tc.redrabbit-第17章

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other　practically　at　their　apartment　house's　doorstep；　even　the　most　paranoid　Directorate　Two　shadow　would　not　find　his　use　of　it　terribly　suspicious；　despite　the　well…known　American　love　for　cars。　He　didn't　look　around　any　more　than　a　tourist　would；　and　thought　that　maybe　he'd　made　one　tail。　There'd　probably　be　more　than　that　for　the　moment。　He　was　a　new　embassy　employee；　and　the　Russians　would　want　to　see　if　he　wiggled　like　a　CIA　spook。　He　decided　to　act　like　an　innocent　American　abroad；　which　might　or　might　not　be　the　same　thing　to　them。　It　depended　on　how　experienced　his　current　shadow　was；　and　there　was　no　telling　that。　For　certain；　he'd　have　a　tail　for　a　couple　weeks。　That　was　an　expected　annoyance。　So　would　Mary　Pat。　So；　probably；　would　Eddie。　The　Soviets　were　a　paranoid　bunch；　but　then；　he　could　hardly　plain　about　that；　could　he？　Not　hardly。　It　was　his　job　to　crack　into　the　deepest　secrets　of　their　country。　He　was　the　new　Chief　of　Station；　but　he　was　supposed　to　be　a　stealthy　one。　This　was　one　of　Bob　Ritter's　new　and　more　creative　ideas。　Typically；　the　identity　of　the　boss　spook　in　an　embassy　wasn't　expected　to　be　a　secret。　Sooner　or　later；　everyone　got　burned　one　way　or　another；　either　ID'd　by　a　false…flag　operation　or　through　an　operational　error；　and　that　was　like　losing　one's　virginity。　Once　gone；　it　never　came　back。　But　the　Agency　only　rarely　used　a　husband…wife　team　in　the　field；　and　he'd　spent　years　building　his　cover。　A　graduate　of　New　York's　Fordham　University；　Ed　Foley　had　been　recruited　fairly　young；　vetted　by　an　FBI　background　check；　and　then　gone　to　work　for　The　New　York　Times　as　a　reporter　on　a　general　beat。　He'd　turned　in　a　few　interesting　stories；　but　not　too　many；　and　had　eventually　been　told　that；　while　the　Times　wasn't　going　to　fire　him；　it　might　be　better　for　him　to　seek　employment　with　a　smaller　newspaper　where　he　might　blossom　better　on　his　own。　He'd　taken　the　hint　and　gotten　a　job　with　the　State　Department　as　a　Press　Attache；　a　job　that　paid　a　decent　bureaucratic　wage；　though　without　a　supergrade's　destiny。　His　official　job　at　the　embassy　would　be　to　schmooze　the　elite　foreign　correspondents　of　the　great　American　papers　and　TV　networks；　granting　them　access　to　the　ambassador　and　other　embassy　officials；　and　then　keeping　out　of　the　way　while　they　filed　their　important　stories。
　　　His　most　important　job　was　to　appear　petent；　but　little　more。　Already　the　local　Times　correspondent　was　telling　his　colleagues　that　Foley　hadn't　had　the　right　stuff　to　make　it　big　as　a　journalist　at　America's　Foremost　Newspaper；　and　since　he　wasn't　old　enough　to　teach　yet…the　other　resting　place　for　inpetent　reporters…he　was　doing　the　next　worst　thing；　being　a　government　puke。　It　was　his　job　to　foster　that　arrogance；　knowing　that　the　KGB　would　have　its　people　ping　on　the　American　press　corps　for　their　evaluation　of　the　embassy　personnel。　The　best　cover　of　all　for　a　spook　was　to　be　regarded　as　dull　and　dim；　because　the　dull　and　the　dim　weren't　smart　enough　to　be　spies。　For　that；　he　thanked　Ian　Fleming　and　the　movies　he'd　inspired。　James　Bond　was　a　clever　boy。　Not　Ed　Foley。　No；　Ed　Foley　was　a　functionary。　The　crazy　part　was　that　the　Soviets；　whose　entire　country　was　governed　by　dull　functionaries；　more　often　than　not　fell　for　this　story　just　as　readily　as　if　they　were　someone　fresh　off　the　pig　farm　in　Iowa。
　　　There　is　nothing　predictable　about　the　espionage　business。。。　except　here；　the　Station　Chief　told　himself。　The　one　thing　you　could　depend　on　with　the　Russians　was　predictability。　Everything　was　written　down　in　some　huge　book；　and　everybody　here　played　the　game　by　the　book。
　　　Foley　got　aboard　the　subway　car；　looking　around　at　his　fellow　passengers；　seeing　how　they　looked　at　him。　His　clothing　marked　him　as　a　foreigner　as　clearly　as　a　glowing　halo　marked　a　saint　in　a　Renaissance　painting。
　　　〃Who　are　you？〃　a　neutral　voice　asked；　rather　to　Foley's　surprise。
　　　〃Excuse　me？〃　Foley　replied　in　badly　accented　Russian。
　　　〃Ah；　you　are　American。〃
