Red Ink

by Greg Dinallo

  Scotto smiles to herself, then swings a look in my direction. “Rubineau didn’t happen to mention anything about buying a trucking depot, did he?” she wonders, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Quite a few, as a matter of fact—not to mention several airlines and a railroad or two—in Russia, of course.”

  “This one’s in Maryland. Hagerstown.”

  “Well, as long as we’re on Rubineau . . .” I flick the copy of the flight plan onto the desk. “What would you say if I told you he made a trip to Havana recently.”

  “Havana?” she repeats, somewhat astonished. “How the hell’d he manage that?”

  “Good question. I doubt he was on holiday. Jennifer’s working on it.”

  “No, Jennifer just struck out,” Jennifer says in her perky way. She points to her monitor, where the phrase ACCESS DENIED pulses tauntingly. “I tried State first, then Commerce. Every time I cross-reference Cuba with Rubineau or his companies, that’s what happens. It’s really weird.”

  “Sounds like somebody’s got something to hide. Good work. Keep trying.” Scotto heads for the door.

  I hurry down the corridor after her. “What’s all this about a trucking depot?”

  “According to my informant, one of their shipping containers, number 95824 to be precise, might be of interest to us.”

  “I imagine they run hundreds of them in and out of a place like that every day. Why that one?”

  “My guy says it’s filled with cash—all hundreds.”

  “He knows that for a fact?”

  “Hey, that basement in East Baltimore gives him a lot of credibility. We’re talking in the neighborhood of a couple of billion dollars.”

  “A couple of billion?” I exclaim, flabbergasted.

  “Yeah, it rolls at midnight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Your ‘guy’ isn’t much for lead time, is he?”

  “Tell me about it.” She darts around a corner, almost colliding with another employee, and makes a beeline for the director’s office.

  “Way to go, Scotto,” Banzer enthuses after she’s briefed him. “I’ve got just one question.”

  “ITZ Corporation,” Scotto cracks, beating him to it. “I already checked.”

  “You withheld that on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “Well, I knew you’d ask, Joe,” she replies mischievously.

  “Okay, smartass. It may come as news to you, but Hagerstown just happens to be one of the hubs of this country’s trucking industry. That container could be going just about anywhere.”

  “Try Atlanta,” Scotto replies.

  Banzer’s expression softens.

  “It’s consigned to a recycling plant west of downtown, near Fulton County Airport.

  “Who’s the shipper?”

  “Coppelia Paper Products.”

  Banzer’s brows go up. “I’ll bet.”

  “According to the bill of lading"—Scotto pauses and cackles insidiously at what she’s about to say—"the cargo is seven tons of scrap paper.”

  “Makes sense. Covers the cargo and weight. It wouldn’t wash if they were into down-filled comforters, would it? Whatever, we’re going to recycle it for ’em,” Banzer says with a wiley smile; then his eyes narrow. “I want both ends of this, Gabby. That means we set up surveillance at the trucking depot and the recycling plant, and tail the rig with the container between ’em.”

  “You going to ramrod the Atlanta end?”

  “Not if our budget’s ever going to get approved. Krauss can fly ahead and handle it out of the local SAC office down there.”

  “SAC?”

  “Special Agent in Charge,” Scotto replies. She crosses to a wall-sized road map of the United States. “Looks like I-81 is the main drag south out of Hagerstown: six, maybe seven hundred miles; four states—Maryland, Virginia, Tennessee, Georgia; and umpteen intersecting highways and legal jurisdictions before we get to Atlanta.”

  “Who do you want to use?” Banzer prompts.

  “It’s an interstate tail—so no locals, right?”

  “Right. Last thing we need is a parade of cruisers at every county line. And no choppers. The driver’d have to be brain-dead not to spot a bird sitting on his shoulder for seven hundred miles.”

  “Limited range anyway. I figure four units with a mix of Customs and DEA oughta do it. That way we can take turns—”

  “They, Gabby,” Banzer interrupts. “Not we. They. The only thing you’re licensed to drive is a desk.”

  “I’m the agent-in-charge, Joe.”

  “You’re the Deputy Director of FinCEN, dammit.”

