Red Ink (27 page)

33

T
he message light is flashing on Scotto’s phone when we return to the hotel. Banzer and Krauss have checked in. We waste no time heading down the corridor to Banzer’s room. Nothing pretentious. Bland and provincial, just like ours. Just like him. Though, in short-sleeve shirt with nautical motif, elastic-waistband trousers, and deck shoes, FinCEN’s portly director does look a little out of his element. Krauss, on the other hand, appears to be clearly at home in Levi’s, polo shirt, and athletic shoes.

Scotto takes one look at her boss and bites a lip to keep from bursting into laughter. “Hey, you guys didn’t have to do this,” she gushes facetiously. “I mean, imagine leaving winter wonderland to tough it out in Miami Beach? If this doesn’t get Congress to pass the budget, nothing will.”

“Come on,” Banzer protests self-consciously. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to wear this stuff since Christmas.”

“Of ’seventy-three,” Krauss cracks.

Scotto can no longer suppress it. Neither can I. The room rocks with laughter. “So, what’s going on?” she finally asks, still fighting for control.

“I’m sure you’ll correct me if I’m wrong, Gabby,” Banzer replies with a good-natured grin, “but I believe I’m the one who
gets to ask that question.” He settles back in his chair and listens intently as she reviews our meeting with Rubineau. “Well,” the director says after she finishes, “if the man isn’t clean, he’s playing the game as well as it’s ever been played.”

“And he’s gonna win big,” Scotto adds smartly. She shifts her attention to Krauss. “Any news on Coppelia? Like a tie to Rubineau, maybe?”

“Nothing,” the Ops chief reports. “No connection to any of his companies. Matter of fact, as you may suspect . . .” He lets it trail off and gestures to Scotto to finish the sentence.

“Coppelia Paper Products doesn’t exist,” she fires back, “except on paper.”

Banzer grunts in disgust. “A name with a bank account to which funds are wired.”

“From where?”

“We’re still working on that.”

“Not surprising,” Scotto intones glumly. She falls into a chair opposite Banzer. I settle on a stool next to the wet bar. Krauss slips behind it and opens the small refrigerator. “Interest anybody in a brew?”

“Right here,” Banzer replies.

“Ditto,” Scotto chirps.

“Katkov?”

“Coke, please.”

Krauss starts pitching cans about the room like a circus juggler. “So, what’re our options?”

“One from column A and one from column A,” Scotto replies in a sassy tone. “We either take Rubineau down or we”—she hooks her finger in the pull ring and opens her beer with a loud pop—“take Rubineau down.”

“Why?” I wonder, baffled by her rashness. “Unless I missed something, he isn’t culpable until he takes possession of the money.”

“That’s right,” Krauss says. “And there’s no way he’s going to do that here.”

Scotto frowns. “He may not do it anywhere. That’s why I figure if we complicate his life a little, he might agree to cooperate.”

“I’m sure you’ll correct me if I’m wrong, Agent Scotto,” I say, catching Banzer’s eye, “but less than an hour ago, Rubineau offered to do just that.”

“You mean that crap about letting the container go to Cuba?” Scotto scoffs.

“Precisely.”

“Not a chance.”

“Why not? We’ve come all this way. I thought the idea was to let the container take us to whoever’s at the other end?”

“It is. But that wouldn’t be cooperation, that’d be collusion—in the strictest criminal sense.”

“You’re playing word games with me, Scotto. You want the other end or not?”

“Bet your ass I do.”

“Well, then you can just as well bet your ass that it’s Russia.”

A look passes between Banzer and Krauss. “You’re positive that’s where it’s going?” the latter prompts, taken by the theory.

“Positive. I’m afraid your colleague is either unwilling or unable to see it.”

“And you can?!” Scotto challenges, getting out of the chair to confront me.

“Indeed, and I’ll be more than happy to explain what’s going on. When I first got involved in this, I thought it had to do with moving money out of Russia.”

“Capital flight,” Banzer interjects.

