by Greg Dinallo
The woman who answers recognizes my name, accepts the charges, and explains Scotto hasn’t come in yet. She’s rarely there by nine, let alone seven, but she left instructions that my calls be forwarded whatever the hour.
The phone rings a half-dozen times before I finally hear the sounds of someone grappling with the receiver. “Yeah? Yeah, hello?” A sleepy voice answers—a sleepy man’s voice.
“This is FinCEN calling,” the woman says. “I have a Mr. Katkov on the line for Agent Scotto.”
“Sure. Sure, y’all hang on a sec, okay?” the man replies in the soft drawl I’ve heard before. “Gabby? Gabby, come on, it’s for you. It’s that guy, Katkov.”
“Go ahead,” the woman says, dropping off the line. A groan. The rustle of bedding. “Katkov?” Scotto rasps groggily; then more alertly, her New York accent ringing with concern, “Katkov? Katkov, you okay?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Listen, I’m sorry to wake you, Scotto, but—”
“No problem. Hang on, I want to change phones.” She puts me on hold. I listen to the hum of the line, thinking about that morning in Miami with the suntan lotion. “Hi,” she says a little more brightly, pulling me out of it. “That was Marty. He was here when I got back from Florida.” She makes a sound that’s somewhere between a giggle and a gush. “Something’s going on. I’m not sure what. I’m just going to go with it. See what happens.”
“Sounds delightful, but I’m afraid I’m going to ruin it for you.”
“The container’s moving, right?”
“As we speak. They drove it, rig and all, into one of those big cargo jets.”
“They? Who’s they?”
I knew she was going to ask. I’ve been wrestling with what to do about Yuri all night, and I still don’t have the answer. It’s sort of like being told you have terminal cancer. Shock, denial, anger, acceptance. Only instead of progressing through them in a straight line, I’m ricocheting wildly from one to the other, unwilling to deal with any of them.
“Katkov? Katkov, you there?”
“Yes. Sorry. We’ve a poor connection, I’m afraid. I couldn’t hear you very well.”
“Who was there?”
“Barkhin, Rubineau, a couple of officious-looking Cubans, several repulsive thugs from the drug cartels and crime syndicates, and my friend—Gudonov.”
“Gudonov? No kidding? Then I guess he’s the insider, isn’t he?”
“Right,” I reply, glad she can’t see my eyes.
“Way to go, Katkov. You did good. Real good. That means we can trust Schevchenko.”
“We have to trust someone. The only flight out of here doesn’t leave until late afternoon. I certainly won’t get to Moscow in time. What about you?”
“I don’t know. There’s one out of Dulles at nine. At least, there was when I went over for that seminar. If I can get on it.”
“If? Get tough. Pull rank. Use the Special Agent Scotto U.S. Treasury routine. That cargo jet has the speed of a flying hippo—add on a refueling stop—you can pull it off.”
“You get the hippo’s tail number?”
“Yes. It’s—”
“Good. Save it. Call Shevchenko and give it to him. He can verify the destination and ETA from his end. Bring him up to speed in case I don’t get there in time; and make sure he knows the idea is to tail it and take down the creeps at the other end.”
“That’s a given. He does it at the airport, I’ll kill him. Safe flight.”
“You too. And thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“For what?”
“For being a nice guy. I owe you one. We owe you one—I think.”
“We’ll settle up in Moscow. Dollars. Not rubles.”
“That’s a deal. Look, this is going to be history by the time you get in. Where can I reach you?”
“Reach me?”
“Yeah. You going to be staying at your friend’s place again?”
“At Yuri’s?”
“Right. I couldn’t think of his name.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll be staying there,” I reply in as casual a tone as I can muster. I’m still not sure why I didn’t tell her. Maybe I’m not up to facing the truth yet. Maybe her accusation that journalists have no regard for its consequences has affected me. Maybe it’s the loyalty of a lifelong friendship. Maybe it’s because knowing who is one thing, and knowing why is a totally different matter. Only Yuri can tell me that. If I don’t like what he has to say—well, I haven’t covered his ass, I just haven’t been the one to kick it—though it’s going to be hard to resist the temptation. Damn. None of this really matters, anyway. Like Scotto said, it’ll be over by the time I get back to Moscow, and chances are pretty good that any conversation I have with Yuri is going to take place through prison bars.
