Excerpts

The Blue Zone A Novel Chapter One Gold was up 2 percent the morning Benjamin Raab's life began to fall apart. He was leaning back at his desk, looking down on Forty-seventh Street, in the lavish comfort of his office high above the Avenue of the Americas, the phone crooked in his neck. "I'm waiting, Raj. . . ." Raab had a spot gold contract he was holding for two thousand pounds. Over a million dollars. The Indians were his biggest customers, one of the largest exporters of jewelry in the world. Two percent . Raab checked the Quotron screen. That was thirty thousand dollars. Before lunch. "Raj, c'mon ," Raab prodded. "My daughter's getting married this afternoon. I'd like to make it if I can. . . ." "Katie's getting married?" The Indian seemed to be hurt. "Ben, you never said--" "It's just an expression, Raj. If Kate was getting married, you'd be there. But, Raj, c'mon . . . we're talking gold here--not pastrami. It doesn't go bad. " This was what Raab did. He moved gold. He'd owned his own trading company near New York's diamond district for twenty years. Years ago he had started out buying inventory from the mom-and-pop jewelers who were going out of business. Now he supplied gold to half the dealers on the Street. As well as to some of the largest exporters of jewelry across the globe. Everyone in the trade knew him. He could hardly grab a turkey club at the Gotham Deli down the street without one of the pushy, heavyset Hasids squeezing next to him in the booth with the news of some dazzling new stone they were peddling. (Though they always chided that as a Sephardi he wasn't even one of their own.) Or one of the young Puerto Rican runners who delivered the contracts, thanking him for the flowers he'd sent to their wedding. Or the Chinese, looking to hedge some dollars against a currency play. Or the Australians, tantalizing him with uncut blocks of industrial-quality stones. I've been lucky , Raab always said. He had a wife who adored him, three beautiful children who made him proud. His house in Larchmont (a whole lot more than just a house) that overlooked the Long Island Sound, and the Ferrari 585, which Raab once raced at Lime Rock and had its own special place in the five-car garage. Not to mention the box at Yankee Stadium and the Knicks tickets, on the floor of the Garden, just behind the bench. Betsy, his assistant for over twenty years, stepped in carrying a chef's salad on a plate along with a cloth napkin, Raab's best defense against his proclivity for leaving grease stains on his Hermès ties. She rolled her eyes. "Raji, still . . . ?" Benjamin shrugged, drawing her eye to his notepad where he had already written down the outcome: $648.50 . He knew that his buyer was going to take it. Raj always did. They'd been doing this little dance for years. But did he always have to play out the drama so long? "Okay, my friend." The Indian buyer sighed at last in surrender. "We consider it a deal." " Whew , Raj." Raab exhaled in mock relief. "The Financial Times is outside waiting on the exclusive." The Indian laughed, too, and they closed out the deal: $648.50, just as he'd written down. Betsy smiled--"He says that every time, doesn't he?"--trading the handwritten contract for two glossy travel brochures that she placed next to his plate. Raab tucked the napkin into the collar of his Thomas Pink striped shirt. "Fifteen years." All one had to do was step into Raab's crowded office and it was impossible not to notice the walls and credenzas crammed with pictures of Sharon, his wife, and his children--Kate, the oldest, who had graduated from Brown; Emily, who was sixteen, and nationally ranked at squash; and Justin, two years younger--and all the fabulous family trips they'd taken over the years. The villa in Tuscany. Kenya on safari. Skiing at Courchevel in the French Alps. Ben in his driver's suit with Richard Petty at the Porsche rally school. And that's what he was doing over lunch, mapping out their next big trip--the best one yet. Machu Picchu. The Andes. Then on a fantastic walking tour of Patagonia. Their twenty-fifth anniversary was coming up. Patagonia had always been one of Sharon's dreams. "My next life"--Betsy grinned as she shut the office door--"I'm making sure I come back as one of your kids." "Next life," Raab called after her, "I am, too." Suddenly a loud crash came from the outer office. At first Raab thought it was an explosion or a break-in. He thought about triggering the alarm. Sharp, unfamiliar voices were barking commands. Betsy rushed back in, a look of panic on her face. A step behind, two men in suits and navy windbreakers pushed through the door. "Benjamin Raab?" "Yes . . ." He stood up and faced the tall, balding man who had addressed him, who seemed to be in charge. "You can't just barge in here like this. What the hell's going on . . . ? " "What's going on, Mr. Raab"--the man tossed a folded document onto the desk--"is that we have a warrant from a federal judge for your arrest." " Arrest . . . ?" Suddenly people in FBI jackets were everywhere. His staff was being rounded up and told to vacate. "What the hell for?" "For money laundering, aiding and abetting a criminal enterprise, conspiracy to defraud the U.S. government," the agent read off. "How's that, Mr. Raab? The contents of this office are being impounded as material evidence in this case." " What? " Before he could utter another