“Yes, but I was wrong. It’s the opposite. It’s about moving money in. Russia needs hard currency. The cartels and crime bosses have it. But, thanks to you folks, the traditional laundering venues—wire transfers, check-cashing operations, unnumbered bank accounts, et cetera—are becoming less and less viable. Therefore, they need a new—”

“Big of you to point that out, Katkov,” Scotto cracks, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Knock it off, Gabby,” Banzer orders sharply. “Let him finish.”

“My point is, they need a new mechanism, and Rubineau’s the key. He’s bitter over the past and driven by the future, by this late-in-life allegiance to his homeland. So what does he do? He uses his USG-sanctioned deal in Cuba to set himself up as the pipeline. All the dirty cash that’s locked in the USA, that’s rotting in basements, can be quite efficiently moved and invested in Russia.”

“Quite cleverly too,” Krauss says. “One container going directly to Russia stands a much greater chance of being nailed
by Customs than one of thousands going to Cuba under special sanction.”

Banzer’s eyes widen with intrigue. “All his deals in Russia are legit, but he’s using mob money to pay for them. That’s pretty good.”

“Better than good. Rubineau actually told me he was bringing money in; however, he didn’t say whose.”

“Okay, okay, assuming Katkov’s right,
assuming . .
.” Scotto emphasizes, running with the theory, “then Russia’s privatization program would play right into the mob’s hands, wouldn’t it?”

“Keep talking,” Banzer prompts.

“Well, it’s a voucher system. That means if they buy them from private citizens with the dirty cash, they’ll be laundering it in lots of small pieces, rather than in huge chunks.”

“Like a check-cashing operation,” Krauss concludes.

“Exactly.”

“No,” I protest gently. “You’re complicating the matter. There’s no need to launder it in Russia. No one questions cash there. You simply place several large suitcases on the table, and the deal is done.”

“Direct investment,” Krauss concludes.

“Whatever.”

“If Katkov’s right,” Banzer reasons, nursing his beer, “if this money is going into Russia to pay for ITZ deals, there still has to be somebody on the inside.”

“That’d be Arkady Barkhin, I imagine.”

“No way,” Banzer declares. “He’ll come away with a piece of the action, but the Russian government owns the industries ITZ is buying, correct?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then there has to be a transition point for the money; and that means someone inside the government.”

“I thought it might’ve been Vorontsov, early on,” I venture, having no idea who else it could be. “But now I’m quite certain he was clean.”

“Me too,” Scotto chimes in. She drains her beer and launches the can into the air with a flick of her wrist. “They killed him because he was about to blow the whistle on organized crime buying into Russian businesses.” The can lands in a trash pail
next to the wet bar. She nods smartly, suggesting her accuracy validates her theory.

“Yes, but someone had to finger him first,” Banzer argues, hitching up trousers that keep slipping despite the elastic waist. “They had to know Vorontsov was going to blow the whistle. Which leaves us with an insider who blew it on him.”

Scotto’s head bobs with uncertainty. “That works if the money’s going to Russia, but there’s an equally good chance it’s staying in Cuba, or—”

“Organized crime. Running Havana’s casinos like in the old days,” Banzer interrupts, jumping on it.

“Yeah. It’s pretty obvious Rubineau still feels the weight of Lansky’s legacy.” Scotto cocks her head in my direction, soliciting confirmation.

“I agree. He’s quite burdened with it, but—”

“Thank you,” she says curtly, cutting me off. “On the other hand, it could be going anywhere from there. Havana’s what? About two-hundred-fifty miles from the Caymans, less than a thou from Bolivia or Panama. Not to mention Switzerland, Liechtenstein . . .”

“A third angle,” Krauss offers, “is that Castro’s setting up Cuba as a clearinghouse. From the missile base of the sixties to the monetary base of the nineties.”

Banzer grunts in agreement. “If he was smart, he’d do it by the book and model it after the Cays: easy incorporation, regulatory flexibility, strict confidentiality, no taxes, ten percent off the top.”

“Two hundred million for doing nothing,” Scotto calculates.

“Beats working for a living,” Krauss quips.

“Well, if I were you,” I say, fueling the fire, “I’d sure want to know if that’s what he’s up to.”

