tc.redrabbit-第46章

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　　　And　they　wanted　to　kill　a　priest。
　　　He'd　seen　the　dispatches。　In　a　very　small　way；　he；　Oleg　Ivanovich　Zaitzev；　was　helping。　And　that　was　eating　at　something　inside　him。　A　conscience？　Was　he　supposed　to　have　one　of　those？　But　a　conscience　was　something　that　measured　one　set　of　facts　or　ideas　against　another　and　was　either　content　or　not。　If　not；　if　it　found　some　action　at　fault；　then　the　conscience　started　plaining。　It　whispered。　It　forced　him　to　look　and　keep　looking　until　the　issue　was　resolved；　until　the　wrong　action　was　stopped；　or　reversed；　or　atoned　for…
　　　But　how　did　you　stop　the　Party　or　the　KGB　from　doing　something？
　　　To　do　that；　Zaitzev　knew；　you　had；　at　the　very　least；　to　demonstrate　that　the　proposed　action　was　contrary　to　political　theory　or　would　have　adverse　political　consequences；　because　politics　was　the　measure　of　right　and　wrong。　But　wasn't　politics　too　fleeting　for　that？　Didn't　〃right〃　and　〃wrong〃　have　to　depend　on　something　more　solid　than　mere　politics？　Wasn't　there　some　higher　value　system？　Politics　was　just　tactics；　after　all；　wasn't　it？　And　while　tactics　were　important；　strategy　was　more　so；　because　strategy　was　the　measure　of　what　you　used　tactics　for；　and　strategy　in　this　case　was　supposed　to　be　what　was　right…transcendentally　right。　Not　just　right　at　the　moment；　but　right　for　all　times…something　historians　could　examine　in　a　hundred　or　a　thousand　years　and　pronounce　as　correct　action。
　　　Did　the　Party　think　in　such　terms？　How　exactly　did　the　munist　Party　of　the　Soviet　Union　make　its　decisions？　What　was　good　for　the　people？　But　who　measured　that？　Individuals　did；　Brezhnev；　Andropov；　Suslov；　the　rest　of　the　full　voting　members　of　the　Politburo；　advised　by　the　non…voting　candidate　members；　further　advised　by　the　Council　of　Ministers　and　the　members　of　the　Central　mittee　of　the　Party；　all　the　senior　members　of　the　nomenklatura…the　ones　to　whom　the　rezident　in　Paris　shipped　perfume　and　pantyhose　in　the　diplomatic　bag。　Zaitzev　had　seen　enough　of　those　dispatches。　And　he'd　heard　the　stories。　Those　were　the　ones　who　lavished　presents　and　status　upon　their　children；　the　ones　who　raced　down　the　center　lane　of　the　broad　Moscow　boulevards；　the　corrupt　Marxist　princes　who　ruled　his　country　with　hands　of　iron。
　　　Did　those　princes　think　in　terms　of　what　was　good　for　the　narod…the　masses；　as　they　were　called…the　numberless　workers　and　peasants　whom　they　ruled；　for　whose　good　they　supposedly　looked　after？
　　　But　probably　the　minor　princes　under　Nikolay　Romanov　had　thought　and　spoken　the　same　way。　And　Lenin　had　ordered　them　all　shot　as　enemies　of　the　people。　As　modern　movies　spoke　of　the　Great　Patriotic　War；　so　earlier　movies　had　portrayed　them　for　less　sophisticated　audiences　as　evil　buffoons；　hardly　serious　enemies；　easily　hated　and　easily　killed；　caricatures　of　real　people　who　were　all　so　different　from　those　men　who'd　replaced　them；　of　course。。。
　　　As　the　princes　of　old　had　driven　their　troika…harnessed　sleds　over　the　very　bodies　of　the　peasants　on　their　way　to　the　royal　court；　so　today　the　officers　of　the　Moscow　militia　kept　the　center　lane　open　for　the　new　nomenklatura　members　who　didn't　have　time　for　traffic　delays。
　　　Nothing　had　really　changed。。。
　　　Except　that　the　czars　of　old　had　at　least　paid　lip　service　to　a　higher　authority。　They'd　financed　St。　Basil's　Cathedral　here　in　Moscow；　and　other　noblemen　had　financed　countless　other　churches　in　lesser　cities；　because　even　the　Romanovs　had　acknowledged　a　power　higher　than　theirs。　But　the　Party　acknowledged　no　higher　order。
　　　And　so　it　could　kill　without　regret；　because　killing　was　often　a　political　necessity；　a　tactical　advantage　to　be　undertaken　when　and　where　convenient。
　　　Was　that　all　this　was？　Zaitzev　asked　himself。　Were　they　killing　the　Pope　just　because　it　was　more　convenient？
　　　Oleg　Ivan'ch　poured　himself　another　portion　of　vodka　from　the　nearby　bottle　and　took　another　swallow。
