Readers of these essays may recall a story I wrote about Howard Pappert, Dave Dietz and myself setting out to visit some countries behind what Winston Churchill called “The Iron Curtain.” Visiting communist countries in the 1970’s and 1980’s was not a pleasant task for those of us at AT&T who had the responsibility for keeping track of circuits, revenue and political developments in countries under Moscow’s controls.
Dave Dietz was a big fan of Swissair, the airline of Switzerland. The more I flew Swissair, the better I liked it. To mangle a thought, Swissair ran like a Swiss watch. But even better, the Swiss are known for their neutrality which gave them airline connections where other carriers such as those from the United States, were barred. Unfortunately, through bureaucratic bungling, Swissair stopped working permanently in 2001. What a shame.
My recollection is that the three of us met in Zurich to get to our first stop in Prague. At the time, that country was called Czechoslovakia. Now of course, it is known as the Czech Republic.
I suppose my mind unconsciously thought of the Czechs during their many prosperous periods in the 1920’s and 1930’s. That was a big mistake. First they had been ravaged by Hitler’s sinister forces and then the Czechs had then seen the tender mercies of Stalin and his butchers. My recollection is that our visit took place in 1983 when the Czechs were a largely beaten race. Where as the Czechs used to be known for precision in manufactured goods, they didn’t seem to care anymore. For example, the people who painted the interior of our hotel and the headquarters of the Czechoslovakian telecommunications building painted with no concern for borders. If the varnish on the doors was also found on the walls, so be it. If the paint on the walls was also found on the doorjambs, so be it.
I had no idea that things would be so bad. The taxi driver cursed his Russian-made car and asked if we wanted to buy some Czech currency. We did not. The people at the hotel, one of Prague’s best, didn’t much care. Guests meant more work for them.
All the while this discomfort was taking place, I had a vision of a great dinner with goulash. There weren’t many restaurants in Prague at that time that offered decent food. So we elected to patronize the hotel’s dining room. The waiter nodded when I ordered goulash. He was neither applauding my choice of goulash nor was he refusing to take my order. He nodded and shrugged his shoulders.
When the goulash arrived at our table, I did not recognize it. Ever the optimist, I said it is probably an old Czech recipe that will be delicious. My optimism was not rewarded. The goulash was abominable. So I said so much for dreams when one is behind the Iron Curtain.
Our next stop was Budapest. The Hungarians were a cheerful lot. They laughed and generally told the Russians to get lost. The women wore bright clothing, not the drab apparel that one associates with countries under Stalin’s influence. As I have often said, Hungarian women were the most vibrant of any European country during the period under Soviet domination.
Hungarian food was not the greatest, but it was served well and was usually accompanied by an orchestra or band in the restaurant. The Hungarians have my admiration. Not the least of which is my admiring them marrying good food with good music.
The day before we left, Dr. Ferenc Valter, who was the deputy director general of the P.T.T., met with us and offered a magnificent lunch. It was served with wine, which would be absolutely against the policy of AT&T in the states. Hungary is one of my favorites.
Small aside about serving alcohol on AT&T premises. I had three Swedes at a lunch in the President’s dining room in Bedminster. As far as I know, every Swedes starts off his lunch with a bottle of beer. When one of the Swedes made that request, I offered a lame explanation for AT&T’s no alcohol policy. The Swedes heard me out. After the meal, they told me that America is in the grip of far right Christians. All this mess over one bottle of beer? I agreed with the Swedes.
Leaving Budapest, we next went to Warsaw. The Poles are tough people and very likeable. As in most Eastern European countries, we stayed fairly close to the hotel when it came time to eat. And when it came time to dine, there were women who pulled up a chair and proceeded to proposition us. I suppose they would also have eaten too, but we called for help in chasing the women away, so they went unfed by us. Prostitution was rampant around hotels in central Warsaw. The same could be said for the unauthorized exchange of zlotys for dollars.
We stayed at the Forum Hotel which the Communist regime proclaimed to be the newest and best hotel in Eastern Europe. The weather was warm, but if any air-conditioning was part of the best hotel claim, it was not apparent to us. But the Communists had imported shoe-shining machines which they installed in the elevator lobby of every floor.
