Igor said nothing. His head stayed down.
The German prison guard shifted in his chair, bored. It crossed my mind that his presence was inhibiting Igor, so I asked him to wait outside. The guard gave me a disapproving look and said, “I'm here to protect you, but I can leave if you want.”
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Please wait outside, I'll be fine.”
Igor, handcuffed and frail, didn't pose much of a threat. I was twice his size, and besides, my favorite class during my training at the Israeli Mossad Academy had been martial arts. Sure, a few decades had passed since then and there hadn't been much use for those particular talents in my current position at the DoJ, but I wasn't too worried.
I asked Igor another question. Still no response.
“Dr. Bermann, would you please come outside with me for a moment?”
We stepped outside the cell, leaving Igor and the interpreter behind.
“I thought you said he spoke English,” I said, wondering if my earlier speech had been wasted on Razov.
“He does, he does,” Bermann assured me, although I suspected he wasn't that sure.
“Unless he gives me some answers,” I said, “our deal is off. I hope you realize that.”
“Yes. I don't understand Igor. He promised me he'd cooperate with you. Let's try again.”
We went back to the cell, and I continued.
“Are you familiar with Boris Zhukov?
“Have you been working for him?
“You left Minsk and moved to New York in 1994. Why did you return to Minsk? Was it only to whack Petrov, or was it also something to do with Zhukov's money?
“How is Zhukov connected to the wire transfers you were making?”
Not a word.
“We know about your ties to Zhukov, but just knowing him doesn't mean you did anything wrong. I'm not here for your criminal case. I'm interested only in the money side of your relationship with Zhukov. Do you understand that?”
I kept going for another ten minutes. Igor was silent as a grave on a winter's night.
Seeing his thousand dollars slipping away, Dr. Berman made a last effort. “Igor, you promised me you would help Herr Gordon. Nobody is going to find out that you said anything. That's impossible, right?” He turned to me for confirmation.
“Absolutely,” I agreed quickly. “I guarantee that everything you say stays in this room. All I need from you is guidance concerning the source of some money transfers that we think are connected to Zhukov.”
Igor didn't even look at me. Bermann continued feebly, but to me the effort seemed futile. Bermann inspired no more confidence than a nurse trying to convince a crying boy that the doctor approaching with a syringe big enough to inoculate horses isn't going to hurt him.
I had read Igor's FBI file before coming. I realized that he knew better than to cooperate. He feared his colleagues in the Belarusian mob, on both sides of the ocean, more than anything; certainly more than the wrath of his own lawyer, a pompous scalawag lucky enough to be appointed by the court in this open-and-shut case. What could Bermann do to him if he refused to talk — stop bringing him week-old Russian newspapers? Complain to the prison warden? Write a letter to the editor of the prison's bulletin?
But Misha, Boris, and Yuri — to name just a few of the guys still on the loose — could find a thousand ways to make him wish he'd never been born, to make him pray that his thirty-seven years on this planet would end quickly. He knew that, because he was one of them; he was the one who'd pulled the trigger that led to this mess. Who would have thought that eliminating the president of a trading company in Minsk could cause so much commotion?
This Petrov had refused to pay his dues to Boris Zhukov. So under orders from Zhukov, a thug named Misha had told Igor to go to Stuttgart to await instructions. Misha was a huge person who inspired fear in everyone; his burly resemblance to a raging bear gave his gang the nickname Mishka, or “bear” in Russian. The Mishkas were a notorious crime group that had operated in the chaotic streets of Minsk before branching out to New York. Misha took orders from nobody but Zhukov.
Less than a month later, word arrived: Go to Minsk and waste Petrov. So Igor did. He'd always obeyed orders, first in the Soviet army fighting in the final years of its war in Afghanistan, then as part of the Mishkas. Igor was proud to be considered a member. Indeed, his achievements in Minsk had drawn the attention of Zhukov, who needed more muscle in New York. A quick fictitious marriage to an American woman was arranged; she got a thousand dollars, and Igor got a green card and moved to America. Three years later, Igor had become Zhukov's confidant, and was occasionally sent to foreign countries to carry out “sensitive” jobs. Including this one.
What Igor and friends did not know was that Petrov was married to the daughter of a police chief, who apparently didn't like seeing his daughter widowed. Special orders were immediately sent: Get them! A week later someone ratted to the police that Igor had escaped to Germany. The three other gang members were still at large. An international arrest warrant was issued through INTERPOL. From there it was easy. The German police made inquiries through informers within the local Russian community. Igor was identified and arrested while sitting in a local bar.
As for me, I had traveled from New York in the dead of winter to a German maximum-security prison. I'd had to endure the terrible noise of slammed metal doors and the ominous spectacle of German prison guards clad in long winter coats and leather boots. I'd had to sidestep the vicious-looking German shepherds on short leashes. I'd had to endure sitting in a small room with a guy who reeked of cigarettes — and other odors beyond description. And what did I get in return? Nothing. Igor wouldn't even talk. How inconsiderate could he be?
