by Greg Dinallo
“This is the police,” Trask announces through a bullhorn that emboldens his squeaky voice. “You’re surrounded. Come out in single file, hands on top of your heads.”
The windows remain dark. The doors closed. The interior free of movement. No one responds. The announcement is repeated several times before members of a SWAT team, cloaked in black jump suits and body armor, advance on the main entrance. They’re carrying what looks like the cannon that inspired Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. It’s a battering ram. The four officers grasp handles on each side and swing it back and forth, building up momentum. The tremendous impact smashes the door to bits.
The SWAT team moves swiftly into the building. Tension turns to anticipation as they secure it. Scotto is the first one through the door when we get word the factory is unoccupied. Blue fluorescents are flickering to life as Banzer and other agents follow. We’re soon stopped in our tracks by a devastating sight. The huge space is empty. Not a stick of furniture, not a box, packing crate, or piece of money-handling equipment is to be found within the painted brick walls, let alone huge amounts of illicit cash waiting to be counted, packaged, and shipped.
Scotto’s shoulders sag. She lets out a long breath and swings an apprehensive look to Banzer, who shrugs resignedly.
A routine search of offices and storage spaces gets underway. Scotto opens a door. A staircase leads down into the basement. She finds a light switch and throws it. Nothing happens. We begin our descent. The beam from her flashlight cuts through musty darkness. It reveals nothing but blank walls and a corridor lined with storage rooms. The first few we examine turn out to be empty. We’ve just entered another when what sounds like the creak of a hinge comes from the corridor behind us.
Scotto freezes and crosses back toward the door. “Scotto, Treasury,” she announces. “Who’s that?”
There’s no reply.
She shuts off the flashlight, slips the pistol from its holster, and signals me to stay put, then eases back into the darkened corridor. Despite the tightening in my gut, I disobey orders and advance to the doorway. My eyes find her faint outline pressed against the opposite wall. Tense, vigilant, she’s inching down the corridor toward a door that appears to be slightly ajar. A rustling sound comes from behind her. I flinch. Scotto whirls and turns on the flashlight, aiming the beam and her pistol at the sound. A rat the size of a small dog darts from behind a door. It scurries across the floor right in front of her into a storage room on the other side of the corridor. Scotto shudders, then holsters the pistol, relieved.
We take a moment to let our heart rates return to normal, then resume checking out the storage rooms. The circle of light from Scotto’s flashlight moves across something in the distance that glimmers. She stops walking and shifts the beam back and forth over it several times, then advances.
“What’s that?” I ask.
She uses the flashlight to reveal the word JANITOR stenciled across a door.
“Oh, I thought you’d found something.”
“I did.”
“A janitor’s closet?”
“No, that.” She shifts the beam to an impressive dead bolt and lock assembly. “Must be some pretty high-priced mops in there, huh?”
Scotto radios for assistance. She’s barely clicked off when agents come clambering down the stairs with several banks of work lights. Banzer, Trask, and other command personnel follow, along with the battering ram crew, which makes quick work of the door.
A moldy stench rushes from the space. Hurried scraping noises and what sounds like the intermittent bloops of dripping water follow. We move through the door onto an underground loading dock. There below, in the glare of the work lights—stacked on pallets, on tables, on the floor, stacked almost to the ceiling beneath rusted century-old pipes from which water drips—are bundles of cash, bags of cash, boxes of cash, crates of cash, an unimaginable amount of wet, blackened, crumbling, rotting cash standing in two feet of water with rats crawling all over it. They freeze momentarily in the sudden blast of light, then scurry off with their booty.
We stand in stunned silence, delighted, relieved, and chilled by the squealing, panicking mass of pinkish gray rodents.
“God, how much you think is there?” I finally ask.
Banzer takes a moment to calculate. “Off the top of my head, I’d say we’re looking at hundreds of millions.”
Scotto grins broadly and nods. “This has gotta be four, maybe five times the size of that hundred we bagged in Detroit last year.”
“Five hundred million?” I hear myself blurt in total disbelief. “That’s half a billion dollars. They just abandoned it?”
“Sure as hell looks that way,” Trask squeaks.
