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#26 Federal Plaza
New York City
The counterintelligence (CE) operation against GRU officer Mikhail Khalatsyn was a major case. That put big smiles on the faces of FBI agents Charlie Columbo, Dan Church and David Dooley; especially junior G-men Church and Dooley. Their careers could be made from this single case. But all smiles were about to drop onto their chests when their boss, Assistant-Special-Agent-in-Charge (ASAC) John Botz, entered. Something had clearly crawled up his ass and was gnawing on the inside of his bowels.
He scowled and ordered them to, “Clear this shit away!”
This shit referred to a conference table littered with early morning grab-and-go snacks: Styrofoam coffee cups, fully eaten and half-eaten donuts and bagels, crumbs, spills, etc. One by one, tight butts fell into chairs. ASAC Botz sat at the head of the table with Church and Dooley to his left and Charlie seated on the demigod’s right.
Senior agent Charlie Columbo had fired off a report to Washington, D.C., and, at first, ASAC Botz shared in the joy. He commanded Squad 37, which meant this case was his to run. Behind the man’s back all his agents, especially Charlie, joked that Botz looked like Louie on Taxi (played by Danny DeVito) only without the charm. The ASAC was five foot two inches, bald on top with tuffs of gray/black hair on the sides of his head. Charlie often joked that Botz had more hair growing out his ears than on top his head.
The ASAC pulled a communiqué from “The People Down South” as the agents in the FBI’s New York field office referred to FBI Headquarters, Washington.
We’re in for it now, guys, Charlie’s eyes signaled Church and Dooley. And I woke up in such a good mood this morning.
The ASAC spoke: “There’s something in your report gentlemen that COURTSHIP finds troubling; and what they find troubling I find infuriating.”
COURTSHIP was a joint FBI/CIA super-secret, high level group tasked to gather, collate, and evaluate information on all Soviet citizens stationed in the United States. The purpose of the program was to find potential targets for recruitment as defecters-in-place; i.e. double agents inside the U.S.S.R.
COURTSHIP had been formed by Director of Central Intelligence William Casey; recruiting assets inside the U.S.S.R. was his top priority.
The ASAC continued: “Your reports indicate the roofer owns a car. So why the hell can’t you find it!”
As senior agent, the pleading eyes of Church and Dooley and the angry eyes of Botz locked on Charlie. Charlie felt his throat constrict. He cleared it and said, “Sir, many low income people drive unregistered, uninsured vehicles. Quite a few don’t even have driver’s licenses.”
Botz slid his thumb and forefinger under his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He let out a sigh and looked to Charlie again. “So, in other words, you’re telling me that our only hook in Khalatsyn is less than perfect.”
Dooley, an evangelical Christian, offered up a meek, “Only our Lord is perfect, sir.”
“Shut the fuck up, Dooley!” Back to Charlie, “Based on your assessment Columbo, I signed off on this roofer as Mr. Red, White & Blue. And now you’re telling me he might be committing a serious felony. Driving without a license.”
Again, evangelical Dooley stepped into it: “Sir, I believe driving an unregistered vehicle without a license is only a misdemeanor, sir.”
The ASAC snarked that one off: “Oh, that makes it all OK.” Then he growled at Dooley.
The ASAC looked at his agents as if they were all clowns about to be rolled over and crushed by his bus. To Church and Dooley a deliberate: “At any point during your initial interview did either of you ask to see his license and registration?”
This time, Dan Church stepped up. “Given the roofer’s initial mistrust, sir, Dave and I didn’t want to spook him any more than necessary.”
To Charlie: “Have you been to his apartment, Columbo?” When Charlie said, no, “Then I want you and Dooley to pay him a visit. If you find he’s cooking meth, you have my permission to shoot him on the spot. That’ll rid us of a major pain-in-the butt.”
Unexpectedly, the ASAC’s mood flipped. He took off his glasses and rolled his neck. It creaked. Then he replaced his glasses and said, “I apologize, guys. I should not be taking this out on you. The reason I had to take a bromide this morning when I read COURTSHIP’S communiqué was what they didn’t say. Instead of sending us all they had on Khalatsyn they nitpick the roofer’s bona fides.”
