Condemned (40 page)

“Understood,” said Supervisor Stanton. She turned and left the gallery area. In a few minutes, Becker and Nichols saw the Supervisor appear on the lower level. They watched as she spoke for a few minutes to a black Immigration Officer in a white shirt. Supervisor Stanton then walked to Interview Cubicle #14, relieving an Officer who had been interviewing incoming non-citizens. The black Immigration Officer to whom Supervisor Stanton had spoken walked over to the Officer directing the flow of non-citizens to the various interview booths. Sascha was fourth in the waiting line. Anna and the blonde were four places behind Sascha. The Officer directing traffic instructed Sascha to move to the yellow waiting line several feet back from Interview Booth #14. When Anna and the blonde reached the front of the line, without instruction, Anna started walking to Interview Booth #12. The Officer directing traffic walked over to Anna and told her to move back to the head of the main line. Anna said something to the Officer. From the look on her face, it wasn't a compliment.

Sascha moved to Interview Booth # 14 to be interviewed by Supervisor Stanton. The Officer at the head of the line directed Anna and the blonde to stand at the ready line to Booth #14. Anna said something to the Immigration Officer again, pointing to other interview booths where no one was on the ready line. Her body language was belligerent, caustic. The Officer again pointed Anna toward Booth #14. The black Officer whom Supervisor Stanton had originally spoken with walked over and spoke to Anna. Reluctantly, Anna and the blonde accepted directions to wait on the ready line for Interview Booth #14.

“I told you she was a bitch,” said Nichols.

Becker said nothing as he watched Supervisor Stanton take the passport from Sascha and process it through a mechanical reader on her desk. “You sure these people are going to be heading to Romanoff's?” Becker asked Nichols.

“That's where I'm supposed to meet Uri,” said Nichols. “It's on Brighton Beach Avenue.”

“Bird Dog Two, come in.”

“Bird Dog Two.”

“We have three subjects, but they may break into two groups. If they do, you follow the guy in brown jacket and black pants. Bird Dog One, do you read me?”

“Bird Dog One.”

“You in position to watch the exit door?”

“Roger, Mother Hen.”

“You follow the women if they break away from the male subject. When he comes out—he should be first through the door—identify the male for Bird Dog Two.”

“Roger that.”

“You're probably going to proceed to a restaurant in Brighton Beach called Romanoffs, on Brighton Beach Avenue, in Brooklyn.”

“Roger, Mother Hen.”

“Bird Dog One, keep your eyes on the two women. They're being interviewed now.” Becker glanced toward the interview booth where Supervisor Stanton was now speaking with Anna and the blonde. “Watch for them to come out, One. Keep me advised if you see another male subject who may be picking up one or both groups of subjects.” Becker removed his finger from the send button on his radio. “You know what kind of car this Uri drives?” Becker asked Nichols.

“No.”

“Keep your eyes peeled for someone, bald, thick-set, Russian, waiting or hovering near the entrance. He should be meeting the subjects.”

“Roger.”

“I'm staying here until Bird Dog One and Two leave the area. This Uri knows what the C.I. looks like. We can't take the chance he'll spot him. Let me know which route they take—probably the Belt Parkway. I'll follow behind until we get to Romanoff's.”

“Roger,” said Mulvehill. “Bird Dog Two, here comes the male subject out of the exit, wearing a brown sports jacket, black pants. He's looking around.”

“Got him, Bird Dog One.”

Supervisor Stanton kept Anna and the blonde busy a few more minutes, then permitted them to pass.

“Bird Dog One, the female subjects have cleared immigration,” Becker said. “Do you read?”

“Affirmative,” Mulvehill said over the radio.

“They still have to retrieve their luggage and clear Customs.”

“Roger.”

“Let me get you set up,” Becker said, turning to Nichols. “Open your shirt.”

Supervisor Becker took a body recorder and a roll of adhesive tape from an attache case beside his leg.

Brighton Beach Avenue, the center of the Russian community in New York, has an elevated subway line running over its middle. Lining both sides of the Avenue, are stores and shops selling all descriptions of merchandise and services, beauty parlors, travel agents, restaurants, hardware stores, all catering to a Russian speaking clientele. There were also several large party clubs interspersed along its length. Romanoff's was one of these party clubs. It's entrance was simple, with just the name ‘Romanoff's' in square, back lit letters, over a double width glass door, which led to a stairway, to a raised entrance balcony and then a large hall with an array of long tables to one side of a long dance floor. A stage was on the opposite side of the dance floor, facing the tables.