Banzer nods thoughtfully and swings a look to Krauss. “Tom?”

“Well, I guess we could play ball with Rubineau for a while.”

“Gabby?”

“I don’t trust him. I mean, which came first here, the chicken or the egg?”

“I’ve waited years for the answer,” Banzer jokes.

“Look, Rubineau claims Castro came to him out of undying gratitude. That’s a pun, guys. Anyway, there’s every chance it was the other way around.”

“You mean Rubineau had a line to the money and instigated the whole thing?” Krauss speculates.

Scotto nods emphatically.

“It doesn’t matter, dammit,” I say, frustration getting the best of me. “You’re all forgetting it started in Moscow, and that’s where it’s ending. But you have to let that container go.”

“Why? Because it’s better for your story?” Scotto challenges.

“Better for my country. It’s rife with corruption. Letting crime syndicates control our distribution systems isn’t going to clean it up.”

“Getting the two billion into Russia might be better for your country too, Katkov.”

“What do you mean by that?”

A sly smile creeps across her face. “Oh, just that it’s possible he’s won you over.”

“Who?”

“Your newly found countryman.”

“Rubineau? Are you accusing me of something?”

“No. I’m wondering if you haven’t fallen victim to the same misguided motives. It wouldn’t be the first time someone with a strong ethical compass lost their way. Things get bad enough, it’s easy to convince yourself the end justifies the means.”

“Well, since we’re talking about purity of motive, Agent Scotto, was your friend Woodruffs death an excuse to get back into the field? Or do you really want to bring those responsible to justice?”

Scotto seethes. I’ve struck the nerve dead center, as I intended. Even Banzer waits expectantly for her reply. “That was a low blow, Katkov,” she says through clenched teeth.

“As you Americans are so fond of saying, it comes with the territory. A Russian may not have pulled the trigger; but once again, I hasten to remind you, that this began in Moscow, and—”

“What if you’re wrong? Two billion slips through our fingers, and—”

“I’m not wrong.”

“Easy to say, but—”

“Hold it, hold it,” Banzer interrupts. He has a weird look on his face. As if he’s been stunned by a thought. “You two chased that container for fifteen hundred miles, right?”

Scotto grunts. I nod.

“Either of you happen to get a look inside it?”

We both shake our heads no.

“No one’s actually seen the two billion?”

From Scotto’s expression I suspect her gut is feeling hollow like mine. “Katkov raised the issue when the decoy rigs showed up,” she offers generously. “But it wasn’t in the cards. Any word on them?”

“Yeah. Two were empty. They were dropped off at depots for reuse. We lost track of the third.”

“So,” Krauss concludes in his incisive way, “we’re fighting over whether or not we let a container of evidence go; and for all we know it could be filled with kitty litter?”

Scotto nods somberly.

Banzer winces with apprehension.

I drain my Coke in response to the bile rising in the back of my throat.

34

T
he Fincen gang spends the afternoon making arrangements with Customs to inspect container 95824. I spend it satisfying an overwhelming compulsion to write. Within minutes of returning to my room, the typewriter is out of its scarred case, and I’m ripping off page after page of notes on what’s happened since Scotto and I left Arlington.

As soon as darkness falls, the four of us pile into Banzer’s rented sedan and cross the short causeway to Dodge Island. Several cruise ships are about to sail. The passenger terminals are ablaze with light and buzzing with bon voyage festivities. Banzer parks in front of the Customs building.

Inspector Aguilar is out of his chair the instant he sees us coming down the corridor toward his office. One eye on the time clock, the other on his pension, he’d do quite well at any Ministry in Moscow. But this could be the biggest money-laundering interdiction in history, and he wants to be part of it so badly, he can taste it. After some perfunctory paper shuffling with Banzer, Aguilar consults his computer for the location of container 95824. “Aisle thirty-four, slot twenty-one,” he announces from beneath his mustache before leading the way outside.

The sergeant who took Scotto and me into custody packs the
group into a gray Customs van. It proceeds along Port Boulevard to the far end of the harbor where cargo vessels are berthed. Bridge cranes stilled, work lights off, longshoremen headed home, the massive pier is deserted and painted with deep shadows that recede into hard-edged blackness.

