41

Darkness is falling as Aeroflot Su-416 circles the desolate countryside north of Moscow and touches down with a thump on one of Sheremetyevo’s runways. Fifteen hours in the air, plus the eight-hour time difference, means the Ilyushin jumbo glides to a stop at the gate about the same time it departed Havana. I’ve lost an entire day. The Antonov-22 with the eighteen-wheeler and cash-filled container in its flatbed arrived sometime this morning, Rubineau’s swifter Gulfstream at least several hours earlier. Probably before dawn.

The airport’s cavernous baggage hall is dimly lit and even gloomier than I remember; the queues for Customs and Passport Control move at the same glacial pace. The instant I’m cleared, I hurry to the taxi stand, anxious to hear about the takedown and what happened to Yuri. I’m lugging my bags past the barrier that restrains those waiting to meet arriving passengers when I hear my name.

“Katkov? Hey, Katkov, over here!”

It’s Scotto. She’s knifing sideways through the crowd to keep up with me. What’s she doing here? And why isn’t she smiling? Whatever the reason, she looks shaken. Something’s drastically wrong.

“What happened?” I call out, quickening my pace.

“A disaster.”

“Shevchenko moved too soon? I told him, dammit. I warned him—”

“No,” she interrupts sharply as we come together at the end of the barrier. “Gudonov did.”

“Gudonov?!” I echo, astonished.

She nods grimly. “The Gulfstream got in first, like you figured. Shevchenko had it under surveillance; but neither Gudonov nor the other passengers stuck around to claim their prize. My flight got in next. Shevchenko and I hung out until the Antonov showed, then tailed the eighteen-wheeler.”

“Follow the money. Your favorite game.”

“Not when I get beat. We were a couple miles south of the airport when all hell broke loose. I’ve never seen so many cops and reporters in my life. Like a Hollywood extravaganza.”

“Starring Gudonov?”

Scotto grunts in the affirmative.

“It doesn’t make sense. He was in the thick of things in Havana. He’s up to his ass in this.”

“He claims,” Scotto says in a cynical tone, “that he was working undercover.”

“Bullshit.”

“That’s what Shevchenko said. He can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I.”

Scotto shrugs as if to say “I’m ready to believe anything,” then leads the way to a rented Zhiguli in the parking lot across from the terminal. There’s a hint of spring in the air, an almost balmy sweetness that surfaces when the temperature finally gets above freezing and stays there. I toss my luggage into the backseat and settle next to her. “Shevchenko thought you’d want to see this.” She drops a newspaper in my lap, starts the engine, and drives off.

It’s a copy of Pravda. The headline reads MILITIA MONEY LAUNDERING STING. Beneath it is a photograph of the eighteen-wheeler pulled to the side of the highway. It’s surrounded by police vehicles and personnel. Container 95824 is the center of attention. The doors at one end are opened. Several sugar cartons have been torn open and the million-dollar packages of cash removed and prominently displayed in the foreground. Gudonov poses next to them like a conquering invader. I’m angered—but not the least bit surprised—that the by-line on the accompanying article reads M. I. Drevnya.

This morning, while Muscovites slept, Chief Investigator Yevgeny Gudonov led a crack militia task force in a money-laundering sting. The brilliantly executed operation netted more than a billion and a half U.S. dollars. American crime czars were planning to use the profits from their illicit drug deals to buy Russian industries. Gudonov, who’s been working on the case for months, risked his life to go undercover inside the smuggling operation. The scheme was . . .

“Risked his life to go undercover?!” I exclaim, infuriated. “What a sham!”

“Tell me about it. Who’s his PR agent?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, it’s all your doing, Scotto. You and your damned seminar, whatever the hell it’s called. Gudonov probably learned everything he knows about using the media from you.”

She concedes the point with a smile, then swings out of the airport onto Leningradsky Prospekt and heads south toward Moscow. “I have to admit he’d have gotten an A-plus for this caper. Keep reading. You haven’t gotten to the good part yet.”

The good part? Yuri. It has to be Yuri. She knows about him, and she’s making me squirm for not telling her. My eyes swiftly scan the long article. Vorontsov’s name is ubiquitous, as is Rubineau’s, Barkhin’s, and, of course, Gudonov’s. They’re all here, all except Yuri’s—which means she doesn’t know. I start over, reading the text more carefully.

Dammit. It’s immediately obvious that Sergei was right. The kid’s style has punch and pace, but he’s still an unprincipled jerk as far as I’m concerned. It’s the next to last paragraph that really gets my attention. I read it aloud in shock and disbelief. “ ‘Highly reliable sources have told Pravda that Investigator Gudonov plans to destroy the contraband at Moscow’s Garbage Incinerating Plant this evening’?! His reputation’s gone to his head.”

“Shevchenko told me all about that.”

“I can’t believe he’s burning all that money?!”

“Burning the evidence. Cost me my badge, gun, and pension if I did something like that.”

“This is Russia, Scotto.”

“I’ve noticed. Shevchenko’s trying to stop him anyway. We’re meeting him there.”

“You know where you’re going?”

“No. You think I picked you up out of the goodness of my heart?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far, but you could’ve easily gone with Shevchenko and let me fend for myself.”

“Shut up, smartass.”