“Mother Hen, this is Bird Dog Two. All the subjects, three in number, entered and traveled together in the one vehicle, driven by a thick-set, bald man. We've followed them to the restaurant, Romanoff's. All four subjects, two male, two female, have entered the restaurant. We have set up observation a block west of the restaurant, on the south side of Brighton Beach Avenue, facing east. Do you read, Mother Hen?”

“I read you,” said Becker. Nichols sat in the passenger seat beside him. “What kind of vehicle were they driving, Bird Dog Two?”

“Black Lexus, Mother Hen. New York license plate A-U-T-l-4-6-2.”

“Bird Dog One, where are you located?”

“Bird Dog One. We've followed the Black Lexus as well. We've set up a block east of Romanoff's restaurant, north side, facing west on Brighton Beach Avenue.”

Becker exited the Belt Parkway and headed south on Ocean Parkway. Before he reached Brighton Beach Avenue, Becker made a left turn, and proceeded along a different avenue, parallel to Bright Beach Avenue.

“I'm going to drop you about a block north of the Avenue,” Becker said to Nichols. “You walk the block to the club so no one will see you getting out of this car. Go inside and meet your friend Uri and see if you can get him into conversation about the shipment.”

“That ought to be easy,” said Nichols. “That's the reason I'm meeting him in the first place.”

“Fine. I'll stay on the side street, off the corner, and monitor you from inside the vehicle.”

Nichols walked south from the vehicle to Brighton Beach Avenue, turning right at the corner.

“Mother Hen, C.I. just passed Bird Dog One, walking west.”

“Roger, Bird Dog One.”

As he neared the entrance of Romanoff's, people on the sidewalk in front of the club began to stare at Nichols'. Not many black people frequented this neighborhood, especially at night. Nichols walked up the two steps leading to the lower entry foyer of Romanoff's. First the valet parkers, then the hat check man, wearing an ordinary suit jacket with a gold braid looped under one arm pit and around his shoulder, studied this stranger. Nichols felt uncomfortably alone as he glanced around, trying to acclimate himself to the interior of the restaurant. A group of young women, heavily made up, clad in tight-fitting dresses, deep decolletage, smoking cigarettes, were descending the stairway. The attention of all, momentarily, was drawn to the black man, then they rushed out into the street, laughing, speaking Russian, smoking.

“Nicholas, Nicholas,” Uri called from the balcony at the top of the stairs. “Come on up, come up.”

Nichols smiled broadly and waved as he started up the steps.

“Come on”, Uri said, walking down a couple of steps to meet him. “I'm with Sascha, and two animal women.” He put his strong arm around Nichols's shoulder.

In the Government vehicle, that arm around the shoulder caused noisy rustling of clothes on a transmission which was mostly static and squawks. “You know—
sschhhh—sschhhh
—women” was all that came over the speaker in Becker's car.

“Godammit,” Becker murmured as he tried to tune out the squawk. It only became worse when he turned the dial. Loud music drowned out most of the conversation now. “You—
sschhhh
—one of—
sschhhh
—Harlem.”

“Oh, I—
sschhhh
—”

“Hey, look who's here,” Uri said to Sascha, Anna, and the blonde woman. “This is my friend, Nicholas, like the Tsar,” said Uri. “This is Svetlana.” He said something to the blonde in Russian. She looked at Nichols with curiosity, then smiled. “She don't speak no English,” said Uri. Anna looked at Nichols, her top lip curling in a momentary greeting. Sascha lifted a glass of vodka, knocking it back, then filled it again.

“Have vodka, come, have vodka with me.” The table was covered with plates of food and bottles of liquor. Uri pulled a bottle of Sterling Vodka from a block of ice and poured pony glasses for himself and Nichols. He checked to see that everyone else's glass was full. “
Na zdorovye
” he said, lifting his glass high, clinking his glass against Nichols's, downing his shot neat. “Come, drink, drink,” urged Uri. “All at once.”

Nichols knocked back his vodka.

“Goot, goot,” laughed Uri, filling Nichols glass again.

