The Red Syndrome (30 page)

"Who is in the other rooms?" they asked.

"How would I know? I guess other hotel guests."

"Is this room bugged?" asked the other thug.

"Of course not," I said. "Why would I bug you? I'm here to do business,
not spy on you."

I glanced at Zhukov. Given the power and money at his disposal, he
was in a position to freeze me with his look. But he didn't; instead, he
seemed bothered. I could see that his two hulking bodyguards were in
awe of him. One gorilla stood next to him while the other guarded the
outside door. Even though my room was being heavily monitored, I felt
intimidated, which was as they intended. Still, I knew better than to
betray any sign of weakness. In a show of self-confidence, I turned my
back to them and opened the mini bar. "Would you like a drink?"

"No," he roared. "Cut the bullshit." His accent was an odd mixture of Russian and Brooklyn. "Tell me how you got the information, or..." He
nodded in the direction of his two gorilla escorts. So much for the manners typical of top mafia figures - right up to the moment they slit your
throat.

I looked him in the eye. "People talk." I repeated my earlier response.

"Who?" he repeated in an ominous tone.

"Who doesn't matter. What you really need to know is how to make
sure it doesn't happen again, and I can help you do just that."

"What, whack the guy who spilled?" he said, narrowing his eyes. I was
sure he was serious.

"No. I'd make sure none of your foreign business transactions were ever
exposed again, whether to complete strangers like me, to the government,
or to your competition."

"Start talking, Campbell," Zhukov barked.

"My name is McMillan," I said, keeping my composure.

I remembered a conversation I'd once had with a street vendor of
African jewelry in the market of Abidjan, Ivory Coast. I'd wanted to buy
a girlfriend an authentic tribal necklace but the price looked excessive. I'd
offered him a third of what he had asked. He kept reducing his own offer,
but I remained steadfast. He was offended. "Monsieur," he said, "this is
an African market, you must negotiate. At the end I'll sell you for a low
price but you must negotiate first."

I didn't think Zhukov was in the mood for my stories, so I kept my
mouth shut, but I wished he had been. His belligerence was a problem. I
knew that I was going to relent and show him my cards anyway, but if it
came about because of threats, rather than through business negotiation,
our relationship would end as soon as he walked out the door. I needed
to guarantee a continuation.

"Mr. Zhukov," I said, "I'm a businessman, and I came here to do business. Yelling at me will get you nowhere." I didn't know how many people
had ever dared to talk to Zhukov like that and lived to tell. On the other
hand, none of them had the advantage of a bugged location or the security of CIA special task agents waiting in adjoining rooms to burst in if
things grew hazardous.

My calm demeanor and businesslike attitude must have surprised him.
"Show me what you have," he said finally, this time in a slightly less
aggressive tone.

We're getting there, I thought. But then Zhukov's man, who'd been
standing next to him, approached me and lifted me from my chair by
holding my shirt collar and neck in a forceful grip. From the corner of my
eye I saw the other gorilla just stand there.

"Mr. Zhukov asked you a question, I didn't hear an answer!" he said
with a strong Russian accent.

There was no point in resisting. He was about my height and weight,
but all muscle, leaving no extra room for brain. "Put me down," I said as
calmly as possible under the circumstances; "put me down."

He looked at Zhukov, who nodded. He dropped me back on my chair.
"Mr. Zhukov," I said, trying to catch my breath, "I called you hoping to
do business. I have something you need, and treating me like that is not
helpful."

"I still want to know how you got the information about the Seychelles
activity, and how you linked it to me." I'd expected Zhukov to be the kind
of man who would litter his speech with obscenities, but he used the
manner of a businessman to conceal his thuggery. I knew that his power
come from his physical presence, from not saying too much, and from his
reputation for ruthlessness. He was on the same level as the other notorious heads of criminal organizations in New York.

I told him about my work in the Seychelles, how I had contacts in the
banking industry who showed me the endorsed checks, and how I'd managed through a simple Google search to connect him to the address on
the checks. "If I did that, so could anyone else," I said.

"What can you do for me?" he asked. The businessman in him had
taken over the hoodlum.