There wasn't much I could do. Despite all Bermann's pleading, Igor remained silent. He had had his say once, and now it was time to be quiet. Igor wasn't thinking about being reincarnated in this world as a better person. He had far lesser dreams.
When it was clear the situation was hopeless, I left. The security checks exiting the facility were as stringent as those I'd had to clear entering. Given their clientele, and the kind of lowlifes in their business, the German prison system wasn't taking any chances. They simply wanted to make sure that the Dan Gordon leaving at 11:52 A.M. was the same Dan Gordon who'd entered the prison at 11:04 A.M. — not an inmate assuming my identity to reach the better food, better company, and freedom in the outside world.
Even empty-handed, I was relieved to be out of that place.
It was raining — freezing rain atop the snow already on the ground — and the streets were muddy. Snow might be romantic when you're curled up near a fireplace with a lover, a blanket, or both. Less so when you're in a foreign city with no taxis in sight.
I entered a coffee shop in Aspergerstrasse just outside the prison and ordered hot chocolate. I warmed my hands against the mug. It instantly brought back memories of my childhood in Tel Aviv, when my mother used to make me cocoa in my favorite mug while telling me how she'd escaped the Nazi Holocaust by emigrating from Belarus to Israel seven years before the war broke out. She made it out before every gate was shut to the Jews. My uncles and aunts stayed behind and perished. My uncle Shaya was a student in Stuttgart at the time and thought nothing would happen to him. More than half a century later, I was in the same city where an uncle I had never met was murdered just because he was Jewish.
Snapping out of my reverie, I tried to figure out how to break the news about Igor's silence to my boss, David Stone, the director of the Office of International Asset Recovery and Money Laundering in Washington, DC.
“It's a waste of time trying to make him talk,” I'd said to David last week when he'd authorized my trip. “I know these guys. They'd rather die. Any death by execution you'd threaten them with would still be a summer holiday in comparison with the death by slow torture their friends offer.”
David had nodded. “Still, we shouldn't let this opportunity slip away.”
Igor probably k
new that Germany wouldn't extradite him to Belarus until it was sure he wouldn't be executed like his buddies. The extradition treaty between Germany and Belarus provided that anybody extradited to Belarus from Germany must be spared capital punishment because of Germany's opposition to it.
“After Igor is finally extradited to serve a life term in Belarus,” David had continued, “he won't even open his mouth to yawn. Our only chance to verify our lead is while he's still in Germany, isolated from fellow gang members and informers. Just the fact that Igor has agreed to meet you could be a good sign — it means he's already taken a huge risk. That might indicate that he'd be willing to take even more chances and give us some info.”
“There could be another explanation,” I said. “First, I spoke only with his lawyer, Bermann. The smell of money could have clouded his judgment, making him forget to check with Igor; Bermann's consent seemed a little too fast. Second, even if Igor had agreed to talk to me, it could still mean that he needed the meeting to signal his friends outside prison that he was sending me back empty-handed. That would serve as proof that he wasn't betraying them.”
“I understand,” David replied. “Zhukov is in the United States, and unless we have probable cause, we can't arrest him. He will most likely refuse a voluntary interview. He's done that before. But Igor is outside U.S. jurisdiction, so if the German prison authority and his lawyer agree to the interview, what do we have to lose?”
“Okay, you're the boss. You tell me to go, and I will.” I could hardly have sounded more reluctant.
“After the travel authorizations. You know the rules,” added David.
I did. First the Federal Republic of Germany had to authorize my visit; anyone traveling on official U.S. government business must have the prior approval of the host government. Second, under the Federal Chief of Mission Statute, federal employees can operate in a foreign country only with the U.S. ambassador's consent. Although rarely done, the embassy could even assign a representative officer to be present during all of my activities.
As far as I was concerned, all of this was unnecessary red tape. The same music was always being played and replayed: David demanded that I comply with the rules; I tried, but if I couldn't, I left evidence showing I tried. David knew of my tendency to cut corners. He didn't mind pretending that things never happened — as long as I understood that if the shit ever hit the fan I'd be the only one showered. On a good day I might have time to duck.
A few days later the paperwork was complete and I was on my way.
I stirred the hot chocolate, wiping my eyes, which had become teary from the cigarette-smoke-filled café air, and thought that now David would have to concede that I'd been right.
Still, I wasn't the kind of person to rub someone's nose in his mistakes, particularly when that someone was my direct supervisor. Moreover, I knew he'd had a point: Igor Razov could eventually help solve part of my puzzle, even if he was only a pawn. It was just a temporary hurdle; I needed to find a way to jump it.
I ventured back into the relentless rain and returned to my hotel. I changed my business clothes and wrote my report. No accusations, just the tale of a wasted visit to prison. I went outside and called David from a pay phone in a dome that failed to shield me from the wind and rain. When I call people, I observe certain rules, one of which is not to call from my hotel room. It's an old habit left over from my Mossad days: Hotels keep a record of your calls. For the same reason, I rarely use my cell phone when on assignment. I don't think I should be that transparent to foreign governments who think I'm just a tourist.
“Did he talk?” asked David.
“Silent as a husband.”
