by Greg Dinallo
I scurry across the catwalks to get a better angle, then crouch to a two-way mirror. Eye pressed to the camera. Waiting. The group parts. The man turns. Zoom. Focus. He’s short. Thin-boned. I take a shot. The autowind whirrs. The film advances. Another shot. Click. Whirr. Advance and fire. Another. And another. But nothing changes. The sharp cheekbones, the rodentlike countenance, the neatly razored mustache. Each shot confirms the ugly truth. Each confirms, that sick mother or no, he isn’t away taking care of her! He’s here betraying me! Deny it, dislike it, condemn it as I might, the face centered in the lens is Yuri’s.
39
Devastated, betrayed, infuriated—the feelings are overwhelming and complex. I’m staring blankly through the two-way mirror on the verge of wretching. Yuri is preening like a peacock below. Yuri? Yuri?! Quiet, unassuming, supportive Yuri?! Half of me wants to crawl in a hole and die. The other half wants to go down there and beat him to a pulp. He was the first person I went to about Vorontsov. Fucking bastard.
My mind is racing. Like one’s life at the moment of death, the entire sequence of events flashes before my eyes in an illuminating rush. Suddenly I understand why Yuri couldn’t get me copies of the documents, why he suggested I look up Barkhin. He knew I’d track down the medal dealers sooner or later; better to have control, better, as Shevchenko said, to have Rafik baby-sitting me. And why I wasn’t killed—I wasn’t a target. Rafik didn’t save my life; Yuri protected me. He had Rank killed to scare me off and, as Shevchenko also said, to sever the only link to who hired him.
It also explains why Ray-Ban went to Mrs. Parfenov looking for me. Keep the heat on, make sure I stayed scared. And why Yuri played word games with ITZ. Turn it into a joke, make it impossible to decipher. Lastly, it explains how Rubineau knew I was working with FinCEN. It wasn’t Shevchenko who tipped him off; it was Yuri.
But it raises as many questions as it answers. First and foremost, how could Yuri be in a position to orchestrate something of this magnitude? It’s no secret that his star at the Interior Ministry has been on the rise; and decades spent concealing his free-market mind-set from the KGB could account for his guile. But neither his career path nor personality suggest, even remotely, that field work is his forte. On the other hand, he certainly has the intellectual capacity and wouldn’t be the first introvert to acquire the skills and power—those four telephones on his desk go a long way to confirming the latter.
However, having done so, why let me go to Washington? He made an obligatory effort to dissuade me; but I’ve no doubt he could’ve easily had me stopped. Not killed. A broken leg or two would’ve sufficed. Instead, he gives me carte blanche use of his phone, and drives me to the airport. And what’s driving him? Was Yuri KGB all these years? Is that how he “eluded” them? Is that how they always seemed to know what I was up to? He sure as hell knew what Vorontsov was up to. Found out he was going to blow the whistle and blew it on him first. I feel so blind, so naively loyal. I mean, didn’t Yuri warn me? Wasn’t he the one who said government thugs are much harder to identify now? Was it a slip? Was he toying with me insidiously? Was it a subtle warning to a friend?
I’m sitting cross-legged on the observation platform trying to pull myself together and sort it out. This is no time to lose my nerve. Nerve? Come on, Katkov. Gall, stupidity, suicidal bent would be more like it. I’m in the ceiling of a defunct casino in Havana up against ruthless thugs, guards with machine guns, and killer dogs—any one of whom would gladly hunt me down and kill me like a cockroach—and I’m armed with a camera and a flashlight.
My eyes drift back to the two-way mirror. The million-dollar packages of cash in the large stack are being put into cardboard cartons that are labeled CUBAN CANE SUGAR in Spanish and Russian. One package per carton, cushioned and concealed with bags of raw sugar packed around it. The two hundred packages of plastic-wrapped cash in the smaller stack are being loaded into a military van. The cartons—the eighteen hundred that I’m betting are going to Russia—are being loaded on wooden pallets that are speared by a small forklift and returned to container 95824.
