Red Ink (18 page)

Banzer turns Vorontsov’s documents over to Ops Center Section Chief Tom Krauss, a tall, clean-cut fellow with sharply chiseled features and precise diction. He spends a few minutes at his keyboard accessing a data base before the printer next to his console comes to life. We’re all hovering over it like expectant parents. I’m so preoccupied, I unthinkingly pop a cigarette into my mouth. Scotto’s look is all the reminder I need. This is going to be torture, pure torture.

Banzer tears off the printout. “ITZ Corporation . . .” he announces with a dramatic pause, “President and CEO, one Michael A. Rubineau . . .”

“Way to go, Katkov,” Scotto enthuses.

“Born Grodno, USSR, nineteen thirty-one; came to the USA with his parents at the outbreak of World War Two—”

“He’s a Russian,” I blurt, energized by the revelation. “A Russian Jew.”

Banzer nods and continues. “Magna cum laude, Harvard Law, ’fifty-five; disbarred in ’fifty-eight for consorting with known gamblers.”

“Lansky.”

“Then,” Scotto chirps. “Your friend Barkhin, now. Old habits die hard.”

“ITZ,” Banzer concludes, “was recently spun off from a subsidiary of Travis Enterprises—a suspiciously complex network of companies, I might add, with offices in New York, Miami, Los Angeles, and Tel Aviv.”

“Did you say Tel Aviv?”

“Uh-huh,” Banzer replies. “He lives there part of the year, according to his tax returns.”

“Well, we know where he’s going if things get too hot for him at home,” Krauss observes.

“You remember Shevchenko?” I ask, directing the question to Scotto. “According to him, the fellow who was hired to kill me was an Israeli. A Jew who recently emigrated from Russia.”

“That doesn’t mean Rubineau was behind it,” she counters. “Doesn’t even implicate him. It’s circumstantial at best.”

“Unless I’m mistaken, I recall your saying our friend Rubineau was connected to the Jewish mafia?”

“Yeah, thirty years ago. It doesn’t mean a thing now. We need hard evidence, something specific even to question him.”

“Real hard,” Krauss chirps, his eyes taut with frustration. “Just to access information, let alone act on it, we’re up against all kinds of civil liberties laws, the due process clause, reams of tight regulatory and statutory guidelines: the Privacy Act, Freedom of Information Act, Bank Secrecy Act.”

“We can’t just walk in and rip things apart like they do in your country,” Scotto adds sharply.

“That’s changing, and you know it,” I protest a little too defensively.

“What I think they’re trying to say, Mr. Katkov,” Banzer says in a conciliatory tone, “is that legal restraints come with the territory, and we make every effort to stay within them. Why? Because: a) Individual rights are what this country is all about. b) We might destroy someone’s reputation or livelihood if we mistakenly accuse them of wrongdoing. c) We might lose an otherwise solid prosecution on a legal technicality.”

“D) Not necessarily in that order,” Krauss quips, eliciting laughter from the others. “See, it’s not only cops and robbers. It’s cops and lawyers. Our position is: If there isn’t a law that says we
can’t
do it, we
can.
Their position is: If there isn’t a law that says we
can
do it, we
can’t.
”

That stops me for a moment. It gets to the core of democratic rule. There aren’t any positions in a dictatorship, only subservience. “Who usually wins?”

“They do,” Banzer replies without rancor. “Our successes are in spite of legal restraints, not because of them. Makes it all the sweeter when we win one.”

“Well, you folks may need hard evidence to question Rubineau, but I certainly don’t.”

Looks dart between the three of them before Scotto challenges, “Run that by us again, will you, Katkov?”

“I’m a journalist writing a story on private investment in Russia, correct?”

“If you say so.”

“I’ll interview him.”

“Interview him?” Scotto echoes. She tears off a page from the printout and hands it to me. It lists over a dozen corporate and residential addresses. “That mean you know where to find him?”

“No, but I’d wager one of your computers does.”

“Maybe,” she muses with a look to Krauss, who nods and takes the printout across the room to one of the intelligence analysts, a perky young woman with short-cropped hair, who goes to work on her computer terminal.

“You said Rubineau tried to kill you,” Scotto goes on. “Why would he give you the time of day?”

“Because I’m a Russian, because I’m Jewish, because he missed.”

“You sure it was him?”

“No. I don’t have any proof but—”

“If he agrees to see you,” Banzer interrupts in a prescient tone, “I’d say chances are pretty good it was him. If he won’t, I’d say it was someone else.”

