by Greg Dinallo
“They dumped Walesa.”
I nod glumly. “Believe me, the hard-liners are never going to let go.”
“Yeah, but there’ll be other elections. And sooner or later, they’re going to get kicked out of office.”
“Maybe. Unfortunately, this has nothing to do with the quality of life in Russia—which is unimaginably rotten—and is getting worse daily. Massive unemployment, rampant inflation, homelessness, hunger, not to mention a resurgence of anti-Semitism.”
“Sounds like Germany in the thirties.”
“Perfect analogy.”
“So the danger is the people will throw in their lot with whoever convinces them they can better it.”
“Worse than that.” I pause, loath to validate the thought by verbalizing it. “The danger is, they’ll remember things were better under Brezhnev—which they were—and decide freedom isn’t worth the price.”
“Come on, under Brezhnev there’s no way you’d be sitting here today.”
“True.”
“I mean now you could even emigrate, if you wanted to. Right?”
“If I wanted to.”
“You saying you never thought of getting out? Starting a new life somewhere? Israel, Brighton Beach . . .”
“All the time.”
Scotto smiles and goes back to drying her hair with the towel as the television screen fills with demonstrators jammed into Red Square.
I can’t take my eyes off them or the word LIVE next to the CNN logo. Live? I feel so distant, so out of touch. Everything here has moved so fast, I haven’t had the inclination, let alone the time, to think about Russia. Now I can’t get it out of my mind. For a brief moment, I’m seized by a compulsion to make a dash for the nearest airport. I decide to call Yuri for a firsthand report instead. I need to touch base, need to hear his reassuring voice. I follow instructions on a plastic card affixed to the phone and direct-dial his apartment in Moscow. Amazing. It rings in a matter of seconds, then rings and rings and rings.
“No answer?” Scotto prompts.
I nod glumly and hang up. “The time difference is eight hours, isn’t it?”
Scotto nods, glancing to her watch. “It’s two in the morning there.”
“I don’t understand. It’s not like him. Yuri’s always home at this hour.”
“Maybe he’s at that demonstration?”
“Yuri? I doubt it.”
“He’s not into reform?”
“Totally into it. Scientists make the best dissidents.”
“How come?”
“Because they’re always searching for the truth—”
“Walked right into that one.”
“—and therefore have little tolerance for propaganda. Yuri’s an economist, the quiet, behind-the-scenes type; goes to see his mother every Saturday.”
She smiles. “Let’s get some dinner, and you can try him again when we—” The phone in Scotto’s room rings, interrupting. She hurries off to answer it.
I remain and stare numbly at the television, my eyes searching the faces of my countrymen, searching the crowd for Yuri—searching it madly, if I’m honest with myself, for Vera. Barely a week has passed since I left, but it seems so much longer. I cross to the windows, feeling vulnerable and homesick. The lights across the bay twinkle hypnotically in the darkness.
“That was Joe,” Scotto announces brightly, pulling me out of it. “He’s coming down tomorrow.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Well, he talked to some people at State. For openers, Turis-tica Internacional is an American company. It’s been granted special permission to work with the Cuban Government and redevelop their tourism and gaming industries.”
“So much for the hard-nosed embargo. I imagine that explains why Jennifer couldn’t get into their data base.”
“Sure as hell does. It gets better. TI is a subsidiary of Travis Enterprises.”
“Travis? That’s Rubineau’s holding company.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, her eyes brightening with an idea. “Now he can add the initials TI to it and call it travesty.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“By the way,” Scotto goes on, “after talking with Joe, I had a brief chat with your pal Jennifer in Ops. Guess where Rubi-neau’s jet is cooling its turbines this week?”
“Miami International.”
Scotto nods emphatically.
“He’s working out of his Miami office.”
She nods again and breaks into a devilish smile. “I think it’s time Mr. Rubinowitz and I got to know each other.”