“Probably decided it was too much trouble to mess with it,” Scotto deduces. “What does that tell you?”
“It’s pocket change.”
She and Banzer exchange looks and nod.
“Is this what you needed to nail Rubineau?”
“Nail him?” Banzer challenges. “For what? Leasing his property to people of questionable character? He’s not responsible for what they store here.” Banzer pauses, savoring a thought, then looks over at Scotto and smiles. “Not yet, anyway.”
24
It’s after nine by the time I check into the Ramada Inn, a soaring knife-edged tower in Arlington’s business corridor. “Smoking or nonsmoking floor?” the clerk asks, leaving little doubt he disapproves of my choice. My color-coordinated room is lavish by Russian standards, with sitting area, writing desk, and a bathroom Muscovites can only dream of.
Shevchenko was right, I do live for that adrenaline rush. Tired as I am, I’m banging away on my typewriter. It takes about an hour to rough out a few page of notes and down a pot of room-service coffee. Vodka would’ve been a better choice. Between the caffeine and change in time zones, my brain refuses to shut down. I briefly consider ordering a Stoli sedative, but grab my travel guide instead and take the elevator to the Metro station beneath the hotel.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the Foggy Bottom /GWU Station in downtown Washington. A brisk wind stings my face as I walk south past stolid government buildings toward what my guidebook calls the Mall. Beyond an expanse of snow-dusted lawn, a broad marble staircase rises to a terrace where a Greek temple bathes in the warm glow of halogens. I enter between towering columns and proceed to the base of an imposing statue.
Captured within the cold granite is the soul of a man who freed slaves, presided over a civil war, and saved a nation. Shoulders stooped, head bent slightly forward, face deeply lined, eyes distant and burdened with the weight of monumental responsibility, he seems utterly tired and alone; as if while passing by on this frigid night, he saw an empty chair and sat for a moment to catch his breath.
I’m lost in my thoughts when footsteps break the silence and a long shadow comes from behind me.
“Hey, buddy, you okay?” a husky voice asks.
I turn to find myself face-to-face with a police officer, his concerned eyes aglow against jet black skin. “I’m fine, thanks. How about you?”
“Freezin’ my butt off. Couldn’t imagine anybody in their right mind be out here tonight.”
“Nor could I.”
He laughs good-naturedly. “Yeah, but I ain’t got a choice. Gonna finish this shift and get me home.”
“You live in Washington?”
“Used to. Kind of miss it, but we had to get the kids out of the city. Went into hock to buy us a little place out in Suitland.”
“Good for you. ‘Property is the fruit of labor. . . . That some should be rich, shows that others may become rich, and hence is just encouragement to industry and enterprise.’ You know who said that?”
He frowns as if I’m speaking Russian.
“Him,” I say, pointing to the statue of Lincoln.
“Yeah? Never heard that one.” He gestures to a tablet where the Gettysburg Address has been engraved. “I kind of like the one about all men being created equal, myself.”<
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“I rather like that one too. Though the idea is just starting to catch on where I come from.”
“Where’s that, South Africa?”
“Russia.”
“No kidding? Thought I picked up a little accent there, but that wasn’t it. Well,” he says philosophically as he starts to move off, breath trailing behind him, “don’t count on it happening overnight.”
I linger for a few moments, shaken by his incisive wisdom, then return to the hotel. A red light on the phone is blinking when I enter the room. The message is from the perky computer-tech at FinCEN’s Ops Center.
“Got a fix on Rubineau for you, Mr. Katkov,” she reports when I return the call. “Picked him up in an FAA data base. Turns out he’s got a corporate jet. A Gulfstream. Last flight plan listed LaGuardia as its destination, which means the bird’s still cooling its jets in New York.”
“Do we know for certain he was on the flight?”
“Uh-huh. First name on the manifest. He has an apartment in the city. The address is . . .” She pauses. I can hear the click of her keyboard. “Four thirty-five Sutton Place South. Odds are that’s where he’s bunking, but I wasn’t able to verify.”
“Perfectly fine odds, if you ask me. Thanks.”