“Well, one thing you can be sure of,” Scotto says with a dramatic pause. “If it was Rubineau, he won’t miss twice.”

22

I
catnapped on the plane, and it’s barely noon; but jet lag, the eight-hour time difference, and nicotine deprivation have taken their toll. I’m ready to fall facedown on the nearest horizontal surface. I’d settle for the sofa in Scotto’s office, but it’s going to take some time to track down Rubineau. She suggests the Ramada Inn a couple of blocks away on Stafford. I jump at the chance to get out of the building.

I’m lighting a cigarette with one hand and holding the lobby door open for Scotto with the other when some media stragglers appear and unleash another barrage of questions. She responds with a terse “No comment,” and makes a beeline for the parking lot.

“Come on, Scotto, give us something,” one whines.

“Yeah, we’re on deadline,” another shouts.

Scotto stops and whirls to face them. “Okay, here’s the lead: Gay KGB spy in Oval Office.”

A cacophony of protests rises.

“No kidding. That visit to Russia in the sixties? Clinton had a homosexual affair and defected.”

“Come on, Scotto, stop jerking our chain.”

Scotto grins wickedly at a thought and gestures to me. “And this is his Russian boyfriend.”

Their eyes brighten.

She whirls and leaves me surrounded by hungry reporters, pencils poised, cassette recorders thrust forward. For the briefest of instants I can see the looks darting between them, see the wheels turning, see the questions in their eyes. Is it? Could it? Possibly be? True? Then they emit a collective groan and drop off, as I hurry to catch up with Scotto.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“Why not? Can’t you take a joke?”

“Not me. Them. They wanted to believe you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’ve a lot to learn about journalists.”

“I know enough not to make public statements that might come back to haunt me in a criminal proceeding.” A trace of that wicked grin breaks across her face. “I might have to revise my seminar. I mean, you guys are even easier to manipulate than I thought.” She opens the Buick’s door, then pauses and removes a sheet of yellow paper from beneath the wiper. It looks like an advertising flyer. She’s about to discard it when her eyes widen. “The hotel’s on hold, Katkov,” she announces suddenly.

“On hold? Why?”

“Get in and button it, or you’re walking.” She slides behind the wheel and tosses the sheet of paper into my lap. Printed neatly are the letters J-P-S-E.

I’m closing the door when she starts the engine, backs out of her parking spot, and rockets into the street. She makes a left into Fairfax and runs the light at the next corner, spraying several pedestrians with slush. A series of lefts and rights follow. After we’ve gone about a mile or so, Scotto slows at the intersection of Jackson and Pershing and pulls to the curb on the southeast corner.

The car has barely come to a stop when a fragile-looking man bundled in overcoat, scarf, and gloves exits a coffee shop, carrying an attaché case. He approaches swiftly, sees me in the front seat, and stops walking, looking around nervously; then he opens the rear door and gets in next to my luggage. “Who’s he?” the man asks warily as Scotto pulls away.

“It’s okay. He’s a friend.”

“This isn’t a social call.”

“Then let’s do business. What do you have for me?”

“Nothing. I haven’t been paid.”

“We’re working on it. You heard about Woody?”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Hey, show a little compassion, for Chrissakes.”

“Try telling that to the sharks sometime.”

Scotto pulls to the curb, takes her wallet from her purse, removes a number of bills—I glimpse the numeral fifty—and hands them over the seat. “Here. This’ll help hold ’em off.”

“Thanks, Gabby,” he says, genuinely appreciative. “Thanks a lot.”

“Get something for me, okay?”

“For
you
,” he replies pointedly, glaring at me. “Nobody else. No friends. Know what I mean?” He gets out and slams the door before Scotto can reply.

“As the man said, ‘Who’s he?’ ”

“Woody’s informant,” Scotto replies as she drives off. “Used to be mine. I guess we’re back in business.”

“He doesn’t seem the type, does he?”

“There is no type. He’s a traffic manager for a freight company. Coastline Commercial Carriers. Care to guess who owns ’em?”

“That corporation you linked to the drug cartel.”

She nods emphatically.

“Why would he do business with you?”

“To keep the loan sharks from breaking his legs. He’s a horse-player with a knack for picking losers, but his information’s prime. We figure the cartel’s using the freight company to transport the money. He’s helping us figure out where.”

“Evidently they’re operating right under your noses, aren’t they?”