"I want to be your consultant for asset protection; that's what I do for
a living. I can bury your money so deep that no one will ever find it;
there'll be no paper trail, I can assure you. After many years in the
industry, I know all the tricks and the pitfalls."

"How much do you want?"

"One hundred thousand dollars. It's pretty cheap given the millions
that can be protected. The hundred thousand will also buy you a few
months of continuing assistance from me. If you like my work, then we
can discuss a long-term relationship with appropriate compensation."

"And if I don't?"

"Then the information I'm giving you now about my finding, and my
added service in the near future, costs you one hundred thousand dollars
and we part our ways."

"You've given me nothing, Campbell," said Zhukov.

"McMillan," I corrected calmly, "my name is McMillan. Mr. Zhukov,
I've just given you valuable information: Your transactions through the
Seychelles are transparent. If you have nothing to hide, then you're right,
the information I just gave you is worthless. But if you don't want your
business affairs to be so transparent, then you should listen to me."

"Show me documents," he said regaining his aggressive, more thuggish attitude; "what you're telling me could be a fourth-hand recycled
rumor, and for that you expect me to pay you a hundred grand? Fucking
unbelievable." His face became red. The gorillas moved forward toward
me. I kept my composure, but my hands clenched the armrests of my
chair.

With an annoyed expression of Okay, if you must, I went to the desk
drawer and pulled out the check photocopies.

"These are the front and back copies of the deposits Ivan Dimitrov
made. The fact that he wrote your address on the back of the checks ties
you not only to the deposits, but also to the corporation that wrote this
check in the Seychelles, because the address is that of a single-family
home, yours."

I looked at his face. Zhukov clearly didn't like what he was seeing. His
face was still red. I continued: "If this company is involved in any other
illegal activity anywhere on the globe, it will lead to you."

"This is nothing. Bullshit," he groaned, waving the hand holding the
photocopies. "Nothing!"

I tried a conciliatory tone. "It might not be enough to indict or convict
you, sure, but this is certainly something investigators can start with. If you're comfortable with that, then fine. But if you agree that this information could connect you to anything you don't want to be connected to,
then I may be your only way to stem the flood."

Zhukov weighed the information. "And you discovered all that by
talking to some bank employees in the Seychelles?" he said in incredulity.

"Sure, it's all there. The deposits lead directly to you. Now, if anyone
wants to ask you questions, I think you'd better prepare answers." I went
on the offensive.

"What do you mean?" His face was menacing. The gorilla next to him
took one step toward me.

"I mean that one day someone from the U.S. government, say the IRS,
will knock on your door asking you questions about these transactions; I
think you'd better be ready to give them convincing answers. You and I
know that the government would love to lock you away and throw the key
in the ocean."

The goon standing next to Zhukov moved again in my direction.
Zhukov held up his hand.

"Answers?" he asked, focusing on my face. I felt threatened, and I didn't
even make an effort to hide it. On the contrary, I even played it up a bit.
I shouldn't be Dan Gordon here. I'm Neil McMillan, a big crook, but with a
faint heart.

"If they link the money to you, then every money-laundering expert in
the U.S. government will be all over you. And you know it. I'm sure you
know that Al Capone died in prison after being convicted on income tax
evasion, not for murder or extortion." I caught a glimmer of satisfaction
on Zhukov's face hearing the comparison, quickly replaced by his menacing attitude.

"I think you're a fed," Zhukov shot back. "Only U. S. government agents
could have access to Eagle Bank and get copies of the checks."

I let out a nervous laugh. "I don't have anything to do with the U.S.
government. It's the other way around. I'm wanted by the government, I
don't work for them. The checks weren't kept by Eagle Bank; they were
sent to the Seychelles for collection. Only the issuing bank receives the
checks and returns them to the account owner."

"How do you know that?" he roared.

"Look at the checks. They carry a stamp saying they were sent for collection back to the issuing bank in the Seychelles."

"Maybe you made a deal with the government to bring my head on a
platter in return for yours?"

"Look, my record is consistent: I've always helped my clients outsmart
the U.S. government; so why would I become a turncoat now? Mr.
Zhukov, you read too many detective stories."

The thug next to Zhukov grew restless, but Zhukov halted him.

"And if I catch you being a government agent? Then what?" he said in
the amused tone of a card player with a good hand and a big mouth. He
was toying with me.

