The Blue Zone. Andrew Gross

agents, trying to gauge what was in their minds.

      “Like you said, they use a lot of gold,” he answered. “But what they do with it is their business. I just supply the gold.”

      “What they do with it”—Agent Booth’s voice grew hard, losing patience—“is they export it, Mr. Raab. These novelty items, as you say, they aren’t made of steel or brass or gold plate. They’re solid bullion, Mr. Raab. They’re painted and anodized to make them look like ordinary items, as I suspect you know. Do you have any idea where these items end up, Mr. Raab?”

      “Somewhere in South America, I think.” Raab reached for his voice, which clung deep in his throat. “I told you, I just buy it for them. I’m not sure I understand what’s going on.”

      “What’s going on, Mr. Raab”—Booth leveled his eyes at him—“is that you’ve already got one foot in a very deep bucket of shit, and I guess we just want to know, regarding the other, if it’s in or out. You say you’ve worked with Argot for between six and eight years. Do you know who owns the company?”

      “Harold Kornreich,” Raab answered more firmly. “I know Harold well.”

      “Good. And what about Paz? Do you know who runs that?”

      “I think his name is Spessa or something. Victor. I met him a few times.”

      “Actually, Victor Spessa, whose real name is Victor Concerga”—Ruiz slid a photo forward—“is merely an operating partner in Paz. The articles of incorporation, which Agent Ruiz is laying out for you, are from a Cayman Islands corporation, BKA Investments, Limited.” Ruiz spread out a few more photos on the table. Surveillance shots. The men looked clearly Hispanic. “Are any of these faces familiar to you, Mr. Raab?”

      Now Raab grew truly worried. A trickle of sweat cut a slow, cold path down his back. He picked up the photos, looked at them closely, one by one. He tremulously shook his head. “No.”

      “Victor Concerga. Ramón Ramírez. Luis Trujillo,” the lead FBI man said. “These individuals are listed as the key officers of BKA, to whom the simple household products your gold is converted into are consigned. Trujillo,” Ruiz said, pushing across a surveillance shot of a stocky man in a fancy suit climbing into a Mercedes, “is one of the leading money managers for the Mercado family in the Colombian drug cartel.”

      “Colombia!” Raab echoed. His eyes bulged wide.

      “And just to be clear, Mr. Raab.” Agent Ruiz winked. “We’re not talking the B-school here.”

      Raab stared at them, his jaw in his lap.

      “The gold you purchase, Mr. Raab, on behalf of Paz, is melted down and cast into ordinary household items, then plated over or painted and shipped back to Colombia, where it is reconstituted into bullion. Paz is just a sham operation. It is one hundred percent owned by the Mercado drug cartel. The money they pay you … for your ‘transactions,’ as you call them, is derived from the business of narcotics distribution. The gold you supply”—the agent widened his eyes—“is how they ship it home.”

      “No!” Raab leaped up, this time eyes fiery, defiant. “I have nothing to do with that. I swear. I supply gold. That’s all. I have a contract. This Victor Concerga solicited me, like a lot of people do. If you’re trying to scare me, okay, you got my attention. It’s working! But Colombians … Mercados …” He shook his head. “No way. What the hell do you think is going on here?”

      Booth just rubbed his jaw as if he hadn’t heard a word Raab had been saying. “When Mr. Concerga came to you, Mr. Raab, he said he wanted to do exactly what?”

      “He said he needed to buy gold. He wanted to convert it into certain items.”

      “And how was it that in order to do that he was first introduced to Argot Manufacturing?”

      Raab recoiled. He saw it now. Clearly. Where this was starting to lead. Argot was owned by his friend. Harold. He had introduced them.

      And for years Raab had been paid handsomely for having set up the deal.

      That was when Nardozzi, the Justice Department lawyer, who had to this point remained silent, leaned forward, saying, “You understand the definition of money laundering, don’t you, Mr. Raab?”

       CHAPTER FOUR

      Raab felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. His face turned totally white.

      “I didn’t know anything!” He shook his head. Sweat was suddenly soaking through the back of his shirt. “All right, I … I did take commissions from Argot,” he stammered. “But that was more like a kind of finder’s fee—not a kickback. I was just a go-between. People do it all the time. But I swear, I had no idea what they were doing with the gold. This is crazy.” He searched the agents’ faces for an understanding eye. “I’ve been in business twenty years.…”

      “Twenty years.” Ruiz clasped his hands across his stomach, rocking backward. “That’s a number we’re going to be coming back to from time to time. But for now … you say Concerga came to you first?”

      “Yes. He said he wanted to manufacture some items of gold.” Raab nodded. “That I would be the broker of record for him, if I could find someone. That it would be very lucrative. I put him in touch with Harold. I never even heard of BKA Investments. Or Trujillo. Harold’s a good man. I’ve known him since we first got into the business. He just needed work.”

      “You’re familiar with the RICO statutes, aren’t you, Mr. Raab?” The U.S. Attorney unlatched his case. “Or the Patriot Act?”

      “RICO …” The blood drained out of Raab’s face. “That’s for mobsters. The Patriot Act? What the hell do you think I am?”

      “The RICO statutes state that all it takes is knowledge of a criminal enterprise or a pattern of involvement in one to constitute a felony, which your brokering of the arrangement between Paz and Argot—not to mention the stream of illicit payments you’ve received from them over a period of years—clearly represented.

      “I might also draw your attention to the Patriot Act, Mr. Raab, which makes it illegal since 2001 not to report checks in excess of twenty thousand dollars from any foreign entity.”

      “The Patriot Act?” Raab’s knee shot up and down like a jackhammer. “What the hell are you saying here?”

      “What we’re saying,” Special Agent Booth cut in, casually scratching at the short orange hairs on the side of his head, “is that you’re pretty much fucked and fried here, Mr. Raab—pardon the French—and what you ought to start thinking about now is how to make this go your way.”

      “My way?” Raab felt the heat of the room under his collar. He had a flash of Sharon and the kids. How would they possibly deal with this? How would he even begin to explain …? He felt his head start to spin.

      “You don’t exactly look so good, Mr. Raab.” Agent Ruiz pretended to be concerned. He got up and poured him a cup of water.

      Raab dropped his forehead into his hands. “I think I need my lawyer now.”

      “Oh, you don’t need a lawyer.” Agent in Charge Booth stared wide-eyed. “You need the whole fucking Department of Justice to make this go your way.”

      Ruiz came back to the table, pushing the water across to Raab. “Of course, there might be a way this could all work out for you.”

      Raab ran his hands through his hair. He took a gulp of water, cooling his brow. “What way?”

      “The way of keeping you out of a federal prison for the next twenty years,” Booth replied without a smile.

      Raab felt a pain shoot