“Money laundering’s an international business. You think of a better town to make connections? We’re betting the cartel made a few in the diplomatic corps.”

“Like Vorontsov?”

“Maybe. The pipeline deal is a good example.”

“Your snitch put you onto that?”

“No. Operations traced some suspicious wire transfers. We prefer ‘informant,’ by the way.”

“Whatever. Stalin called them Heroes of the Soviet Union. The people they sent to the gulag had other names for them.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Stalin’s favorite was Pavel Morozov. A teenager who set the example that nothing came before the State.”

“Wait. Don’t tell me. He turned himself in for having a subversive thought.”

“He turned his father in—for hoarding grain. The man was executed.”

Scotto gasps. “Now he’s a snitch.”

“Thank you. That’s what I like about English. It’s so precise. You can always find exactly the right word to describe someone.”

“Anyone particular come to mind?” Scotto wonders with a grin as the Ramada Inn comes into view.

“Well, now that you mention it, what did your ‘informant’ call you before? Crabby, wasn’t it? It’s quite perfect.”

“It was
Gabby.
For Gabriella.”

“Ah, Gabby—it means someone who talks too much, doesn’t it? That suits you too.”

“Thanks a lot,” she growls, pulling up to the hotel’s entrance. “I think this is your stop.”

I laugh, then open the door and start to get out.

“Hold it, Katkov,” she says sharply.

I sigh with exhaustion and turn back toward her. “Now what?”

Scotto is squinting curiously at the rearview mirror; then she suddenly twists around and retrieves a white envelope that’s been placed on the backseat next to my luggage. It contains a sheet of lined paper filled with neat printing. She reads it, then, voice crackling with energy, asks, “You in, or out?”

Instead of getting out, I close the door quickly, whacking my knee on the cellular phone bracket. “Of what?”

She drives off without replying, races two blocks down Fairfax, and swerves into the FinCEN parking lot. In an eyeblink, she’s out of the car and running toward the entrance. I’m right on her heels, trying to imagine what earthshaking information the note contains. We enter the lobby. She charges right past the guard. I get stopped. He checks my visitor’s tag and insists I sign in again. By the time I catch up, Scotto’s already in the elevator, door closing. I scoot past it. “Come on, come on, dammit,” she urges impatiently as it rattles, creaks, and stops at every floor.

“He’s been looking for you,” Banzer’s secretary warns as we dash down the corridor toward his office.

“Shit. The budget meeting.” Scotto knocks on the door and blows through it, startling Banzer, Krauss, and several staff members. The conference table is littered with computer printouts and data. One wall is lined with charts that are titled: Cost Effectiveness. Polar Cap V Support. OCDETF Support. An easel holds a card that lists various programs: Support for Local Agencies. Systems Integration. Criminal Referral Data Base. Massively Parallel Processing. Banzer glances to his watch incriminatingly.

“Sorry, boss,” Scotto says, a little out of breath. “Got a break on Shell Game.”

“Can it wait till we wrap this up?” Banzer pleads. “We need your input here.”

“No, we’ve got less than an hour to move.”

“Geezus. Give me the
TV Guide
version.”

“Informant reveals cartel-connected trucking company made hundreds of deliveries to East Baltimore factory last year.”

“That’s it?”

“The factory went belly-up three years ago.”

That gets Banzer’s attention. “Give us a few minutes, will you?” he says, dismissing the others. “No kidding, three years ago?”

Scotto nods. “It’s gotta be a stash house. Last delivery was in November.”

“November?” Banzer echoes, reconsidering. “That’s months ago. The cash has probably already been moved.”

“There’s no record of any outgoing shipments.”

“So? Maybe the freight company didn’t log it. Maybe the creeps used another shipper.” Banzer’s voice rises in half octaves. “I mean, they buy and sell companies faster than we can . . .” He splays his hands. “Where in East Baltimore? We have a name? An address?”

“That’s what we’re buying,” Scotto replies with a glance to her watch. “I’ve got forty-eight minutes.”

“You? Since when are you working the streets?”

“Since we lost Woody. It’s my old informant. I’m it now, and you know it.”

“Okay, but you’re not rotating back out. Don’t even think about it. How much?”

“Twenty-five.”

Banzer winces. He kicks back in his chair and steeples his fingers thoughtfully.

“Twenty-five what?” I whisper to Scotto.

“Thousand bucks.”

I stifle a gasp. “For a piece of information?”

She nods, disgusted.