The guard at the security gate salutes Aguilar and waves the van through. It crosses the restricted area and turns into a narrow aisle between the containers destined for the hold of the Havana-bound freighter. Somewhere deep in the corrugated-steel maze, the van slows and stops.

The numerals 95824 are visible through the window next to me. My heart starts pounding. Aguilar rolls back the door, and the six of us pile out of the van. Anxious glances. Tense silence. An air of finality. The pungent odor of creosote rises as we gather around one end of the grimy container.

Aguilar nods.

The sergeant breaks the Customs seals and uses a master key to open the padlock, then retracts the dead bolts that secure the doors. The weathered hinges grind unnervingly as he opens one, then the other, and turns on a flashlight. Krauss and Aguilar do the same. The beams slash the darkness like dueling sabers, and there—behind the plastic webbing that prevents the cargo from shifting—the overlapping circles of light find an eight-foot-square wall of United States currency. Clear plastic bags stuffed with bundles of cash are piled side-to-side and top-to-bottom like tightly packed stones. They all seem to contain hundred-dollar bills from which Benjamin Franklin’s stern visage stares back at us.

We’re stunned by the sight of it. Even Scotto is at a loss for words. The collective sigh of relief is probably loud enough to be heard back at FinCEN headquarters in Arlington.

Scotto tightens a fist in triumph.

“Yessss,” Krauss hisses under his breath.

“Fuck-ing A!” Aguilar exclaims jubilantly.

“Let’s not break out the champagne yet,” Banzer cautions. He leads the group around to the container’s side door. “Better crack this one too, just to be sure.”

The sergeant opens it swiftly. More plastic bags stuffed with hundreds are jammed across the opening.

“It’s—it’s unbelievable,” I stutter.

“Well, I’ll tell you something else you won’t believe, Mr.
Katkov,” Banzer says in a confidential tone. “At this very moment, despite strict Federal Reserve monitoring of the money supply, the USG has no idea where eighty percent of the bills printed by the Treasury are located.”

“Eighty percent?” I echo, flabbergasted.

“Eighty,” he repeats, pleased by my reaction.

“Well, we located a few of them, didn’t we?” Aguilar prompts, mustache twitching with anticipation.

Banzer forces a weak smile. “Okay, button it up.”

Aguilar stops the sergeant with a look. “Care to run that by me again?” he challenges caustically.

“I’ll run it over you, if I have to,” Banzer threatens. “We have a decision to make, and the lid stays screwed on tight until we do. Am I coming through?”

Aguilar holds Banzer’s look, then breaks it off. “Loud and clear.” He nods to the sergeant, who goes about slamming doors, setting dead bolts, and securing levers and locks.

A thought occurs to me. I motion Scotto aside. “You have something sharp in there?”

“Uh-huh.” She digs in her shoulder bag, and, to my amazement, removes a hunting knife. “Why?”

“Just a feeling.” I use it to scratch my initials into the side of the container next to the number. “There were four of these with the same number; but one is still unaccounted for, right?”

Scotto raises a brow in tribute and whispers, “Fuck-ing A.”

A short time later, we’re packed into Aguilar’s office in the Customs building. Banzer leans against the edge of the desk, arms folded across his chest as he holds court. Aguilar is beside himself, pacing the tiny space like a caged animal. “We let that container out of the country”—he pauses to glare at me—“we can kiss it good-bye.”

“I beg to differ. I—”

“Beg all you like,” he interrupts, “there’s no way in hell I’m signing off on it.”

“Be advised, Inspector,” Banzer says, making no effort to hide his disdain, “that in the event we decide to let the container go on, my ass’ll be on the line, not yours.” He pushes off the edge of the desk and hitches up his pants. “If you need verification, give Assistant Commissioner Morrison a call. I have the number if you need it.” He shifts his look to Krauss without waiting for a reply. “What’s your take on this, Tom?”

“I don’t know, boss. I mean, if it ends up in Cuba, we have no legal recourse; nothing.”

“And if it doesn’t, if it goes on,” Scotto adds with a nod that acknowledges my theory, “we have no way to trace it.”

