by Greg Dinallo
“No. No, she . . . she is asking if you know of the sights to be seeing?”
“Yeah,” he smirks. “Ever been to Siberia?”
“C’mon, Curtis,” Harlan says, lowering the shotgun. “They’re jus’ tourists. Leave ’em be.”
“Leave my fucking rig be, bitch.” He glares at us, then unhooks his keys from his belt loop and struts toward the cab, his boots pounding the tarmac.
The kid lingers, his pronounced brow knitted with remorse. “I never met no Russians before. I don’t want y’all getting the wrong idea. Americans are good people. I mean, if it wasn’t for Reagan and Bush, them Commies’d still be running the show, right?” He turns toward the cab, then brightens with a thought. “Disney World. Yeah, that’s where y’all oughta go.”
“Diz-nee-vherl?” Scotto repeats, sounding it out like a Russian who’s never heard it before.
“Hey, she’s really getting the hang of it. It’s in Florida. Orlando. Me an’ my girl went once?” he says, his voice rising with childish wonder. “Fan-fuckin-tastic!”
“Come on, Harlan, let’s roll!” the driver calls out from the cab.
“Y’all go down there,” the kid concludes, hurrying off with his shotgun. “Y’all go down there, and find out what Americans are all about.”
We force smiles and head for the Buick, arms around each other’s waists. Scotto’s wired, living on the edge again. I’m relieved, yet seething with indignation. “Regan and Bush?” I exclaim through clenched teeth. “Reagan and Bush destroyed Communism? Self-delusion is what you Americans are all about!”
“Come on, at least give us credit for putting a banana peel or two in Lenin’s path, will you?”
“They were totally unnecessary. Communism is an absurd idea. It was doomed from the start.”
“Okay, okay. Lighten up. We’re on our honeyball, remember? Come on, grab my ass or something. This is a truck stop.” Her hand drops to my buttock and squeezes it so hard that I yelp. She opens the trunk, rummages in one of the boxes, and hands me the bottle of vodka. “You earned it, Katkov. You did real good.”
“Thanks.” I steady my hands, unscrew the cap, and take a long swallow. “I was quite terrified. Still am.”
“Me too.”
“Shit of the bull, Scotto. You were enjoying it, immensely, and you know it.”
“I guess so,” she says with a laugh that ends in a reflective smile. “I can’t explain it, but it’s a rush every time. When I think of the things I’ve done. . . .” The husky roar of a diesel kicking over pulls her out of it. We clamber into the Buick. I toss the bottle into the box on the backseat. Scotto pokes her fingers under the cuff of her jacket and pulls the ice pick from the sleeve. “Stick this in there, will you?”
“Quite frankly, I was waiting for you to stick it in him.”
“I came close,” she admits, adrenaline still pumping, “but it would’ve blown everything.”
“What did you do with it, anyway?”
She starts the engine and smiles. “You’ll see.”
Across the grounds, the eighteen-wheeler starts rolling toward the highway, then suddenly turns in our direction. I’m blinded, not by the alcohol, but by headlights that are closing fast. The tractor’s massive grille is within a car length of hitting the sedan head-on before the driver brakes and swerves sharply. The Buick shudders violently as the forty-ton semi thunders past. It rumbles onto the highway with a deafening blast from its air horns, followed by the other two rigs—also hauling containers numbered 95824.
“Jerk,” Scotto mutters. She lays back, giving them a head start, then pulls out and pursues. The eighteen-wheelers merge into heavy commercial traffic, barreling south at a steady 75 mph; but I’ve no trouble tailing our target now. Dead center in each of its tailights, a blinding white point of light burns from the hole Scotto made with the ice pick, each a distinct beacon in the panorama of red lenses bobbing in the darkness.
We’ve gone a short distance when Scotto’s radio comes to life. The crackle gives way to heavy breathing followed by laughter. “We saw her grabbing your ass, Zhivago,” an agent in one of the other pursuit units cracks. “You want to file sexual harrassment charges? You’ve got witnesses.”
Scotto scoops up her radio. “Okay, you guys,” she warns, trying to keep her cool. “I’ve had enough.”