After a few hours of fitful sleep, a steaming shower, and change of clothes, I take the Metro to National Airport—one stop south of the Pentagon, according to my guide—and board the morning’s first shuttle to LaGuardia. Like Immigration, like FinCEN, like the hotel, like the terminal and boarding lounge—the 737’s cabin is plastered with NO SMOKING signs. America is well on its way to becoming a nation of disgustingly healthy neurotics.
In less than an hour, the famous skyline appears off the right side of the aircraft. The dense mass of stone, steel, and glass is a stunning sight in the early morning darkness, as is the illuminated antenna that soars from its midst.
“That’s the Empire State Building, isn’t it?!” I exclaim to the man seated next to me.
He shifts his eyes from his newspaper and nods indifferently as the plane banks and makes a big looping turn north of Manhattan, coming in over an expanse of water to a smooth landing.
A dispatcher greets me as I exit the terminal and ushers me into the backseat of a taxi. There’s no need for Marlboros here, no need to negotiate the price; though, as we get into traffic, the driver proves he could go fender-to-fender with Moscow’s best. We’re soon crossing a spired bridge strung with necklaces of light. The stately span takes us into New York’s dark, empty streets, where steam, rising from manhole covers, drifts in an eerie haze. I’m still working on my nicotine fix, lighting one cigarette from another, when the taxi passes a sign that reads SUTTON PLACE and turns into the gated grounds of a residential highrise.
A uniformed doorman escorts me into the lobby and deposits me at the security desk, where a guard sits staring at a bank of television monitors. I give him my name and tell him I want to see Rubineau. He studies the pages of a register, then slowly shakes his head no. “Sorry, pal. Mr. Rubineau always notifies us when he’s expecting someone. There’s no Kirov, here.”
“It’s Katkov. He isn’t expecting me, but I—”
“Forget it. He ain’t gonna see you.”
“I was about to say he might, if he knew I was here. Tell him it’s Nikolai Katkov, from Moscow.”
“Moscow?” he echoes, warily. “Don’t sound to me like you’re from Moscow, buddy.”
“Oh? Have you ever been there?”
“Look, I don’t care if you’re from Santa’s workshop, okay? He ain’t gonna see you.”
“Well, maybe he ‘ain’t.’ But knowing Mr. Rubineau, I’d let him make the decision, if I were you.”
He mulls it over, then calls Rubineau’s apartment and relays the information. From his tone, it’s obvious he’s talking to one of Rubineau’s flunkies, who puts him on hold. He bristles impatiently awaiting the reply, then emits a cynical grunt. “Okay, Kirov. You’re on.” He shows me to an elevator and waits until it arrives.
The door opens, revealing a broad-shouldered young man in a business suit. I stand aside to let him out, but he gestures I enter instead. As the elevator starts to rise, he turns me to the wall and frisks me without a word. My pulse quickens. Grave warnings begin ringing in my ears: “If he agrees to see you—it was him. If it was him—he won’t miss twice.”
The elevator leaves us in the foyer of a penthouse apartment. A huge welded-bronze sculpture resembling a menorah covers the entry wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a panorama of twinkling lights that extends to the horizon. A glass-enclosed staircase sweeps to upper levels. Pristine white walls display priceless art. I’m gawking at a violent explosion of paint, signed de Kooning, when a commanding voice calls out, “Mr. Katkov, welcome to New York!”
Tanned, sartorially splendid in a finely cut dark blue suit, striped shirt, and boldly patterned tie, Michael Rubineau seems taller than when I first saw him at the Paradise Club; he bounds down the steps with the vitality and bearing of a man half his age.
“Nice of you to drop by,” he exclaims with disarming sincerity as we shake hands. There’s a combative sparkle in his eyes and traces of a streetwise cunning beneath the polished veneer. He dismisses my elevator escort with a nod, then leads the way to an intimate dining room. The table is set with elegant silver, china, and glassware for two, not to mention crystal ashtrays. “Why don’t we have some breakfast and get to know each other?”
“Sure,” I reply warily, as we take our seats. “It’s only fair to warn you that people know I’m here. Federal law enforcement people.”
