Authors: Greg Dinallo
41
D
arkness is falling as Aeroflot Su-416 circles the desolate countryside north of Moscow and touches down with a thump on one of Sheremetyevo’s runways. Fifteen hours in the air, plus the eight-hour time difference, means the Ilyushin jumbo glides to a stop at the gate about the same time it departed Havana. I’ve lost an entire day. The Antonov-22 with the eighteen-wheeler and cash-filled container in its flatbed arrived sometime this morning, Rubineau’s swifter Gulfstream at least several hours earlier. Probably before dawn.
The airport’s cavernous baggage hall is dimly lit and even gloomier than I remember; the queues for Customs and Passport Control move at the same glacial pace. The instant I’m cleared, I hurry to the taxi stand, anxious to hear about the takedown and what happened to Yuri. I’m lugging my bags past the barrier that restrains those waiting to meet arriving passengers when I hear my name.
“Katkov? Hey, Katkov, over here!”
It’s Scotto. She’s knifing sideways through the crowd to keep up with me. What’s she doing here? And why isn’t she smiling? Whatever the reason, she looks shaken. Something’s drastically wrong.
“What happened?” I call out, quickening my pace.
“A disaster.”
“Shevchenko moved too soon? I told him, dammit. I warned him—”
“No,” she interrupts sharply as we come together at the end of the barrier. “Gudonov did.”
“Gudonov?!” I echo, astonished.
She nods grimly. “The Gulfstream got in first, like you figured. Shevchenko had it under surveillance; but neither Gudonov nor the other passengers stuck around to claim their prize. My flight got in next. Shevchenko and I hung out until the Antonov showed, then tailed the eighteen-wheeler.”
“Follow the money. Your favorite game.”
“Not when I get beat. We were a couple miles south of the airport when all hell broke loose. I’ve never seen so many cops and reporters in my life. Like a Hollywood extravaganza.”
“Starring Gudonov?”
Scotto grunts in the affirmative.
“It doesn’t make sense. He was in the thick of things in Havana. He’s up to his ass in this.”
“He claims,” Scotto says in a cynical tone, “that he was working undercover.”
“Bullshit.”
“That’s what Shevchenko said. He can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I.”
Scotto shrugs as if to say “I’m ready to believe anything,” then leads the way to a rented Zhiguli in the parking lot across from the terminal. There’s a hint of spring in the air, an almost balmy sweetness that surfaces when the temperature finally gets above freezing and stays there. I toss my luggage into the backseat and settle next to her. “Shevchenko thought you’d want to see this.” She drops a newspaper in my lap, starts the engine, and drives off.
It’s a copy of
Pravda.
The headline reads MILITIA MONEY LAUNDERING STING. Beneath it is a photograph of the eighteen-wheeler pulled to the side of the highway. It’s surrounded by police vehicles and personnel. Container 95824 is the center of attention. The doors at one end are opened. Several sugar cartons have been torn open and the million-dollar packages of cash removed and prominently displayed in the foreground. Gudonov poses next to them like a conquering invader. I’m
angered—but not the least bit surprised—that the by-line on the accompanying article reads M. I. Drevnya.
This morning, while Muscovites slept, Chief Investigator Yevgeny Gudonov led a crack militia task force in a money-laundering sting. The brilliantly executed operation netted more than a billion and a half U.S. dollars. American crime czars were planning to use the profits from their illicit drug deals to buy Russian industries. Gudonov, who’s been working on the case for months, risked his life to go undercover inside the smuggling operation. The scheme was . . .
“Risked his life to go undercover?!” I exclaim, infuriated. “What a sham!”
“Tell me about it. Who’s his PR agent?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, it’s all your doing, Scotto. You and your damned seminar, whatever the hell it’s called. Gudonov probably learned everything he knows about using the media from you.”
She concedes the point with a smile, then swings out of the airport onto Leningradsky Prospekt and heads south toward Moscow. “I have to admit he’d have gotten an A-plus for this caper. Keep reading. You haven’t gotten to the good part yet.”