  “Not if you stop me from doing this. Come on. You can get by without me for a couple of days. Make believe I’m off pontificating at some seminar. It’s my informant, Joe. That makes me the AIC.”

  “It’s Woody’s informant; besides, I thought you were taking a couple of days off to go away with Marty.”

  “Indeed,” I reply unthinkingly. “As did I.”

  Scotto burns me with a look that condemns my disloyalty; then she shifts her lasers back to Banzer. “You ever lose a partner, Joe?”

  “Yeah. He keeled over in the middle of a poker game. Massive heart attack. Nothing I could do about it. Neither can you.”

  “I can do this, Joe.”

  “Gabby, you’re going to lose your husband next. Go away with Marty. Have a good time; put your life back together.”

  “Joe, I’ve had a pain in my gut ever since you called me in here and told me about Woody.”

  “You think I haven’t?”

  “Don’t keep me from this, Joe. Please.”

  Banzer sighs and glances to me. “You know what’s going on here, Katkov? She thinks the more she calls me Joe, the harder it is for me to say no.” He pauses and sighs defeatedly. “She’s right. Okay, Gabby,” he says, his tone sharpening. “But DEA and Customs are on point; you lay back and coordinate. Agreed?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’d work.”

  “Agreed?"

  “Agreed.”

  “And get someone to ride shotgun with you.”

  “Done.”

  “Who? What? What do you mean done?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  Banzer’s eyes widen with understanding and dart to mine. “No.”

  “I made a deal, Joe.”

  “No.”

  “It’s a perfect cover. A couple of Russian tourists getting their first taste of—”

  “You’re coordinating; you don’t need a cover.”

  “Joe.”

  “No. He’s not a professional.”

  “I take exception to that,” I protest. “I venture to say you’d have no knowledge of ITZ whatsoever if it weren’t for me.”

  “I think he’s got you, Joe.”

  “Yes, I’m quite certain I do. By the karotki volaskiis, as we say in Russia. If ITZ is tied in to this, I’m tied in to it too.”

  Banzer’s posture slackens in capitulation. “Answer one question for me, Gabby, okay?”

  Scotto suppresses a smile and nods.

  “I’m the boss. Why do I always lose these things?”

  “Because you’re more than just a boss, Joe. You’re a very smart boss who always makes the right decision.”

  “Geezus Christ,” Banzer says incredulously as Scotto drags me out the door toward her office. “Geezus H. Christ!”

  She wastes no time heating up the phone lines. Field strategy, operational briefings, interagency teamwork—it’s obviously the stuff that makes Scotto tick, that gets her out of bed in the morning; she’s damned good at it. “Right,” she says, wrapping up a conference call with DEA and Customs colleagues. “Four unmarked units counting mine. We’ll rendezvous outside the depot at twenty-two hundred. That’ll give us plenty of time. Oh, and let’s see if we can’t get everyone on the same radio frequency for a change, okay?” She hangs up, grabs her gear, and charges for the door. “Come on, Katkov. Move it. We’ve got to sto
p at my husband’s office on the way. This isn’t something I can do over the phone.”

  “Hard to check out of a hotel over it too.”

  She sighs and hurries to the elevator. We blow through the lobby and dash across the parking lot. The Buick waits patiently in the darkness. We open the doors and jump inside.

  “Aw, shit!” Scotto wails, freezing in horror at what the dome light reveals.

  I gasp at the repulsive sight of a man’s body sprawled across the hood. His anguished face presses grotesquely against the windshield. His eyes are open, blank, and bugged. His teeth are bared in a twisted smile by a cut that goes from the corner of his mouth to his ear. There’s a bullet hole in his forehead, and a frozen splatter of blood on the glass that runs along the wiper. It’s Scotto’s informant.

  26

  Scotto is shaken but defiantly resolute, and she handles the aftermath with cool efficiency. I check out of the hotel in the meantime, and we’re soon heading west toward Hagerstown on the parkway that parallels the Potomac. We’re driving in stolid silence when the Buick’s headlights sweep across a sign that reads CAPITOL BELTWAY 495 DULLES AIRPORT.