There’s nothing I can do about Yuri, not at the moment anyway; but I can get some shots of this packing and loading operation. Especially from one of the other observation platforms that might give me a better angle. I’m about to move off when I notice Barkhin—who’s standing directly below me—brushing something from the sleeve of his suit jacket. A few seconds later, he reacts and does it again. It’s as if dust is falling on it. Curious, puzzled, he glances up at the ceiling, at the mirror where I’m located, then back to his sleeve and brushes it again. Dust is falling on it! He waves Ray-Ban over and points to the ceiling. An urgent, animated conversation follows. Ray-Ban nods resolutely and storms off with his machine gun slung beneath his arm.
I know where he’s going; I know how he’s getting there; and I’d better be long gone when he does. I leave the observation platform, in search of another way out, and spot a fire exit on the opposite side of the ceiling. I scurry across the catwalks, sprint the last twenty feet, and slam my palms against the emergency bar. Nothing happens. The door is locked. It’s probably walled off on the other side. I’m trapped. There’s no way I can get across the catwalks and down the stairs before Ray-Ban reaches them and starts up.
If I can’t get out, I’ve got to keep Ray-Ban from getting in. Did I lock the door last night?! I start back across the catwalks. Zigzagging. Running. I’m a few steps from the door. Boots are pounding on the staircase on the other side. The rhythm changes. Swifter. Louder. Ray-Ban must’ve reached the landing and is running for the door. I lunge for it and throw the dead bolt an instant before he grabs the knob. It jiggles, then shakes as Ray-Ban turns it left, then right, pushing and pulling it in frustration. Several dull thuds, as if he’s slamming a shoulder into it, follow. Then sharper, louder whacks as if he’s kicking it with the heel of his boot. He kicks again and again. The steel jamb and dead bolt refuse to budge.
I overcome an impulse to run. Retreating would be a huge mistake. I’d be trapped on the catwalks. No, that door is the only way out of here; I’ve got to stick as close to it as I can. Stick close, let him burst in, and slip out behind him. But the door swings flat against the railing when it opens. There’s no place to stand behind it. I’m looking frantically for a hiding place. A burst from Ray-Ban’s machine gun rips through the metal around the dead bolt.
I’m on the verge of panicking when I notice the catwalks aren’t built directly on the ceiling. There’s a space between the top of one structure and the underside of the other—enough space for a man to hide. I’m climbing off the catwalk onto the ceiling when another burst from the machine gun turns the dead bolt assembly into a chunk of twisted metal. I’m lying on the ceiling—my back and legs bridging the gaps in the egg crate structure—and sliding beneath the catwalk when the door opens and smashes into the railing with a loud bang.
Ray-Ban thunders onto the catwalks. The entire structure creaks and sways. Decades-old dust falls on my face, dotting my glasses. Ray-Ban advances a few steps, then pauses. I can see the texture of his soles through the spaces in the decking. He’s standing directly above me. A sneeze, a cough, a sigh, and I’m a dead man. The beam of his flashlight bends across the curved shell of the convention center roof and flickers through the hangers and cross braces that support the ceiling and catwalks. I have to get him to move off, to move deeper into the ceiling space in search of me.
Uncomfortable, cramped, terrified of making a sound, I work a hand into a pocket with painstaking care and get hold of a coin. My fingers are moist with sweat and slippery. The thought of dropping it makes me shudder. I squeeze it tightly, waiting until Ray-Ban takes a few more steps, until his back is to me and to the door. Then I extend my arm out from beneath the catwalk and fling the coin as hard as I can. It zips through the air, ricochets off the window of the security office with a loud ping, and clinks through the metal ceiling structure.
Ray-Ban dashes off in the direction
of the sound. The entire catwalk structure begins bouncing up and down. It slams painfully against my chest, the rise and fall alternately freeing and pinning me beneath it. The pounding finally stops, which means Ray-Ban has stopped. I crane my neck, trying to get a fix on his location. He’s advancing on the security office in a catlike crouch. Machine gun locked, loaded, and ready to fire. I wait until he works his way around to the far side, which blocks his view, then ease my way out from beneath the catwalk and roll up onto it.