The good part? Yuri. It has to be Yuri. She knows about him, and she’s making me squirm for not telling her. My eyes swiftly scan the long article. Vorontsov’s name is ubiquitous, as is Rubineau’s, Barkhin’s, and, of course, Gudonov’s. They’re all here, all except Yuri’s—which means she doesn’t know. I start over, reading the text more carefully.
Dammit. It’s immediately obvious that Sergei was right. The kid’s style has punch and pace, but he’s still an unprincipled jerk as far as I’m concerned. It’s the next to last paragraph that really gets my attention. I read it aloud in shock and disbelief. “ ‘Highly reliable sources have told
Pravda
that Investigator Gudonov plans to destroy the contraband at Moscow’s Garbage Incinerating Plant this evening’?! His reputation’s gone to his head.”
“Shevchenko told me all about that.”
“I can’t believe he’s burning all that money?!”
“Burning the
evidence.
Cost me my badge, gun, and pension if I did something like that.”
“This is Russia, Scotto.”
“I’ve noticed. Shevchenko’s trying to stop him anyway. We’re meeting him there.”
“You know where you’re going?”
“No. You think I picked you up out of the goodness of my heart?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far, but you could’ve easily gone with Shevchenko and let me fend for myself.”
“Shut up, smartass.”
“Take the MKAD turnoff, Agent Scotto.”
About ten minutes later, she angles into the Outer Ring that circumvents the city. We’re soon spiraling down the Rizhskiy Interchange into a service road that winds through the marshlands. Thick smoke stretches in dense layers below the night sky. The Zhiguli climbs a steep hill, comes over the crest, and approaches the incineration plant. Like gigantic Roman candles, its towering stacks send bursts of orange sparks shooting into the darkness.
The promise of a headline that reads TWO BILLION UP IN SMOKE has brought out the media in full force: print journalists, still photographers, television reporters, and satellite vans, sporting the logos of American, European, and Russian networks. All are gathered around one of the huge incinerators. The flaming beast roars with the intensity of a blast furnace. Its gaping cast-iron jaws could swallow a shipping container whole. No longer on the eighteen-wheeler’s flatbed, 95824 sits on the ground next to a work platform that leads to the inferno. From this simmering perch, Gudonov supervises the operation, playing to the media throng below.
Scotto and I hurry from the car and push through the crowd in search of Shevchenko. She spots him off to one side of the container where a noisy forklift prowls. Evidently most of the cartons have already been removed and incinerated, because the forklift travels deep into the forty-foot tunnel in search of the next pallet.
“Last one,” Shevchenko says, clearly demoralized.
“Why the hell wouldn’t he wait?”
“Wait?!” Shevchenko snaps angrily. “The cocky little bastard wouldn’t even listen.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” Scotto says impassively.
Shevchenko and I fire looks in her direction. “What do you mean by that?!”
“We’re talking show business here, guys. You sell this many tickets to a performance, there’s no way you can cancel it.”
With a throaty rumble and clank of steel, the forklift backs out of the container. The operator swings it around, guns the throttle, and heads for the incinerator; then, hands pushing and pulling on a rack of levers, he raises the pallet high into the air and deposits it on the platform. Rollers built into the decking allow workers to manhandle it easily toward the fire-breathing incinerator.
Gudonov holds up a hand, giving the pallet a brief stay of execution, and instructs the workers to open several of the cartons. Then with much fanfare, he removes one of the million-dollar packages of currency and holds it high overhead before tossing it into the roaring inferno. Another soon follows and then another. Sparks fly. Cameras whir. Strobes flash. The chief investigator struts triumphantly, then signals the workers, who roll the entire pallet of cartons into the roaring flames. Gudonov jumps down from the platform.
The media surges around him, shouting his name, firing off questions. “How long have you been working on this case? How high up in the Interior Ministry will your investigation reach? Do you know if—”
“Ask him why he’s burning evidence,” Shevchenko calls out.