“You realize that’s ten times the average Russian’s annual income.”

“Tell me about it.” She glances off to Banzer. “Clock’s ticking, Joe.”

“Okay, but only if it pays off.”

“Not gonna work,” Scotto protests. “He’s checking out a phone booth on the corner of Wilson and Veitch at two-thirty. If the money’s taped beneath the coin shelf, he calls me with the info. If not . . .”

Banzer thinks it over, then nods grudgingly.

Scotto takes a thick report from her shoulder bag. It’s titled “FinCEN Budget Proposal.” “I made some notes.” She drops the report on the table and heads for her office. It’s not as impersonal as the rest of the place, though a computer terminal holds center stage amid the Toulouse-Lautrec posters, Victorian sofa, and brass coatrack covered with hats. In minutes, she’s into a three-way conference call, and has several other lines on hold—a capability that Yuri, and everyone else in Russia with more than one phone line, would give their firstborn to acquire. I use the time to jot down some notes. It’s almost two-twenty when a field agent calls from the phone booth to report the money is in place.

Banzer joins us at two-twenty-five. Two-thirty comes and goes. Two thirty-five, thirty-six, -seven, -eight, -nine. Scotto’s pacing. Banzer’s staring at his watch. I’m dying for a cigarette. We all jump when the phone finally rings. Scotto answers it, gives us a thumbs-up, and jots down the address; then presents it to Banzer. “Your move, Joe.”

He stares at it for a long moment. “Hate to mobilize a task force and come up empty again,” he says indecisively, pausing to force air between his teeth. “Do we know who owns the building?”

Scotto groans with frustration. “No, we don’t; but we know who owns the freight company.”

“Yeah, but regardless of who owns them, they have thousands of perfectly legitimate accounts. How do we know a perfectly legitimate company isn’t using this building for perfectly legitimate storage?”

That knocks the wind out of her. “You’re right, Joe. I’ll find out who owns it.”

I follow Scotto to Operations. An intelligence analyst accesses a data base in the Baltimore City Clerk’s Office and runs the address. “For openers,” he says, scanning data on his monitor, “the building is currently leased by Coppelia Paper Products Limited.”

Scotto’s brows go up. “Limited? They Canadian?”

“Uh-huh. The checks for city services are drawn on a Montreal bank.”

Scotto looks off thoughtfully, then shakes her head with disappointment. “I don’t recall ever coming across them.”

“I have,” I interject, suddenly the center of attention. “
Coppelia
is a rather famous ballet, as I recall.”

Scotto rolls her eyes, but the analyst nods. “Saw it at the Kennedy Center a couple of years ago,” he reflects. “Sort of a romantic comedy. This fickle dude . . . falls in love with a wax doll. . . .”

“Yes, named Coppelia,” I chime in. “Of course, she’s not terribly satisfying.”

“Turns into a puddle in the heat of passion,” he quips. “In the end the fickle fool goes back to his main squeeze, and they live happily ever after.”

Scotto’s looking at us like we’re freaks in a sideshow. Guys didn’t stand around talking about ballet in her neighborhood. “Great. Joe’s right. They’re probably storing tutus in there.” She grins at the analyst and adds, “I heard they’ve really caught on at the Bureau lately.”

The analyst rolls his eyes.

“Tutus?” I wonder. “Am I missing something here?”

“He’s on loan from the FBI,” Scotto explains. “Who owns this building?”

“Never heard of them either,” the analyst replies. “Somebody called ITZ Corporation.”

I can almost hear Scotto’s eyeballs click as they dart to mine. A little smile is already tugging at the corners of my mouth. “That’s two for you, Katkov,” she exclaims, heading for Banzer’s
office. The look on his face when she tells him is all the approval she needs. She dashes back to her office and goes to work.

I’m ready to drop. I help myself to a cup of Ops Center coffee and drift over to the perky analyst who’s tracking down Rubineau. “How’s it going?”

“Nothing yet,” she replies with an exasperated sigh. “Called a number of places and just straight out asked for him. They all said he’s not in.”

“I’d say it sounds as if they’ve been instructed his whereabouts are nobody’s business.”

She hands me a computer printout. “I also ran an SEC on him.”

“A who?”

“SEC. Securities and Exchange Commission. It’s a federal agency. Companies that sell stock to the public have to register and keep certain information on file. That’s a schedule of Rubineau’s board meetings. It lists cities and dates; but there aren’t any for at least a couple of months.”