Three heads bob sharply in agreement.

“Yes, you do,” I say mysteriously, pausing to light a cigarette now that I have their attention. “You have me.”

“You?” Banzer prompts, baffled.

“That’s right, Mr. Banzer. Me. Maybe none of you can go to Cuba, but I can.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Aguilar scoffs loudly, spinning his chair to show his anger.

“Why? I can book passage on that freighter as a tourist, and be as close to that container when it gets to Cuba—and when it leaves—as we were tonight.”

Banzer groans with exasperation. “Look, we got away with letting you hook up with Scotto, but I’m afraid that’s as far as it goes.”

Aguilar grunts in agreement. “I mean, no way I’m putting two billion dollars in the hands of a Russian journalist.”

I exhale slowly, adding to the haze that hangs beneath the fluorescents. “Are you implying I’m not trustworthy, Inspector?”

“No. I’m saying it.”

“Hey, hey,” Banzer says in a conciliatory tone. “It’s not a matter of trust. It’s a matter of competence.”

“That’s right,” Krauss says. “No offense, Katkov, but you’re not qualified to handle this.”

Scotto has a strange look on her face, as if something of monumental significance just occurred to her. “I don’t know about that. I mean, as partners go, he’s sure as hell held up his end so far.”

“He what?” Banzer blurts.

“You heard me. Held up mine on occasion too,” she says with a mischievous grin. “Didn’t you, Katkov?”

I’m speechless. Along with Banzer and Krauss, she’s caught me completely off guard, and I can barely manage an astonished grunt.

“Geezus,” Banzer finally exclaims incredulously. “Am I actually hearing this?”

“What can I tell you, guys? I got this thing for journalists
who put their ass on the line. It never dawned on me Katkov could go to Cuba. All things considered, I think it’s worth a shot.”

“All things considered, I think you’re nuts.”

“Come on, Joe. We—”

“Don’t start with that Joe business again.”

“Look,” Scotto argues. “We already nailed a half billion in that basement, right?”

Banzer nods impatiently.

“And we already nailed the truck depot.”

“Gabby—”

“
And
if Rubineau’s a bad penny, we can nail him whenever we want. We’re already batting .750, Joe. Why not swing away? Come on, let the damned container go.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“Other than the three I just gave you?”

Banzer grunts affirmatively.

“This.” She points to the pit of her stomach. “My gut is telling me Katkov’s right about it going to Russia—”

“Not good enough.”

“And you’ll be getting me back,” she adds brightly.

Banzer grins wryly and waggles a hand.

“Okay, Joe, but you’re asking for both barrels.”

“Woody?” Banzer prompts warily. “Again? You want me to go along with this for Woody?”

Scotto nods solemnly.

“What do you think he’d say?”

“I’d give anything to be able to ask him, Joe.”

Banzer removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, then holds the lenses up to the light, scrutinizing them as he thinks it through. “The Halifax sails on Monday, right?”

Scotto and I both nod.

“Well, if I were you, Katkov,” Banzer concludes, “I’d spend the weekend working on my tan.”

“You saying what I think you’re saying?” Scotto asks expectantly.

“I’m saying that if he’s going to Cuba as a tourist, and Miami was his last stop, he damn well better look it.”

“Shit,” Aguilar mutters under his breath.

“You don’t like it?” Banzer shoves the phone across the desk. “God is waiting for your call.”

Aguilar glances to the phone, then slumps in his chair and seethes.

Banzer grins at Scotto. “Since you Sicilians seem to have the technique down, Agent Scotto, I’m leaving Katkov in your capable hands. Get him some clothes, a camera, sunglasses, a T-shirt from Disney World, whatever.”

“Diz-nee-vherl?” Scotto says, breaking up.

I burst into laughter along with her.

“What? What?” Banzer wonders, preoccupied. “I miss something here?”

“No, Joe, it’s an inside joke.”

Banzer puts the glasses back on and zeroes in on Aguilar. “We’ll be counting on your cooperation.”

Aguilar nods sullenly.