“What about that?!” one of the reporters prompts. “Good question!” another chimes in. “Care to comment, Chief?!”
“Yes, but I’d prefer to introduce my colleague first. You all know Senior Homicide Investigator Shevchenko.” The TV cameras and lights swing around and focus on Shevchenko with blinding intensity. “I like to give credit where credit is due,” Gudonov goes on with a smug grin. His face is pock-marked, his suit is rumpled and his delivery is crude, but his tactics and timing are polished. “This all began with a homicide—a homicide that Investigator Shevchenko solved with customary brilliance. In light of his firsthand knowledge of the case, I’ve no doubt he’s aware that Comrade Vorontsov—the corrupt Interior Ministry official who masterminded this scheme—got involved with people who settle disputes in ways he wasn’t accustomed to and is now deceased, as is the assassin who
killed him. Nor do I doubt the senior investigator also knows that the militia can’t prosecute the dead—which makes his so-called evidence useless.”
“What about the coconspirators?” Shevchenko challenges. “What about prosecuting them? I can give you their names if you like.”
“So can anyone who reads the newspapers or watches television. Unfortunately, they’ve cleverly distanced themselves, and there’s no way to connect them to the case.”
“Thanks to you,” Shevchenko counters angrily.
“You’re right,” Scotto says, leaning to me. “Something weird’s going on. This doesn’t make a goddamned bit of sense.”
“However,” Gudonov resumes, ignoring Shevchenko’s barb, “just because we can’t prosecute doesn’t mean we can’t prevent.” He pauses, gestures dramatically to the conflagration behind him, and grins at what he’s about to say. “This serves strong notice that we’re turning up the heat, that Russian justice is ruthless and swift, that whether they smuggle in two billion or twenty billion, every last penny will go up in smoke; that neither this nation’s economy, nor her integrity, can be bought by agents of the American underworld who traffic in filth.”
Shevchenko scowls in disgust, then makes his way through the crowd to his Moskvitch and drives off without a word.
Gudonov drones on in self-aggrandizement.
Scotto looks like she’s about to barf. “Come on, Katkov. I’ll buy you a drink.”
We’re crossing to her car when an intriguing thought occurs to me. It’s probably a waste of time, but what the hell. The way this has turned out, I’ve been wasting it since the night Vera beeped me in Moscow Beginners anyway. “Hold on a minute, Scotto. There’s something I want to check.” I circle the container, examining it. Same number. Same off-white color. Same gritty accumulation of grime and salt. Same cartons of sugar labeled in Spanish and Russian. Indeed, it has everything essential to identify it as the cash-filled target we’ve been tailing—everything except my initials scratched into the paint.
42
A
decoy?!” Shevchenko exclaims, kicking back in his desk chair, astonished. “Did I see Gudonov tossing millions into that incinerator, or what?”
“Cost of doing business,” Scotto replies in a tone that implies it’s obvious. “They sacrificed a couple mill for effect.”
Shevchenko nods thoughtfully. “Then we were right all along. Gudonov’s in cahoots, not undercover.”
“Whatever. The bottom line is, it wasn’t the same container.”
“Hold it. You and I saw it come out of the plane. Katkov saw it go in. . . .” His eyes shift to mine in search of confirmation. “Right?”
“Yes, right. Unless . . .”
“Unless, what?”
“The decoy was already aboard when I got there.”
Scotto frowns skeptically. “Two eighteen-wheelers fit in that thing?”
“In an Antonov twenty-two? Easy.”
“Well, if you’re right about that,” Shevchenko muses, brightening at the prospect, “then maybe the one with the cash is still in the plane.”
“It’s been damn near fifteen hours,” Scotto challenges. “No way they’re letting two billion sit there that long.”
Shevchenko nods resignedly. He’s exhausted. We all are. He stares blankly at the ceiling for a moment, then lifts the phone, dials an extension, and puts out an All-Units-Alert for container 95824. As an afterthought, he also dispatches an investigative team to the airport to check out the Antonov. “Can’t hurt. It’s either still aboard, or out there somewhere.”