31
Sunlight streams through the windows of my hotel room. An impeccably dressed, terminally earnest black man in a pair of owlish glasses stares at me from the television. “Russia’s Parliament threatens to impeach President Yeltsin,” he announces with grave authority. “We’ll be talking about it with former Ambassador Robert Strauss when Today continues.” No mechanical rabbit selling batteries scampers across the screen this time. Instead, a massive cockroach crawls out of a drain threatening to devour everything in sight. It has to be stopped before it multiplies! Naturally, the pitchman has the answer. I can’t help thinking it’s a perfect metaphor for what’s going on in Russia.
It’s midafternoon in Moscow. I try Yuri again, this time at his office in the Interior Ministry. His secretary says he took the week off to care for his mother, who’s ill. Very ill, I’m afraid, for Yuri to be out of the office that long with his work load. I finish dressing and head for the restaurant to meet Scotto. The hotel concession catches my eye en route. I’ve never seen so many brands of cigarettes in my life. The choices are overwhelming, but the time is short, so I quickly select several at random along with a pack of Marlboros as backup. Over breakfast, Scotto and I discuss how to approach Rubineau. She sees the element of surprise as an advantage and decides against calling ahead for an appointment.
The Southeast Financial Center is a short walk from our hotel. The fifty-five-story tower rises from a plaza where towering palms sway beneath a steel-and-glass space frame. Rubineau occupies a choice suite on the top floor. On the wall behind the reception desk, an illuminated graphic diagrams the complex interlocking of his various companies. Travis Enterprises, ITZ, and Turistica Internacional are among the many names.
He handles Scotto’s “surprise” with the aplomb and graciousness I anticipated and receives us in a sleek corner office that overlooks downtown Miami and Biscayne Bay beyond. The decor is severely modern: glass, chrome, and leather furnishings; artwork that rivals the pieces in his New York apartment; a full complement of executive toys, including computer terminal, stock market quotron, golf clubs, telescope, and impressive communications console.
Rubineau wastes no time showing off his favorite—a scale model of a sprawling resort complex that takes up the entire conference area. The detailed facades of literally dozens of beachfront hotels soar to eye level; charming bungalows cluster around Olympic-size swimming pools; chic condominiums line the fairways of championship golf courses. Basking in the sunny glow of spotlights, the development sweeps majestically into the sea on a finger of white sand. The sound of crashing surf is the only thing missing.
I’m staring at it in amazement. Scotto is staring at Rubineau. He’s smiling like a grandfather showing off the long-awaited heir who will carry on the family legacy. The dark, pin-striped business suit he wore in New York has been replaced by cream-colored linen that sets off his deep tan.
“Varadero,” he says, gesturing grandly as he walks around the gleaming model. “Less than two hours by car from Havana, an hour by plane from Miami.” He whirls to the telescope and adds, “On a clear day, you can almost see it from here.”
“That’s fascinating, Mr. Rubineau,” Scotto says brightly. “And one of your companies, Turistica Internacional, is developing it. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Then perhaps I’m also correct in assuming you can tell us why a container with two billion dollar
s in illicit cash—that’s billion—is part of a shipment consigned to Turistica Internacional in Cuba?”
“Two billion?” Rubineau echoes coolly, circling in our direction.
Scotto nods. “In that ballpark. I haven’t had the opportunity to count it yet.”
“In a container being shipped to TI in Cuba?”
“That’s what I said.”
“That’s a hell of a pile of money.”
“Drug money. One of several piles that’ve turned up on your doorstep lately.”
Rubineau pauses and fires an angry look between the scale model hotel towers. “That sounds like a threat, Agent Scotto.”
“No, Mr. Rubineau. It’s a fact.”
“I thought this was going to be a friendly off-the-record chat. If I’m being accused of something, I’ll call my lawyers now.”
“Call whoever you like. Be sure to mention that you also own a building in Baltimore where close to five hundred million more turned up.”