  “Oh, shit,” Scotto groans, jolted by a thought. “Marty.” She scoops up the cellular phone and autodials her husband’s office. “Hi, it’s Gabby. Is he there? . . . Damn. I was afraid of that . . . no, no, thanks.” She hangs up and stomps on the gas. “Damn.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He already left for the airport. I’m supposed to meet him at the check-in desk.”

  “Perhaps you might have him paged?”

  She considers it for a moment, then sighs, overwhelmed. “I can’t. This trip was my thing. I can’t just say ‘Sorry’ and leave him standing there.” She shifts lanes abruptly, darts into the interchange, and heads south to Dulles International.

  The approach road is clogged with traffic. There isn’t enough time to park in one of the lots, hike to the terminal, find her husband, and still make it to Hagerstown on schedule. Scotto drives up the congested departure ramp instead. Harried police officers in reflective vests are trying to undo the gridlock. We finally make it to the United Airlines entrance, where she triple-parks. “My husband’s a tall, lanky guy with a mustache and a southern drawl. Sort of talks like this,” she says imitating it, before sending me to fetch him.

  The check-in area is jammed with travelers. A man who fits the description is standing off to one side anxiously watching the entrance.

  “Excuse me. Are you Mr. Scotto?”

  “Uh-huh. Well, actually, that’s my wife’s name,” he replies in the drawl Scotto mimicked so perfectly. “I mean her last name’s Scotto. Mine’s Jennings. Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, no. No, she just needs to talk with you.”

  Marty’s eyes roll knowingly. He grabs his carryon and follows me outside, where frustrated drivers are leaning on their horns. One of the police officers reacts and comes in our direction. I get in next to Scotto. Marty circles around to the driver’s window.

  “Hi,” Scotto sighs, drawing it out into several syllables. “Sorry about this. We got a last-minute break in a case.”

  “Don’t do this, Gabby,” Marty pleads, almost drowned out by the racket.

  “I don’t have any choice, honey. I can’t go.”

  “You can’t block this lane, either, lady,” the police officer cracks. He holds up traffic in the adjacent lane and waves Scotto forward. “Let’s go, move it! Move it! Let’s get this opened up!”

  Marty scowls in disbelief and gets into the backseat. “I thought you didn’t have cases any more.”

  “It’s Woody’s last case. I’m taking it over,” Scotto explains as she pulls away. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you, Marty, even though I’m good at it. I asked for the case. I threatened to resign over it.”

  “Admirable; but nothing’s going to bring him back.”

  “Hey, I’m tired of hearing that, okay? I have to do it for him, for his family.”

  “He was your partner, not your husband,” Marty reasons in his even-tempered way. “I thought you took this job so we’d have more control over our lives?”

  “I did.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he concedes, sensing the futility. “You can’t be somebody you’re not, can you, Gabby?”

  “I’m trying. What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing. Drop me off at the terminal, please.”

  “The terminal?” Scotto echoes in a tone that leaves no doubt it’d be inconvenient. “It’ll take a half hour, maybe more in this mess. We have to—”

  “Pull over, dammit,” Marty snaps, finally running out of patience. Then he shifts his look to me and challenges, “What’s your wife doing this weekend?”

  “I’m . . . I’m afraid I’m divorced,” I reply with a shrug, caught off guard. “She—”

  “Figures,” he cracks sarcastically, assuming I’m in law enforcement, an inspector from Scotland Yard, no doubt. “You think maybe she’d like to go to Hilton Head?” He gets out without waiting for a reply, drags his suitcase after him, and slams the door.

  Scotto takes a moment to collect herself before pulling into the stream of traffic exiting the airport. We’re soon heading north on the Leesburg Pike, gas pedal to the floor. Fists locked on the steering wheel, eyes riveted to the sweep of headlights up ahead, Scotto drives in tight-lipped silence, leaving little doubt she’d prefer I not break it. About forty-five minutes later, we’re moving at high speed on a winding mountain road when she finally says, “He’s right. I can’t be something I’m not.”

  “No one can, Scotto. It cost me a marriage ten years ago, not to mention someone else I care about.”

  “The woman at your apartment that morning?”