The whirling cloth discs that shined your shoes were found on each side of the machine about twelve inches off the ground. To shine a shoe, the patron would stand on one foot and thrust the other shoe into the whirling discs. Then of course, he would stand on the newly shined shoe and thrust the other unshined shoe into the machine. To be sure that patrons observed proper safety rules there was a large sign on each machine which stated in English, French and Polish, “DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SHINE BOTH SHOES AT THE SAME TIME.” I suppose some Commisar had decided that shining both shoes at the same time was a dangerous exercise.
Wherever we went in Warsaw, we heard the thought that Poles are like radishes. Red on the outside, but that is as far as the Red can go. I like the Poles. They are a brave people who made it clear that their enemy was old Ivan.
Our next stop was Bucharest. What a dreary city that was. The food was forgettable, lines at streetcar and bus stops seemed to go on forever, yet the dictator Nicholas Ceausescu was building an enormous series of buildings to house his government and himself. The Romanian people were a beaten lot. Again, as we had seen in other Eastern European countries under Russian domination, prostitution and money changing schemes were everywhere.
On the Saturday morning before we boarded an Aeroflot flight to Moscow, I sat next to a fellow who had a cigarette in one hand and a cigar in the other. He would alternate puffs on the cigarette with puffs on the cigar. When I pointed this fellow’s conduct out to Dave Dietz, he said simply, “That man can’t wait to get his life over with.” I have never seen that kind of smoking before or since.
When we arrived in Moscow, we were met by an English-speaking fellow from Boris Chirkov’s staff. Chirkov was the Director of the Russian PTT (Post, Telephone and Telegraph) we had come to see.
This young fellow was our constant companion. When he disclosed that Saturday, the day of our arrival was also his wedding anniversary, we insisted that he go home to take care of business. But first we had to go by a florist so that his wife would have some flowers for the occasion. He was a nice young man, but all of us felt that we were being followed.
On Sunday we were joined by an older English speaking man, also from Boris Chirkov’s staff. He had tickets to the circus where he said he liked to take his grandchildren. The Moscow circus was great stuff. This gentleman seemed to take great pleasure in seeing three Americans enjoy themselves so much.
This fellow was about the same age of Howard Pappert and myself. He was an engaging man. During the Sunday afternoon at the circus, he said that he had served in the Great Patriotic War, as World War II is called in Russia. He asked if some of the three Americans had been in that war. Howard had been in the Navy in Pacific operations. I, of course, served in the Army Air Corps – later the Army Air Force – in foreign service.
The Great Patriotic War is regarded as being of the utmost seriousness to perhaps every Russian. The fact that Howard and I served in that war made an impression on our circus host. At the time we had no idea of the seriousness which Russians attach to that war. Clearly, he reported that to his boss, Boris Chirkov, which resulted in some pretty good treatment as we will see a little later on.
A word or two about the National Hotel located across the street from the Kremlin. It dated at least from the 1917 era when the Communists came to power. It showed its age with elevators that occasionally worked. The bathrooms suggested that not many people took baths regularly because of the primitive fixtures in the room. The baths were unheated. Guests were given a cube of soap measuring about 1½ inches each way. By the third day, my cube of soap was pretty much a memory, but there was no replacement.
I had a large sort of a suite with a grand piano in the living room. The piano covered a large hump. When I inquired about the hump, it was explained that the chandelier from the room below me had its shaft anchored in the hump. Similarly, the chandelier in my room over the piano penetrated my ceiling and presumable, it was anchored in a large hump in the room directly overhead. When I found that out, I stayed away from the piano and the chandelier.
The dining room was something to behold. The headwaiter carried a large red book that was about an inch in thickness and was given to diners. But as it turns out there was no veal cooked in vodka. Nor was there any beef stroganoff. This was an exercise in futility. In the end, the dining room had only a boiled chicken and some other mystery dish. So I told Dave Dietz and Howard Pappert that I would try room service. Little did I know that there was no such thing as room service.
There was a very stern woman who sat near the stairway or elevator lobby on each floor. Her duty was to collect keys when guests left their rooms and return them when they returned. One way or another, she came to see what my problem was when I found there was no room service. She was a tough customer, but using my hands, I told her of my hunger. In a short while, one of the bar maids showed up with a large slab of cheese, some Russian brown bread and a warm bottle of beer. So I made out better than my two colleagues who had to wrestle with a dubious chicken in the dining room. While I ate, I stared at the grand piano in my living room with the chandelier anchored in the ceiling. This was some way to pass a Saturday night in Moscow.