　　　〃Da；　that　is　so。　I　work　at　American　embassy。　My　first　day。　I　am　new　in　Moscow。〃　Shadow　or　not；　he　knew　that　the　only　sensible　thing　was　to　play　this　straight。
　　　〃How　do　you　like　it　here？〃　the　inquisitor　asked。　He　looked　like　a　bureaucrat；　maybe　a　KGB　counterespionage　spook　or　a　stringer。　Or　maybe　just　some　officer…sitter　for　some　government…run　business　who　suffered　from　curiosity。　There　were　some　of　those。　Would　an　ordinary　citizen　approach　him？　Probably　not；　Foley　judged。　The　atmosphere　tended　to　limit　curiosity　to　the　space　between　a　person's　ears。。。　except　that　Russians　were　curious　as　hell　about　Americans　of　every　stripe。　Told　to　disdain　or　even　to　hate　Americans；　the　Russians　frequently　regarded　them　as　Eve　had　regarded　the　apple。
　　　〃The　metro　is　very　impressive；〃　Foley　answered；　looking　around　as　artlessly　as　he　could。
　　　〃Where　in　America　do　you　e　from？〃　was　the　next　question。
　　　〃New　York　City。〃
　　　〃You　play　ice　hockey　in　America？〃
　　　〃Oh；　yes！　I've　been　a　fan　of　the　New　York　Rangers　since　I　was　a　child。　I　want　to　see　the　hockey　here。〃　Which　was　entirely　truthful。　The　Russian　skate…and…pass　game　was　the　closest　thing　to　Mozart　in　the　world　of　sports。　〃The　embassy　has　good　tickets；　they　told　me　today。　Central　Army；〃　he　added。
　　　〃Bah！〃　the　Muscovite　snorted。　〃I　am　Wings　fan。〃
　　　The　guy　might　just　be　genuine；　Foley　thought　with　surprise。　The　Russians　were　as　picky　about　their　hockey　clubs　as　American　baseball　fans　were　with　their　home　teams。　But　the　Second　Chief　Directorate　probably　had　hockey　fans　working　there；　too。　〃Too　careful〃　was　a　concept　he　did　not　admit　to；　especially　here。
　　　〃Central　Army　is　the　champion　team；　isn't　it？〃
　　　〃Too　prissy。　Look　what　happened　to　them　in　America。〃
　　　〃In　America　we　play　a　more　physical…is　that　the　right　word？…game。　To　you　they　must　seem　like　hooligans；　yes？〃　Foley　had　taken　the　train　to　Philadelphia　to　see　that　game。　The　Flyers…more　widely　known　as　the　Broad　Street　Bullies…had　beaten　the　snot　out　of　the　somewhat　arrogant　Russian　visitors；　rather　to　his　amusement。　The　Philadelphia　team　had　even　wheeled　out　its　secret　weapon；　the　aging　Kate　Smith；　singing　〃God　Bless　America；〃　which　for　that　team　was　like　breakfasting　on　nails　and　human　infants。　Damn；　what　a　game　that　one　had　been！
　　　〃They　play　roughly；　yes；　but　they　are　not　fairies。　Central　Army　thinks　they　are　the　Bolshoi；　the　way　they　skate　and　pass。　It's　good　to　see　them　humbled　sometimes。〃
　　　〃Well；　I　remember　the　'80　Olympics；　but　honestly　that　was　a　miracle　for　is　to　defeat　your　fine　team。〃
　　　〃Miracle！　Bah！　Our　coach　was　asleep。　Our　heroes　were　asleep。　Your　children　played　a　spirited　game；　and　they　won　honestly。　The　coach　needed　to　be　shot。〃　Yeah；　this　guy　talked　like　a　fan。
　　　〃Well；　I　want　my　son　to　learn　hockey　over　here。〃
　　　〃How　old　is　he？〃　Genuine　interest　in　the　man's　eyes。
　　　〃Four　and　a　half；〃　Foley　answered。
　　　〃A　good　age　to　learn　to　skate。　There　are　many　opportunities　for　children　to　skate　in　Moscow；　aren't　there；　Vanya？〃　he　observed　to　the　man　next　to　him；　who'd　watched　the　exchange　with　a　mixture　of　curiosity　and　unease。
　　　〃Make　sure　he　gets　good　skates；〃　the　other　man　said。　〃Bad　ones　can　injure　the　ankles。〃　A　typical　Russian　response。　In　this　often　harsh　country；　solicitude　for　children　was　endearingly　genuine。　The　Russian　bear　had　a　soft　heart　for　kids；　but　one　of　icy　granite　for　adults。
　　　〃Thank　you。　I　will　be　sure　to　do　that。〃
　　　〃You　live　in　the　foreigners'　pound？〃
　　　〃Correct；〃　Foley　confirmed。
　　　〃Next　stop　is　yours。〃
　　　〃Oh；　spasiba；　and　good　day　to　you。〃　He　made　his　way　to　the　door；　turning　to　nod　a　friendly　good…bye　to　his　newfound　Russian　friends。　KGB？　he　wondered。　Perhaps；　but　not　certainly。　He'd　determine　that　by　whether　or　not　he　saw　them　on　the　train　a　month　or　so　from　now。
　　　What　Ed　Foley　didn't　know　was　that　the　entire　exchange　had　been　observed　by　a　man　a　mere　two　meters　away；　holding　a　copy　of　today's　Sovietskiy　Sport。　His　name　was　Oleg　Zaitzev；　and　Oleg　Ivanovich　was　KGB。
　　　The　Station　Chief　left　the　subway　car　and　followed　the　crush　to　the　escalator。　At　one　time；　it　would　have　led　him　to　a　full…standing　portrait　of　Stalin；　but　that　was　gone　now；　and　not　replaced。　The　outside　air　was　acquiring　the　early　autumn　chill；