I’m getting to my feet when a shoelace snags the edge of the decking. I stumble in my haste to free it and almost go sprawling headlong across the catwalk. My hand catches the railing, keeping me upright, but my shoulder hits the door. It swings back against the railing with a loud slam. I run onto the landing and down the staircase taking the steps two, three at a time, jumping over the boxes at the bottom. I’m dashing through the storage area when I hear Ray-Ban thundering down the stairs behind me.
The convention center offices are still unoccupied except for a few early birds. One of them is accepting a package and signing the deliveryman’s clipboard. They go by in a blur as I exit the administration area, continuing past the main entrance and velvet rope barricade into the lobby. It’s busier than it was last night. Guests are checking out, streaming toward the dining room for breakfast, waiting in groups for tour buses.
Did Ray-Ban get a look at me when I stumbled? Will he recognize me? He won’t need to if he sees someone dashing through the lobby. Better to assume he hasn’t. Better to slip in among the milling tourists than to run for my life. I take a moment to catch my breath and straighten my clothes, then walk casually past the check-in desk toward the cashiers’ windows.
The young woman smiles as I approach. To my surprise, she’s green-eyed and freckled like the British students who tour Moscow.
I put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “May I have pesos, please?” I ask in English.
“Certainly, sir,” she replies in a slight brogue. She pauses, studies the bill, then looks up at me. “You know, with that accent I half expected pounds.”
The knot in my gut tightens. I’m sure she’s just being friendly, but under the circumstances everything is threatening. “I had business in Miami.”
She opens the cash drawer and begins peeling off bills. “Well, I hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Riviera?”
“Oh, yes, very much.”
“Good. Most of our guests find it relaxing.”
I force a smile and glance back over my shoulder in time to see Ray-Ban explode from the corridor. His weapon hangs discretely beneath his arm. He freezes and scans the crowd. His eyes sweep right past me.
The cashier presents me with a neat stack of bills. “I’ve worked at hotels in Madrid, Rio, Mexico City,” she says brightly. “But I fell in love with Havana’s easy pace.”
“Me too. Thanks.” I scoop up the pesos and turn from the window ready to bolt.
Ray-Ban is poised to spring at anything that moves. His head ratchets around. His eyes sweep over me. The deliveryman emerges from the corridor behind him. Ray-Ban spots him out of the corner of his eye and is on him like an attack dog, gloved hands going for his throat, dragging him back into the corridor and slamming him against wall. The poor fellow is terrified, sputtering in Spanish, and gesturing frantically to his clipboard as Ray-Ban grills him unrelentingly in Russian.
I’m paralyzed; I want to help, but there’s nothing I can do, no way I can chance coming forward.
The commotion attracts a small crowd, including the employee who signed for the delivery. She manages to communicate with Ray-Ban, who releases his victim and begins grilling her instead. She’s alternately nodding and shaking her head no amid a garble of Spanish and Russian. From Ray-Ban’s side of the conversation, I gather the woman saw a man run past her office; but it was just a glimpse, and she can’t describe him.
Lest the sight of me jog her memory, I stroll out of the lobby and across the parking lot toward the Lada. My pace is casual. It’s my heart rate that’s nearing the speed of light. If stress doesn’t break it, Yuri’s betrayal will. I don’t know what’s driving him. I may never know. One thing I’m certain of—the Riviera isn’t the last stop for the cash-filled container. I’m still shaken by my narrow escape and, though I’ve never been one to see life in religious terms, I can’t help thinking that it sure feels like Passover.
40
Whatever its destination, container 95824 isn’t going anywhere for a while. Not until all eighteen hundred packages are sealed into cardboard cartons, stacked on pallets, and loaded inside. I check into an inexpensive motel down the street from the Riviera. After a quick shower, shave, and change of clothes, I get some breakfast in a touristy bar next door. The walls are papered with grainy, coffee-stained photo blowups of Hemingway. Worn copies of his novels are stuffed into every nook and cranny. I eat quickly, order several cups of the pitch-black coffee to go—which wouldn’t be possible in Moscow—and drive back to the Riviera.