We were set to meet Comrade Chirkov at about 8:30 on Monday morning. The distance from the National Hotel to his office was only a five minute walk. When we entered the large meeting room, Chirkov greeted us properly. He was accompanied by seven or eight other people. We quickly sensed that those other people were not necessarily members of Chirkov’s staff. In all likelihood, they came from the NKVD, which is the political police. When we got into discussion about circuits between the Soviet Union and the United States, the NKVD people had nothing to say. On the other hand, when the subject of urban beauty came up, Comrade Chirkov announced, in broken English, that Moscow and particularly the Kremlin complex “were the most beautiful city in the world.” At other points where agreement seemed to be in doubt and where Chirkov or one of his deputies would offer an alternative, Chirkov would say that it “was his Socialist duty” to support the USSR point of view.
We did not become angry or annoyed because we thought Chirkov was simply showing the NKVD that he was an ardent Communist. We did become unhappy because a suicide bomber had entered a Marine barracks in Beirut the night before our meeting, and 250 United States Marines were killed. The Soviet side seemed to say that’s what the United States gets when it becomes involved in other people’s affairs.
The meeting lasted about three hours. The Russians seemed torn between wanting to be friendly and showing their sense of “Socialist duty.” We finished before noon and shook hands and started to walk toward the staircase to go to our hotel. As we stood up, Chirkov came to me with his female translator, to ask if I had really been in the Great Patriotic War. I told him that Howard Pappert and I had spent more than three years in that endeavor. Chirkov’s translator made it clear to us that Chirkov had a great regard for veterans of the Great Patriotic War. The remarks of Chirkov and his translator were made beyond the hearing distance of the NKVD. Perhaps, they had gone when the subject of the war came up.
One of the members of Chirkov’s staff was the fine gentleman who had taken us to the Moscow Circus the day before. I am positive that he had told Chirkov about the involvement by Howard and by myself in World War II.
When we left the meeting room, we had no plans but to rest until the next morning when we were to catch a Swissair flight to Zurich. During that Monday afternoon, the young man who had met us on Saturday came to our hotel and told us that Boris Chirkov was arranging a dinner for us that evening. We told this young fellow that we would be delighted to have dinner with our USSR compatriots.
This invitation was completely unprecedented. None of the few AT&T people who had ever been in Moscow had ever received such an invitation. From discussions with other American telecommunications carriers and with the British and French carriers, they had never had a meal with the USSR officials. In this case the Director of Telecommunications for the USSR, Boris Chirkov, was to be our host. All of that was unheard of before our visit.
I ascribe Chirkov’s desire to host a dinner to his profound respect for veterans of the Great Patriotic War – World War II. And secondly, Chirkov had a burning thirst to know about New York and the United States. I’d say Boris was inspired about 50% for the war and 50% for New York. The rest of the United States was incidental to New York, if I read Chirkov’s thoughts properly.
The dinner was held in a restaurant-nightclub setting. While we were eating, the floorshow took place. It was much like the Moscow Circus with jugglers, sword swallowers and trick bicycle riders. The meal was interesting because the main dish involved beans or lentils. I am a pushover for beans and lentils. So I thought that the meal was quite good.
At dinner, Boris displayed a much better command of English than he had shown during our earlier meeting. When he needed help on an English word, the young man who had met us on Saturday helped out. Boris peppered us with questions about the war and about New York and the rest of the United States. Boris brought about five men with him and none were the NKVD representatives we had seen in our morning meeting. Whereas in the morning meeting, Boris who often said he was “doing his Socialist duty,” none of that entered his conversation at dinner.
I am certain that when we told our host at the Moscow Circus of our World War II connection, he had told Boris Chirkov before we showed up for our Monday morning meeting. But in the hospitality department, old Boris was not finished with us. We had an 8AM flight from Moscow that took us first to Warsaw and then on to Zurich. Naturally, it was a Swissair flight. Boris said he and the nice young man from Saturday would pick us up in front of the National Hotel at 6AM. Our hosts were right on time.
