The Bear and the Dragon - Tom Clancy [123]
"You are a true comrade, Mishka," the Russian said to his American friend as he took his first slug.
"Hey, I know the problem, pal," the FBI agent said sympathetically.
"It is this way for you as well."
"Hell, when I was a brand-new brick agent, I started working the Gotti case. We busted our asses bagging that lowlife. Took three juries to put him in Marion. Hes never coming back. Marion is a particularly nasty prison." Though "nasty" in American terms was different from the Russian. Russian prisons didnt really bear thinking about, though Reilly didnt worry much about that. People who broke the law in any society knew about the possible consequences going in, and what happened when they got caught was their problem, not his. "So, whats the story?"
"This Suvorov. We cant find him. Mishka, it is as if he doesnt exist."
"Really?" It both was and was not a surprise to Reilly. The former, because Russia, like many European societies, kept track of people in ways that would have started a Second American Revolution. The cops here were supposed to know where everybody lived, a carryover from the Bad Old Days when KGB had kept a third of the population as informers on the other two-thirds. It was an uncommon situation for the local cops not to be able to find someone.
The situation was not surprising, however, because if this Suvorov mutt really was a former KGB officer, then hed been expertly trained to disappear, and that sort of adversary didnt just die of the dumbs, like most American and Russian hoods did. Nor would he die from talking too much. Your average criminals acted—well, like criminals. They bragged too much, and to the wrong people, other criminals for the most part, who had the loyalty of rattlesnakes and would sell out a "friend" as readily as taking a piss. No, this Suvorov guy, if he was who and what the informants said he was, was a pro, and they made interesting game for interesting hunts, and usually long hunts at that.
But you always got them in the end, because the cops never stopped looking, and sooner or later, hed make a mistake, maybe not a big one, but big enough. He wouldnt be hanging with his former buds in KGB, people who would help keep him hidden, and would only talk among themselves and then not much. No, he was in a different milieu now, not a friendly one, not a safe one, and that was just too damned bad. Reilly had occasionally felt a certain sympathy for a criminal, but never for a killer. There were some lines you just couldnt cross.
"He has dived into a hole and then covered it up from inside," the Russian said, with some frustration.
"Okay, what do we know about him?"
Provalov related what hed just learned. "They say they will be asking whores if they might know him."
"Good call." Reilly nodded. "I bet he likes the high-end ones. Like our Miss Tanya, maybe. You know, Oleg, maybe he knew Avseyenko. Maybe he knows some of his girls."
"That is possible. I can have my men check them out as well."
"Cant hurt," the FBI agent agreed, waving to the bartender for a couple of refills. "You know, buddy, youve got yourself a real investigation happening here. I kinda' wish I was on your force to help out."
"You enjoy this?"
"Bet your ass, Oleg. The harder the case, the more thrilling the chase. And it feels real good at the end when you bag the bastards. When we convicted Gotti, damn if we didnt have one big party in Manhattan. The Teflon Don," Reilly said, hoisting his glass, and telling the air, "Hope you like it in Marion, boy."
"This Gotti, he killed people, yes?" Provalov asked.
"Oh, yeah, some himself, and others he gave the orders. His number one boy, Salvatore Gravano—Sammy the Bull, they called him—turned government witness and helped make