Rubineau’s eyes lock onto Scotto’s like a pair of angry lasers. I’m wondering what he’ll do: Blow his top? Throw us out? Call security? Instead, he surprises me and nods grudgingly. “I’ll tell you what I told Katkov. I’m not responsible for what’s stored in a building leased from me, and you know it.” His eyes leave hers and capture mine; then he shifts into Russian and challenges, “What the hell is this, Katkov? I thought I told you to tell her she was wasting her time. Now she’s here wasting mine.”
I can see Scotto out of the corner of my eye. Skillful as ever, she looks appropriately baffled by the sudden shift in languages. “That’s a matter of opinion, Mr. Rubineau,” I reply sharply in Russian, annoyed that he’s treating me as if I’m on his payroll, or at the least on his side. “Quite frankly, if I were you, I’d be hoping that’s the case. Furthermore—”
“Listen, Katkov,” he interrupts, continuing to speak in Russian. “When I want advice from you, I’ll ask for it. Understood?”
More Russian. “Understood. Now there’s something you have to understand. I’m not your errand boy. I don’t answer to you, and I don’t like your implying it.”
“Fair enough.”
Scotto rewards me with a cocky smile. Rubineau picks up on it, but isn’t certain what it means. I do. I’ve known all along what’s coming now. “You know, maybe you should call those lawyers,” Scotto suggests coyly in Russian. She pauses briefly, letting Rubineau squirm, then adds, “While you’re at it, you might mention you also own a trucking depot in Maryland that dispatched the container with the two billion.”
“The one in Hagerstown,” he says in English, unwilling to acknowledge she topped him.
Scotto nods incriminatingly.
“Come on, Agent Scotto, they don’t inspect cargo, they ship it.”
“It’s your company.”
“I’m not personally responsible for everything that goes through the place.”
“Somebody is.”
“Are you suggesting I’m being used?”
“Are you?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“Then I expect you’d want to do something about it?”
“Who said I don’t? Look, I checked my records. A company called Coppelia Paper Products leases that building in Baltimore.”
“That’s not news.”
“Did they also ship that container?”
“Sure as hell did.”
“Well, for the record,” Rubineau says, indicating the architectural model, “this development is a coventure with the Cuban Government. My half is being financed with profits from my other businesses.”
“The State Department will verify that?”
“You can count on it.”
“You can count on me checking with them. I also plan to ask why they’re breaking their own embargo.”
“I’ll save you the time. It’s the old carrot and stick routine. The diplomatic version of good cop, bad cop. Smack ’em with one hand, massage ’em with the other, and let them decide which they prefer.”
“I’m familiar with the technique.”
“I thought you might be.”
“No offense, but with your background, why would the United States Government—”
Rubineau’s eyes flare with indignation. “Hold it right there. Am I to assume that means you’re referring to Mr. Lansky?”
“That’s right.”
“Then I do take offense.”
“Suit yourself, Mr. Rubineau. Now, let’s get back to my question. With all the people in the hotel and gaming business, why would the USG come to you?”
“They didn’t.” A smug grin tugs at a corner of his mouth. He straightens his tie, letting her live with it for a moment, then delivers the punch line. “Castro did—personally.”
Scotto’s jaw drops.
So does mine.
“And the USG agreed to it?” she asks, stunned.
Rubineau smiles, pleased by her reaction. “It’s a very long story. You have a half hour? I want to show you something.” He turns and leads the way from the office without waiting for a reply.
32
The high-speed elevator deposits us in the financial center’s underground garage, where a Lincoln limousine is waiting. Sleek, sensuous, with the finish of a black mirror, it makes the Russian Zil look like an armored personnel carrier. The license plate reads TRAVIS. Rubineau and I settle in the backseat, Scotto in one of the jump seats facing us. The chauffeur swings up the spiraling ramp, onto Biscayne Boulevard, then takes Flagler west across the Miami River.