“Good. I was counting on it.”
“You were?” I say, somewhat astonished. Other than Yuri, only Shevchenko knows about FinCEN. Have I been wrong about him? Is the senior investigator corrupt? Are he and Rubineau somehow connected?
“Really, Mr. Katkov,” Rubineau replies, somewhat condescendingly. “I don’t have to tell you about the power of the press.” He places a copy of The New York Times on the table next to me. At the bottom of the front page—beneath a caption that reads: Agent’s Death Related to Money-Laundering Investigation—is a picture of Scotto in the FinCEN parking lot. She and the puzzled-looking man next to her are surrounded by reporters. The man has been circled in yellow marker. The man is me. “Have some orange juice,” Rubineau urges with a wiley smile. “It’s freshly squeezed.”
A uniformed maid fills our goblets, then serves blintzes, smoked salmon, and coffee from a cart.
“I’m rather confused, Mr. Rubineau,” I say when she’s finished. “I’m not identified; we’ve never met; how did you know that was me?”
“I make a habit of getting to know everyone who can hurt me or help me,” he explains, stirring his coffee thoughtfully. “You straddle the line, Katkov. I’m still making up my mind about you.”
“An assassin in Moscow gave me the impression you already had.”
“Assassin?” he echoes, offended, his eyes narrowing to angry slits. “Where the hell did you get that idea? Mental firepower is my weapon of choice. I select my targets carefully, and I rarely miss.”
“I meant no offense, but the fellow in the elevator wasn’t frisking me for my IQ.”
Rubineau stabs a finger at the newspaper. “Kids with assault rifles. Kids. The world is full of violence; the more you achieve, the more exposed to it you become. Athletes, movie stars, entrepreneurs—we’re all in the same boat. Unfortunately, guns and bodyguards have become as essential to the conduct of business as women and computers.”
I’m thinking it’d be a perfect epitaph when he pushes back in his chair thoughtfully, then crosses to a fireplace. A collection of family snapshots is arranged on the mantel: adoring wife, comely daughter—as infant, college graduate, and bride—giggling grandchildren, proud parents, and the usual assortment of relatives. He selects one and hands it to me. “You know who that is?”
A man in his late sixties holding a shaggy dog in his arms stares at m
e from within the sleek silver frame. His close-set eyes, long nose, and wide smile give him the bemused expression of a camel.
“Your father?”
Rubineau shakes his head no and smiles. “My rabbi. Eighty years ago when he came to this country his name was Mei’er Suchowljansky.”
“Oh,” I exclaim, as it dawns on me. “Meyer Lansky, isn’t it?”
Rubineau brightens. “He was a great man, an honest man in a dishonest business, and a genius with numbers. Our families came from the same town in Russia.”
“Grodno, near the Polish border.”
Rubineau’s eyes flicker and burn with curiosity.
“I’m a journalist, Mr. Rubineau—an investigative journalist.”
“We’ll come back to that,” he growls impatiently, returning Lansky’s picture to its place of honor. “I was about to say Meyer knew all there was to know about business, and he taught it to me. Even the FBI said he could’ve run General Motors.”
“From what I hear, he probably should have.”
“He would have, had he chosen a different path. . . .” He takes his seat and, expression darkening, adds, “And been born a gentile.”
“Is that why he changed his name?”
“That’s two insults, Katkov. Meyer was proud of being a Jew—and so am I. He broke up Nazi meetings in New York during the thirties, and after the war, when Israel was fighting for its existence, he stopped shipments of guns to the Arabs. It killed him when the Israelis denied him residency.”
“I imagine they aren’t interested in people who don’t play by the rules.”
“Play by the rules?!” he explodes indignantly. “You know where Israel would be today if they played by the rules? Look, the point is, he advised me not to make the same mistake; and I didn’t. I’ve played by ’em from day one.”
“Was that before or after you were disbarred?”
His eyes flare with anger. “That was a travesty. Meyer had a falling-out with some business partners. Italians. They fed me to the sharks to get at him.” His eyes drift to the snapshots on the mantel. “For the sake of my family, I modified my name; but I was playing by the rules then. And I still am.”