other side wasn’t all that smart. The smart ones didn’t break the law in so egregious a way. No, the perfect crime was the one you never discovered, the murder victim you never found, the stolen funds missed by bad accounting procedures, the espionage never discovered. Once you knew a crime had been committed, you had a starting place, and it was like unraveling a sweater. There wasn’t all that much holding the wool together if you just kept picking at it.
“Tell me, Mishka, how worthy were your Mafia adversaries in New York?” Provalov asked after sipping his second drink.
Reilly did the same. “It’s not like the movies, Oleg. Except maybe Goodfellas. They’re cheap hoods. They’re not educated. Some of them are pretty damned dumb. Their cachet was that once upon a time they didn’t talk, omertà they used to call it, the Law of Silence. I mean, they’d take the fall and never cooperate. But that changed over time. The people from the Old Country died out and the new generation was softer—and we got tougher. It’s a lot easier to laugh your way through three years than it is to handle ten, and on top of that the organization broke down. They stopped taking care of the families while the dad was in the slammer, and that was real bad for morale. So, they started talking to us. And we got smarter, too, with electronic surveillance—now it’s called ‘special operations’; back then it was a ‘black bag job’—and we weren’t 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, nobody ever messes with the FBI. Back then, and still somewhat to this day, we are the Right Hand of God Himself, and if you mess with us, some really bad things are going to happen. The truth of the matter is that nothing like that has ever happened, but the bad guys worry that it might. The rules get bent some, but, no, we never really break them—at least not that I know about. But if you threaten a hood with serious consequences for stepping over the line, chances are he’ll take you seriously.”
“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 lèse-majesté? 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