word, the second agent, a young Hispanic, spun Raab around, forcing his arms roughly behind him, and slapped a set of handcuffs on his wrists, his whole office looking on. " This is crazy! " Raab twisted, trying to look the agent in the face. "Sure it is," the Hispanic agent chortled. He lifted the travel brochures out of Raab's hands. "Too bad." He winked, tossing them back onto the desk. "Seemed like one helluva trip." Chapter Two "Check these babies out," Kate Raab muttered, peering into the high-powered Siemens microscope. Tina O'Hearn, her lab partner, leaned over the scope. " Whoa! " In the gleaming luminescence of the high-resolution lens, two brightly magnified cells sharpened into view. One was the lymphocyte, the defective white blood cell with a ring of hairy particles protruding from its membrane. The other cell was thinner, squiggle-shaped, and had a large white dot in the center. "That's the Alpha-boy," Kate said, slowly adjusting the magnification. "We call them Tristan and Isolde. Packer's name for them." She picked up a tiny metal probe off the counter. "Now check this out. . . ." As Kate prodded, Tristan nudged its way toward the denser lymphocyte. The defective cell resisted, but the squiggle cell kept coming back, as if searching out a weakness in the lymphocyte's membrane. As if attacking . "Seems more like Nick and Jessica," Tina giggled, bent over the lens. " Watch ." As if on cue, the squiggle cell seemed to probe the hairy borders of the white blood cell, until in front of their eyes the attacking membrane seemed to penetrate the border of its prey and they merged into a single, larger cell with a white dot in the center. Tina looked up. " Ouch! " "Love hurts, huh? That's a progenitive stem-cell line," Kate explained, looking up from the scope. "The white one's a lymphoblast--what Packer calls the--killer leukocyte.' It's the pathogenic agent of leukemia. Next week, we see what happens in a plasma solution similar to the bloodstream. I get to record the results." "You do this all day?" Tina scrunched up her face. Kate chuckled. Welcome to life in the petri dish. "All year ." For the past eight months, Kate had been working as a lab researcher for Dr. Grant Packer, up at Albert Einstein Medical College in the Bronx, whose work in cytogenetic leukemia was starting to make noise in medical circles. She'd won a fellowship out of Brown, where she and Tina had been lab partners her senior year. Kate was always smart--just not "geeky" smart, she always maintained. She was twenty-three. She liked to have fun--hit the new restaurants, go to clubs. Since she'd been twelve, she could beat most guys down the hill on a snowboard. She had a boyfriend, Greg, who was a second-year resident at NYU Medical School. She just spent the majority of her day leaning over a microscope, recording data or transcribing it onto digital files, but she and Greg always joked--when they actually saw each other--that one lab rat in their relationship was enough. Still, Kate loved the work. Packer was starting to turn some heads, and Kate had to admit it was the coolest option she'd had for a while. Besides, her real claim to distinction, she figured, was no doubt being the only person she knew who could recite Cleary's Ten Stages of Cellular Development and had a tattoo of a double helix on her butt. " Leukoscopophy ," Kate explained. "Pretty cool the first time you see it. Try watching it a thousand times. Now check out what happens." They leaned back over the double scope. There was only one cell left--larger, squiggle-shaped Tristan. The defective lymphoblast had virtually disappeared. Tina whistled, impressed. "If that happens in a living model, there's got to be a Nobel Prize in this." "In ten years, maybe. Personally, I was just hoping for a graduate dissertation." Kate grinned. At that moment her cell phone started to vibrate. She thought it might be Greg, who loved to e-mail her funny photos from rounds, but when she checked out the screen, she shook her head and flipped the phone back into her lab coat. "If it's not one thing it's a mother . . ." she sighed. Kate led Tina into the library, with about a thousand recorded iterations of the stem-cell line on digital film. "My life's work!" She introduced her to Max, Packer's baby, the cytogenetic scope worth over $2 million, which separated chromosomes in the cells and made the whole thing possible. "You'll feel like you're dating it before the month is through." Tina looked it over with a shrug of mock approval. "I've done worse." That was when Kate's cell phone sounded again. She flipped it out. Her mom again. This time there was a text message coming in. Kate, something's happened. Call home quick! Kate stared. She'd never gotten a message like that before. She didn't like the sound of those words. Her mind flashed through the possibilities--and all of them were bad. "Tina, sorry, but I gotta call home." "No sweat. I'll just start the small talk rolling with Max." With a jitter of nerves, Kate punched in the speed dial of her parents' home in Larchmont. Her mom picked up on the first ring. Kate could hear the alarm in her voice. " Kate, it's your father. . . . " Something bad had happened. A tremor of dread flashed through her. Her dad had never been sick. He was in perfect shape. He could probably take Em at squash on a good day. "What's happened, Mom? Is he okay?" "I don't