We arrived at Sheremetyevo airport in about 30 minutes. Boris took us up to a bar adjacent to the Swissair gangway. The young Russian man from Boris’s staff took care of everything for us including passport control, currency control and validation of our flight. Clearly, Boris was an important person in the USSR. It was now 6:45AM and Boris took us to the bar and ordered brandy for all five of us – three Americans and two Russians. We had at least two or perhaps three brandies. Boris and his helper had an arrangement with the doorkeeper on the Swissair flight to call us at the last minute, which he did. We told Boris and his assistant that we had enjoyed their company and hoped to see them in the United States. That was music to old Boris’s ears.
In point of fact, when we were seated on the Swissair flight, all of the three Americans were anxious for the take off and to bid old Mother Russia goodbye. We were given extra ordinary friendly treatment by Boris Chirkov and his staff, but Russia and Moscow were depressing places. Goods available to Russian citizens were probably no more than 35% of the goods available to citizens in Western European countries. We were ready to go to Zurich.
Leaving the National Hotel at 6AM, we had no breakfast, of course. When we boarded the Swissair flight, we had a sufficient supply of brandy in our systems. As soon as the flight was airborne, the steward came around to tell us that breakfast could not be served until we departed from Warsaw – and in the meantime, wouldn’t we like to have some brandy? Because we were clearly on our way out of the USSR, all three Americans said, “Of course.” The breakfast that was served between Warsaw and Zurich was scrambled eggs and they were delicious.
Early after satellite service was introduced to the world, Boris made it his business to gather that service into his official duties and to become the expert on satellite telecommunications in the USSR. That was a very fortuitous move by Brother Chirkov because satellites obviated the need for cable and open wire. More importantly, it gave Boris a reason to travel to the United States and it provided him with a much greater income after the old USSR came apart. When the Russian government came apart, all kinds of states told Mother Russia to get lost and became independent. I’m thinking of Georgia, Kazakhstan, Lithuania, Estonia and all the many others.
In Moscow, a kind of cowboy atmosphere prevailed. There was no tomorrow and there were few controls. Whereas in the past, the USSR controlled nearly every move its citizens made, now the lid was off and there were no more controls. Some people floundered and lost all hope because there was no overwhelming central government to control what they did. Other people – like Boris Chirikov – used his government position to set himself up in business – the satellite business.
In this atmosphere of no controls, Boris Chirkov thrived. He was calling the shots and he had no concern for his old Communist bosses. This was every man for himself and Boris was getting his share or more.
Quite soon after our trip to Moscow, I heard from Boris that he and two other people would be in Washington. At the time, I was to attending a meeting in Maui in the Hawaiian Islands. I flew back to New York accompanied by a case of recently harvested pineapples. Then it was back to Newark Airport to get the shuttle to Washington where I had told Boris’s female translator that I would meet them at my favorite restaurant in Washington, the Cantina d’Italia. I took a pineapple with me to present to the Russians.
At lunch, there were four Russians: Chirkov, his translator and two assistants. The owner of Cantina d’Italia was known to me only as Joseph for many years. He came around to see how I was getting along with the Russians. Old Boris was feeling his oats and asked Joseph for a little bit of this, a little bit of that and a little bit of something else. Joseph very diplomatically explained to Boris that he had a menu for that purpose. Boris could pick out anything on the extensive Cantina menu, but Joseph said his chef was busy and couldn’t spare the time to make a little bit of this and a little bit of that. The thought finally struck me that in the USSR, the waiters tell you what they can serve that day. As in the case of the National Hotel Dining room, menus don’t mean much. Perhaps it was possible that Boris had never seen a Western menu before, particularly when the Chef could deliver on any dish listed in the directory.
Boris’s English was improving rapidly and I did not see why he needed his translator anymore, but I said nothing. When I presented the pineapple to the Russians, they had no idea how to eat it. Joseph showed how to cut it, but they said they wanted to take it back to their hotel and eat it later. I am certain that this was the first pineapple ever eaten by this group of Russians.
Boris was absolutely not bashful. I had a car to take me back to the Washington airport. When Boris urgently asked me to go to Rockville, Maryland so that he could buy Russian books unavailable in Moscow, I said take me to the airport first and then the driver could take them the 15 or 20 miles to Rockville. I only did this as my “democratic duty,” to paraphrase Boris’s exclamations.