“Yeah,” Scotto says wearily. “It’s big. It’s got a number on it. We shouldn’t have too much trouble finding it.”
“This is Russia, Scotto.”
“Dammit, Katkov. You keep saying that.”
“Things are different here. You know what they say about winter, don’t you?”
Shevchenko winces. “I sure as hell hope you’re wrong about that.”
“What? What?” Scotto prompts, feeling left out.
“They say, ‘It doesn’t wait.’ ”
“No shit? Is this some Russian male-bonding thing or what?”
“No,” I reply. “It’s some Russian way of saying no matter how hard you try, some things can’t be—interdicted.”
Scotto smiles.
Shevchenko looks smug. “Hate to say I told you so, Katkov, but—”
“Another Russian thing?” Scotto interrupts.
“A Shevchenko thing. He’s one of those people who thinks a free society has its baggage.”
“So do my hips. I didn’t stand around spouting poetry about them, for Chrissakes. Look, this didn’t make sense before, and it makes less now. Assuming Gudonov’s involved, and assuming that container’s a decoy, why didn’t they lead us on a wild-goose chase to Siberia while the other container slipped quietly into the country? Why take it down?”
“She’s got a point, Shevchenko. I mean why the fanfare? Why burn it? Why all this media hype? There has to be a reason.”
“Diversion. Distraction. Call it what you want. I don’t really care,” Shevchenko replies impatiently. He pushes up from his chair and crosses to a street map of Moscow on the opposite wall. “Where? Where would they take it?”
“Someplace real safe,” Scotto says, crossing to the window as she puzzles it out. “If this was Miami, it’d already be in the banking system ticketed for an electronic rinse.”
“How about a former bank?”
“A what?”
I stab a finger at the map, pointing to the Frunze District. “The Paradise Club. It used to be a bank. It’s got a vault the size of an Antonov.”
“You sure?”
“I took the guided tour.”
Shevchenko bristles with renewed energy. He snatches up the phone and punches out an extension. “This is Shevchenko. I need three teams. Who’s on call? . . . Uh-huh . . . uh-huh. . . . They’ll do. . . . The Paradise Club on Luzhniki. We’ll rendezvous outside at twenty-three thirty.”
“That’s barely a half hour,” Scotto challenges. “You get a search warrant that fast?”
“Search warrant?” Shevchenko echoes with an amused chuckle. “The instant I request it, some paper pusher at Justice’ll be on the phone to Barkhin.”
“He’s that powerful?”
“No. His hard currency is.”
“You may find this hard to believe, but graft isn’t unique to Russia. I just don’t want to blow this takedown on a technicality, okay?”
“No problem,” Shevchenko replies. He heads for the door, slipping on his jacket. “Russian law is like a harness, Agent Scotto. It—”
“Tell me about it,” Scotto interrupts, as we hurry after him down the corridor. “That’s one Russian thing I understand. It’s constraining, frustrating, stacked in favor of the bad guys, and—”
“No. No, Scotto, you
don’t
understand,” he interrupts, turning into the elevator lobby. “I was comparing our legal system to a team of horses. Left, right, straight ahead, a skilled teamster can use the harness to make it go wherever he wants.”
“Not where I come from.”
“Yes, well, every system has its baggage. In this one, for every law there’s another that contradicts it. Frankly, they’re often built into the same statute. It’s wonderful.” He thumbs the elevator button impatiently. “We call this one the self-sac-stat.”
“The self what?”
“Sac as in sacrifice. The bad guys are protected from self-incrimination; the good guys are protected from self-destruction.
“The elevator door opens. He grins wickedly and charges into it. “Naturally, I’m invoking the latter clause.”
Scotto and I leave the rented Zhiguli in the courtyard and pile into the Moskvitch with Shevchenko. He turns south into Petrovka and heads across town to the Paradise Club. It’s almost midnight when we arrive. The street is deserted except for a few parked cars and a homeless woman in a doorway. A breeze blows litter against the club’s graffiti-plastered facade.
