The Red Syndrome (3 page)

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 low lives 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 1ro4 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 knew 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 cafe 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 attache 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 cafe or
social club frequented by Russian immigrants.

He gave me an unfriendly look and said, "Try Cafe Moscow, right off
Schlossplatz in downtown Stuttgart."

I finally found a cab, which dropped me off at the cafe. 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 cafe 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 expected 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.

"We'll see about that later," I said, calculatingly ogling her generous
cleavage. I hoped I was leading her to expect a financially rewarding
transaction, albeit one that had to be postponed. For a millennium, as far
as I was concerned.

She got up from the bar stool and walked to a table where four men were
playing cards. A minute or two later she returned. "There's a woman in
town who came from Minsk, that's in Belarus. I'm sure she could help you."

"Does she speak any English?"

"I don't know."

"What's her name?"

"Oksana Vasilev."

That first name sounded familiar. Could it be the same heavyset
woman I had just met in prison? It would be good if I could get her to
talk to me.

"And what is yours?"

"Kiska."

I smiled. It meant "pure" in Russian. "Where would I find her?"

"I don't know where she lives, but try the courthouse, across the platz.
The people here said she was looking for a job as an interpreter and that
the court keeps a registry of interpreters. Maybe she's listed."