31

Sunlight streams through the windows of my hotel room. An impeccably dressed, terminally earnest black man in a pair of owlish glasses stares at me from the television. “Russia’s Parliament threatens to impeach President Yeltsin,” he announces with grave authority. “We’ll be talking about it with former Ambassador Robert Strauss when Today continues.” No mechanical rabbit selling batteries scampers across the screen this time. Instead, a massive cockroach crawls out of a drain threatening to devour everything in sight. It has to be stopped before it multiplies! Naturally, the pitchman has the answer. I can’t help thinking it’s a perfect metaphor for what’s going on in Russia.

It’s midafternoon in Moscow. I try Yuri again, this time at his office in the Interior Ministry. His secretary says he took the week off to care for his mother, who’s ill. Very ill, I’m afraid, for Yuri to be out of the office that long with his work load. I finish dressing and head for the restaurant to meet Scotto. The hotel concession catches my eye en route. I’ve never seen so many brands of cigarettes in my life. The choices are overwhelming, but the time is short, so I quickly select several at random along with a pack of Marlboros as backup. Over breakfast, Scotto and I discuss how to approach Rubineau. She sees the element of surprise as an advantage and decides against calling ahead for an appointment.

The Southeast Financial Center is a short walk from our hotel. The fifty-five-story tower rises from a plaza where towering palms sway beneath a steel-and-glass space frame. Rubineau occupies a choice suite on the top floor. On the wall behind the reception desk, an illuminated graphic diagrams the complex interlocking of his various companies. Travis Enterprises, ITZ, and Turistica Internacional are among the many names.

He handles Scotto’s “surprise” with the aplomb and graciousness I anticipated and receives us in a sleek corner office that overlooks downtown Miami and Biscayne Bay beyond. The decor is severely modern: glass, chrome, and leather furnishings; artwork that rivals the pieces in his New York apartment; a full complement of executive toys, including computer terminal, stock market quotron, golf clubs, telescope, and impressive communications console.

Rubineau wastes no time showing off his favorite—a scale model of a sprawling resort complex that takes up the entire conference area. The detailed facades of literally dozens of beachfront hotels soar to eye level; charming bungalows cluster around Olympic-size swimming pools; chic condominiums line the fairways of championship golf courses. Basking in the sunny glow of spotlights, the development sweeps majestically into the sea on a finger of white sand. The sound of crashing surf is the only thing missing.

I’m staring at it in amazement. Scotto is staring at Rubineau. He’s smiling like a grandfather showing off the long-awaited heir who will carry on the family legacy. The dark, pin-striped business suit he wore in New York has been replaced by cream-colored linen that sets off his deep tan.

“Varadero,” he says, gesturing grandly as he walks around the gleaming model. “Less than two hours by car from Havana, an hour by plane from Miami.” He whirls to the telescope and adds, “On a clear day, you can almost see it from here.”

“That’s fascinating, Mr. Rubineau,” Scotto says brightly. “And one of your companies, Turistica Internacional, is developing it. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Then perhaps I’m also correct in assuming you can tell us why a container with two billion dollars in illicit cash—that’s billion—is part of a shipment consigned to Turistica Internacional in Cuba?”

“Two billion?” Rubineau echoes coolly, circling in our direction.

Scotto nods. “In that ballpark. I haven’t had the opportunity to count it yet.”

“In a container being shipped to TI in Cuba?”

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s a hell of a pile of money.”

“Drug money. One of several piles that’ve turned up on your doorstep lately.”

Rubineau pauses and fires an angry look between the scale model hotel towers. “That sounds like a threat, Agent Scotto.”

“No, Mr. Rubineau. It’s a fact.”

“I thought this was going to be a friendly off-the-record chat. If I’m being accused of something, I’ll call my lawyers now.”

“Call whoever you like. Be sure to mention that you also own a building in Baltimore where close to five hundred million more turned up.”

Rubineau’s eyes lock onto Scotto’s like a pair of angry lasers. I’m wondering what he’ll do: Blow his top? Throw us out? Call security? Instead, he surprises me and nods grudgingly. “I’ll tell you what I told Katkov. I’m not responsible for what’s stored in a building leased from me, and you know it.” His eyes leave hers and capture mine; then he shifts into Russian and challenges, “What the hell is this, Katkov? I thought I told you to tell her she was wasting her time. Now she’s here wasting mine.”

I can see Scotto out of the corner of my eye. Skillful as ever, she looks appropriately baffled by the sudden shift in languages. “That’s a matter of opinion, Mr. Rubineau,” I reply sharply in Russian, annoyed that he’s treating me as if I’m on his payroll, or at the least on his side. “Quite frankly, if I were you, I’d be hoping that’s the case. Furthermore—”

“Listen, Katkov,” he interrupts, continuing to speak in Russian. “When I want advice from you, I’ll ask for it. Understood?”

More Russian. “Understood. Now there’s something you have to understand. I’m not your errand boy. I don’t answer to you, and I don’t like your implying it.”

“Fair enough.”

Scotto rewards me with a cocky smile. Rubineau picks up on it, but isn’t certain what it means. I do. I’ve known all along what’s coming now. “You know, maybe you should call those lawyers,” Scotto suggests coyly in Russian. She pauses briefly, letting Rubineau squirm, then adds, “While you’re at it, you might mention you also own a trucking depot in Maryland that dispatched the container with the two billion.”

“The one in Hagerstown,” he says in English, unwilling to acknowledge she topped him.

Scotto nods incriminatingly.

“Come on, Agent Scotto, they don’t inspect cargo, they ship it.”

“It’s your company.”

“I’m not personally responsible for everything that goes through the place.”

“Somebody is.”

“Are you suggesting I’m being used?”

“Are you?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“Then I expect you’d want to do something about it?”

“Who said I don’t? Look, I checked my records. A company called Coppelia Paper Products leases that building in Baltimore.”

“That’s not news.”

“Did they also ship that container?”

“Sure as hell did.”

“Well, for the record,” Rubineau says, indicating the architectural model, “this development is a coventure with the Cuban Government. My half is being financed with profits from my other businesses.”

“The State Department will verify that?”

“You can count on it.”

“You can count on me checking with them. I also plan to ask why they’re breaking their own embargo.”

“I’ll save you the time. It’s the old carrot and stick routine. The diplomatic version of good cop, bad cop. Smack ’em with one hand, massage ’em with the other, and let them decide which they prefer.”

“I’m familiar with the technique.”

“I thought you might be.”

“No offense, but with your background, why would the United States Government—”

Rubineau’s eyes flare with indignation. “Hold it right there. Am I to assume that means you’re referring to Mr. Lansky?”

“That’s right.”

“Then I do take offense.”

“Suit yourself, Mr. Rubineau. Now, let’s get back to my question. With all the people in the hotel and gaming business, why would the USG come to you?”

“They didn’t.” A smug grin tugs at a corner of his mouth. He straightens his tie, letting her live with it for a moment, then delivers the punch line. “Castro did—personally.”

Scotto’s jaw drops.

So does mine.

“And the USG agreed to it?” she asks, stunned.

Rubineau smiles, pleased by her reaction. “It’s a very long story. You have a half hour? I want to show you something.” He turns and leads the way from the office without waiting for a reply.