Then ASAC Botz asked if they thought the roofer was credible? All three agents agreed the man was credible.
“That’s all I need to know. Check him out anyway.”
Said Charlie, “Do you think COURTSHIP is holding out on us, sir?”
“No comment, Charlie.”
To help ease his boss’ acid reflux and lighten the general mood, “Sir,” said Charlie, “if the roofer is cooking meth, still want us to shoot him?”
The ASAC grinned. “No... We’ll report it back to Washington. Let them do their own dirty work... Good day, gentlemen.”
***
A WHITE MAN IN HIS fifties, a fashion statement from the 1950s, wearing a dark gray topcoat, stood at a record bin flipping through stacks of forty-fives. A much younger black man, himself a fashion statement for the eighties in a finely tailored charcoal grey topcoat, no hat, stood next to him. The black man’s eyes appeared on high alert as he scanned the customers in a Crazy Eddie’s record store in the West Village. No one would think these two men were connected until the older man said to the younger in Russian:
“Did you know, Mishe, when I was a young officer in Los Angeles I grew especially fond of American—” in English —“surf music.” Back to Russian: “I have been collecting records for many years.”
Mikhail gave his boss a smile, but he could care less. Then the Rezident motioned to the salesclerk, a young black man in his early twenties. Mikhail found this rail-thin American and his 1980s garb clownish.
“My fine young gentleman,” the Rezident said in English, “have you found for me the Bird Who Surfs by Beach Boys?” To Mikhail in Russian, “I have been searching for this record for many years.”
“I told you, Boris, the Beach Boys never recorded the Surfing Bird,” the clerk replied. “It was the Trashmen.”
“I have that one,” said the Rezident, “but I simply must have the one by the Beach Boys... You will keep looking for me, please.”
The clerk shrugged. “Ok, Boris, whatever you say.”
“Why does this skinny stick call you Boris, sir?” Mikhail asked the Rezident.
Grinning, “I suspect he calls all Russians Boris, Mishe.”
“Whoa, dude!” the clerk said to Mikhail. “You speak Russian?” Announcing to the entire store, “The brother speaks Russian!”
A harsh, “I am Russian. And I am not your brother.”
Astonished, “No way, man,” said the clerk. “You’re black like me. How can you be a Russian? You gotta be American. You some kind’a spy or some shit like that?”
Turning to the Rezident. “He’s starting to annoy me, sir. Do I have your permission to thrash him?”
“Better get used to it, Mishe. This is New York City. All its citizens are annoying... Besides, I have been coming to this store for quite some time. He always takes good care of me.”
“Yes sir, I shall spare him a severe beating for your sake, Comrade General.”
The Rezident chuckled. “You know, Mishe, sometimes I think you don’t like black Americans.” Grinning, “Are you racist, Comrade Khalatsyn?”
“No sir, I hate all Americans, black and white, equally.”
The Rezident laughed.
Mikhail signaled with his eyes that it would be in the clerk’s best interest if he vacated their space.
The clerk walked away mumbling to himself out loud, “Dude’s gotta be some kind’a spy, man.”
The Rezident pulled a forty-five out of the stack. “Ah! I do not have this one.” A happy, “Today has been a most productive, Mishe... And now, you will tell me about your meeting with the KGB Deputy Rezident’s wife. Did she tell you why her husband is making so many trips to Moscow?”
“She wouldn’t say. The woman is crafty. Despite my vow, we spent the night in bed... I hate cheating on my wife.”
“You are following orders Mishe; you are doing whatever is necessary to develop an asset. The wife of a high ranking KGB official is quite a coup. One day you must tell me how you managed to seduce this woman. It must be quite a story.”
“Given the soft Moscow boy she married, it was not difficult. As a matter of fact, she was the aggressor. Perhaps she is trying to recruit me.”
“As the Americans say, you are Spetsnaz; you are quite,” in English, “the hard body.”