  I nod glumly. “Vera. I can’t blame her. She’s caring, supportive. Wants to be put first once in a while. I try, but I get caught up in a story and—”

  “It takes hold of you, and all of a sudden you can’t see anything else, right?”

  “Precisely. I’m starting to believe that people can’t change their nature. It makes me quite pessimistic about the future.”

  “Just be your pushy, pain-in-the-ass self, Katkov. You’ll do fine.”

  “Thanks, but I was thinking of Russia. I’m afraid we may never escape our past. We’ve let czars and dictators bully us for so long, we may no longer be capable of governing ourselves, let alone competing in a free-market economy.”

  “Don’t write your countrymen off that easily.”

  “You don’t know them. We have an old saying: ‘The tallest blade of grass is the first to be cut by the scythe.’ Russians aren’t risk takers. They’re far more interested in guarantees than opportunities. Listen, I didn’t mean to change the subject. I’m terribly sorry about your husband.”

  She shrugs matter-of-factly. “I can’t be what I’m not. He can’t accept who I am. Neither of us is tuned in to what the other wants out of life.” She drifts off for a moment, then sighs. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. It’s not your problem.”

  “Sometimes it’s a bit easier with a stranger. You sure your mother wasn’t Russian?”

  “Positive,” she replies, managing a smile. “Why?”

  “You know Chekhov?”

  “We’ve lost touch over the years, but I recall his plays are about relationships, if that’s what you mean.”

  “About people who care deeply for each other, but are unhappy because they can’t quite grasp what the other wants out of life.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t have to be Russian, do you?”

  A sign that reads HAGERSTOWN 35 flashes past. Half an hour later we’re crossing the city line. Banzer was right. If this isn’t the center of the American trucking industry, I can’t imagine what is. Panel trucks, step vans, tankers and tractor-trailer rigs cruise the streets, line the curbs and fill the massive parking lots that flank the highway.

  Scotto takes the first turnoff and pulls into a service station. Sp
otless and brilliantly illuminated, it’s one of four at this intersection. I’m amazed. There are barely a half dozen in Moscow, all located beyond the Outer Ring, where long lines, outdated pumps, and outrageous prices greet the customer.

  While an attendant fills the tank, Scotto rummages in the trunk, then hurries off to the rest room. A few minutes later, she emerges in jeans, running shoes, and leather jacket over a faded sweat shirt that proclaims FORDHAM. After depositing her weekend outfit in the trunk, she shifts one of the boxes of snacks into the backseat, slips behind the wheel, and drops a pair of binoculars and her notepad in my lap. Then she takes the pistol from her shoulder bag and slips it into the holster she’s wearing beneath her jacket.

  We’re more than an hour behind schedule when we approach the trucking depot. It’s located on a wide, litter-strewn street that runs parallel to the highway. Beyond the high fence, trucks of every size, description, and affiliation are neatly aligned on acres of macadam. Countless tractor-trailers with containers in their flatbeds are backed up to a block-long warehouse. Scotto parks near the corner of a darkened cross street from where we can observe the depot’s entrance, then uses her radio to contact the other agents and confirm they’re all in position.

  “Affirmative,” one replies. “We’ve been waiting for you to check in, Scotto. Where you been?”

  “Yeah,” another chimes in, “we thought maybe you ran off with Dr. Zhivago.”

  “Eat your hearts out,” Scotto taunts, reddening slightly. Then she slouches in her seat to keep a low profile and gestures I do the same.

  About an hour later, I’m cold, hungry, bored, and halfway through a fresh pack of cigarettes. “You know, Scotto, I’m really starting to understand why you were so eager to get back into the field.”

  “Very funny.” She pulls a cellophane bag from the box on the backseat and tosses it at me. “Have some popcorn and shut up.”

  “I’d much prefer a vodka.”

  “What? And go running down the highway naked?”

  “A tactical diversion.”

  “Oh, yeah, these long-haul rednecks’d really get off on that.” She laughs, then glances to her watch. “Trunk’s open. Help yourself. Better make it fast.” I’m reaching for the door handle when she suddenly has a change of heart. “No. No, on second thought, we’re looking at a twelve-hour haul. I don’t want you nodding off on me. Forget it.”