how the Brits managed to sound so damn condescending, even when they were kissing your ass.
No sooner had he got rid of the ambassador than the light went on again.
‘It’s Bobby DiLivio in the speechwriters’ office,’ came his assistant’s voice. ‘He wants to know if you can spare him five minutes to look over the opening paragraph of the President’s speech.’
The men who make tens or even hundreds of billions of dollars a year from organized crime do not possess the intelligence agencies - with electronic infrastructure capable of spying on virtually any communication, anywhere - available to the world’s richest nations. They can, however, pay for the very best private-sector specialists in every form of surveillance and investigation. They also have the advantage that they do not even have to pretend to be bound by the law. They are thus free to bribe, blackmail, coerce and otherwise extort information. They routinely use assassination to further their aims. And they can, like any other spy network, insert their people as sleeper agents into legitimate occupations.
Bobby Kula, for example, was a highly regarded computer wizard who played an invaluable role developing and maintaining the operational software that enabled the Department of State to do its job. He was an Albanian-American, a fact of which he was proud, having arrived in the US with his parents when he was just four years old. He was equally proud of his doctorate from ‘Course 6’, otherwise known as the Electronic and Computer Science department of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. His security-clearance procedure had shown no record of any criminal activity; no predisposition to aberrant behaviour of any kind; no reason at all to suspect that he posed any risk to the security of his adopted country. It would have taken a detailed understanding of Albania’s clan-based culture to understand that Bobby Kula was distantly related on his mother’s side to a senior member of a gang run by the Visar clan, which had become one of the biggest international players in the trafficking of drugs, weapons and, above all, people. The importance of this family tie had been drummed into him from his earliest boyhood: both the advantages that it offered and the duties it involved.
It was pure chance that Kula overheard two State officials talking about the President’s proposed war on slavery while sitting in a men’s room cubicle, invisible to the officials standing at the urinals. His response was anything but random. He understood at once how the new policy could impact on the family business and conducted a private trawl through the department’s computers, easily bypassing the security systems that he himself had helped develop and install, to find out more about it.
Having come up with a date and a place for the President’s announcement, Kula called a friend at the Albanian embassy in DC and asked him and his family over for a barbecue he and his wife Cindy were having that Sunday afternoon. The invitation would have aroused no suspicion, even if Kula were being watched, which he was not: Albania is an ally of the US and it is perfectly normal for diplomats of all nations to make social contacts in the cities where they are posted. It is, in fact, their job. That this particular diplomat was also connected to the Visar clan was a detail of which the American security agencies were unaware. But even if they had been, there are few agents able to speak Gjuha shqipe , the language of Albania, particularly not in the colloquial north-western Geg dialect in which Bobby Kula and his contact were chatting over the franks, slaw and Coors Lights. The contact used the same dialect when passing the news on to the palatial villa in the hills of Nueva Andalucia, looking over the Spanish resort of Puerto Banus, where Arjan Visar was spending the weekend.
Visar was an intellectual among gangsters. He had a chess-player’s mind, was able to think
No sooner had he got rid of the ambassador than the light went on again.
‘It’s Bobby DiLivio in the speechwriters’ office,’ came his assistant’s voice. ‘He wants to know if you can spare him five minutes to look over the opening paragraph of the President’s speech.’
The men who make tens or even hundreds of billions of dollars a year from organized crime do not possess the intelligence agencies - with electronic infrastructure capable of spying on virtually any communication, anywhere - available to the world’s richest nations. They can, however, pay for the very best private-sector specialists in every form of surveillance and investigation. They also have the advantage that they do not even have to pretend to be bound by the law. They are thus free to bribe, blackmail, coerce and otherwise extort information. They routinely use assassination to further their aims. And they can, like any other spy network, insert their people as sleeper agents into legitimate occupations.
Bobby Kula, for example, was a highly regarded computer wizard who played an invaluable role developing and maintaining the operational software that enabled the Department of State to do its job. He was an Albanian-American, a fact of which he was proud, having arrived in the US with his parents when he was just four years old. He was equally proud of his doctorate from ‘Course 6’, otherwise known as the Electronic and Computer Science department of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. His security-clearance procedure had shown no record of any criminal activity; no predisposition to aberrant behaviour of any kind; no reason at all to suspect that he posed any risk to the security of his adopted country. It would have taken a detailed understanding of Albania’s clan-based culture to understand that Bobby Kula was distantly related on his mother’s side to a senior member of a gang run by the Visar clan, which had become one of the biggest international players in the trafficking of drugs, weapons and, above all, people. The importance of this family tie had been drummed into him from his earliest boyhood: both the advantages that it offered and the duties it involved.
It was pure chance that Kula overheard two State officials talking about the President’s proposed war on slavery while sitting in a men’s room cubicle, invisible to the officials standing at the urinals. His response was anything but random. He understood at once how the new policy could impact on the family business and conducted a private trawl through the department’s computers, easily bypassing the security systems that he himself had helped develop and install, to find out more about it.
Having come up with a date and a place for the President’s announcement, Kula called a friend at the Albanian embassy in DC and asked him and his family over for a barbecue he and his wife Cindy were having that Sunday afternoon. The invitation would have aroused no suspicion, even if Kula were being watched, which he was not: Albania is an ally of the US and it is perfectly normal for diplomats of all nations to make social contacts in the cities where they are posted. It is, in fact, their job. That this particular diplomat was also connected to the Visar clan was a detail of which the American security agencies were unaware. But even if they had been, there are few agents able to speak Gjuha shqipe , the language of Albania, particularly not in the colloquial north-western Geg dialect in which Bobby Kula and his contact were chatting over the franks, slaw and Coors Lights. The contact used the same dialect when passing the news on to the palatial villa in the hills of Nueva Andalucia, looking over the Spanish resort of Puerto Banus, where Arjan Visar was spending the weekend.
Visar was an intellectual among gangsters. He had a chess-player’s mind, was able to think
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