by Greg Dinallo
“Whatever. The bottom line is, it wasn’t the same container.”
“Hold it. You and I saw it come out of the plane. Katkov saw it go in. . . .” His eyes shift to mine in search of confirmation. “Right?”
“Yes, right. Unless . . .”
“Unless, what?”
“The decoy was already aboard when I got there.”
Scotto frowns skeptically. “Two eighteen-wheelers fit in that thing?”
“In an Antonov twenty-two? Easy.”
“Well, if you’re right about that,” Shevchenko muses, brightening at the prospect, “then maybe the one with the cash is still in the plane.”
“It’s been damn near fifteen hours,” Scotto challenges. “No way they’re letting two billion sit there that long.”
Shevchenko nods resignedly. He’s exhausted. We all are. He stares blankly at the ceiling for a moment, then lifts the phone, dials an extension, and puts out an All-Units-Alert for container 95824. As an afterthought, he also dispatches an investigative team to the airport to check out the Antonov. “Can’t hurt. It’s either still aboard, or out there somewhere.”
“Yeah,” Scotto says wearily. “It’s big. It’s got a number on it. We shouldn’t have too much trouble finding it.”
“This is Russia, Scotto.”
“Dammit, Katkov. You keep saying that.”
“Things are different here. You know what they say about winter, don’t you?”
Shevchenko winces. “I sure as hell hope you’re wrong about that.”
“What? What?” Scotto prompts, feeling left out.
“They say, ‘It doesn’t wait.’ ”
“No shit? Is this some Russian male-bonding thing or what?”
“No,” I reply. “It’s some Russian way of saying no matter how hard you try, some things can’t be—interdicted.”
Scotto smiles.
Shevchenko looks smug. “Hate to say I told you so, Katkov, but—”
“Another Russian thing?” Scotto interrupts.
“A Shevchenko thing. He’s one of those people who thinks a free society has its baggage.”
“So do my hips. I didn’t stand around spouting poetry about them, for Chrissakes. Look, this didn’t make sense before, and it makes less now. Assuming Gudonov’s involved, and assuming that container’s a decoy, why didn’t they lead us on a wild-goose chase to Siberia while the other container slipped quietly into the country? Why take it down?”
“She’s got a point, Shevchenko. I mean why the fanfare? Why burn it? Why all this media hype? There has to be a reason.”
“Diversion. Distraction. Call it what you want. I don’t really care,” Shevchenko replies impatiently. He pushes up from his chair and crosses to a street map of Moscow on the opposite wall. “Where? Where would they take it?”
“Someplace real safe,” Scotto says, crossing to the window as she puzzles it out. “If this was Miami, it’d already be in the banking system ticketed for an electronic rinse.”
“How about a former bank?”
“A what?”
I stab a finger at the map, pointing to the Frunze District. “The Paradise Club. It used to be a bank. It’s got a vault the size of an Antonov.”
“You sure?”
“I took the guided tour.”
Shevchenko bristles with renewed energy. He snatches up the phone and punches out an extension. “This is Shevchenko. I need three teams. Who’s on call? . . . Uh-huh . . . uh-huh. . . . They’ll do. . . . The Paradise Club on Luzhniki. We’ll rendezvous outside at twenty-three thirty.”
“That’s barely a half hour,” Scotto challenges. “You get a search warrant that fast?”
“Search warrant?” Shevchenko echoes with an amused chuckle. “The instant I request it, some paper pusher at Justice’ll be on the phone to Barkhin.”
“He’s that powerful?”
“No. His hard currency is.”
“You may find this hard to believe, but graft isn’t unique to Russia. I just don’t want to blow this takedown on a technicality, okay?”
“No problem,” Shevchenko replies. He heads for the door, slipping on his jacket. “Russian law is like a harness, Agent Scotto. It—”
“Tell me about it,” Scotto interrupts, as we hurry after him down the corridor. “That’s one Russian thing I understand. It’s constraining, frustrating, stacked in favor of the bad guys, and—”
“No. No, Scotto, you don’t understand,” he interrupts, turning into the elevator lobby. “I was comparing our legal system to a team of horses. Left, right, straight ahead, a skilled teamster can use the harness to make it go wherever he wants.”