After that, I heard from Boris perhaps a little too regularly. As I said, he was not bashful. Shortly before I retired, Judy and I met Boris and Yelena Kapustina, his translator, and took them to Gage and Tollner, an old restaurant in Brooklyn. Going over the Brooklyn Bridge was a sight that the two Russians had seen in photographs in Russia. They seemed to be thrilled.
At dinner, the pianist played “Moscow Nights” for our guests. They sang along. When it came time to order, Yelena (Helen) Kapustina, the translator, said there are so many wonderful dishes, what shall I order? Just to be helpful, I said the American lobster could be found no where outside the North American continent and lobster happened to be one of Gage and Tollner’s signature dishes. I should have kept quiet. The lobster was presented to Yelena who had no idea about how to eat it. The cracker and the narrow forks were unknown to her. But she was game. The waiter and I helped her with cracking the lobster, but my heart tells me that she would never order broiled lobster again if she had the choice. For me, after that episode, I retired from suggesting food to order in restaurants.
On the way back from Brooklyn, our two Russian guests asked to see 42nd Street and also Broadway. They had read about those locations and they were thrilled to ride on those streets. So you see, I am not the only one who wanted to come to New York. Those two Russians were having the time of their lives in the Big Apple.
Sometime after the Gage and Tollner meal, Yelena painted a picture of the Kremlin and presented it to me. I know that with the NKVD listening, Boris said the Kremlin was the most beautiful sight in the world. I would not necessarily go that far, but the painting has hung in my recreation room for many years. It is one of my favorites. It goes along with Vladamir Lazarev, the Russian dancer who sold three of his paintings to me, so those Russians can paint and they are very fond of New York.
As time went on, I heard from Boris quite regularly. I suppose about every other month, I would find myself in Manhattan to take Boris and different female translators to lunch. I don’t want to sound catty, but Boris and his female friends showed up as though they were dressed for a picnic. On one occasion when Howard Pappert and I took Boris to lunch, reservations had been made at La Caravelle or a similar upscale restaurant. Boris showed up with no tie and a sort of jump suit. Howard or I explained to the headwaiter what we were faced with. He said he would take us anyway. He seated us in an obscure place. I was thankful for the headwaiter’s courtesy. On that occasion, Boris was carrying a fur coat for his wife bought while in Hawaii. As you can see, the old Comrade was doing well for himself.
In the fall of 1985, Boris called and said he would be in New York on a Saturday night. He said he would be staying in the headquarters of the Soviet Mission to the United Nations. That building was somewhere in the upper 60’s on the east side of Manhattan. My daughter, Maureen, and her husband Walter Nollmann, were invited to have dinner with us and Boris Chirkov on that occasion in Short Hills. I drove into Manhattan to pick up Walter and Maureen who lived on 86th Street east of Fifth Avenue. We then drove to the Soviet Mission.
Boris was not standing in front of the building, so Walter said he would go into the building and try to find him. I parked in front of the Mission while Walter was gone. In about five to ten minutes, Walter came back with Boris in tow. On this occasion, Boris was dressed like a Beau Brummel. It was obvious that with my car in front of the Mission for as much as ten minutes, some intelligence people would become aware of it.
When Boris arrived at my house, he inspected every room from the attic to the basement. He asked questions of Walter, a fellow engineer, about the construction of the house. Perhaps in the USSR, a Commissar would live in such a house. It was pleasant for Boris to show so much interest in the house.
My thought about having my car in front of the Soviet Mission and about the idea that American and other intelligence forces would have an interest in it was to be rewarded. About a month to six weeks after Boris came to Short Hills for dinner, I walked by the front door of my house which has a mail slot cut into it. I saw a small card on the floor. It was so small that I could have easily overlooked it. When I picked it up it was from the F. B. I. Without calling me, an agent had showed up and after finding that I was out, left his card with a note on the back. Here is what the note had to say.

So I called the number Tom Hand, the FBI agent had left. Hand said that he wanted to talk to me in person. No subject was mentioned and he did not want to speak over the telephone. The next morning, Agent Hand appeared at my front door and I invited him in. I was still drinking coffee in those days, so I offered some instant, decaffeinated coffee to the FBI agent. He accepted my offer.