　　　There　were　many　inconveniences　in　his　life。　It　was　too　long　a　walk　from　his　desk　to　the　water　cooler。　There　were　people　at　work　whom　he　didn't　like…Stefan　Yevgeniyevich　Ivanov；　for　example；　a　more　senior　major　in　munications。　How　he'd　managed　to　get　promoted　four　years　ago　was　a　mystery　to　everyone　in　the　section。　He　was　disregarded　by　the　more　senior　people　as　a　drone　who　was　unable　to　do　any　useful　work。　Zaitzev　supposed　every　business　had　one　such　person；　an　embarrassment　to　the　office；　but　not　easily　removed　because。。。　because　he　was　just　there　and　that　was　all　there　was　to　it。　Were　Ivanov　out　of　the　way；　Oleg　could　be　promoted…if　not　in　rank；　then　in　status　to　chief　of　the　section。　Every　single　breath　Ivanov　took　was　an　inconvenience　to　Oleg　Ivan'ch；　but　that　didn't　give　him　the　right　to　kill　the　more　senior　municator；　did　it？
　　　No；　he'd　be　arrested　and　prosecuted；　and　perhaps　even　executed　for　murder。　Because　it　was　forbidden　by　law。　Because　it　was　wrong。　The　law；　the　Party；　and　his　own　conscience　told　him　that。
　　　But　Andropov　wanted　to　kill　Father　Karol；　and　his　conscience　didn't　say　nay。　Would　some　other　conscience　do　so？　Another　swallow　of　vodka。　Another　snort。　A　conscience；　on　the　Politburo？
　　　Even　in　the　KGB；　there　were　no　ruminations。　No　debates。　No　open　discussion。　Just　action　messages　and　notices　of　pletion　or　failure。　Evaluations　of　foreigners；　of　course；　discussions　of　the　thinking　of　foreigners；　real　agents；　or　mere　agents　of　influence…called　〃useful　fools〃　in　the　KGB　lexicon。　Never　had　a　field　officer　written　back　about　an　order　and　said；　〃No；　rade；　we　ought　not　to　do　that　because　it　would　be　morally　wrong。〃　Goderenko　in　Rome　had　e　closest；　posing　the　observation　that　killing　Karol　might　have　adverse　consequences　on　operations。　Did　that　mean　that　Ruslan　Borissovich　had　a　troubled　conscience　as　well？　No。　Goderenko　had　three　sons…one　in　the　Soviet　navy；　another；　he'd　heard；　at　the　KGB's　own　academy　out　on　the　Ring　Road；　and　the　third　in　Moscow　State　University。　If　Ruslan　Borissovich　had　any　difficulties　with　the　KGB；　any　action　could　mean；　if　not　death；　then　at　least　serious　embarrassment　for　his　children；　and　few　men　took　action　like　that。
　　　So；　was　his　the　only　conscience　in　KGB？　Zaitzev　took　a　swallow　to　ponder　that　one。　Probably　not。　There　were　thousands　of　men　in　The　Centre；　and　thousands　more　elsewhere；　and　just　the　laws　of　statistics　made　it　likely　that　there　were　plenty　of　〃good〃　men　（however　one　defined　that）；　but　how　did　one　identify　them？　It　was　certain　death…or　lengthy　imprisonment…to　try　to　go　looking　for　them。　That　was　the　baseline　problem　he　had。　There　was　no　one　in　whom　he　could　confide　his　doubts。　No　one　with　whom　he　could　discuss　his　worries…not　a　doctor；　not　a　priest。。。　not　even　his　wife；　Irina。。。
　　　No；　he　had　only　his　vodka　bottle；　and　though　it　helped　him　think；　after　a　fashion；　it　wasn't　much　of　a　panion。　Russian　men　were　not　averse　to　shedding　tears；　but　they　wouldn't　have　helped　either。　Irina　might　ask　a　question；　and　he　wouldn't　be　able　to　answer　to　anyone's　satisfaction。　All　he　had　was　sleep。　It　would　not　help；　he　was　sure；　and　in　this　he　was　right。
　　　Another　hour　and　two　more　slugs　of　the　vodka　at　least　drugged　him　into　sleepiness。　His　wife　was　dozing　in　front　of　the　TV…the　Red　Amy　had　won　the　Battle　of　Kursk；　again；　and　the　movie　ended　at　the　beginning　of　a　long　march　that　would　lead　to　the　Reichstag　in　Berlin；　full　of　hope　and　enthusiasm　for　the　bloody　task。　Zaitzev　chuckled　to　himself。　It　was　more　than　he　had　at　the　moment。　He　carried　his　empty　glass　to　the　kitchen；　then　roused　his　wife　for　the　trip　to　the　bedroom。　He　hoped　that　sleep　would　e　quickly。　The　quarter…liter　of　alcohol　in　his　belly　should　help。　And　so　it　did。
　　　〃You　know；　Arthur；　there　are　a　lot　of　things　we　don't　know　about　him；〃　Jim　Greer　said。
　　　〃Andropov；　you　mean？〃
　　　〃We　don't　even　know　if　the　bastard's　married；〃　the　DDI　continued。
　　　〃Well；　Robert；　that's　your　department；〃　the　DCI　observed；　with　a　look　at　Bob　Ritter。
　　　〃We　think　he　is；　but　he's　never　brought　his　wife；　if　any；　to　an　official　function。　That's　usually　how　we　find　out；〃　the　DDO　had　to　admit。　〃They　often　hide　their　families；　like　Mafia　dons。　They're　so　anal　about　hiding　everything　over　there。　And；　yeah；　we're　not　all　that　good　about　digging　the　information　up；　because　it