by Greg Dinallo
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 c
enter 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.”
“Months?”
She nods resignedly.
“So that’s it?”
“No, I still have a few ideas. Hang in there.”
I leave wondering what I’d do if she finds him. Call and ask for an interview? The chances of even getting through to him are slim to none. Show up on his doorstep? He could be anywhere, New York, Los Angeles, even Tel Aviv, for that matter. I’m stumped, and too tired for strategic thought. Scotto’s on the phone when I enter her office. I flop on the sofa, intending to make a few more notes. The fabric has an intriguing pattern that seems to vibrate with hypnotic resonance. The last thing I remember is thinking I should get a refill on the coffee.
“Katkov? Katkov, you coming?” Scotto calls out, shaking me awake. “Come on, we’re taking that factory down.”
I push up onto an elbow and squint at the window. It’s dark out, not as dark as the inner workings of my brain at the moment, but dark. I grab my parka and stumble after Scotto, gulping what’s left of my coffee. I don’t know how long I napped, but in that time she obtained a search warrant, completely outlined the operation, and assembled a task force to carry it out; and now, like she said, that factory’s going down.
23
According to Scotto, Baltimore is about an hour’s drive from Arlington. She makes it in just over forty minutes, taking Route 95 into the heart of downtown. En route, she explains that the task force includes: the Baltimore Police Department, because it’s in their jurisdiction; DEA, because the money comes from illegal drug sales; and Customs, because the probability it would be smuggled out of the country is high.
“What? No FBI?” After my run-in with Naturalization and Immigration I can’t resist provoking her.
“Not if I can help it,” Scotto replies sardonically.
“Really? Care to be more specific?”
“Nothing I can put my finger on. Somehow, they always manage to find a way to ruin my day.”
Baltimore looks like a snow-dusted frenzy of brick and aluminum siding jammed onto narrow streets that radiate from a series of inland bays. The Holabird Avenue off-ramp deposits us in the city’s depressed eastern district. Littered with decaying garbage, abandoned vehicles, and the cruel irony of street people huddled in the doorways of boarded-up houses, it reminds me of the area around Leningradsky Station that has become a haven for Moscow’s rapidly growing homeless population.
Colgate Street, where the factory is located, has already been cordoned off and secured by members of the Baltimore Police Department. We park next to a boarded-up storefront that will serve as a command post. It’s papered with faded movie posters and campaign flyers.
Scotto reaches into the backseat and scoops up her shoulder bag. It’s an impressive-looking tour de force of black leather with myriad compartments, pockets, snaps, and zippers that serves as purse and executive briefcase. She removes an automatic pistol, extracts the clip, examines it briefly, then slaps it back into the handgrip and jacks a round into the chamber. Her eyes are dispassionate; her hands nimble and steady. A cool professional conducting a precombat check on her equipment—the equipment that keeps her alive. She digs a shoulder holster out of the trunk and slips the pistol into it, then grabs the black windbreaker with TREASURY AGENT printed across the back and heads inside.
Clusters of uniformed and plainclothes officers in tense conversation are sprinkled throughout the space. Each has a radio. The electronic din is occasionally broken by short bursts of dispatch data. Banzer and ranking officers from the other agencies involved are gathered around a long table, reviewing the floor plan of the factory. A wiry black fellow with a mustache, who seems to be in charge, introduces himself to Scotto as Captain Trask of the Baltimore PD, then glances at me curiously. “He one of yours?” he asks in a thin voice that suits him.
“Our guest,” Scotto replies without batti
ng an eye. An investigator from Moscow. He participated in one of my seminars. He’s doing field follow-up.”
Banzer looks away and suppresses a smile.
Captain Trask nods warily, sweeping his eyes over me as he moves off. Moscow? A Russian?
I lean to Scotto and prompt, “An investigator?”
“Isn’t that what journalists do?” she replies in a taut whisper. “Investigate?”
“True.”
“Didn’t you ‘participate’ in my seminar?”
“All too briefly.”
“And aren’t you doing field follow-up?”
“I knew there was a name for it.”
“I rest my case.”
Trask takes charge of a makeshift communications console—another long table covered with portable radios—to check the position and readiness of field units. Each agency has its own frequency; and the sleek, high-tech instruments are crudely identified by pieces of tape on which Customs, DEA, BPD, and FinCEN have been scribbled in black marker. Trask thumbs the transmit button on the one labeled CUSTOMS, but a DEA officer responds. The DEA radio raises the BPD. The mix-up turns the simple procedure into a comedy skit that rivals the Moscow phone system with its separate phone for each line. “Okay, let’s do it,” Trask finally calls out, laughing good-naturedly. “Let’s do it before I become the first black man in history to turn red.”
A group of us move back outside to a vantage point from where we can see the factory. The single-story brick building has a vaulted roof and barred windows through which neither light nor movement of occupants are visible. There’s no sign; nothing that identifies it as the home of Coppelia Paper Products Ltd.
Members of various law enforcement groups move in and surround it. Some carry sidearms, others riot guns; all wear black windbreakers identifying the respective agency. Each entrance is hit by brilliant spotlights that turn night into day.