“Hey, she uses that one on me all the time, Zhivago,” another agent cracks. “Don’t believe her.”
“The only reason you clowns are getting away with this,” Scotto counters, fuming, “is because you stayed out of it back there. Nice to see you using your heads instead of your dicks for a change.”
We’re well south of the Tennessee border when dawn breaks, silhouetting distant mountains. The interstate rises and falls, transporting us in and out of wispy ground fog that cloaks our target; but the pinpoints of light coming from the flatbed’s tail-lights cut through the haze like lasers. We’re outside Jefferson City, approaching the intersection of 40 East, when the second decoy peels off, taking one of the pursuit units with it. About an hour later, twenty miles south of Knoxville, agents in the remaining unit report that their target has split off west. That leaves Scotto and me tailing the Virginia rig with the two billion in cash. It’s a hundred-mile sprint to Chattanooga on the Tennessee-Georgia border, and another hundred or so to Atlanta. It’s late morning by the time the city’s tightly packed mass of glass and steel appears on the horizon.
“Forgive me for saying it, Scotto, but we could’ve just as well flown down here with Krauss and camped out at the recycling plant until our target arrived.”
“Yeah, but look at all the fun we would’ve missed. I mean, is this a story or what?”
“A fan-fucking-tastic story.”
She laughs, then her brow furrows with concern. “Let’s hope somebody’s camped out here.” She reaches for her radio and thumbs the transmit button. “Hel-lo At-lan-ta,” she says, sing-songing it. “This is Shell Game Leader to Nutcracker One. Leader to Nutcracker One. Do you read?”
“This is Nutcracker,” the agent in charge of the Atlanta task force replies. “Coming through loud and clear. Go ahead.”
“Target is two miles north of the Two-eighty-five turnoff. ETA to your location, ten minutes.”
“Copy that. All our units are in position.”
“Sounds good,” Scotto acknowledges. “I’ll hang in here and count it down for you: one mile . . . a half . . . a quarter . . . coming up on the turnoff. Yeah, yeah, he’s going for it. We got brake lights; we got a turn signal.” She pumps the air with a fist. “Okay, we’re rolling west on Two-eight-five now.”
She clicks off and has me retrieve her shoulder bag from the backseat. One of the pockets contains a detailed street map of Atlanta. Highway 285 crosses the interstate about ten miles north of the city. Like the boulevards that encircle Moscow, it rings the congested downtown area, routing commercial traffic to surrounding manufacturing districts. Container 95824’s ultimate destination is located near Fulton County Airport off a highway access road. Easy-to-spot landmarks are identified on the map, and the distance to destination is written next to each. I read off the miles aloud as each landmark flashes past. Scotto radios the data to Nutcracker. “Three miles,” she reports as the rig changes lanes up ahead.
“That’s a read. We’re ready for him.”
“Two miles . . . one . . .”
“Nice work, Shell Game. Back off when he makes the turn and hold at the foot of the access road. We’re hanging tight until the creeps take possession of the cargo. Wouldn’t want ’em claiming it was delivered to the wrong address, would we?”
“Copy that,” Scotto replies as the sprawling recycling plant appears in the distance. “A thousand yards . . . five hundred . . . smokestacks . . . nice sign on the roof. He’s turning into the access road riiiiight . . .” She draws it out in anticipation of adding ‘now!’—but she never gets to say it. Instead of slowing to make the turn, the eighteen-wheeler blows right past it. �
��Hold it, hold it, he kept going!”
“Fuck,” Nutcracker growls. “They’re pulling a fast one. We better roll some units and take him.”
“Negative,” Scotto barks sharply. “Negative. Don’t overreact, dammit. Tom Krauss there?”
“Yeah.”
“Put him on, will you?”
“Gabby?” Krauss’s voice crackles tensely.
“Yeah. Pour some cold water on that guy, will you? I’ve been tailing this rig for over twelve hours. I don’t want to blow this end now. Let’s lay back and see what he’s up to.”
“Yeah, maybe he’s meeting the mayor for lunch?” Nutcracker says facetiously.