At the outset, Tom Hand said that I was not in any kind of trouble. They simply wanted to talk to me. I was dubious about his reassurance about not being in trouble. We sat in the living room on two chairs facing each other. Judging from remarks by Hand, the FBI wanted to know if the man we met on that Saturday night at the Soviet Mission was a new NKVD operative being inserted into the United States. I was struck by the thought that the FBI saw my car about six weeks ago. In that length of time, a new NKVD agent could have started cells in four or five different cities. But I suspect that the FBI people in New York who saw my car had to contact Washington who then had the Newark office call on me. Quick response time apparently has never been an FBI virtue.
I responded to Hand’s questioning in an open fashion. In the first place, I told Hand that my meeting with Chirkov was normal and was well within limits. My title was Director for AT&T. His title was Director for USSR telecommunications. So we had a meeting of Directors. I also pointed out that on that trip, I had similar meetings with directors and other officials in Prague, Warsaw, Bucharest and Budapest. I told Agent Hand that is what I did for AT&T.
I went to my office in the house and retrieved Chirkov’s calling card as well as some of the minutes that we had composed about the Moscow meeting. My point with Hand was to impress upon him that Chirkov was a bonafide Director of the USSR telecommunications efforts. He always said he was a Communist, but if he was doing any spying on the side, it was not apparent to me.
Tom Hand listened to me. I told him what we had for dinner on that Saturday evening and about Boris inspecting the whole house. Before Hand ever asked the question, I told Tom that Boris had never made any sort of suggestion that I would sell out the United States. On the contrary, he viewed me as a patriot because of my service in WWII. When all this occurred, I had been retired for about a year or more. Retired employees have no influence on events at AT&T. That has always been the case.
Tom Hand was a gentleman. I thought he was convinced that Chirkov was a telephone man and nothing more. In two or three weeks, I answered the door to find Tom Hand standing there. Apparently, FBI agents try not to use the telephone. He came in and told me that everything I had told him about Boris Chirkov had checked out and the incident was closed. He thanked me and I shook his hand. As I say, Tom Hand was a gentleman.
* * * * *
My point in telling you about Boris Chirkov and Yelena Kapustina is that they wanted to come to New York much as I had done a good many years earlier. They had much greater obstacles to overcome, but one way or another, they did it. I believe it fair to say that New York entranced them. Actually seeing the Brooklyn Bridge and 42nd Street and Broadway was a dream come true. I was glad to have a part in making that happen.
When people of my age think of Russia, they often think of Joseph Stalin and the head of the spy network, Lavrenti Beria. But there is more to Russia and Russians than that. Often, Russians will make generous efforts at friendships when they know that their gestures will not be rebuffed. I have made it abundantly clear that I have no desire to live in Russia or any of the Eastern European states. In none of those countries could 42nd Street or Broadway exist. But there were evidences of genuine friendship with the Russians, with or without the attraction of New York.
After we had had dinner at Gage and Tollner in Brooklyn, Yelena went home and painted a picture of the Kremlin for me. I was deeply grateful. When the Russians celebrated the October Revolution, which actually occurred in November, the Russian Army handed out medals for Veterans of the Great Patriotic War. Somehow, Boris got one and presented it to me – in New York, of course. In anticipation of my becoming an angel, I gave it to Kevin Shepherd, one of my Texas grandsons. I have not heard from Boris for six or seven years. By this time, he may have enough capital to by Enron, Arthur Anderson and WorldCom as well.
It was a pleasure to know the Russians. I was moved by their desire to share in the New York experience. In New York, it takes all kinds to create the magnificent mosaic that is New York, New York. The Russians I knew fit that New York mosaic quite well.
E. E. CARR
July 27, 2002
~~~
I keep all of these types of artifacts in Austin, in a strong plastic box. Next time I’m home (probably in May for my little brother’s graduation), I’ll find the medal in question and post it on the site.
Also, I find the shots against Arthur Anderson in this essay in the last to be a lot of fun: not only did both my parents work there, but when it spun its consultancy off into Accenture, my brother worked there too — and my uncle was a partner there, and one of my cousins works there presently. I’m one of the few Shepherds who seems to have avoided the business, and I’m pretty glad to have done so. Most management consulting seems kinda miserable, honestly. Hopefully it at least affords the opportunity to have four brandies before breakfast while on the job.
Oh and PS, at 19 pages I think this is the longest Ezra’s Essay that I can remember. He had a lot to say about Russians! As someone who traveled as frequently as he did, and to countries of as much interest as Russia held, something tells me this wasn’t Pop’s only run-in with the Feds.