Opposite the hotel, on the ocean side of the Malecon, there’s a large paved area where fishermen once parked their vehicles. But there are only a few cars now, a dozen or so bicycles, and a clear view of the Riviera’s service road—which is why I’m here. There’s no way the eighteen-wheeler can leave without my seeing it.
I spend the better part of the day sitting on the seawall with the fishermen, and most of the night in the Lada drinking coffee to stay awake. Actually it’s not the caffeine that keeps my adrenaline pumping and my gut churning. It’s Yuri. He’s obviously staying at the hotel, and I’m more than tempted to track him down and confront him. But I’ve come too far to let a moment of satisfaction endanger everything.
Early the next morning, the clanking of a poorly maintained diesel shatters the silence. Then, belching thick blue-black smoke into the darkness, the lumbering eighteen-wheeler emerges from behind the Riviera. The military van, a Cuban government staff car, and two Zil limousines follow.
The caravan exits the service road and turns into Paseo, a main boulevard with towering palms that march down the median. I fire up the Lada and wait. There’s virtually no traffic at this hour, greatly increasing the chances of being spotted. I keep the headlights off and follow at a distance. The divided roadway cuts a triumphant path across the city to the Revolutionary Palace. The State Treasury or Ministry of Finance must be located here, because the cash-filled military van and government staff car turn into the grounds. The eighteen-wheeler and the two limousines angle into Avenida de la Independencia and continue south on the empty, arrow-straight highway. A half hour later, the caravan passes beneath a sign that reads JOSE MARTI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.
The main approach road runs parallel to a high chain link fence that encloses it. The three vehicles continue past the entrance to the passenger terminals and turn into a brightly lighted street that leads to a security kiosk. It’s manned by two uniformed guards. One carries a sidearm. The other cradles an automatic rifle. I pull over behind a bus shelter. Evidently, the guards have their orders—no inspection, no probing questions, no time wasted—because the gate arm rises almost immediately, and the vehicles proceed onto the airport grounds.
I’ve no chance of getting past the guards, but I can see the caravan through the chain link. I continue driving parallel to the fence. I’ve got one eye on the road, the other on the vehicles, when they disappear behind a row of hangars and maintenance sheds. Is that it? Have they stopped? Damn. I can’t see a thing from here. I’m about to get out and climb the fence when I spot headlights streaming between the buildings. The three vehicles finally emerge and swing onto the tarmac, where two jets are waiting.
One is Rubineau’s Gulfstream.
The other is a cargo plane that I recognize as a Russian-made Antonov-22. I used to hop flights on them when I was covering the war in Afghanistan. Massive, extremely slow, built very close to the ground, its wide-bodied, hundred-foot-long cargo hold can easily accommodate a pair of scud mi
ssiles on mobile launchers with room left over for a squad of battle tanks, their crews, equipment, and a hitchhiking journalist or two.
The eighteen-wheeler circles around and approaches from the rear. The underside of the plane’s sharply angled tail section lowers hydraulically like a space-age drawbridge and becomes a loading ramp. A member of the ground crew guides the tractor-trailer into proper alignment. Without coming to a stop, the rig accelerates up the gentle slope and vanishes inside the turboprop’s cavernous fuselage.
Simultaneously, the two limousines stop next to the Gulfstream. Barkhin, Ray-Ban, Rubineau, and his bodyguard get out of one; Gudonov and Yuri out of the other. They all board Rubineau’s sleek corporate jet. The crew wastes no time buttoning up and taxiing. The Antonov’s crew does the same. Container 95824 is on its way to Russia.
I make a beeline for the passenger terminal. The sun is creeping over the horizon, sending shafts of light across the near-empty parking lots. I drop off the Lada, proceed to the Aeroflot ticketing counter, and book a seat on the day’s only flight to Moscow. My next stop is a row of public phone booths. Several are marked for international calls. Are they bugged? Does the Cuban government listen in on those dialing outside the country? I’ve no choice but to take the chance; and I make it collect to Scotto at FinCEN Headquarters.