I’ve got ten hours to kill before departure and fifteen more in the air to come to grips with it. I’m dialing Shevchenko’s number when the implication hits me. It will be over by the time I get there. All over. I’ve risked my life, been betrayed by my best friend, chased this story all over the world, and now I’m going to miss the grand finale.
“Shevchenko,” the senior investigator answers sharply, snapping me out of it.
“Hi. It’s Katkov.”
“Katkov? Been a while. What’s going on?”
“I have a question for you.”
“What else is new?”
“Your marriage still on the rocks?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“You’re sure your wife’s not going to turn up on your doorstep in the next couple of hours begging to put it back together?”
“Not a chance in hell. Why?”
“Because you’re going to be working late tonight.”
41
Darkness is falling as Aeroflot Su-416 circles the desolate countryside north of Moscow and touches down with a thump on one of Sheremetyevo’s runways. Fifteen hours in the air, plus the eight-hour time difference, means the Ilyushin jumbo glides to a stop at the gate about the same time it departed Havana. I’ve lost an entire day. The Antonov-22 with the eighteen-wheeler and cash-filled container in its flatbed arrived sometime this morning, Rubineau’s swifter Gulfstream at least several hours earlier. Probably before dawn.
The airport’s cavernous baggage hall is dimly lit and even gloomier than I remember; the queues for Customs and Passport Control move at the same glacial pace. The instant I’m cleared, I hurry to the taxi stand, anxious to hear about the takedown and what happened to Yuri. I’m lugging my bags past the barrier that restrains those waiting to meet arriving passengers when I hear my name.
“Katkov? Hey, Katkov, over here!”
It’s Scotto. She’s knifing sideways through the crowd to keep up with me. What’s she doing here? And why isn’t she smiling? Whatever the reason, she looks shaken. Something’s drastically wrong.
“What happened?” I call out, quickening my pace.
“A disaster.”
“Shevchenko moved too soon? I told him, dammit. I warned him—”
“No,” she interrupts sharply as we come together at the end of the barrier. “Gudonov did.”
“Gudonov?!” I echo, astonished.
She nods grimly. “The Gulfstream got in first, like you figured. Shevchenko had it under surveillance; but neither Gudonov nor the other passengers stuck around to claim their prize. My flight got in next. Shevchenko and I hung out until the Antonov showed, then tailed the eighteen-wheeler.”
“Follow the money. Your favorite game.”
“Not when I get beat. We were a couple miles south of the airport when all hell broke loose. I’ve never seen so many cops and reporters in my life. Like a Hollywood extravaganza.”
“Starring Gudonov?”
Scotto grunts in the affirmative.
“It doesn’t make sense. He was in the thick of things in Havana. He’s up to his ass in this.”
“He claims,” Scotto says in a cynical tone, “that he was working undercover.”
“Bulls
hit.”
“That’s what Shevchenko said. He can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I.”
Scotto shrugs as if to say “I’m ready to believe anything,” then leads the way to a rented Zhiguli in the parking lot across from the terminal. There’s a hint of spring in the air, an almost balmy sweetness that surfaces when the temperature finally gets above freezing and stays there. I toss my luggage into the backseat and settle next to her. “Shevchenko thought you’d want to see this.” She drops a newspaper in my lap, starts the engine, and drives off.
It’s a copy of Pravda. The headline reads MILITIA MONEY LAUNDERING STING. Beneath it is a photograph of the eighteen-wheeler pulled to the side of the highway. It’s surrounded by police vehicles and personnel. Container 95824 is the center of attention. The doors at one end are opened. Several sugar cartons have been torn open and the million-dollar packages of cash removed and prominently displayed in the foreground. Gudonov poses next to them like a conquering invader. I’m angered—but not the least bit surprised—that the by-line on the accompanying article reads M. I. Drevnya.