“Not where I come from.”
“Yes, well, every system has its baggage. In this one, for every law there’s another that contradicts it. Frankly, they’re often built into the same statute. It’s wonderful.” He thumbs the elevator button impatiently. “We call this one the self-sac-stat.”
“The self what?”
“Sac as in sacrifice. The bad guys are protected from self-incrimination; the good guys are protected from self-destruction. “The elevator door opens. He grins wickedly and charges into it. “Naturally, I’m invoking the latter clause.”
Scotto and I leave the rented Zhiguli in the courtyard and pile into the Moskvitch with Shevchenko. He turns south into Petrovka and heads across town to the Paradise Club. It’s almost midnight when we arrive. The street is deserted except for a few parked cars and a homeless woman in a doorway. A breeze blows litter against the club’s graffiti-plastered facade.
Shevchenko clicks on his radio and verifies the other teams are in position, then cruises past the granite edifice and turns into the service alley that runs behind it. The loading dock where armored cars once made their pickups and deliveries is empty. No sign of container 95824 anywhere.
“Not surprising,” Scotto observes. “They’ve had plenty of time to unload it.”
“I’m counting on it,” Shevchenko says cagily. He drives back around to the main entrance, then gathers his troops and briefs them. “Okay, Katkov,” he says as they take up positions behind the columns that flank the huge bronze doors. “You’re on.”
I take a deep breath and ring the buzzer. “It’s Katkov,” I announce to the natty thug who peers from the security slot. “Nikolai Katkov.”
He grunts in acknowledgment and throws the latch. The door opens with a weighty shudder.
“Moscow Militia,” Shevchenko announces, blowing through it. He shoves his ID in the thug’s face and leads the charge of detectives and uniformed officers into the club. Scotto and I follow through the lounge and a series of interior doors into the main hall, where the floor show is in full swing.
Bare-breasted dancers stop gyrating and hurry off-stage. Gamblers stiffen apprehensively. Dealers freeze in mid-shuffle. The club is suddenly still and silent, save for the occasional squawking parrot.
Shevchenko ignores them, along with the Tahitian landscapes and towering palms, and crosses to the corner table. I follow apprehensively, wondering if Yuri is here celebrating with his fellow conspirators. My eyes dart from Barkhin, to Rubineau, to the phalanx of bodyguards lurking in the background; but there’s no sign of him. No caviar, no champagne, and no scantily clad young women either. They’re shrewdly keeping a low profile. It’s for naught now. Indeed, despite a week in sunny Havana, both men look pale and tense. They look angry. Very angry. At me. I return their stares unflinchingly as Shevchenko displays his badge and identifies himself.
“Nice of you to drop in, Mr. Investigator,” Barkhin says with as much bravado as he can muster. “Unfortunately, we’re all booked. With a party of this size, I suggest you call for a reservation next time.”
“I’m making this one in person,” Shevchenko counters, his face raked by spotlights that turn his sharp features into a craggy mask.
“For what?”
“A tour of your vault.”
Barkhin stands and comes forward to confront him. “You won’t f
ind any rubles in it, if that’s what you’re looking for,” he says indignantly. “This is a strictly legal operation, Shevchenko. Hard currency only.”
“We’re not looking for rubles. We’re looking for dollars. Two billion in U.S. hundreds.”
Barkhin’s brows arch in reaction. “Two billion. I have to admit the club is doing well, but I think that estimate’s a little excessive.” He turns to Rubineau with a cocky smile and prompts, “You agree?”
“Well, I’ve run up sizable markers on occasion,” he replies, matching Barkhin’s aplomb. “But rarely more than what? A billion or so?”
“Or so. Of course, if Investigator Shevchenko feels I’ve been neglecting my responsibilities . . .” Barkhin pauses and reaches inside his jacket.
“Hold it,” Scotto orders, drawing her pistol.
Barkhin freezes.
“That won’t be necessary, Agent Scotto,” Shevchenko says calmly, nodding to a detective who opens his coat, revealing a compact machine gun leveled at Barkhin’s gut. “If it’s money, bust him for bribery. If it’s a gun, kill him.”