“Talk to me, Gabby,” Krauss commands. “You got any idea what?”
“Negative. We can always take him. I want to give him some rope, see if he hangs somebody with it.”
“That’s a read. I’ll take care of it.”
Scotto clicks off and swings me a concerned look. “He better hang somebody soon.” She points to the instrument panel in response to my look. “Running on fumes again. Let’s hope our boy is too.”
28
Dammit, Scotto,” Banzer’s voice crackles over the cellular. “I thought you were coordinating?” Scotto’s car phone is an amazing gadget by Russian standards, with a hands-free mode that allows both of us to listen and respond via a tiny speaker and microphone.
“Makes two of us,” Scotto fires back. “But they pulled a couple of fast ones. For openers, what am I bid for four eighteen-wheelers and four containers with the same number?”
“Geezus. Why didn’t you call me?”
“What for? We had enough units to sustain pursuit. Each one took a rig.”
“God help you if we lost track of the cash.”
“No way. We had the plate number of the rig that’s carrying it.”
“Ah, and you just happened to tail that one?”
“Hey, I got lucky. The recycling plant was a decoy too.”
“Great. Any idea where the cash is headed?”
“For a train ride.”
“A train ride.”
“Uh-huh. Me and Katkov are sitting on it in the Atlanta yards right now. The eighteen-wheeler’s crew dropped it off, trailer and all, and split.”
“What’s the drill?”
“Nutcracker wanted to take it down before it gets out of his jurisdiction, but I got Krauss to talk him out of it. The money’s going to end up on somebody’s doorstep, and I want to know whose.”
“You and me both. What about the rig’s crew?”
“We’re holding off on them too, for now. Better if they think it’s all going according to plan.”
“Good. You have backup?”
“Uh-huh. Nutcracker’s got a couple of units covering us; they’re also putting a chopper on standby. Too chancy tailing a truck by air, but a freight shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Yeah, but why standby? I mean, it’s going to be moving. We know that.”
“But we don’t know when, Joe. Nutcracker said it could sit here for weeks. The chopper’s a National Guard loaner, and they can’t tie it up that long. I couldn’t argue.”
“Well you’re a loaner too, and I can’t tie you up that long either. And don’t argue.”
“Joe.”
“Hold on a sec. I know a guy on the Amtrak PD. Maybe we can find out where it’s going and when.”
Scotto does a slow burn and waits, listening to the hum of the line.
I keep the binoculars trained on our target. Container 95824 is one of hundreds in the section of the train yard where long lines of flatcars wait to be loaded with containerized cargo. A gargantuan bridge crane straddles them, gliding back and forth on tracks of its own as it goes about transferring two of the forty-foot-long aluminum boxes to each flatcar.
We’re parked on an overpass at one end of the yard. It arches between the deserted hulks of once thriving mills and factories that crowd the right of way. Like most of the streets in this desolate area, the graffiti-covered span is littered with abandoned vehicles. Dents, dings, faded paint, and a heavy coat of road grime keep Scotto’s Buick from standing out.
From this vantage point, the entire network of track stretches out before us. Several husky diesels patrol it, picking up their charges. One by one each railcar is guided to a central spur, where it joins others moving up one side of an incline and down the other. Trainmen, working in a control tower atop the hump, open and close combinations of switches, directing each car to the proper train.
“It’s still sitting there, huh?” Scotto prompts, squirming in her seat impatiently.
I nod and lower the binoculars. “What’s Amtrak?”
“National train system—for passengers.”
“National?” I echo, astonished at this breach of capitalist ideology. “You mean it’s run by the government?”
“Subsidized.”
“Still, whatever happened to free enterprise?”
“It ran into the Wright brothers. The airlines were putting passenger trains out of business, so the government got into it, bought ’em all out, and merged ’em into one.”
“And it has its own police department?”
“Uh-huh. Covers about twenty thousand miles of track, everything within a couple hundred feet on either side of it, and everything that travels on it. Passenger, freight, whatever. Carved it out of FBI turf back in the seventies. A little before my time.” She’s smiling, savoring the thought, when the cellular comes back to life.
