by Greg Dinallo
Scotto scowls. “We didn’t come here for a history lesson, Mr. Rubineau. What’s all this got to do with Castro hiring you?”
“Not very patient, is she, Katkov?” he prompts with one of his disarming smiles.
I can’t help but return it.
Scotto is stone-faced.
“It all began back in the late forties,” Rubineau explains. “After years of collaboration, Meyer and the Italians had a falling out over Las Vegas. Costello thought it would be a loser and didn’t want to invest. Meyer disagreed and sided with Siegel, who was pushing it. What can I say? The man was a genius. Look at the town today.”
“Yeah,” Scotto snorts facetiously, “A showcase of American integrity and family values.”
“And tax revenues,” Rubineau adds without missing a beat. He winks at me. “Imagine an agent of the U.S. Treasury overlooking taxes? Anyway, it was every man for himself after that. So, when Meyer found out the Italians were in cahoots with the CIA to take out Castro, he decided to take care of Meyer.”
“I recall they tried everything short of nuclear weapons to kill him.”
“Tell me about it,” Scotto replies, disgusted. “It was a comedy of errors. Cyanide pills smuggled into his bedroom by his mistress, a thing with shoe polish to make his beard fall out, poisoned cigars. Nothing worked. Somehow, he always managed to survive.”
“Amazing,” Rubineau concludes with a wiley smile. “At the snap of a finger, they could take out a rival capo protected by an army of wise guys, but they couldn’t get to Castro. How lucky can a guy get?”
Scotto looks from Rubineau to the headstone and back, putting the pieces together. “Lansky tipped Castro to the hits.”
Rubineau nods and allows himself a little smile. “I don’t mean to be immodest, but it was my idea.”
“An idea that eventually got you disbarred.”
“Let’s not get into that,” Rubineau snaps, seething at the memory. “Meyer was against it at first; but once he realized Castro was a fait accompli, he knew he had to take action to save the Riviera.”
“Well, he may have been a genius,” Scotto intones, “but he sure blew the call on that one.”
Rubineau waggles his hand. “The Riviera actually reopened for a while, but then Castro hooked up with the Kremlin, and it was nationalized—along with Kodak, Westinghouse, Wool-worth, and Goodyear, I might add. Hell, the Riviera’s still in business. For years, all the Russian big shots stayed there. Politicians, generals, engineers. They turned the casino into a convention center.” He laughs ironically at a thought. “Now, you can gamble in Moscow but not in Havana.”
“So then it didn’t pay off,” Scotto says, still trying to provoke him.
“It didn’t pay off then . . .” Rubineau says with a mischievous twinkle. He lets it trail off, picks a blossom from a low-hanging branch, and hands it to Scotto. “But it has now.”
Scotto’s eyes come alive, matching the sparkle in his. The final piece to the puzzle falls into place. “That’s the answer to my question, isn’t it?”
Rubineau nods. “Thirty years ago, Castro destroyed the tourist industry and replaced the income with Soviet aid. Now it’s gone. The economy’s in the toilet, and he’s desperate to turn it around. Reestablishing Cuba as a tourist mecca is the only move he’s got. Legalized gambling is the key. And I’m the guy he hired to make it happen.”
“Castro’s way of saying thanks.”
“One way of putting it. Keep in mind, he didn’t settle for a second-string player just to repay a debt. As a matter of fact, I happen to know he talked to the top guys at Radisson and Hyatt to keep me honest. Sure, they could handle it, but no better than Mike Rubineau. Varadero’s already in the black. The hotels are running at an eighty-six percent occupancy rate. The place is becoming a playground for Canadians, Italians, Russians.”
Scotto shakes her head incredulously. “I still can’t believe the State Department agreed to do business with you.”
“Why not? They cooperated with Italian gangsters to kick Castro’s butt. Why not a Jewish entrepreneur to pull Cuba’s out of the fire?”
“An entrepreneur Castro trusts.”
“Very good, Katkov. Besides, compared to what some of our financial wizards have been up to lately, I’m Mr. Clean as far as the USG is concerned.”
“Don’t blow that horn too loud, Mr. Rubineau,” Scotto cautions. “You still have to deal with that two billion in drug money consigned to Turistica Internacional.”
Rubineau nods and runs a hand across the top of Lansky’s tombstone thoughtfully. “You willing to give me the benefit of the doubt?”
“What do you mean?”
“Let that container go to Cuba. I mean, if somebody’s using me, I want to find out who it is as badly as you do.”
“Food for thought,” Scotto muses, studying him obliquely; then she pointedly adds, “If somebody is using you, Mr. Rubineau, we’ll find him. If not, we’ll find that out too.”
33
The 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 y
ou 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
The 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.
