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Authors: Christopher Reich
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and one woman worked quickly, efficiently, and silently. They entered Gavallan’s residence through the rear door, disabling the security system, then spreading out through the four-thousand-square-foot home to their assigned target areas. Each knew the house by rote. They had studied architectural drawings of the home as well as an electrical schema of its wiring. They carried the tools of their trade in black web belts hidden beneath striped cotton shirts declaring them employees of Pacific Gas and Electric.
It was a standard “look and listen” job. Two of the men, known in agency lingo as the “ears,” planted ultrahigh-frequency wireless listening devices in strategic locations throughout the house. Under the dining room table. On top of the refrigerator. Behind the headboard of Gavallan’s bed. Each bug had been assigned its own frequency, so that there would be no risk of one transmission interfering with another.
A third man, “the eyes,” installed the cameras. They were very small and designed to replace the screws securing the faceplates of standard electrical outlets. Where this proved impractical—in the study, for example, where it was crucial that the lens be granted an unobstructed view of any materials Mr. Gavallan might be reading—he drilled a hole the circumference of a surgical needle into a gilded picture frame and inserted an even smaller model. Afterward, he applied a coat of colored translucent epoxy over the pinhole, making it invisible to the naked eye.
The last member of the team walked straight to Gavallan’s private office and installed herself at his desk. She was the only person that morning engaged in a function outside the scope deemed legal by the court order issued the previous day by the Eighth Circuit Court in Washington, D.C. In her belt she carried a set of Czech-made titanium alloy skeleton keys, a dozen picks, and two dummy credit cards. She didn’t need any of them. Giving a gentle pull, she discovered the desk to be unlocked. Methodically, she withdrew the papers, set them neatly upon the desk, and photographed them with a digital camera. Once she was finished with the top drawer, she returned the contents to their place and attacked the two larger drawers to her right.
When the team departed twenty-two minutes and fifty-one seconds later, a total of eleven bugs and six wireless cameras had been planted throughout the house. Two hundred twelve photographs of the suspect’s most confidential documents waited to be enlarged and scrutinized. Mr. John J. Gavallan, subject of federal warrant SJ-74A001, under investigation in connection with thirty-two counts of international fraud, larceny, and racketeering, could not crap without the FBI knowing exactly how much tissue he used to wipe his ass.
Walk in the park.
Roy DiGenovese waited until the Mercedes 300 SL had exited the office car park, then put the Ford in gear and pulled into traffic. He was not particularly worried about losing his mark. Gavallan was a steady driver, fast, aggressive, but safe. He used turn signals and didn’t run red lights. A bakery truck pulled away from the curb, momentarily blocking Gavallan’s car from view. DiGenovese didn’t mind. He knew that when traffic picked up, all he’d have to do would be slide to the left and peek down the road. The white Mercedes, with its slot back and flat roof, would be there as usual, exactly three car lengths ahead of him, sticking out like a sore thumb.
“Zebra base, this is Zebra two, come in.”
DiGenovese calmly picked up the walkie-talkie. “Roger, Zebra two.”
“Went off like a charm. Target is wired for sound and light. Copy.”
“Roger that, Zebra two. Rendezvous at the ranch at 1600. Drive on, Airborne.”
DiGenovese put down the walkie-talkie and checked his watch. It was 8:07. In and out in under twenty-three minutes. “Outstanding,” he murmured, remembering the long hours he’d put in on the case, the endless calls overseas,
It was a standard “look and listen” job. Two of the men, known in agency lingo as the “ears,” planted ultrahigh-frequency wireless listening devices in strategic locations throughout the house. Under the dining room table. On top of the refrigerator. Behind the headboard of Gavallan’s bed. Each bug had been assigned its own frequency, so that there would be no risk of one transmission interfering with another.
A third man, “the eyes,” installed the cameras. They were very small and designed to replace the screws securing the faceplates of standard electrical outlets. Where this proved impractical—in the study, for example, where it was crucial that the lens be granted an unobstructed view of any materials Mr. Gavallan might be reading—he drilled a hole the circumference of a surgical needle into a gilded picture frame and inserted an even smaller model. Afterward, he applied a coat of colored translucent epoxy over the pinhole, making it invisible to the naked eye.
The last member of the team walked straight to Gavallan’s private office and installed herself at his desk. She was the only person that morning engaged in a function outside the scope deemed legal by the court order issued the previous day by the Eighth Circuit Court in Washington, D.C. In her belt she carried a set of Czech-made titanium alloy skeleton keys, a dozen picks, and two dummy credit cards. She didn’t need any of them. Giving a gentle pull, she discovered the desk to be unlocked. Methodically, she withdrew the papers, set them neatly upon the desk, and photographed them with a digital camera. Once she was finished with the top drawer, she returned the contents to their place and attacked the two larger drawers to her right.
When the team departed twenty-two minutes and fifty-one seconds later, a total of eleven bugs and six wireless cameras had been planted throughout the house. Two hundred twelve photographs of the suspect’s most confidential documents waited to be enlarged and scrutinized. Mr. John J. Gavallan, subject of federal warrant SJ-74A001, under investigation in connection with thirty-two counts of international fraud, larceny, and racketeering, could not crap without the FBI knowing exactly how much tissue he used to wipe his ass.
Walk in the park.
Roy DiGenovese waited until the Mercedes 300 SL had exited the office car park, then put the Ford in gear and pulled into traffic. He was not particularly worried about losing his mark. Gavallan was a steady driver, fast, aggressive, but safe. He used turn signals and didn’t run red lights. A bakery truck pulled away from the curb, momentarily blocking Gavallan’s car from view. DiGenovese didn’t mind. He knew that when traffic picked up, all he’d have to do would be slide to the left and peek down the road. The white Mercedes, with its slot back and flat roof, would be there as usual, exactly three car lengths ahead of him, sticking out like a sore thumb.
“Zebra base, this is Zebra two, come in.”
DiGenovese calmly picked up the walkie-talkie. “Roger, Zebra two.”
“Went off like a charm. Target is wired for sound and light. Copy.”
“Roger that, Zebra two. Rendezvous at the ranch at 1600. Drive on, Airborne.”
DiGenovese put down the walkie-talkie and checked his watch. It was 8:07. In and out in under twenty-three minutes. “Outstanding,” he murmured, remembering the long hours he’d put in on the case, the endless calls overseas,
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