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.”

“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 me 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.”

His anguish seems to be genuine, but recent events demand it be challenged. “Very well. Then what’s half a billion dollars in drug money doing in the basement of one of your buildings?”

“One of my buildings?”

“Precisely. A factory in East Baltimore.”

“An up-and-coming town. Prime area for urban renewal. I’ve acquired a lot of real estate there. I can’t rattle off every piece I own.”

“I’d wager Mr. Lansky could.”

“That’s strike three, Katkov. You know baseball?”

“I assume you can rattle off the names of your companies. The building in question is owned by ITZ Corporation. Ring a bell?”

“You’re a cocky little fuck, aren’t you?”

“A necessary evil in my line of work. Is ITZ your company or not?”

“Of course it is. I put it together to do business in Russia. Believe what you like, but my parents were persecuted in Russia just like Meyer’s, and yours, I imagine. They left so their children could have a better life. Now that I have it, I’m still interested in making money, but I’m more interested in how. In other words, I’m going to do everything in my power to see the country of my birth succeed as a democracy.”

“That makes two of us, Mr. Rubinowitz.”

He leans back in his chair and smiles wistfully. “There’s one difference, Katkov—your people stuck it out. You’ve got good genes. You’ve got guts.”

“I also had no choice. Now, you didn’t agree to see me to massage my ego. What are you after?”

“An even shake. For me and for your country.” He pauses briefly, reconsidering. “Make that our country. You realize the enormity of what’s going on there? It took Margaret Thatcher twelve years to privatize fifteen percent of the British economy. Yeltsin’s trying to do it all overnight. He doesn’t stand a chance without private investment; but it’s hard for investors to think long-term with all this corruption going on. It hasn’t scared off Mike Rubinowitz, because it’s personal with me, emotional, but it’s already scaring the shit out of other guys. Banks that did business with the Soviet Union for years are backing away from Russia now. A lot of them won’t even touch loans for grain purchases anymore.”

“Yes, unfortunately, but what does that have to do with me?”

“With your line of work. I said we’d get back to it. You’ve written some interesting things lately.”

“Nothing that was published here, or in English, as far as I know.”

“You know The New Yorker?” He sees my reaction and quickly adds, “No, no, not in there. Great magazine, though, especially if you’ve got nothing to do, and all week to do it. Anyway, they had a cartoon once of an author cornered by some people at a party. The caption was: ‘Loved your book. Heard all about it.’ ” Rubineau laughs to himself, savoring the irony.

“So, someone happened to mention my stories?”

“It was a little more calculated than that. The point is you can do a lot of damage by making a big deal out of this so-called scandal.”

“Me? I’m quite flattered, Mr. Rubineau. But what about the thousands of other newspapers and magazines?”

“You’re on the inside, Katkov. You’re going to be first. Your story’s going to set the tone, and they’re going to follow. The Russian economy—what there is of it—is like a house of cards. One push, one little bit of negative publicity, could bring it down; and that would have a devastating impact on what I’m trying to do.”

“Frequenting casinos run by mobsters might have the same effect.”

“You mean Barkhin?”

“Precisely.”

“You’re right. When it comes to hiring hit men, I’d be pointing a finger at him if I were you.”

“The thought’s crossed my mind. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Moscow’s movers and shakers think his club is hot, which makes it a good place to make connections. Just because I do business with him doesn’t mean I like him. He’s smart and selfish, building his own little empire. Believe me, Arkady Barkhin doesn’t give a fuck for Russia.”

“That’s not surprising. Russia didn’t give a fuck for him, either. Nor for a lot of people. It’s every man for himself now, you know that. Communism fell and the apparatchiks became capitalists overnight. Instead of managing State industries for the Party, they’re selling them off as if they were their own.” I pause, unable to suppress a grin before adding, “Take our distribution system, for example . . .”

“Hey, I could’ve ‘taken’ it; but I decided to pay a fair price instead. Keep your fingers crossed the deal works out, because what’s there now is a joke. I mean, what’s the point of selling industries to private investors who can run them more efficiently, if they can’t get raw materials to their factories? If they can’t get their products to market? I’m going to make sure they can. The bottom line is, an integrated distribution system is critical to economic growth. An efficient one can accelerate it; one that isn’t can bring it to a screeching halt.”

“Yes, as I recall, your Teamsters Union figured that out a long time ago.”