Shevchenko clicks on his radio and verifies the other teams are in position, then cruises past the granite edifice and turns into the service alley that runs behind it. The loading dock where armored cars once made their pickups and deliveries is empty. No sign of container 95824 anywhere.
“Not surprising,” Scotto observes. “They’ve had plenty of time to unload it.”
“I’m counting on it,” Shevchenko says cagily. He drives back around to the main entrance, then gathers his troops and briefs them. “Okay, Katkov,” he says as they take up positions behind the columns that flank the huge bronze doors. “You’re on.”
I take a deep breath and ring the buzzer. “It’s Katkov,” I announce to the natty thug who peers from the security slot. “Nikolai Katkov.”
He grunts in acknowledgment and throws the latch. The door opens with a weighty shudder.
“Moscow Militia,” Shevchenko announces, blowing through it. He shoves his ID in the thug’s face and leads the charge of detectives and uniformed officers into the club. Scotto and I follow through the lounge and a series of interior doors into the main hall, where the floor show is in full swing.
Bare-breasted dancers stop gyrating and hurry off-stage. Gamblers stiffen apprehensively. Dealers freeze in mid-shuffle. The club is suddenly still and silent, save for the occasional squawking parrot.
Shevchenko ignores them, along with the Tahitian landscapes and towering palms, and crosses to the corner table. I follow apprehensively, wondering if Yuri is here celebrating with his fellow conspirators. My eyes dart from Barkhin, to Rubineau, to the phalanx of bodyguards lurking in the background; but there’s no sign of him. No caviar, no champagne, and no scantily clad young women either. They’re shrewdly keeping a low profile. It’s for naught now. Indeed, despite a
week in sunny Havana, both men look pale and tense. They look angry. Very angry. At me. I return their stares unflinchingly as Shevchenko displays his badge and identifies himself.
“Nice of you to drop in, Mr. Investigator,” Barkhin says with as much bravado as he can muster. “Unfortunately, we’re all booked. With a party of this size, I suggest you call for a reservation next time.”
“I’m making this one in person,” Shevchenko counters, his face raked by spotlights that turn his sharp features into a craggy mask.
“For what?”
“A tour of your vault.”
Barkhin stands and comes forward to confront him. “You won’t find any rubles in it, if that’s what you’re looking for,” he says indignantly. “This is a strictly legal operation, Shevchenko. Hard currency only.”
“We’re not looking for rubles. We’re looking for dollars. Two billion in U.S. hundreds.”
Barkhin’s brows arch in reaction. “Two billion. I have to admit the club is doing well, but I think that estimate’s a little excessive.” He turns to Rubineau with a cocky smile and prompts, “You agree?”
“Well, I’ve run up sizable markers on occasion,” he replies, matching Barkhin’s aplomb. “But rarely more than what? A billion or so?”
“Or so. Of course, if Investigator Shevchenko feels I’ve been neglecting my responsibilities . . .” Barkhin pauses and reaches inside his jacket.
“Hold it,” Scotto orders, drawing her pistol.
Barkhin freezes.
“That won’t be necessary, Agent Scotto,” Shevchenko says calmly, nodding to a detective who opens his coat, revealing a compact machine gun leveled at Barkhin’s gut. “If it’s money, bust him for bribery. If it’s a gun, kill him.”
Barkhin slowly removes his hand from his jacket. Empty. No money. No gun. “Agent Scotto,” he says in a patronizing tone. “And all along I thought you were in the restaurant business. What would make an attractive woman like you forsake all that glamour for police work?”
“The class of people. In case you’ve forgotten, we ask the questions, you answer them. Two billion was smuggled into
Moscow in a shipping container this morning. Ring a bell now?”
“Ah, I vaguely recall seeing it in the newspaper.”
“I distinctly recall your seeing it in Havana,” I counter pointedly.
Barkhin snorts smugly and brushes some imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Bad time to be away, Katkov.” He fetches a copy of
Pravda
from the table. “Somebody beat you to the story.”
