The Red Syndrome (2 page)

Many of my friends read the drafts and made suggestions. My Mossad
friend, who must remain anonymous, made helpful comments that once
again put me on track. Sarah McKee, former justice Department general
counsel of INTERPOL's U.S. Central Bureau, read the manuscript and
helped me avoid pitfalls while describing INTERPOL's work. She also
made suggestions based on her distinguished career as a federal prosecutor prior to her top role at INTERPOL. I am grateful for the special
efforts she made, and for her unfailing grace and professionalism. My
former supervisor and mentor David Epstein retired during the writing
of this novel. In eighteen years of guidance he helped achieve that which
inspired my novels, and I am grateful to him for that. His successor,
Robert Hollis, has smoothly and vigorously assumed the helm without
rocking the boat. More on that in the next intelligence thriller. Another
friend, a scientist who must remain anonymous, made sure I didn't trip
on the medical details. Ariel Blumenthal helped me to get the message
straight. My longtime friend Professor Yehuda Shoenfeld was, as usual,
supportive and encouraging. My relentless editors, Nicola Smith and
Kristin Sperber, Laura Jorstad, and my publisher, Chip Fleischer, knew in
a friendly yet professional manner how to move me in the right direction,
making it easier for me to delete sections I toiled so hard to write, particularly those that describe events I experienced. But as relentless as I am,
a trait inherited also by Dan Gordon, maybe they will surface in my next
book, already underway. My thanks to Helga Schmidt and Pia Dewing
for their support and to Louise Fill for the unusual book covers. And last
but not least, thank you to my wife, sons, and daughters who read the
manuscript and made important comments. Most of all, I am grateful for
their patience and endurance, because the many hours I have dedicated
to writing this book were ones of which they were deprived.

HAGGAI CARMON
New York, zoo6

he prisoner in the red jumpsuit was visibly nervous. He couldn't hide
the subtle tremor in his left hand, which gripped a cigarette. He was
very thin. Stammheim, the maximum-security prison in Stuttgart,
Germany, where Andreas Baader and Ulrike Meinhof had been found
dead in their cells in the 1970s, didn't exactly serve gourmet food. Even
so, Igor Razov was too thin, as if consumed from the inside. His mustache had nicotine stains, as did his uneven teeth.

"Good morning," I said, entering the visitor's cell and setting down my
briefcase, which contained only a yellow pad. The less you carry into the
prison, the faster the security check goes. I decided to be as polite as I could,
to distinguish myself from this man's interrogators. "I'm Dan Gordon from
the U.S. Department of Justice. I'm here with the consent of your lawyer,
Dr. Bermann." I looked at his lawyer then at the court-approved interpreter, a heavyset, thirty-something woman who sat quietly in a corner
opposite the German prison guard. Dr. Bermann nodded. No wonder he'd
approved; I'd paid him five hundred dollars for the honor and promised an
additional thousand if his client would give me the information I needed.
It was Bermann's only way to get some real money for representing Razov,
having helped him avoid extradition from Germany to Belarus, his homeland. There, Razov would have had to face the hangman, following a conviction in absentia for murder. I'd paid, and now the floor was mine.

"I'm sure your lawyer has already told you, but to avoid any misunderstanding I must reiterate that I am not in a position to make any promises
concerning your extradition to Belarus or the death penalty you're facing there if you are indeed extradited. The United States is not a party to the
legal proceeding against you; your case is entirely in the hands of the
German and Belarus courts and governments."

I spoke in English. Bermann had assured me earlier that Igor had
learned rudimentary English in Minsk, and had then improved it while
living in New York these past few years. Bermann and Igor communicated in English, because Igor didn't speak German and Bermann didn't
speak Russian or Belarusian. Bermann had brought in the interpreter,
Oksana, as insurance, in case of a failure of communication.

As I spoke, I realized that this statement sounded very formal, full of
legal jargon, and was too complex and long. But I had to say it. I had to
make sure that both he and - more particularly - his lawyer understood
the rules of our meeting. The last thing I needed to hear later was that his
lawyer had argued for special consideration because Razov had talked to
me. The Belarus government would file a complaint, and I'd find myself
having to explain. Again.

"Do you understand that?"

Igor was motionless. He didn't even look at me. I knew he understood
by the gaunt, haunted look he cast at the opposite wall. I was betting that
his desperate situation would help me crack my case-one of the several
international fraud and money-laundering cases I was investigating for
the Department of Justice. Igor had to have answers for me because I
could no longer ask his two comrades. I'd arrived in Minsk, Igor's hometown in the republic of Belarus, too late to talk to them. They had already
been executed. But Igor still had a pulse. At least there was that.

Caveats aside, I had to give Igor a glimmer of hope, something to cling
to. Otherwise this interview would be like trying to get a parrot in a pet
shop to speak on command. "Helping me would make your life easier,
more comfortable," I went on. "It would mean money to buy things at the
prison's commissary. I could also ask the warden to let you watch television longer than the other inmates. It could mean a lot of other things
that would ease your stay here, but you must help me first."

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.