Barkhin slowly removes his hand from his jacket. Empty. No money. No gun. “Agent Scotto,” he says in a patronizing tone. “And all along I thought you were in the restaurant business. What would make an attractive woman like you forsake all that glamour for police work?”
“The class of people. In case you’ve forgotten, we ask the questions, you answer them. Two billion was smuggled into Moscow in a shipping container this morning. Ring a bell now?”
“Ah, I vaguely recall seeing it in the newspaper.”
“I distinctly recall your seeing it in Havana,” I counter pointedly.
Barkhin snorts smugly and brushes some imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Bad time to be away, Katkov.” He fetches a copy of Pravda from the table. “Somebody beat you to the story.”
“Yes, but he blew the ending. You’re going to help me rewrite it.”
“What about Mr. Clean, here?” Scotto prompts, glaring at Rubineau. “Maybe he can help too?”
“My mission in life,” Rubineau replies facetiously. “What do you need?”
“That container. You remember it, don’t you? The one you begged us to let go to Havana? The one you said was going to lead us to whoever was using you?”
Rubineau grins and flicks an amused look to Barkhin. “I also remember saying you were wasting your time. You’re still wasting it, believe me.”
“The man’s right,” Barkhin says, brandishing the newspaper. “I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but it looks like somebody beat you out too.”
“Nice try. Not going to work,” Shevchenko says.
“Pardon me?”
“Not a chance of that happening either,” Scotto quips. “Murder? Money laundering? Not even Nixon could swing it. You guys are going away.”
Barkhin and Rubineau exchange looks and chuckle to themselves, as if sharing an inside joke.
“The vault,” Shevchenko prompts, losing patience.
“Of course,” Barkhin says magnanimously. He’s cocky, too cocky. They both are. Something’s wrong. They don’t seem at all threatened. He leads the way down the marble staircase to his elegant office. At the touch of a button, the hardwood panels slide back revealing the vault’s gleaming door. He sets the tumblers, then spins the retracting wheel, swinging aside the enormous disk of case-hardened steel.
Shevchenko leads the charge inside and anxiously sweeps his eyes over the shelving bays filled with hard currency. His posture slackens. The immense space could easily hold the contents of four containers, but not a single heat-sealed million-dollar package is to be found, let alone eighteen hundred of them.
“Waste of time,” Scotto says forlornly.
“Where have I heard that before?” Barkhin gloats, bringing a sardonic smile to Rubineau’s face.
Shevchenko mutters an embarrassed apology and leads the group of officers from the club. “Son of a bitch,” he exclaims angrily as the three of us pile into the Moskvitch and drive off.
“Back to square one,” Scotto groans. “There’s a container out there somewhere. We have to find it, and I don’t want to hear any more of this ‘Winter doesn’t wait’ bullshit. Matter of fact, I don’t want to hear anything for a while. I want to think.” We drive in silence through the Frunze District and head north on the Inner Ring. Traffic is light at this hour, and the Moskvitch travels at a steady clip. “I keep coming back to the same thing,” Scotto finally says. “They could’ve led us on a wild-goose chase with that decoy, right? So, why the takedown? There has to be a reason.”
“Maybe Gudonov didn’t know it was a decoy,” Shevchenko says, brightening at a thought. “Maybe he was working undercover. He tried to beat us out, went for the fake, and shot himself in the foot.”
“But he was at the airport in Havana,” Scotto protests. “He’d have known there were two containers.”
“No. No, he never got a look inside the cargo plane,” I explain. “None of them did.”
“Come on, he had custody of that container since this morning. He has to know it’s a decoy.”
“So? Maybe he does!” Shevchenko says, chuckling with delight. “That’s why he burned the ‘evidence’!”
“Of course,” I conclude, “he was going through the motions to save face.”
“He also burned a couple of million bucks, for Chrissakes,” Scotto cracks. “Where’d he get it?”
Silence. None of us have the answer to that one.
We’re crossing Tverskoi Bulvar about a mile from Militia Headquarters when the radio comes alive. The team Shevchenko dispatched to check out the Antonov reports the container wasn’t in the cargo hold; but something else of interest was. The two detectives are waiting in Shevchenko’s office when we enter. Centered beneath the desk lamp are several cans of spray paint and a numeral stencil.