“What was that?” Banzer prompts, a hand to his ear.

“I said, you can count on it.”

“Okay,” Banzer exclaims with a clap of his hands as if he’s wrapped up another day at the office. “Where we going for dinner? I’m starving.”

Scotto decides it should be a bon voyage party in my honor and tracks down a place in Little Havana called Versailles. The strangely named restaurant is sweaty, raucous, and alive with rapid-fire Spanish and the thump of canned congas that echo off walls of faded mirrors. The customers are smoking like chimneys. The dishes of earthy Cuban food are massive. The beer is strong and dark, the coffee stronger and darker. I’m nursing my third piña colada. Banzer is absentmindedly stirring what’s left of his café Cubano. Scotto’s counting the turns of the spoon.

“What’s bugging you, Joe?”

“Huh?”

“You’re drilling a hole in your cup. You always do that when something’s on your mind.”

He nods grimly. “This damned insider.”

“The one we figure blew the whistle on Vorontsov,” Krauss declares.

“Yeah. They cross paths, chances are he’ll know Katkov, but Katkov won’t know him. None of us would. He could be sitting at the next table.”

Scotto arches a brow in agreement. Her eyes dart back and forth between us.

Banzer’s search mine for a reaction.

“Well, as you might imagine, I’ve been giving that some thought.”

Banzer sets the spoon aside and takes a sip of coffee. “I’d be worried if you hadn’t.”

“It has to be someone in the Interior Ministry, and I’m . . . I’m fairly certain I know who.” That gets their attention. I’m not so sure I want it. I stub out my cigarette, wondering if I went too far, wondering if what I’m about to say will offend them. More importantly, if it will affect Banzer’s decision to let the container go to Cuba. “It’s a police officer.” I stiffen with apprehension but not one of them bats an eye; not one appears defensive. Evidently, I’m still too conditioned by the past, by thoughts of what would happen if they were KGB agents. “His name’s Gudonov. He was in charge of Economic Crimes. Now he’s the new chief investigator.”

Banzer winces. “Geezus.” He’s disgusted, not angry.

“Figures,” Scotto growls, knowingly. “An arrogant asshole if ever there was one.”

“Not to mention devious. He pulled the case out from under Shevchenko, handed my story to another journalist, and used him to allege Vorontsov was killed because he was blackmailing some bureaucrats.”

“Over what?” Krauss asks.

“He supposedly caught them embezzling from the Party to buy State assets. My friend Yuri thinks it’s part of a cover-up. So do I.”

Banzer lets out a long breath. “And you’re certain you still want to do this?”

“Try and stop me.”

Banzer smiles and mulls it over. “Okay. We’ll take care of the travel arrangements soon as we get back. Speaking of which . . .” He glances to his watch, then flags the waiter for the check. “Better move it. By the time we drop you at the hotel, we’ll be lucky to make our flight.”

“Go,” Scotto says. “We’ll grab a cab.”

“You sure?”

“Uh-huh. I promised Katkov a piece of key lime pie, and we’ve got some shopping to do.”

“Good luck, Katkov,” Banzer says. It’s a joke, but the levity in his voice is missing from his eyes.

“Thanks. I’m in Agent Scotto’s quite capable hands, am I not?”

A little look flicks between Banzer and Krauss.

Scotto sees it. “That’s it,” she snarls good-naturedly. “Get the hell out of here.”

They push back their chairs, feigning they’ve been unjustly accused. Krauss shakes my hand, then slips sideways between the tables. Banzer lingers with a thought. “Remember, Gabby, we’re talking Wal-mart here, not Saks and Neiman’s.”

Scotto gives him the finger.

He laughs, then pays the check and shoulders his way after Krauss. My eyes are drifting back toward Scotto when they catch sight of a man at the bar. Detached countenance, unremarkable features, gold neck chains, loose-fitting tropical shirt—the details come in fleeting glimpses through openings in the crowd that surges around the bar. I have an uneasy feeling I’ve seen him before. But I can’t place him. I’m falling back into old habits. Hell, he probably resembles someone I’ve seen in passing lately.
Pravda?
The passport office? Arlington Cemetery?