“You can question their tactics, but not their performance. You realize, only twenty-five percent of your crops get to market? The rest is either stolen, damaged in transit, or rotting in storage. Profits vanish, prices skyrocket, inflation goes through the roof—twenty-five hundred percent last year—and the public gets screwed. Your shelves aren’t empty because you don’t produce, but because you don’t distribute.”

“And because any hustler can get much more selling his product outside the country than in.”

“Look, there’s nothing wrong with, say, buying oil for a buck a barrel in Odessa and selling it in London for twenty, Katkov. That’s what free enterprise is all about. You people better learn it, and learn it fast. That’s what brings in capital; and God knows, Russia needs all the hard currency it can get.”

“Quite true, but we’re not getting it. The hustlers are taking more out than they’re bringing in.”

“Not this hustler. I’m putting in plenty. I’m an ally, not an enemy, and you can tell your friends at FinCEN that all my deals are bona fide.”

“They’ll find out on their own, believe me.”

“Wasting their time. You and I care about our country. These law enforcement types—Russians, Americans—they get their kicks breaking people, regardless of who it hurts.” He angrily shoves back his chair and stands. “They’re cracking down too hard. Killing entrepreneurial spirit. You have to be a gambler, a con man, a genius, and lucky as hell to get a business off the ground. Believe me, Katkov, it takes steel balls the size of cantaloupes to make something from nothing. . . .” He pauses, his silver mane glowing in the spotlights as he locks his eyes onto mine and adds, “And that’s what all those hustlers you’re out to destroy are trying to do.”

“I’m not out to destroy anyone. Crime and corruption are running rampant in Russia. We—”

“So?!” he interrupts heatedly. “You think it was any different here a hundred years ago?! This country was a hotbed of greed, bribery, and political corruption that makes you guys look like fund-raisers for the B’nai B’rith. It was run by ruthless men with vision and chutzpah who bent the rules and took it to the cleaners: Vanderbilt, Carnegie, Rockefeller, Morgan. Sure, they were robber barons. Did they have a positive impact? Did they build a democratic nation with a powerful free-market economy? Bet your ass they did; and they’re still at it. Look at Milken, for God’s sake.” Rubineau gestures angrily and groans in disgust. “The guy creates a new industry; a financial market that didn’t exist until he singlehandedly cooked up the idea of junk bonds; a market that’s still making billions for people, billions. And what’s he get? Some ex-Playboy bunny—who I’m loathed to admit went to Harvard—puts on a black robe and locks him up. If these people don’t back off, they’re going to snuff out any chance Russia has to develop a free-market economy. Remember, you heard it here first.”

Rubineau made the speech, but I’m the one who’s winded. I’m far more moved by his passion than his argument, though I can’t deny there’s a certain twisted logic to it.

He crosses to the window and looks out across the city. “Come here, Katkov,” he orders in Russian, waving me over. His tone is softer, familiar, as if he’s going to confide something in me. I’m caught off guard by the sudden shift in languages. I’d no idea he spoke Russian, and it takes me a moment to react. “See that?” he prompts, still speaking Russian. He gestures to the shimmering ribbon of liquid copper that splits the landscape. “The East River. That’s what most people see, anyway. Not me. I see the Volga. Interesting thing about this planet. The water’s all connected. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, yes, I think I do,” I reply in Russian, impressed with his accent and fluency.

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.” He breaks into a satisfied smile, taking his measure of me, then shifts back to English. “Now, you didn’t come here to listen to me pontificate. What are you after?”

“The truth.”

“It’s often a matter of opinion. The truth about what?”

“The name Vorontsov ring a bell?”

“It might.”

“Really, Mr. Rubineau. You were doing business with him. You know what happened. ITZ documents were found in his briefcase. They put you square in the middle of the very scandal you’re asking me to ignore.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying.”

“Prove me wrong.”

“In my experience, Vorontsov was a fine man and dedicated public servant. I enjoyed doing business with him.”

“Legitimate business?”

“That’s right. Why? What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. It’s of no concern to me. To his daughter. She thinks his reputation’s been smeared rather unjustly.”

“No thanks to guys like you.”

“I assume you’re referring to journalists. I’m afraid we don’t make up news, we report it.”

“We? Look, Katkov, I’m not interested in we. I’m interested in you.” He smiles thinly, glances again to the family snapshots, then locks his eyes onto mine and, in a threatening whisper, warns, “I’d sure hate for my daughter to find herself in the same boat as Vorontsov’s.”