A dismissive grin. "Russia has no serial killers."
"Works pretty good against serial rapists, also. Or serial arsonists, if you have any of those."
"We have neither. Those are American problems."
The State guy was now composing entire paragraphs.
Who is this guy kidding? Tromble thought. He was sure his leg was being pulled and he laughed. Fyodorev developed a very deep frown.
The hottie in the short skirt suddenly shoved herself off the wall and moved to a position beside Fyodorev's desk. She said to him, "Anatoli, we're being terrible hosts. It's been a long, tiring trip for our American guests. Maybe they would like coffee."
Whoever she was, she had an interesting relationship with Fyodorev, because his demeanor turned on a dime. The angered frown converted instantly into a gracious smile. "Yes… yes, you're right. Coffee, anybody?"
Tromble said yes, black, no sugar, no cream. Laura chose tea, doused with sugar and cream. One of the aides shoved off from the wall and scurried off to retrieve the refreshments.
The young lady with the glorious legs slid around the desk and, with a glowing smile and firm handshake, introduced herself. Tatyana something-or-other-she explained she worked not here, in the attorney general's office, but upstairs, for his boss. She was a lawyer who frequently advised Yeltsin on legal matters. This seemed to justify her presence.
"Why don't we all adjourn to the conference table?" she suggested, quite hospitably.
Why not? For sure, the current arrangement was a bust. They shifted from their stools and desks to comfortable chairs abutting a huge walnut block table by a large window. Tingleman and Tromble sat side by side, in an uncomfortable silence.
Miss Tatyana Whoever sat closely beside Fyodorev on the other side of the long, gleaming table. They made small talk about the flight and weather and a dozen other uninteresting topics. Once the coffees and teas were delivered and the room had cooled to a level of moderate tension, Tatyana said, "Let's not beat around the bush. What is it you'd really like to discuss?"
Tromble's briefing papers, prepared by a bunch of stuffy eggheads over at State, had stipulated that the Russians were consummate horse traders. Never arrive empty-handed: give a little, get a little. In that spirit, he had started-more accurately, he had tried to start-by offering them a few handsome concessions before he got down to his own request.
But if she could come right to the point, so could he. "Your Mafiya," he said very importantly.
"What about them?"
"Since the wall came down, they've become your biggest export. They're crawling all over our cities. They've turned Miami into a free-fire zone. Brighton Beach is a funeral parlor." Tromble worked up a nasty grimace. "They're a very nasty lot."
"Tell me about it," Fyodorev said, shaking his head with disgust. "Total vermin. The most ruthless, brutal criminals in the world."
"Yes, so we're learning," Tingleman replied, slightly irritated, not really clued in to what her FBI director had in mind for this visit. She had been told it was no more than a diplomatic meet-and-greet, part of the required protocol for her office, a chance to get away from the daily grind of Washington. "Our own Italian Mafiosi are civilized gentlemen compared to your guys. With your people, no finesse, no rules, no attractive traditions. They kill over nothing."
"We're not proud of them," Fyodorev replied with an uneven shrug.
"I'm under great pressure from my president to do something about them," Tromble insisted, regaining the initiative.
A lie. His president could care less about anything that didn't register in national polls and outside Hollywood, where a fresh species of frightening brutes was always a welcome addition; the average Joe knew nothing about Russia's Mafiya and could care less.
Fyodorev looked sympathetic.
"I need a favor," Tromble continued with a friendly smile. "As you know, we have a small FBI field station at our embassy here in Moscow. Yeltsin personally signed the agreement. That was two years ago."
Tatyana noted, "And it expires in a few months."
"Exactly. Now I'd like an extension. Say, another five years. And I want to triple the size."
"How many of your people are here now?" Fyodorev asked.
"Four. Four overworked, exhausted agents," Tromble said sourly. "Two broken marriages, one newly minted alcoholic, one attempted suicide. Sad to say, it has become the most unpopular posting in the Bureau."
"Twelve would be a lot," Fyodorev countered, obviously cool to the idea. "This is, after all, Russian soil."
"I know, I know. But your Mafiya is huge, and growing fast. Ambitious, too. They're blasting their way into everything. Dope, whores, kidnapping, extortion. The bodies are piling up. Four agents barely make a dent. Besides, I hoped we would work this problem together."
"Together?"
"Well, yes. Presumably your people have a better handle on your own Mafiya than we do."
"I would hope that's the case."
"What if some of my agents worked full-time with your people?"
"Like liaisons?" Tatyana suggested, nudging Fyodorev with her knee under the table.
"That's the general idea. At our end, we're dealing with Mafiya foot soldiers. That's not working. Take one off the street, and in days he's replaced with two more. We presume that the heads of all these organizations are here, in Russia." Nobody contradicted that obvious point and he pushed ahead. "And you can put some of your people at my headquarters. We'll share intelligence, share everything we learn and tip each other off. Maybe perform a few big busts together."
Tatyana maintained a straight face, but her heart was racing. Oh, what an incredibly great idea: yes, we can share intelligence, the more the better. Wait until Nicky heard what had just landed in her lap. He would know everything the FBI was up to. He would learn the names of every plant, every snitch, every stoolie. Through her, he could set up his opposition and exploit the FBI boys to squash their American operations. It would be a windfall. Nicky's American branch would grow by leaps and bounds.
And it would all depend on little old Tatyana. She liked to be needed. Service like that doesn't come cheap.
A slight nod from Tatyana to Fyodorev, who glanced in her direction every few seconds.
"Of course we'll share the headlines?" Fyodorev asked, showing he and Tromble were kindred spirits.
"Wouldn't dream otherwise," Tromble lied.
"Why only twelve agents?" Tatyana asked. "And why only five years? Our Mafiya have been around for seven decades. They're such an institution, I hardly think we'll defeat them in only five years. Make it twenty agents. Thirty, if you wish. And a ten-year extension strikes me as much more reasonable."
Tromble reached both hands under the table and steadied his knees. This was everything he'd hoped for, times two or three. Ol' J. Edgar may have created the FBI and put it on the map, but he was determined to claw out his own storied place in Bureau legend. He was going to take America's only national police force and turn it into an international juggernaut. It would be twice as big before he was through: maybe more, maybe much more. He intended to have his agents in every damn embassy in every damn country in the world. A bigger operations center would be necessary, a real monster with dozens of lit-up screens constantly flashing the latest updates about Chink Triads, and Jap Yakuzas, French wharf rats, and Tibetan whatever-the-hell-they-weres. He would have a big seat in the middle of it all, a throne from which he could survey his crime-busting kingdom.
He bit his lip. "That all sounds reasonable to me."
"Good," said Tatyana with the great legs. She started to stand, then lightly tapped her forehead. She slid back into her seat, frowning, distracted. "There is, uh, one thing you can do for us, John. A favor. A very, very important one."