This morning, while Muscovites slept, Chief Investigator Yevgeny Gudonov led a crack militia task force in a money-laundering sting. The brilliantly executed operation netted more than a billion and a half U.S. dollars. American crime czars were planning to use the profits from their illicit drug deals to buy Russian industries. Gudonov, who’s been working on the case for months, risked his life to go undercover inside the smuggling operation. The scheme was . . .
“Risked his life to go undercover?!” I exclaim, infuriated. “What a sham!”
“Tell me about it. Who’s his PR agent?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, it’s all your doing, Scotto. You and your damned seminar, whatever the hell it’s called. Gudonov probably learned everything he knows about using the media from you.”
She concedes the point with a smile, then swings out of the airport onto Leningradsky Prospekt and heads south toward Moscow. “I have to admit he’d have gotten an A-plus for this caper. Keep reading. You haven’t gotten to the good part yet.”
The good part? Yuri. It has to be Yuri. She knows about him, and she’s making me squirm for not telling her. My eyes swiftly scan the long article. Vorontsov’s name is ubiquitous, as is Rubineau’s, Barkhin’s, and, of course, Gudonov’s. They’re all here, all except Yuri’s—which means she doesn’t know. I start over, reading the text more carefully.
Dammit. It’s immediately obvious that Sergei was right. The kid’s style has punch and pace, but he’s still an unprincipled jerk as far as I’m concerned. It’s the next to last paragraph that really gets my attention. I read it aloud in shock and disbelief. “ ‘Highly reliable sources have told Pravda that Investigator Gudonov plans to destroy the contraband at Moscow’s Garbage Incinerating Plant this evening’?! His reputation’s gone to his head.”
“Shevchenko told me all about that.”
“I can’t believe he’s burning all that money?!”
“Burning the evidence. Cost me my badge, gun, and pension if I did something like that.”
“This is Russia, Scotto.”
“I’ve noticed. Shevchenko’s trying to stop him anyway. We’re meeting him there.”
“You know where you’re going?”
“No. You think I picked you up out of the goodness of my heart?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far, but you could’ve easily gone with Shevchenko and let me fend for myself.”
“Shut up, smartass.”
“Take the MKAD turnoff, Agent Scotto.”
About ten minutes later, she angles into the Outer Ring that circumvents the city. We’re soon spiraling down the Rizhskiy Interchange into a service road that winds through the marshlands. Thick smoke stretches in dense layers below the night sky. The Zhiguli climbs a steep hill, comes over the crest, and approaches the incineration plant. Like gigantic Roman candles, its towering stacks send bursts of orange sparks shooting into the darkness.
The promise of a headline that reads TWO BILLION UP IN SMOKE has brought out the media in full force: print journalists, still photographers, television reporters, and satellite vans, sporting the logos of American, European, and Russian networks. All are gathered around one of the huge incinerators. The flaming beast roars with the intensity of a blast furnace. Its gaping cast-iron jaws could swallow a shipping container whole. No longer on the eighteen-wheeler’s flatbed, 95824 sits on the ground next to a work platform that leads to the inferno. From this simmering perch, Gudonov supervises the operation, playing to the media throng below.
Scotto and I hurry from the car and push through the crowd in search of Shevchenko. She spots him off to one side of the container where a noisy forklift prowls. Evidently most of the cartons have already been removed and incinerated, because the forklift travels deep into the forty-foot tunnel in search of the next pallet.
“Last one,” Shevchenko says, clearly demoralized.
“Why the hell wouldn’t he wait?”
“Wait?!” Shevchenko snaps angrily. “The cocky little bastard wouldn’t even listen.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” Scotto says impassively.
Shevchenko and I fire looks in her direction. “What do you mean by that?!”
“We’re talking show business here, guys. You sell this many tickets to a performance, there’s no way you can cancel it.”