“Take the MKAD turnoff, Agent Scotto.”

About ten minutes later, she angles into the Outer Ring that circumvents the city. We’re soon spiraling down the Rizhskiy Interchange into a service road that winds through the marshlands. Thick smoke stretches in dense layers below the night sky. The Zhiguli climbs a steep hill, comes over the crest, and approaches the incineration plant. Like gigantic Roman candles, its towering stacks send bursts of orange sparks shooting into the darkness.

The promise of a headline that reads TWO BILLION UP IN SMOKE has brought out the media in full force: print journalists, still photographers, television reporters, and satellite vans, sporting the logos of American, European, and Russian networks. All are gathered around one of the huge incinerators. The flaming beast roars with the intensity of a blast furnace. Its gaping cast-iron jaws could swallow a shipping container whole. No longer on the eighteen-wheeler’s flatbed, 95824 sits on the ground next to a work platform that leads to the inferno. From this simmering perch, Gudonov supervises the operation, playing to the media throng below.

Scotto and I hurry from the car and push through the crowd in search of Shevchenko. She spots him off to one side of the container where a noisy forklift prowls. Evidently most of the cartons have already been removed and incinerated, because the forklift travels deep into the forty-foot tunnel in search of the next pallet.

“Last one,” Shevchenko says, clearly demoralized.

“Why the hell wouldn’t he wait?”

“Wait?!” Shevchenko snaps angrily. “The cocky little bastard wouldn’t even listen.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Scotto says impassively.

Shevchenko and I fire looks in her direction. “What do you mean by that?!”

“We’re talking show business here, guys. You sell this many tickets to a performance, there’s no way you can cancel it.”

With a throaty rumble and clank of steel, the forklift backs out of the container. The operator swings it around, guns the throttle, and heads for the incinerator; then, hands pushing and pulling on a rack of levers, he raises the pallet high into the air and deposits it on the platform. Rollers built into the decking allow workers to manhandle it easily toward the fire-breathing incinerator.

Gudonov holds up a hand, giving the pallet a brief stay of execution, and instructs the workers to open several of the cartons. Then with much fanfare, he removes one of the million-dollar packages of currency and holds it high overhead before tossing it into the roaring inferno. Another soon follows and then another. Sparks fly. Cameras whir. Strobes flash. The chief investigator struts triumphantly, then signals the workers, who roll the entire pallet of cartons into the roaring flames. Gudonov jumps down from the platform.

The media surges around him, shouting his name, firing off questions. “How long have you been working on this case? How high up in the Interior Ministry will your investigation reach? Do you know if—”

“Ask him why he’s burning evidence,” Shevchenko calls out.

“What about that?!” one of the reporters prompts. “Good question!” another chimes in. “Care to comment, Chief?!”

“Yes, but I’d prefer to introduce my colleague first. You all know Senior Homicide Investigator Shevchenko.” The TV cameras and lights swing around and focus on Shevchenko with blinding intensity. “I like to give credit where credit is due,” Gudonov goes on with a smug grin. His face is pock-marked, his suit is rumpled and his delivery is crude, but his tactics and timing are polished. “This all began with a homicide—a homicide that Investigator Shevchenko solved with customary brilliance. In light of his firsthand knowledge of the case, I’ve no doubt he’s aware that Comrade Vorontsov—the corrupt Interior Ministry official who masterminded this scheme—got involved with people who settle disputes in ways he wasn’t accustomed to and is now deceased, as is the assassin who killed him. Nor do I doubt the senior investigator also knows that the militia can’t prosecute the dead—which makes his so-called evidence useless.”

“What about the coconspirators?” Shevchenko challenges. “What about prosecuting them? I can give you their names if you like.”

“So can anyone who reads the newspapers or watches television. Unfortunately, they’ve cleverly distanced themselves, and there’s no way to connect them to the case.”

“Thanks to you,” Shevchenko counters angrily.

“You’re right,” Scotto says, leaning to me. “Something weird’s going on. This doesn’t make a goddamned bit of sense.”

“However,” Gudonov resumes, ignoring Shevchenko’s barb, “just because we can’t prosecute doesn’t mean we can’t prevent.” He pauses, gestures dramatically to the conflagration behind him, and grins at what he’s about to say. “This serves strong notice that we’re turning up the heat, that Russian justice is ruthless and swift, that whether they smuggle in two billion or twenty billion, every last penny will go up in smoke; that neither this nation’s economy, nor her integrity, can be bought by agents of the American underworld who traffic in filth.”

Shevchenko scowls in disgust, then makes his way through the crowd to his Moskvitch and drives off without a word.

Gudonov drones on in self-aggrandizement.

Scotto looks like she’s about to barf. “Come on, Katkov. I’ll buy you a drink.”

We’re crossing to her car when an intriguing thought occurs to me. It’s probably a waste of time, but what the hell. The way this has turned out, I’ve been wasting it since the night Vera beeped me in Moscow Beginners anyway. “Hold on a minute, Scotto. There’s something I want to check.” I circle the container, examining it. Same number. Same off-white color. Same gritty accumulation of grime and salt. Same cartons of sugar labeled in Spanish and Russian. Indeed, it has everything essential to identify it as the cash-filled target we’ve been tailing—everything except my initials scratched into the paint.