“So the trip was a waste?”
“Well, not yet. While I'm here I want to dig deeper. I have a few ideas, and I'll need INTERPOL assistance.”
“What for?”
“I need to see the German arrest file and ask them to issue a search warrant for this guy's local residence. He must have lived somewhere here before his arrest. It might contain some interesting stuff.”
David hesitated. Even though I was investigating money laundering, a crime, INTERPOL might not be much help. A U.S. request via INTERPOL could almost certainly get me Razov's German police file. To get it fast, though, I'd have to offer to translate it myself and hope that the Germans would go along. “We might have better luck going through the police attaché at the German embassy in Washington. Still, a search would require a judicial order, so we'll have to send an MLAT request, and that might take more time than we have.”
I couldn't help but think about my son, Tom. Before he'd grown to a towering six foot three, sporting a ridiculous goatee and out-of-fashion sideburns, he used to ask me what the meaning of money laundering was. He'd grown up hearing the term bandied frequently around the house. “No, it's not a big washing machine that cleans the dirty bills,” I used to explain to him. “It's when thieves want to hide their stolen money from the police, so they transfer it from place to place hoping it will become ‘clean’ in the process and can't be traced back to their criminal activity. Money that criminals made by breaking the law is always dirty, so they want to make it seem like it came from someplace legal.”
I told David now, “I think I'll push this forward on my own.” Until he decided to request a search pursuant from the Mutual Legal Assistance Treaty in Criminal Matters (MLAT), I could use the time to find out where Razov had lived and with whom he had associated.
“Okay, where can you be reached?” David asked.
“I'm at the Grand Astron Hotel in Stuttgart.” I gave him my numbers.
I had little hope that the German police file would contain anything meaningful. After all, Razov wasn't in their prison as a result of a crime he had committed in Germany; they were simply keeping him in escrow until he could be extradited to Belarus. The intelligence on Igor's German activities would be as thin as he was. And of course U.S. investigative agents and police could not conduct criminal investigations outside the United States without the approval of the host country, which is rarely given. But, I reasoned, I was also after the money. That was civil law, not criminal — at least not usually. I only hoped that my so-so legal analysis wouldn't be tested in reality.
At last the rain was letting up. I walked to the nearby city square and asked a local policeman in a black uniform where I could find a café or social club frequented by Russian immigrants.
He gave me an unfriendly look and said, “Try Café Moscow, right off Schlossplatz in downtown Stuttgart.”
I finally found a cab, which dropped me off at the café. It was lunchtime. As I entered, heavy cigarette smoke and the smell of vodka assaulted my nose. Posters of old Soviet-era movies adorned the walls, and Russian music was playing.
The café was filled with burly men and a few women with push-up bras and too much makeup. I sat at the bar, squinting through the stinging smoke. I ordered a vodka martini and scrutinized the crowd. Five minutes later I had company. Compared with similar institutions, the response time here was relatively slow.
“How are you, big man?” said a young woman who pulled up a chair to be closer. “American?” She had a pronounced Russian accent.
I nodded. I didn't feel too welcome in Germany as an American. At the time President George W. Bush was trying, without any success, to persuade France and Germany to join the coalition to topple Saddam Hussein. Several street demonstrations against the United States had taken place. In Berlin a remembrance of the World War I antiwar communist leaders Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht had turned into a march of ten thousand demonstrators protesting U.S. plans to invade Iraq.
“Buy me a drink?”
Well, despite my nationality, I could apparently still attract the bar broads. I consciously let myself be drawn in. Her agenda might have been the bulge in my pants — my wallet. But I also had an agenda, as she would soon find out.
“What would you like?” I said.
“Buy me champagne?” came the exp
ected response. Next, she'd be served with colored water and I'd be charged for the best French champagne.
“No, dear,” I said sternly, “vodka should be just fine.” In a softer tone I added, “Isn't it too early for champagne?”
She smiled and asked the bartender for vodka.
I watched him pour from the same bottle he'd used for my drink earlier. As long as I was paying for vodka, let it be that, and not tap water.
“Tourist?” She leaned toward me to give me a better view of her generous breasts. A mixed smell of cheap perfume, bad alcohol, and cigarettes was sufficient deterrent to any thought of taking a two-hour leave from my duty. Two hours? Make that ten minutes.
“Yes, on business just for a few days.”
“What kind of business?”
“I'm in microelectronics sales for the computer industry.”
“Is business good?” No subtlety there: She was aiming directly at the size of my wallet.
“Business is okay. You sound like you're Russian, am I right?”
She nodded and sipped her drink.
“Do you speak Belarusian? I need somebody who could do some translations for me. Know anyone?”
“I'm from Russia. In Belarus, they speak a different dialect, actually a different language.”
“I know, but I was thinking anyone who speaks Ukrainian or Belarusian would have very little trouble understanding the other language. Isn't it the same with Russian?”
She shook her head. “Russian speakers would have difficulty understanding either language. But I could ask here for you.”
“Thanks. That would get you another drink from me.”
“Nothing else?” There was a tone of seductive disappointment in her voice.
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