Red Ink

by Greg Dinallo

  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?

  “So,” Scotto says a little too brightly, pulling me out of it. “How are you doing, Katkov?”

  “After three piña coladas? Hey, this has been great fun. Thanks. How about you?”

  “I’m doing . . . okay.” She lowers her eyes and draws circles in some bread crumbs with a fingertip. “I called my husband last night. Invited him down for a couple of days.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Well, not really. He . . . he declined. Made up some excuse about having to be away on business. He’s an architect, and—aggghhh—what’s the point?”

  “I’m sorry, Scotto.”

  “Yeah, well, I sort of figured he might, but . . .” She sighs wistfully and works the crumbs to the edge of the table, then sweeps them to the floor with the back of her hand.

  “Maybe we should skip the pie?” I suggest in deference to her mood.

  She nods and thanks me with a sad smile, then leads the way through the crowd. I resist the temptation to look back over my shoulder. We’re nearing the exit when I catch sight of the bar in one of the faded mirrors. The man is gone.

  35

  We’re at a sidewalk stand on Calle Ocha, Little Havana’s main shopping street. Scotto is looking at sunglasses. Mirrored, polarized, photo-sensitive. I’m looking over my shoulder for the man at the bar. She has me try on damn near every pair before deciding on the “Vuarnet knockoffs”— heavy black plastic frame, dark wine-colored lens
es; then, pitting her Italian against the vendor’s Spanish, she has a ball haggling over the price. It does wonders for her spirits, and we spend the next hour or so on a mini shopping spree amid the carts and stalls, then take a cab back to the hotel with our booty.

  The next morning, I’m dutifully attired in my new swim trunks—fully committed to putting in time around the pool to work on my tourist disguise—when Scotto knocks on the door that connects our rooms. She’s wrapped in one of the hotel’s terry-cloth robes. Thigh length, tied at the waist, it accentuates her hourglass figure and shows off her long, bronze legs to advantage. I’m sweeping my eyes over them when she recoils with a gasp. “What? What is it?” I wonder, baffled. “You look rather like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

  “I have,” she replies, sweeping her eyes over me. “That body looks like it hasn’t seen sun since Castro took Havana.”

  “Moscow isn’t exactly on the equator, you know.”

  “Tell me about it. You’ll be burned to a crisp in ten minutes.”

  “I thought that was the idea.”

  “The idea is to get a tan, not sun poisoning. She takes a tube of lotion from a pocket, then turns me around, squeezes some out across my shoulders, and begins working it in. The scent is heavy and sweet.

  “What is that stuff?”

  “Italian cocoa butter,” she jokes. “It’s made from olive oil and garlic. You turn brown and ward off the evil spirits at the same time.”

  Her hands are expert and strong. Her fingertips glide over my skin, awakening every pore. Her bare legs brush gently against mine. Pleasurable sensations begin radiating from deep inside me. Is she aware of it? Does she know exactly what she’s doing? Or is this another one of my fantasies? Only in your dreams, Katkov. Only in your dreams. But this time I’m not dreaming. The choreography is fluid and subtle, and soon we’re face to face, gazing into each other’s eyes. There’s a gentleness in hers that I haven’t seen before.

  “Are you sure about this?” I ask in a whisper, our lips dangerously close. “I mean . . . your husband . . . you’re certain that you—” She puts a finger to my lips to silence me. I nibble at it. She pulls it back with a sexy giggle. “I just want you to be sure.”