know. . . . His secretary just called in. Your father's been arrested, Kate. He's been arrested by the FBI! " Chapter Three They took the cuffs off Raab inside FBI headquarters at Foley Square in Lower Manhattan, leading him into a stark, narrow room with a wooden table and metal chairs and a couple of dog-eared Wanted posters tacked to a bulletin board on the wall. He sat there staring up at a small mirror that he knew was the two-way kind, like on some police drama on TV. He knew what he had to tell them. He'd rehearsed it over and over. That this was all some kind of crazy mistake. He was just a businessman. He'd never done anything wrong in his entire life. After about twenty minutes, the door opened. Raab stood up. The same two agents who had arrested him stepped in, trailed by a thin young man in a gray suit and short, close-cropped hair, who placed a briefcase on the table. "I'm Special Agent in Charge Booth," announced the tall, balding agent. "You've already met Special Agent Ruiz. This is Mr. Nardozzi. He's a U.S. Attorney with the Justice Department who's familiar with your case." "My case . . . ?" Raab forced a hesitant smile, eyeing their thick files a little warily, not believing he was hearing that word. "What we're going to do is ask you a few questions, Mr. Raab," the Hispanic agent, Ruiz, began. "Please sit back down. I can assure you this will go a lot easier if we can count on your full cooperation and you simply answer truthfully and succinctly to the best of your knowledge." "Of course." Raab nodded, sitting back down. "And we're going to be taping this, if that's okay?" Ruiz said, placing a standard cassette recorder on the table, not even waiting for his response. "It's for your own protection, too. At any time, if you like, you can request that a lawyer be present." "I don't need a lawyer." Raab shook his head. "I have nothing to hide." "That's good, Mr. Raab." Ruiz winked back affably. "These things have a way of always going best when people have nothing to hide." The agent removed a stack of papers from the file and ordered them in a certain way on the table. "You've heard of a Paz Export Enterprises, Mr. Raab?" he started in, turning the first page. "Of course," Raab confirmed. "They're one of my biggest accounts." "And just what is it you do for them?" the FBI agent asked him. "I purchase gold. On the open market. They're in the novelty gift business or something. I ship it to an intermediary on their behalf." "Argot Manufacturing?" Ruiz interjected, turning over a page from his notes. "Yes, Argot. Look, if that's what this is about--" "And Argot does what with all this gold you purchase?" Ruiz cut him off one more time. "I don't know. They're manufacturers. They turn it into gold plate, or whatever Paz requests." "Novelty items," Ruiz said, cynically, looking up from his notes. Raab stared back. "What they do with it is their business. I just buy the gold for them." "And how long have you been supplying gold to Argot on Paz's behalf?" Agent in Charge Booth took up the questioning. "I'm not sure. I'd have to check. Maybe six, eight years . . ." "Six to eight years." The agents glanced at each other. "And in all that time, Mr. Raab, you have no idea what products they make once they receive your gold?" It had the feel of a rhetorical question. But they seemed to be waiting for an answer. "They make a lot of things." Raab shrugged. "For different customers. Jewelry. Gold-plated stuff, desk ornaments, paperweights . . ." "They consume quite a lot of gold," Booth said, running his eye down a column of numbers, "for a bunch of desk ornaments and paperweights, wouldn't you say? Last year over thirty-one hundred pounds. At roughly six hundred forty dollars an ounce, that's over thirty-one million dollars, Mr. Raab." The number took Raab by surprise. He felt a bead of sweat run down his temple. He wet his lips. "I told you, I'm in the transaction business. They give me a contract. All I do is supply the gold. Look, maybe if you tell me what this is about . . ." Booth stared back, as if bemused, with a cynical smile, but a smile, it appeared to Raab, that had facts behind it. Ruiz opened his folder and removed some new sheets. Photographs. Black-and-white, eight-by-tens. The shots were all of mundane items. Bookends, paperweights, and some basic tools: hammers, screwdrivers, hoes. "You recognize any of these items, Mr. Raab?" For the first time, Raab felt his heart start to accelerate. He warily shook his head. "No." "You receive payments from Argot, don't you, Mr. Raab?" Ruiz took him by surprise. "Kickbacks . . ." "Commissions," Raab corrected him, irritated at his tone. "In addition to your commissions." Ruiz kept his eyes on him. He slid another sheet across the table. "Commissions in the commodities market run, what? One and a half, two percent? Yours go as high as six, eight percent, Mr. Raab, isn't that right?" Ruiz kept his gaze fixed on him. Raab's throat suddenly went dry. He became aware he was fiddling with the gold Cartier cuff links Sharon had given him for his fiftieth birthday, and he stopped abruptly. His glance flicked back and forth among the three 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?" The Blue Zone A Novel . Copyright © by Andrew Gross. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from The Blue Zone by Andrew Gross All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.