"Not only in Moscow, they're everywhere in urban Russia. At any rate, our underground friends operate within the stilyagi, the so-called jet-set, using them as protective coloring."
"This is new to me," Hank said. "And I don't quite get it."
"It's clever enough. Suppose you're out late some night on an underground job and the police pick you up. They find out you're a juvenile delinquent, figure you've been out getting drunk, and toss you into jail for a week. It's better than winding up in front of a firing squad as a counterrevolutionary, or a Trotskyite, or whatever they're currently calling anybody they shoot."
The chauffeur rapped on the glass that divided their seat from his, and motioned ahead.
"Here's the airport," Jimmy said. "We'll drive right over to the plane. Hid your face with your hat, just for luck."
"Wait a minute, now," Hank said. "Listen, how do I contact these beat