jennifer smiles, then takes another copy of the flight plan, fetches a yellow Hi-Liter and draws it across: José Martí International, Havana. “That flight to New York had a Cuban launch pad. You got lucky. Wouldn’t even be in our data base if it wasn’t an I-F.” She reddens slightly and adds, “Sorry, that means international flight.”

“Well, everyone gets lucky once in a while. Even me. What’s so special about Cuba?”

“It’s off-limits to Americans. No diplomatic ties. No travel. No trade.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right,” I exclaim, reflecting on the Paradise Club and Arkady Barkhin’s comment about making contacts in Cuba. “So what do you think Rubineau was doing down there?”

“Good question. I was about to ask you. The flight had FAA clearance. That’s the—”

“Federal Aviation Administration,” I say, beating her to it. “Am I right?”

“Right. It’s pretty unusual to get it. Maybe we can find out why Rubineau did.” She returns to her work station, brings up a master list of data bases on her computer, and selects STATE DEPT. A column of subheadings appears. She picks the one she wants and initiates a search.

A half hour later, she’s still at it when I spot Scotto coming through the door. “Glad you’re back. We may have something important here.”

“That makes two of us,” Scotto says, preoccupied. She tears
a page from a small notepad and hands it to Jennifer. “Run that for me, will you? ASAP. I want to know who owns it.”

Jennifer goes to work on her keyboard and soon announces, “Mid-Atlantic Trucking Depot—purchased two months ago by—ITZ Corporation.”

Scotto smiles to herself, then swings a look in my direction. “Rubineau didn’t happen to mention anything about buying a trucking depot, did he?” she wonders, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Quite a few, as a matter of fact—not to mention several airlines and a railroad or two—in Russia, of course.”

“This one’s in Maryland. Hagerstown.”

“Well, as long as we’re on Rubineau . . .” I flick the copy of the flight plan onto the desk. “What would you say if I told you he made a trip to Havana recently.”

“Havana?” she repeats, somewhat astonished. “How the hell’d he manage that?”

“Good question. I doubt he was on holiday. Jennifer’s working on it.”

“No, Jennifer just struck out,” Jennifer says in her perky way. She points to her monitor, where the phrase ACCESS DENIED pulses tauntingly. “I tried State first, then Commerce. Every time I cross-reference Cuba with Rubineau or his companies, that’s what happens. It’s really weird.”

“Sounds like somebody’s got something to hide. Good work. Keep trying.” Scotto heads for the door.

I hurry down the corridor after her. “What’s all this about a trucking depot?”

“According to my informant, one of their shipping containers, number 95824 to be precise, might be of interest to us.”

“I imagine they run hundreds of them in and out of a place like that every day. Why that one?”

“My guy says it’s filled with cash—all hundreds.”

“He knows that for a fact?”

“Hey, that basement in East Baltimore gives him a lot of credibility. We’re talking in the neighborhood of a couple of billion dollars.”

“A couple of billion?” I exclaim, flabbergasted.

“Yeah, it rolls at midnight.”

“Tonight?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Your ‘guy’ isn’t much for lead time, is he?”

“Tell me about it.” She darts around a corner, almost colliding with another employee, and makes a beeline for the director’s office.

“Way to go, Scotto,” Banzer enthuses after she’s briefed him. “I’ve got just one question.”

“ITZ Corporation,” Scotto cracks, beating him to it. “I already checked.”

“You withheld that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Well, I knew you’d ask, Joe,” she replies mischievously.

“Okay, smartass. It may come as news to you, but Hagerstown just happens to be one of the hubs of this country’s trucking industry. That container could be going just about anywhere.”

“Try Atlanta,” Scotto replies.

Banzer’s expression softens.

“It’s consigned to a recycling plant west of downtown, near Fulton County Airport.

“Who’s the shipper?”

“Coppelia Paper Products.”

Banzer’s brows go up. “I’ll bet.”

“According to the bill of lading"—Scotto pauses and cackles insidiously at what she’s about to say—"the cargo is seven tons of scrap paper.”

“Makes sense. Covers the cargo and weight. It wouldn’t wash if they were into down-filled comforters, would it? Whatever, we’re going to recycle it for ’em,” Banzer says with a wiley smile; then his eyes narrow. “I want both ends of this, Gabby. That means we set up surveillance at the trucking depot and the recycling plant, and tail the rig with the container between ’em.”

“You going to ramrod the Atlanta end?”

“Not if our budget’s ever going to get approved. Krauss can fly ahead and handle it out of the local SAC office down there.”

“SAC?”

“Special Agent in Charge,” Scotto replies. She crosses to a wall-sized road map of the United States. “Looks like I-81 is the main drag south out of Hagerstown: six, maybe seven hundred miles; four states—Maryland, Virginia, Tennessee, Georgia; and umpteen intersecting highways and legal jurisdictions before we get to Atlanta.”

“Who do you want to use?” Banzer prompts.

“It’s an interstate tail—so no locals, right?”

“Right. Last thing we need is a parade of cruisers at every county line. And no choppers. The driver’d have to be brain-dead not to spot a bird sitting on his shoulder for seven hundred miles.”

“Limited range anyway. I figure four units with a mix of Customs and DEA oughta do it. That way we can take turns—”

“They,
Gabby,” Banzer interrupts. “Not we. They. The only thing you’re licensed to drive is a desk.”

“I’m the agent-in-charge, Joe.”

“You’re the Deputy Director of FinCEN, dammit.”

“Not if you stop me from doing this. Come on. You can get by without me for a couple of days. Make believe I’m off pontificating at some seminar. It’s my informant, Joe. That makes me the AIC.”

“It’s
Woody’s
informant; besides, I thought you were taking a couple of days off to go away with Marty.”

“Indeed,” I reply unthinkingly. “As did I.”

Scotto burns me with a look that condemns my disloyalty; then she shifts her lasers back to Banzer. “You ever lose a partner, Joe?”

“Yeah. He keeled over in the middle of a poker game. Massive heart attack. Nothing I could do about it. Neither can you.”

“I can do this, Joe.”

“Gabby, you’re going to lose your husband next. Go away with Marty. Have a good time; put your life back together.”

“Joe, I’ve had a pain in my gut ever since you called me in here and told me about Woody.”

“You think I haven’t?”

“Don’t keep me from this, Joe. Please.”

Banzer sighs and glances to me. “You know what’s going on here, Katkov? She thinks the more she calls me Joe, the harder it is for me to say no.” He pauses and sighs defeatedly. “She’s right. Okay, Gabby,” he says, his tone sharpening. “But DEA and Customs are on point; you lay back and coordinate. Agreed?”

“Yeah, I guess that’d work.”

“Agreed?"

“Agreed.”

“And get someone to ride shotgun with you.”

“Done.”

“Who? What? What do you mean done?”

“Don’t ask.”

Banzer’s eyes widen with understanding and dart to mine. “No.”

“I made a deal, Joe.”

“No.”

“It’s a perfect cover. A couple of Russian tourists getting their first taste of—”

“You’re coordinating; you don’t need a cover.”