“Yes, but he blew the ending. You’re going to help me rewrite it.”
“What about Mr. Clean, here?” Scotto prompts, glaring at Rubineau. “Maybe he can help too?”
“My mission in life,” Rubineau replies facetiously. “What do you need?”
“That container. You remember it, don’t you? The one you begged us to let go to Havana? The one you said was going to lead us to whoever was using you?”
Rubineau grins and flicks an amused look to Barkhin. “I also remember saying you were wasting your time. You’re still wasting it, believe me.”
“The man’s right,” Barkhin says, brandishing the newspaper. “I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but it looks like somebody beat you out too.”
“Nice try. Not going to work,” Shevchenko says.
“Pardon me?”
“Not a chance of that happening either,” Scotto quips. “Murder? Money laundering? Not even Nixon could swing it. You guys are going away.”
Barkhin and Rubineau exchange looks and chuckle to themselves, as if sharing an inside joke.
“The vault,” Shevchenko prompts, losing patience.
“Of course,” Barkhin says magnanimously. He’s cocky, too cocky. They both are. Something’s wrong. They don’t seem at all threatened. He leads the way down the marble staircase to his elegant office. At the touch of a button, the hardwood panels slide back revealing the vault’s gleaming door. He sets the tumblers, then spins the retracting wheel, swinging aside the enormous disk of case-hardened steel.
Shevchenko leads the charge inside and anxiously sweeps his eyes over the shelving bays filled with hard currency. His
posture slackens. The immense space could easily hold the contents of four containers, but not a single heat-sealed million-dollar package is to be found, let alone eighteen hundred of them.
“Waste of time,” Scotto says forlornly.
“Where have I heard that before?” Barkhin gloats, bringing a sardonic smile to Rubineau’s face.
Shevchenko mutters an embarrassed apology and leads the group of officers from the club. “Son of a bitch,” he exclaims angrily as the three of us pile into the Moskvitch and drive off.
“Back to square one,” Scotto groans. “There’s a container out there somewhere. We have to find it, and I don’t want to hear any more of this ‘Winter doesn’t wait’ bullshit. Matter of fact, I don’t want to hear anything for a while. I want to think.” We drive in silence through the Frunze District and head north on the Inner Ring. Traffic is light at this hour, and the Moskvitch travels at a steady clip. “I keep coming back to the same thing,” Scotto finally says. “They could’ve led us on a wild-goose chase with that decoy, right? So, why the takedown? There has to be a reason.”
“Maybe Gudonov didn’t know it was a decoy,” Shevchenko says, brightening at a thought. “Maybe he
was
working undercover. He tried to beat us out, went for the fake, and shot himself in the foot.”
“But he was at the airport in Havana,” Scotto protests. “He’d have known there were two containers.”
“No. No, he never got a look inside the cargo plane,” I explain. “None of them did.”
“Come on, he had custody of that container since this morning. He has to know it’s a decoy.”
“So? Maybe he does!” Shevchenko says, chuckling with delight. “That’s why he burned the ‘evidence’!”
“Of course,” I conclude, “he was going through the motions to save face.”
“He also burned a couple of million bucks, for Chrissakes,” Scotto cracks. “Where’d he get it?”
Silence. None of us have the answer to that one.
We’re crossing Tverskoi Bulvar about a mile from Militia Headquarters when the radio comes alive. The team Shevchenko dispatched to check out the Antonov reports the container wasn’t in the cargo hold; but something else of interest
was. The two detectives are waiting in Shevchenko’s office when we enter. Centered beneath the desk lamp are several cans of spray paint and a numeral stencil.
“Great,” Shevchenko groans. “They changed the fucking number. That container could be downstairs in the courtyard, and we wouldn’t know it. We’ll never find it now. Let alone nail whoever’s at the other end!” He kicks a trash pail in frustration. “In the old days, the KGB would seal off every road, airport, train station. It couldn’t travel ten kilometers without being spotted!”