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Authors: James Bruno
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explanation.
"Islamic crazies are crawling all over Italy," Scher continued. "The Italians are so gummed up in Government of the Month antics, they can't be trusted to investigate a parking ticket." A wan smile unfolded across Scher's pale face.
As if on cue, all attendees in the conference room broke into a collective chuckle. Also as if on cue, they stopped.
Innes excused himself.
Back at his work station in the Ops Center, he slumped into his chair, plunked his elbows on the desk and closed his eyes as he rubbed his temples in deliberate, circular motions. "Frigid career bitches," he murmured.
"What'd you say, Bob?" Robin Croft asked cheerfully.
"Uh, nothing, nothing really. Just losing my marbles again, that's all. What's up?"
"Well, were you mumbling something about your wife?
Anyway, she called. There's not much really going on.
France's trade minister is calling us names again. Some Argentine military guys making noises about the Falklands again. Here's a Reuters piece that just came over the ticker."
Datelined Ankara, it was titled, "Russian Diplomat Slain." It went on, "A Russian diplomat was found murdered today just outside the Turkish capital. The slain envoy's mutilated body lead police to suspect an attack by Chechnyans as an act of vengeance against Moscow."
Innes was momentarily lost in deep thought. His chin rested in a palm. Croft carefully watched for a reaction.
An extended "Hmmmm" rumbled from inside her supervisor.
PERMANENT INTERESTS
65
Fidgeting, Innes riffled through the other press tickers stapled to the Reuters article. Just beneath the Ankara dispatch was a New York Times News Service story out of New York headlined, "Three Teamsters Officials Murdered." The sub-heading read, "Killings Have Hallmarks of Gangland Hit; Teamsters Deny Mob Ties."
66 JAMES
BRUNO
CHAPTER SEVEN
The headquarters of the FBI sits like a proud young dowager, its face exhibiting strong clean lines and a full blush complexion. Self-confidence, direction and rectitude radiate from a form anchored in stolidity, if not grace.
Most of all, it exudes power. Situated two blocks from the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, the premier law enforcement agency tasked with protecting Americans from all manner of evildoers, is still named, in huge brass letters, after J. Edgar Hoover. It is an irony lost on no one.
Over seven thousand bureaucrats report there each day.
They track criminals and spies, they categorize finger prints and analyze evidence, they track the bank accounts and travels of secret agents, terrorists and mobsters. They type and they file and do forensics research and test weapons.
Those who rise the fastest move along with the sexy issues.
Since 9/11, tracking down terrorists was fetching promotions and citations left and right. Drugs and associated money laundering never hurt any special agent's career. And doing anything to make the mafia's life harder would win recognition and occasionally awards.
Counterintelligence, however, was keeping the best and brightest away in droves. With the end of cold war and PERMANENT INTERESTS
67
blooming of democracy in former communist states, there were fewer spies, fewer embassies to have to watch closely, fewer schemes by foreign governments to parse out. The Counterintelligence Division had atrophied as agents trained in Russian or Hungarian or Polish were transferred to Miami, New Orleans, L.A. and smaller cities to pursue Islamists, inter-state car theft rings, white collar banking fraud, small mobsters and crazies issuing threats against anything, everything and anybody.
The irony is that letting the guard down allowed Robert Hansen to engage in a 15-year secrets-selling spree to the Russians in what was described as the "worst intelligence disaster in U.S. history." Thus burnt, the Bureau made the wise decision to offer some incentives to attract and keep good agents in counterintelligence.
Speedy Donner was one such agent. As a Russian specialist,
"Islamic crazies are crawling all over Italy," Scher continued. "The Italians are so gummed up in Government of the Month antics, they can't be trusted to investigate a parking ticket." A wan smile unfolded across Scher's pale face.
As if on cue, all attendees in the conference room broke into a collective chuckle. Also as if on cue, they stopped.
Innes excused himself.
Back at his work station in the Ops Center, he slumped into his chair, plunked his elbows on the desk and closed his eyes as he rubbed his temples in deliberate, circular motions. "Frigid career bitches," he murmured.
"What'd you say, Bob?" Robin Croft asked cheerfully.
"Uh, nothing, nothing really. Just losing my marbles again, that's all. What's up?"
"Well, were you mumbling something about your wife?
Anyway, she called. There's not much really going on.
France's trade minister is calling us names again. Some Argentine military guys making noises about the Falklands again. Here's a Reuters piece that just came over the ticker."
Datelined Ankara, it was titled, "Russian Diplomat Slain." It went on, "A Russian diplomat was found murdered today just outside the Turkish capital. The slain envoy's mutilated body lead police to suspect an attack by Chechnyans as an act of vengeance against Moscow."
Innes was momentarily lost in deep thought. His chin rested in a palm. Croft carefully watched for a reaction.
An extended "Hmmmm" rumbled from inside her supervisor.
PERMANENT INTERESTS
65
Fidgeting, Innes riffled through the other press tickers stapled to the Reuters article. Just beneath the Ankara dispatch was a New York Times News Service story out of New York headlined, "Three Teamsters Officials Murdered." The sub-heading read, "Killings Have Hallmarks of Gangland Hit; Teamsters Deny Mob Ties."
66 JAMES
BRUNO
CHAPTER SEVEN
The headquarters of the FBI sits like a proud young dowager, its face exhibiting strong clean lines and a full blush complexion. Self-confidence, direction and rectitude radiate from a form anchored in stolidity, if not grace.
Most of all, it exudes power. Situated two blocks from the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, the premier law enforcement agency tasked with protecting Americans from all manner of evildoers, is still named, in huge brass letters, after J. Edgar Hoover. It is an irony lost on no one.
Over seven thousand bureaucrats report there each day.
They track criminals and spies, they categorize finger prints and analyze evidence, they track the bank accounts and travels of secret agents, terrorists and mobsters. They type and they file and do forensics research and test weapons.
Those who rise the fastest move along with the sexy issues.
Since 9/11, tracking down terrorists was fetching promotions and citations left and right. Drugs and associated money laundering never hurt any special agent's career. And doing anything to make the mafia's life harder would win recognition and occasionally awards.
Counterintelligence, however, was keeping the best and brightest away in droves. With the end of cold war and PERMANENT INTERESTS
67
blooming of democracy in former communist states, there were fewer spies, fewer embassies to have to watch closely, fewer schemes by foreign governments to parse out. The Counterintelligence Division had atrophied as agents trained in Russian or Hungarian or Polish were transferred to Miami, New Orleans, L.A. and smaller cities to pursue Islamists, inter-state car theft rings, white collar banking fraud, small mobsters and crazies issuing threats against anything, everything and anybody.
The irony is that letting the guard down allowed Robert Hansen to engage in a 15-year secrets-selling spree to the Russians in what was described as the "worst intelligence disaster in U.S. history." Thus burnt, the Bureau made the wise decision to offer some incentives to attract and keep good agents in counterintelligence.
Speedy Donner was one such agent. As a Russian specialist,
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