“Great,” Shevchenko groans. “They changed the fucking number. That container could be downstairs in the courtyard, and we wouldn’t know it. We’ll never find it now. Let alone nail whoever’s at the other end!” He kicks a trash pail in frustration. “In the old days, the KGB would seal off every road, airport, train station. It couldn’t travel ten kilometers without being spotted!”
“Neither could I,” I retort with a grin.
“Yeah, well, every system has its baggage,” Scotto chimes in with a little look to Shevchenko.
“Anything more on the guy with Gudonov?” he asks offhandedly, ignoring us.
The detective shakes his head no.
I’m rocked. They know someone was with Gudonov?! But Yuri’s name still hasn’t surfaced?! I wait until my heart rate returns to normal, then, as nonchalantly as possible, prompt, “What guy?”
“Good question,” Shevchenko replies. “We ran the Gulfstream’s manifest this morning: “Rubineau, Barkhin, their flunkies, and two other names we didn’t recognize. The passport office had no record of them, so we know they were traveling on phony IDs. Obviously one was Gudonov, but we’ve no fix on the other.”
“Probably his flunky,” the detective offers.
“Maybe,” Shevchenko concedes. “Then again, he could be a key player. We don’t know.”
I do. I know who it is, but I still can’t get the pieces to fit: Yuri is the only one not mentioned in Pravda; he wasn’t at the incinerating plant; he wasn’t at the Paradise Club; and he’s not on the Gulfstream’s manifest. There has to be a reason. If Gudonov was undercover, is it possible Yuri was too? Like Gudonov, he had cover ID. Like Gudonov, he works for the Interior Ministry. Damn. I’m asking myself the same questions about Yuri now that I was asking about Vorontsov in the beginning. Onto it? Or into it? Under the circumstances, I’m not sure it matters. I’m not even sure Yuri does. “I have a question. Why are we shifting our focus to people?”
“You have a problem with that?” Shevchenko challenges irritably.
“No, but we’ve been following the money all along and unless I misunderstood, regardles
s of who the players are, we don’t have a case without the money. It’d be like trying to prosecute a homicide without a corpse, wouldn’t it?”
“He’s right,” Scotto says forcefully. “No money, no case. The world thinks it went up in smoke. We have to prove it didn’t. We find that container, we’ll have a shot at nailing the creeps. We don’t, it doesn’t matter who they are, because they’re all gonna walk.”
Shevchenko nods grudgingly and stares at the map. We’re wracking our brains and jumping at every ringing phone when I hear myself say, “I know where it is.”
Two heads snap around as if reacting to a gunshot. “What? Where?”
“At least, I think I do.”
“Come on, come on,” Scotto urges frantically, her eyes locked onto mine.
I hold them for a long moment, deciding; then look away. “No. No, this one’s personal. I’m going to have to do it alone.”
“Chrissakes, Katkov!” Scotto erupts.
“No fucking way,” Shevchenko roars. “You tell us what you have, or I’m going to bust your ass for withholding evidence.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have evidence. Frankly, it’s little more than a vague hunch. You let me run with it, I might get you some.”
Shevchenko glares at me.
Scotto throws up her hands. “I don’t believe this.”
“I didn’t have to say anything you know.”
They exchange looks, reconsidering.
“You said you owe me one, Scotto. Why don’t we—”
“That was personal.”
“So is this, dammit.”
“Vera?”
“No, thank God.”
“Well, you’re the agent-in-charge, Shevchenko,” Scotto finally says, “but if you don’t mind me putting my two cents in, I figure we’ve got nothing to lose.”
Shevchenko scowls in thought, then nods grudgingly.
“I’m going to need your car, Scotto.”
Her eyes are hard and threatening. “Don’t fuck me on this, Katkov.”
“Not in your wildest dreams.”
Scotto holds the look for a moment, then smiles and drops the keys in my palm. “Katkov?” she calls out as I head for the door. I stop and turn back toward her. She takes the pistol from her holster and hands it to me. “I hope you don’t need it.”