With a throaty rumble and clank of steel, the forklift backs out of the container. The operator swings it around, guns the throttle, and heads for the incinerator; then, hands pushing and pulling on a rack of levers, he raises the pallet high into the air and deposits it on the platform. Rollers built into the decking allow workers to manhandle it easily toward the fire-breathing incinerator.
Gudonov holds up a hand, giving the pallet a brief stay of execution, and instructs the workers to open several of the cartons. Then with much fanfare, he removes one of the million-dollar packages of currency and holds it high overhead before tossing it into the roaring inferno. Another soon follows and then another. Sparks fly. Cameras whir. Strobes flash. The chief investigator struts triumphantly, then signals the workers, who roll the entire pallet of cartons into the roaring flames. Gudonov jumps down from the platform.
The media surges around him, shouting his name, firing off questions. “How long have you been working on this case? How high up in the Interior Ministry will your investigation reach? Do you know if—”
“Ask him why he’s burning evidence,” Shevchenko calls out.
“What about that?!” one of the reporters prompts. “Good question!” another chimes in. “Care to comment, Chief?!”
“Yes, but I’d prefer to introduce my colleague first. You all know Senior Homicide Investigator Shevchenko.” The TV cameras and lights swing around and focus on Shevchenko with blinding intensity. “I like to give credit where credit is due,” Gudonov goes on with a smug grin. His face is pock-marked, his suit is rumpled and his delivery is crude, but his tactics and timing are polished. “This all began with a homicide—a homicide that Investigator Shevchenko solved with customary brilliance. In light of his firsthand knowledge of the case, I’ve no doubt he’s aware that Comrade Vorontsov—the corrupt Interior Ministry official who masterminded this scheme—got involved with people who settle disputes in ways he wasn’t accustomed to and is now deceased, as is the assassin who killed him. Nor do I doubt the senior investigator also knows that the militia can’t prosecute the dead—which makes his so-called evidence useless.”
“What about the coconspirators?” Shevchenko challenges. “What about prosecuting them? I can give you their names if you like.”
“So can anyone who reads the newspapers or watches television. Unfortunately, they’ve cleverly distanced themselves, and there’s no way to connect them to the case.”
“Thanks to you,” Shevchenko counters angrily.
“You’re right,” Sco
tto says, leaning to me. “Something weird’s going on. This doesn’t make a goddamned bit of sense.”
“However,” Gudonov resumes, ignoring Shevchenko’s barb, “just because we can’t prosecute doesn’t mean we can’t prevent.” He pauses, gestures dramatically to the conflagration behind him, and grins at what he’s about to say. “This serves strong notice that we’re turning up the heat, that Russian justice is ruthless and swift, that whether they smuggle in two billion or twenty billion, every last penny will go up in smoke; that neither this nation’s economy, nor her integrity, can be bought by agents of the American underworld who traffic in filth.”
Shevchenko scowls in disgust, then makes his way through the crowd to his Moskvitch and drives off without a word.
Gudonov drones on in self-aggrandizement.
Scotto looks like she’s about to barf. “Come on, Katkov. I’ll buy you a drink.”
We’re crossing to her car when an intriguing thought occurs to me. It’s probably a waste of time, but what the hell. The way this has turned out, I’ve been wasting it since the night Vera beeped me in Moscow Beginners anyway. “Hold on a minute, Scotto. There’s something I want to check.” I circle the container, examining it. Same number. Same off-white color. Same gritty accumulation of grime and salt. Same cartons of sugar labeled in Spanish and Russian. Indeed, it has everything essential to identify it as the cash-filled target we’ve been tailing—everything except my initials scratched into the paint.
42
Adecoy?!” Shevchenko exclaims, kicking back in his desk chair, astonished. “Did I see Gudonov tossing millions into that incinerator, or what?”
“Cost of doing business,” Scotto replies in a tone that implies it’s obvious. “They sacrificed a couple mill for effect.”
Shevchenko nods thoughtfully. “Then we were right all along. Gudonov’s in cahoots, not undercover.”