We’re gliding through the sweltering streets in air-conditioned comfort when I notice the fronts of the bars and markets are gradually becoming sprinkled with Spanish. Soon, we’re in a quarter of the city alive with an earthy gaiety that reminds me of Havana when I was there twenty years ago. Colorful explosions of neon, plastic, and paint advertise: CAFÉ CUBANO, LOS PINARENOS, MAXIMO GOMEZ PARK, LAS CASA DE LOS TRUCOS, EL CRÉDITO, VARADERO MARKET. Old men in embroidered shirts that Rubineau calls guayaberas shuffle about blithely. Dark-haired women bargain fiercely with merchants who hawk their wares from pushcarts and rickety stands.
Without any prompting from Rubineau, the chauffeur slows and parks in front of a flower shop. It’s bursting with displays that spill out across the sidewalk.
“Don’t go ’way,” Rubineau says as the chauffeur opens the door for him. He unfolds his lanky frame and crosses to the Cuban proprietor, who greets him warmly.
“What the hell’s he up to?” I wonder after the door closes.
“Beats me,” Scotto replies. “But I think he’s lying through his teeth.”
It catches me a little off guard. “Why?”
“You see the telescope in his office?”
I nod, still unable to imagine where she’s headed.
“But you didn’t notice it was aimed right at the piers, did you? Ten to one he’s keeping an eye on container nine-five-eight-two-four.”
“You don’t know that for a fact.”
“No, but I don’t believe that bullshit about keeping an eye on Varadero, either. I mean—” She bites it off as Rubineau’s shadow falls across the window and the chauffeur opens the door.
Scotto and I exchange curious looks as Rubineau settles next to me with a spray of lilies. His behavior only deepens the intrigue, as does his silence. The limousine resumes its journey. A series of rights and lefts takes us to a flagstone gatehouse. An elderly attendant looks up and nods blankly. A weathered bronze plaque reads MOUNT NEBO CEMETERY.
“You know your Old Testament, Katkov?” Rubineau prompts as the limousine follows the winding road.
“I’m afraid the study of religion was rather frowned upon when I was growing up.”
“Well, Mount Nebo is the mountain in Canaan where Moses died.”
“Ah, yes, I have a dim recollection of reading that somewhere. If you don’t mind my asking, what’s a Jewish cemetery doing in the middle of Little Havana?”
“It was a Jewish n
eighborhood called Shenandoah in the fifties. The intriguing part is, as the Cubans began mingling with the Jews, they realized they had something in common.”
“You mean they’ve both been exiled from their homelands.”
“Right. And one group still is—which explains the fascination Cuban refugees have for Israel. It stands as a symbol of what can be attained if you hang in there long enough.”
The limousine comes to a stop. Rubineau takes two black yarmulkes from a compartment between the jump seats. He dons one, hands me the other, and gets out of the car. I haven’t worn one in years, and it takes a moment to get the skullcap situated atop my unruly locks; then Scotto and I hurry after him. The narrow path is lined with headstones that proclaim ROTHER, LEVINE, GOLDBERG, ABRAMOWITZ. It leads to a grove of trees that shade a slab of chest-high granite flanked by octagonal columns, resembling mezuzahs. Simple block letters chiseled across its face spell out the name LANSKY.
Rubineau places the flowers atop the monument and spends a moment in solemn contemplation, then turns to us and says, “It’s fitting that Meyer’s buried here. He loved Cuba, loved the people. He also had a love of history and was very politically astute. He predicted what was going to happen in Cuba. As a matter of fact, he went to the FBI and told them, because he loved his country as well.”
“That’s very moving, Mr. Rubineau,” Scotto says, clearly unmoved.
“I don’t like your tone, Agent Scotto. For your edification, Meyer’s son, Paul, went to West Point.”
“So did Noriega’s chief of staff. I don’t mean to be disrespectful of the dead, but it was a selfish act, and you know it. Lansky had a huge investment there.”
“You bet. Every penny Meyer had went into the Riviera. It was the finest hotel and best-run casino in Havana.”
“That’s my point. He had a lot to lose.”
“So did the United States,” Rubineau fires back. “But they ignored his warning, and look what happened. Soviet missiles ended up a stone’s throw from Miami, and we ended up on the brink of nuclear war.”
