Mary Smithers from Iowa, matronly, three kids and seven grandkids, he thought, more talk about the Farm Bill. What the hell was he supposed to know about farms? the President wondered. On those rare occasions that he purchased food, he did it at the supermarket—because that’s where it all came from, wasn’t it? One of the things on the briefing pages for his political appearances was always the local price for bread and milk in case some local reporter tested him. And chocolate milk came from brown cows.
Accordingly, Ambassador Hitch and Assistant Secretary Rutledge will be flying back to Washington for consultations,” the spokesman told the audience.
“Does this signal a break in relations with China?” a reporter asked at once.
“Not at all. ‘Consultations’ means just that. We will discuss the recent developments with our representatives so that our relations with China can more speedily be brought back to what they ought to be,” the spokesman replied smoothly.
The assembled reporters didn’t know what to make of that and so three more questions of virtually identical content were immediately asked, and answers of virtually identical content repeated for them.
“He’s good,” Ryan said, watching the TV, which was pirating the CNN (and other) coverage off the satellites. It wasn’t going out live, oddly enough, despite the importance of the news being generated.
“Not good enough,” Arnie van Damm observed. “You’re going to get hit with this, too.”
“I figured. When?”
“The next time they catch you in front of a camera, Jack.”
And he had as much chance of ducking a camera as the leadoff hitter at opening day at Yankee Stadium, the President knew. Cameras at the White House were as numerous as shotguns during duck season, and there was no bag limit here.
Christ, Oleg!” It took a lot to make Reilly gasp, but this one crossed the threshold. “Are you serious?”
“So it would appear, Mishka,” Provalov answered.
“And why are you telling me?” the American asked. Information like this was a state secret equivalent to the inner thoughts of President Grushavoy.
“There is no hiding it from you. I assume you tell everything we do together to Washington, and it was you who identified the Chinese diplomat, for which I and my country are in your debt.”
The amusing part of that was that Reilly had darted off to track Suvorov/Koniev without a thought, just as a cop thing, to help out a brother cop. Only afterward—about a nanosecond afterward, of course—had he thought of the political implications. And he’d thought this far ahead, but only as speculation, not quite believing that it could possibly have gone this far forward.
“Well, yes, I have to keep the Bureau informed of my operations here,” the legal attache admitted, not that it was an earthshaking revelation.
“I know that, Mishka.”
“The Chinese wanted to kill Golovko,” Reilly whispered into his vodka. “Fuck.”
“My word exactly,” Provalov told his American friend. “The question is—”
“Two questions, Oleg. First, why? Second, now what?”
“Third, who is Suvorov, and what is he up to?”
Which was obvious, Reilly thought. Was Suvorov merely a paid agent of a foreign country? Or was he part of the KGB wing of the Russian Mafia being paid by the Chinese to do something—but what, and to what purpose?
“You know, I’ve been hunting OC guys for a long time, but it never got anywhere near this big. This is right up there with all those bullshit stories about who ‘really’ killed Kennedy.”
Provalov’s eyes looked up. “You’re not saying …”
“No, Oleg. The Mafia isn’t that crazy. You don’t go around looking to make enemies that big. You can’t predict the consequences, and it isn’t good for business. The Mafia is a business, Oleg. They try to make money for themselves. Even their political protection is aimed only at that, and that has limits, and they know what the limits are.”
“So, if Suvorov is Mafia, then he is only trying to make money?”
“Here it’s a little different,” Reilly said slowly, trying to help his brain keep up with his mouth. “Here your OC guys think more politically than they do in New York.” And the reason for that was that the KGB types had all grown up in an intensely political environment. Here politics really was power in a more direct sense than it had ever been in America, where politics and commerce had always been somewhat separate, the former protecting the latter (for a fee) but also controlled by it. Here it had always been, and still remained, the other way around. Business needed to rule politics because business was the source of prosperity, from which the citizens of a country derived their comforts. Russia had never prospered, because the cart kept trying to pull the horse. The recipient of the wealth had always tried to generate that wealth— and political figures are always pretty hopeless in that department. They are only good at squandering it. Politicians live by their political theories. Businessmen use reality and have to perform in a world defined by reality, not theory. That was why even in America they understood one another poorly, and never really trusted one another.
“What makes Golovko a target? What’s the profit in killing him?” Reilly asked aloud.
“He is the chief adviser to President Grushavoy. He’s never wanted to be an elected official, and therefore cannot be a minister per se, but he has the president’s ear because he is both intelligent and honest—and he’s a patriot in the true sense.”
Despite his background, Reilly didn’t add. Golovko was KGB, formerly a deadly enemy to the West, and an enemy to President Ryan, but somewhere along the line they’d met each other and they’d come to respect each other—even like each other, so the stories in Washington went. Reilly finished off his second vodka and waved for another. He was turning into a Russian, the FBI agent thought. It was getting to the point that he couldn’t hold an intelligent conversation without a drink or two.
“So, get him and thereby hurt your president, and thereby hurt your entire country. Still, it’s one hell of a dangerous play, Oleg Gregoriyevich.”
“A very dangerous play, Mishka,” Provalov agreed. “Who would do such a thing?”
Reilly let out a long and speculative breath. “One very ambitious motherfucker.” He had to get back to the embassy and light up his STU-6 in one big fucking hurry. He’d tell Director Murray, and Murray would tell President Ryan in half a New York minute. Then what? It was way the hell over his head, Mike Reilly thought.
“Okay, you’re covering this Suvorov guy.”
“We and the Federal Security Service now,” Provalov confirmed.
“They good?”
“Very,” the militia lieutenant admitted. “Suvorov can’t fart without us knowing what he had to eat.”
“And you have his communications penetrated.” Oleg nodded. “The written kind. He has a cell phone—maybe more than one, and covering them can be troublesome.”
“Especially if he has an encryption system on it. There’s stuff commercially available now that our people have a problem with.”
“Oh?” Provalov’s head came around. He was surprised for two reasons: first, that there was a reliable encryption system available for cell phones, and second, that the Americans had trouble cracking it.
Reilly nodded. “Fortunately, the bad guys haven’t found out yet.” Contrary to popular belief, the Mafia wasn’t all that adept at using technology. Microwaving their food was about as far as they went. One Mafia don had thought his cell phone secure because of its frequency hopping abilities, and then had entirely canceled that supposed advantage out by standing still while using it! The dunce-don had never figured that out, even after the intercept had been played aloud in Federal District Court.
“We haven’t noticed any of that yet.”
“Keep it that way,” Reilly advised. “Anyway, you have a national-security investigation.”
“It’s still murder and conspiracy to commit murder,” Provalov said, meaning it was still his case.
“Anything I can do?”
“Think it over. You have good instincts for Mafia cases, and that is probably what it is.”
Reilly tossed off his last drink. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, right here?”
Oleg nodded. “That is good.”
The FBI agent walked back outside and got into his car. Ten minutes later, he was at his desk. He took the plastic key from his desk drawer and inserted it into the STU, then dialed Washington.
All manner of people with STU phones had access to Murray’s private secure number, and so when the large system behind his desk started chirping, he just picked it up and listened to the hiss of static for thirty seconds until the robotic voice announced, “Line is secure.”
“Murray,” he said.
“Reilly in Moscow,” the other voice said.
The FBI Director checked his desk clock. It was pretty damned late there. “What’s happening, Mike?” he asked, then got the word in three fast-spoken minutes.