Mikhail grinned. “Yes sir, quite hard, Comrade General.”
“And what of the other woman in your life, the black CIA officer?”
“She is not happy with my performance and neither is CIA. They want the names of my American contacts. I told them I’ve only been here a few months.”
A pensive, “Perhaps we can give them the old fedik?”
Mikhail’s turn to tease: “Sir, you disapprove of homosexuals?”
“They are a sordid lot.” The Rezident’s disgust shown on his face. “I might turn him over to you, Mishe. Do you have a problem with that? Not that that matters.”
“As long as he does not try to kiss me, Comrade General, I have no problem, sir.”
Mikhail and his boss laughed like two super-macho paratroopers as they left the store. Mikhail overheard the black clerk tell a white comrade, “See the big black dude. He’s a Russian. Can you believe that shit?”
The white girl, looking equally clownish with a ring in her nose, replied, “No shit?”
***
ON A SUNNY SATURDAY afternoon, an unmarked four-door sedan with black-wall tires and a long whip antenna drove passed John Tettouomo’s tenement on W. 183rd Street. It continued west on 183rd between Audubon and St. Nicholas Avenues. Then the sedan made a right on St. Nicholas, drove one block and made another right. Two blocks later it stopped. At the corner of 183rd and Amsterdam Charlie Columbo got out of the passenger-side front door and Agent Dan Church got out of the rear door. David Dooley drove away.
As Charlie and Dan headed up the long block, they saw a knot of winos being threatened by another wino — in full-drunk mode — with a butcher knife outside the bodega in Tettouomo’s building. A lot of insults were being hurled back and forth in Spanish. As soon as everyone noticed the dos policias approaching, it was all smiles and holas; the skinny, old man brandishing the knife hid it behind his back.
In the lobby, the two FBI agents smiled and Charlie tipped his hat to two old ladies, one Greek the other Dominican. They were waiting for the elevator. The elevator made its creaking descent.
“Think that thing is safe, Charlie?”
“Let’s take the stairs.”
On the 6th Floor, Charlie pulled on Tettouomo’s doorbell. It Thunked.
“Aren’t doorbells supposed to ring?”
Charlie arched his brows and shrugged.
John and Charlie sat at the kitchen table while Dan Church stood in the doorway. The table had only two chairs.
“That was quite a street drama out there in front of your building,” said Charlie. “Glad we didn’t have to shoot anyone.”
“Yeah, I was watching from the front room window. The old guy with the knife is Kooba. He’s Cuban. Sometimes when he drinks too much he gets belligerent. But he’s never hurt anyone — as far as I know.”
“That knife didn’t look harmless to me,” Church added.
“We came today to ask you to sign the paperwork so we can pay you that stipend we spoke about.”
That made the roofer very happy. Charlie passed him the paper which John signed.
“One more thing, John,” said Charlie. “Can you please show me your license and registration? I have to include them when we send the paper work to Washington.”
“Of course.” He got up, took his wallet out of the top drawer in the bureau in the foyer. When he sat back down, he pulled the license and registration out and handed them to Charlie.
Charlie read the registration and grinned. “New Jersey?”
“I have a lot of parking tickets in New York, so I register my car at my sister’s address.”
Dan Church chuckled. “You’re scofflaw, John?”
“Only the Lord is perfect, Dan.”
On the street, Charlie and Dan walked south towards Amsterdam Avenue. Kooba and the winos were gone.
“Good to know he’s not a naughty boy, Dan.”
“Yeah; only slightly less than perfect.” The four-door pulled up and Columbo and Church got in, and Dooley drove away.
“What did his apartment look like?” asked Dooley.
“Not exactly Good Housekeeping,” said Charlie, “but it was clean if disorganized.” Then he looked out the window and gave his overall impression of Washington Heights: “I don’t know how he does it; live in a neighborhood like this.”
Noted David Dooley; "He'd better be careful around here."
"Not to worry, Dave," added Charlie, "he goes to the same church you do: The Church of Only the Lord is Perfect."
Charlie and Dan laughed. Dave did not.