"If I was trying to entrap you," I pointed out, "I didn't have to bring you
all the way to France, outside U.S. jurisdiction. I'd keep you in Brooklyn
where the FBI could walk in any minute and get you."

I thought I saw some hesitation on his face, and he exchanged looks
with his men. That gave me the impression Zhukov was holding something back. But he moved on.

"Okay, let's say I hire you. What do you do next?"

"Well, Mr. Zhukov, I'm embarrassed to say this, but people in my position and prostitutes have something in common: We get paid in advance."

"You'll have your money in a few days; my man will bring it over to
your hotel. Now give me these papers." He couldn't have been more
aggressive if he had a gun pointed at me.

"I respect your word," I said. I was counting on the agents in the other
rooms being ready to burst in with their guns if things got ugly. So I
allowed myself a little more chutzpah. "But I'm a businessman, and I
cannot give you the documents without the money."

Zhukov's thug came closer to my face, so close I could tell he hadn't
brushed his teeth recently. He stepped on my toes and pushed my head
with his giant mountain gorilla head, but without the gorilla's grace.

"Give me the documents or I'll tear you to pieces."

"Okay," I mumbled, "get off my feet; I'll give them to you." I handed
Zhukov the photocopies. He folded them and put them in his jacket pocket. Since neither Zhukov nor his thugs were carrying briefcases, where
else could he put them? It seemed to say something about his character -
I wasn't sure what - that he'd treat such valuable evidence that way.

"You'll hear from me soon concerning other business." He left, escorted
by his men.

I watched through my fifth-floor window as they entered a limousine
and drove away. I stayed in my room in case they'd left behind a scout to
spy on me. Ten minutes later the doors of the adjoining suites opened,
and Brian and Eric walked in.

"Good," said Eric. "I think he bit."

"Do you think he'll return with the money?" I asked. It felt too simple to
me. "Zhukov is a conniving SOB; I find it hard to believe he was maneuvered so cleanly."

"Meaning?" asked Brian. "Sounded to us like you really had to work
him, and let him rough you up a bit."

"Brian. These people kill if you cross them. I flashed some attitude
knowing I was protected, and even then it was too easy. Zhukov may have
something up his sleeve," I said. "There was something in his demeanor
that broadcast too much self-assurance for a person who has just been
confronted with incriminating evidence."

"Did you read the psychological analysis?" asked Eric. "That's the way
Zhukov is."

"I read it. I still hope we're not getting a surprise from his end. I just
got a feeling that he was ahead of me."

"You read too many detective stories," said Eric blandly. He'd been
paying attention. "Let's wait until tomorrow. We'll see if he comes up
with the money and hires you. I need to go out of town with Brian for a
few days; you can't call us. But I'll be in touch." I was curious where they
were going, and whether it concerned my case. But I didn't ask, knowing
I'd get no answer.

"Do you know where he's staying in Marseilles?" I asked.

"Yes, Hotel Du Pare. Why?" Brian asked.

I ducked the question. "Is anyone watching him there?"

"Of course."

"Anything interesting in his room?" I asked with a straight face.

"No. The risk isn't worth the reward, even in a best-case scenario."

"Oh, why is that?"

"Because he came for a few days to hear you out. We don't think he'd
be storing anything of interest to us here."

"Okay," I said nonchalantly, but I was already thinking how not to get
caught. The stunt I was about to attempt was already a fait accompli in
my mind.

After Brian and Eric left, I went to the hotel basement and looked for
the laundry room. Amid the steam and the noise of the industrial-sized
washers and dryers, I found what I'd been looking for: dry-cleaned
doormen's suits with shiny buttons. I picked out a suit approximately my
size, and a cap, and wrapped them up with a big bathroom towel to sneak
them back to my room. I hid my loot in my closet, put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on my door, went outside to the street, and took a cab to Hotel
Du Parc, some seven blocks away. I surveyed the area, the various
entrances to the hotel and the best escape route, if needed, then returned
to the Excelsior. I carefully removed the hotel's one-letter logo embroidered on the front of the doorman's suit I had borrowed. Donning the
suit and the cap, I left the hotel through the service elevator. A cab let me
off one block before Hotel du Pare.