“How did we do?” Nichols said to Uri in a whisper loud enough to be heard over the music

“Goot—
sschhhh—sschhhh
—problems,” Becker heard over the radio.

“Anybody receiving this transmission clearly?” Becker said into his hand held radio.

“Negative,” said Mulvehill.

“Bird Dog Two. Negative.”

Becker released the radio button. “Shit!” He started the engine of his vehicle and moved it toward Brighton Beach Avenue, turning right on the corner. Another car pulled out of a parking space close to the corner. Becker pulled his car into the empty spot and turned off the lights, hoping that closer to the club, the transmission would clear up.

At the same time, Vasily Marcovich and Tatiana had been at Vasily's, two blocks further east on Brighton Beach Avenue. Their restaurant was much like that of Romanoff's, on the second floor of the building, catering mostly to large parties. Their's was the newer club, but the program of food and entertainment was pretty much standard. Tonight they had decided to take a busman's holiday, or at least a busman's break, and see how the opposition was doing. They were walking west on Brighton Beach Avenue when a dark vehicle, just ahead of where they were walking, turned onto Brighton Beach Avenue and parked.

“Looks like they have a good crowd,” glancing ahead, Vasily said to Tatiana as they crossed the side street.

“Not as good as ours,” said Tatiana.

They laughed together as they walked past the dark vehicle that had just parked. The driver was still seated behind the steering wheel, rummaging through the glove compartment.

Supervisor Becker glanced out the passenger window as the man and young woman on the sidewalk passed his car. Lit by the glare from neon signs over closed stores and the bright lights from Romanoff's ahead, Becker stared at the man's face intently. He glanced quickly at the woman on his arm, then back at the man, studying him. The couple continued ahead, then disappeared into Romanoff's.

“—
Sschhhh
—another—
sschhhh
.” Becker heard Uri say over the radio. The transmission was no better at this location.

Inside the club, Vasily was welcomed by the owner of Romanoff's, a short, young man with an entirely shaved head. He shook Tatiana's hand, and waved both of them up the stairs to the main dining room and bar.

“Nice crowd,” Vasily said to the owner.

“Not bad, not bad,” he said, smiling.”Have a drink with me?”

“Why not?” said Vasily.

As they walked to the bar, Vasily recognized Uri Mojolevsky huddled together at the bar with a black man at the short side of the bar. At the same moment, Uri looked over, and his eyes locked on Vasily.

“Vasily!” Uri called loudly, vodka already having effect on him. “Vasily, my friend,” said Uri effusively, walking over to him, smiling broadly, embracing him. “I haven't seen you in ages, my friend.” Uri hugged Vasily again. “How have you been?” The owner of Romanoffs, standing next to Vasily was approached by a maitre'd. The owner excused himself.

“Great, great,” said Vasily. “How have you been? You haven't changed a bit either, after all this time. You remember my daughter, Tatiana?”

“Tatiana. This is Tatiana? By God, I can't believe it!” Uri took Tatiana's hands and held himself back from her. “What a beautiful woman you've become, Tatiana. I haven't seen you since you were,” Uri held his hand at his waist, “this big. In Leningrad.”

“Tatiana, this is Uri Mojolevsky, from Lenin—from St. Petersburg.”

“Pleasure,” said Tatiana.

“You don't remember me?” said Uri

“Not clearly,” Tatiana said.

“Vasily, you never told me that your daughter had grown into such a beautiful woman,” said Uri.

“I haven't seen you to tell you.” They both laughed.

“Oh, this is an American friend of mine, Nicholas,” Uri turned, surprised that Nichols, who had stayed close to the bar, was not right behind him. “This,” Uri said loudly, taking a step or two back toward the bar, “is my friend, Nicholas, like the Tsar.” He laughed. “A very dark Tsar,” he said in Russian. Vasily and Tatiana walked toward the bar. “Nicholas, this is a good friend of mine from St. Petersburg, Vasily, and his daughter, Tatiana.”

Vasily nodded and shook hands with the black man. Tatiana did the same.

“Pleased …
sschhhh …
friend …
sschhhh
.”

“Vodka,” Uri said, turning to the bartender, motioning toward Vasily and Tatiana. “Did I introduce you to my friend, Nicholas?” he said to Vasily.