“Gabby?” Banzer’s voice crackles. “Good news and bad news. According to my guy, whoever’s running this show is pretty damned sharp. Atlanta is the hub for the entire southeast. More than a dozen railroads run in and out of there.”
“Great,” Scotto groans sarcastically. “The target could be going anywhere, on any one of ’em, at any time. Now, give me the bad news.”
Banzer laughs. “Listen, it’s a computerized yard. They use these scanners to read a code on each railcar. It’s racked up in a sleeve on the side. You get me the code, my guy can get into their data base and find out date and time of departure and destination.”
“Way to go, Joe. One little problem. The container’s not on a flatcar yet. We’ll have to hang in here until it is.”
“I thought Nutcracker said that might take weeks? Listen, Scotto, I think you ought to get your butt back here and let his people . . .”
Scotto’s eyes bug. She scoops up her radio and holds down one of the buttons. It emits a constant stream of loud, scratchy static that’s picked up by the cellular’s mike. “Joe? Joe? We’re losing you, Joe. Say again? Joe? Joe, do you read?” She sets down the radio with a little smile and flicks the cellular to off. “Satellite must be picking up some kind of interference.”
It’s been at least thirty-six hours since either of us have had any sleep. We take turns napping and keeping an eye on the target. There’s nothing terribly demanding about it. Nothing that tests one’s skills or acuity. Nothing vital, other than remaining awake. Container 95824 spends the afternoon sitting in the yard on its trailer. Before we know it, darkness is falling and our stomachs are growling. The Buick’s trunk seems to have an inexhaustible supply of junk food and beverages, but we’re both craving a hot meal. I volunteer to take the car and get us something.
“No, I gotta go,” Scotto protests. “You stay here and mind the store.”
“Really, I’d be more than happy to—”
“You didn’t hear me, Katkov,” she interrupts urgently, pressing her knees together. “I said I gotta go.” She digs a pager out of the glove box and hands it to me. “That container starts moving, hit this button. We won’t be able to talk, but the radio’ll pick up the signal, and I’ll come running.”
The Buick’s taillights are soon red specks in the darkness. I’m fine-tuning the focus on the binoculars when the screech of grinding metal raises my pores. Far below, a long freight enters the yard and snakes through a series of switches, filling the air wit
h the harsh scent of burnt steel. Containers come and go; but 95824 isn’t one of them. About a half hour later, headlights appear at the far end of the overpass and come toward me. It’s Scotto. She gets out of the sedan with an ear-to-ear grin on her face and a flat, square box in her arms. Bright red letters that slash across the top proclaim PIZZA HUT.
I break up with laughter. “In honor of my homeless status?”
“By default. I spotted this neat-looking Texas Chili joint across from where I gassed up, but decided against it.”
“Doesn’t agree with you?”
“Hell no, I could live on the stuff. Did live on it when I was working the border down in Brownsville. It was the thought of running into our favorite trucking crew that gave me a pain in my gut.”
“You mean the two who were—?”
“Uh-huh. Mr. Don’t Touch My Rig, Bitch and his shotgun-hugging flunky. Their tractor was parked right outside the place.”
“Any chance they saw you?”
Scotto shrugs. “Hard to say. I didn’t see them.” We settle on the tailgate of an abandoned pickup truck and dig into the pizza. She devours the first piece, then stares off into the darkness, ignoring the rest.
“Rather tasty. Come on, have another.”
“Lost my appetite,” she mutters, preoccupied. “I keep thinking about this thing . . . you know . . . with my husband. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“As a very smart person once told me, ‘Just be your pushy, pain-in-the-ass self. You’ll do fine.’”
“Very funny.”
“You will.”
“How the hell do you know? You write a column for the lovelorn in your spare time?”
“No, but I could. It seems everyone I know in Moscow is either divorced or on the verge of it.”
“No kidding? It was like that in the seventies here. We raised our consciences so high, we lost sight of what really counted. What’s the problem in Russia?”
“High unemployment, long winters, alcoholism.”
“Not exactly a prescription for wedded bliss, huh? What’s yours?”
