always very careful about getting a warrant. I mean, back in the ’60s, a Mafia don couldn’t take a leak without us knowing what color it was.”
“And they never fought back?”
“You mean fuck with us? Mess with an FBI agent?” Reilly grinned at the very thought. “Oleg,
“Not here. They do not respect us that much yet.”
“Well, then you have to generate that respect, Oleg.” And it really was about that simple in concept, though bringing it about, Reilly knew, would not be all that easy. Would it take having the local cops go off the reservation once in a while, to show the hoods the price of lese-majeste? That was part of American history, Reilly thought. Town sheriffs like Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and Wild Bill Hickok, Lone Wolf Gonzales of the Texas Rangers, Bill Tilghman and Billy Threepersons of the U.S. Marshal Service, the cops of their time who didn’t so much enforce the law as embody it in the way they walked down the street. There was no corresponding Russian lawman of legend. Maybe they needed one. It was part of the heritage of every American cop, and from watching movies and TV westerns, American citizens grew up with the expectation that breaking the law would bring such a man into your life, and not to your personal profit. The FBI had grown up in an era of increased crime during the Great Depression, and had exploited the existing Western tradition with modern technology and procedures to create its own institutional mystique. To do that had meant convicting a lot of criminals, and killing a few on the street as well. In America there was the expectation that cops were heroic figures who didn’t merely enforce the law, but who protected the innocent as well. There was no such tradition here. Growing it would solve many of the problems in the former Soviet Union, where the lingering tradition was of oppression rather than protection. No John Wayne, no Melvin Purvis in Russian movies, and this nation was the poorer for it. As much as Reilly liked working here, and as much as he’d come to like and respect his Russian counterparts, it was much like being dumped into a trash heap with instructions to make it as orderly as Bergdorf-Goodman’s in New York. All the proper things were there, but organizing them made Hercules’ task in the Augean stables seem trivial in comparison. Oleg had the right motivation, and the right set of skills, but it was some job he had ahead of him. Reilly didn’t envy him the task, but he had to help as best he could.
“I do not envy you very much, Mishka, but your organization’s status in your country is something I would like to have.”
“It didn’t just happen, Oleg. It’s the product of many years and a lot of good men. Maybe I should show you a Clint Eastwood movie.”
“No,
That made the Russian look up from his drink in surprise. “Then why do all the movies say otherwise?”
“Oleg, movies have to be exciting, and there isn’t much exciting about raising wheat or punching cattle. The American West was mainly settled by veterans of our Civil War. That was a hard and cruel conflict, but no man who’d survived the Battle of Shiloh was likely to be intimidated by some bozo on a horse, gun or not. A professor at Oklahoma State University did a book on this subject twenty or so years ago. He checked court records and such, and found out that except for saloon shootings-guns and whiskey make a crummy mix, right? — there wasn’t a hell of a lot of crime in the West. The citizens could look after themselves, and the laws they had were pretty tough-not a hell of a lot of repeat offenders-but what it really came down to was that the citizens all had guns and all pretty much knew how to use them, and that is a big deterrent for the bad guys. A cop’s less likely to shoot you than an aroused citizen, when you get down to it. He doesn’t want to do all the paperwork if he can avoid it, right?” A sip and a chuckle from the American.
“In that we are the same, Mishka,” Provalov agreed.
“And, by the way, all this quick-draw stuff in the movies. If it ever happened for real, I’ve never heard of such a case. No, that’s all Hollywood bullshit. You can’t draw and fire accurately that way. If you could, they would have trained us to do it that way at Quantico. But except for people who practice for special performances and tournaments and stuff, and that’s always at the same angle and the same distance, it just can’t be done.”
“You’re sure of that?” Legends die hard, especially for an otherwise pretty smart cop who had, however, seen his share of Westerns.
“I was a Principal Instructor in my Field Division, and damned if
“You are good shot, eh?”
Reilly nodded with uncharacteristic modesty on this particular issue. “Fair,” he allowed. “Pretty fair.” There were less than three hundred names on the FBI Academy’s “Possible Board,” identifying those who’d fired a perfect qualifying course on graduating. Mike Reilly was one of them. He’d also been assistant head of the SWAT team in his first field division in Kansas City before moving over to the chess players in the OC-Organized Crime-depart- ment. It made him feel a little naked to walk around without his trusty S amp;W 1076 automatic, but that was life in the FBI’s diplomatic service, the agent told himself. What the hell, the vodka was good here, and he was developing a taste for it. For that his diplomatic license plates helped. The local cops were pretty serious about giving tickets out. It was a pity they still had so much to learn about major criminal investigations.
“So, our pimp friend was probably the primary target, Oleg?”
“Yes, I think that is likely, but not entirely certain yet.” He shrugged. “But we’ll keep the Golovko angle open. After all,” Provalov added, after a long sip of his glass, “it will get us lots of powerful cooperation from other agencies.”
Reilly had to laugh at that. “Oleg Gregoriyevich, you know how to handle the bureaucratic part of the job. I couldn’t do that better myself!” Then he waved to the bartender. He’d spring for the next round.
The Internet had to be the best espionage invention ever made, Mary Patricia Foley thought. She also blessed the day that she’d personally recommended Chester Nomuri to the Directorate of Operations. That little Nisei had some beautiful moves for an officer still on the short side of thirty. He’d done superb work in Japan, and had volunteered in a heartbeat for Operation GENGHIS in Beijing. His cover job at Nippon Electric Company could hardly have been better suited to the mission requirements, and it seemed that he’d waltzed into his niche like Fred Astaire on a particularly good day. The easiest part of all, it seemed, was getting the data out.
Six years before, CIA had gone to Silicon Valley-undercover, of course-and commissioned a modern manufacturer to set up a brief production run of a very special modem. In fact, it seemed to many to be a sloppy one, since the linkup time it used was four or five seconds longer than was the usual. What you couldn’t tell was that the last four seconds weren’t random electronic noise at all, but rather the mating of a special encryption system, which when caught on a phone tap sounded just like random noise anyway. So, all Chester had to do was set up his message for transmission and punch it through. To be on the safe side, the messages were super- encrypted with a 256-bit system specially made at the National Security Agency, and the double-encipherment was so complex that even NSA’s own bank of supercomputers could only crack it with difficulty and after a lot of expensive time. After that, it was just a matter of setting up a www-dot-something domain through an easily available public vendor and a local ISP-Internet Service Provider-with which the world abounded. It could even be used on a direct call from one computer to another-in fact, that was the original application, and even if the opposition had a hardwire phone tap, it would take a mathematical genius
Lian Ming, Mary Pat read, secretary to … to him, eh? Not a bad potential source. The most charming part of all was that Nomuri included the sexual possibilities implicit in the recruitment. The kid was still something of an innocent; he’d probably blushed writing this, the Deputy Director (Operations) of the Central Intelligence Agency thought to herself, but he’d included it because he was so damned honest in everything he did. It was time to get Nomuri a promotion and a raise. Mrs. Foley made the appropriate note on a Post-it for attachment to his file. James Bond-san, she thought with an internal chuckle. The easiest part was the reply:
