tc.redrabbit-第110节

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　　　Like　Ryan's　old　Volkswagen　Rabbit；　the　Budapest　Concert　Hall　was　well　made　in　every　detail；　but　little；　hardly　filling　the　city　block　it　sat　upon；　its　architecture　hinting　at　the　Imperial　style　found　in　better　and　larger　form　in　Vienna；　two　hundred　miles　away。　Andy　and　Ryan　went　inside　to　collect　the　tickets　arranged　by　the　embassy　through　the　Hungarian　Foreign　Ministry。　The　foyer　was　disappointingly　small。　Hudson　asked　for　permission　to　see　where　the　box　was；　and；　by　virtue　of　his　diplomatic　status；　an　usher　took　them　upstairs　and　down　the　side　corridor　to　the　box。
　　　Inside；　it　struck　Ryan　as　similar　to　a　Broadway　theater…the　Majestic；　for　example…not　large；　but　elegant；　with　its　red…velvet　seating　and　gilt　plaster；　a　place　for　the　king　to　e　when　he　deigned　to　visit　the　subject　city　far　from　his　imperial　palace　up　the　river　in　Vienna。　A　place　for　the　local　big　shots　to　greet　their　king　and　pretend　they　were　in　the　big　leagues；　when　they　and　their　sovereign　knew　differently。　But　for　all　that；　it　was　an　earnest　effort；　and　a　good　orchestra　would　cover　for　the　shortings。　The　acoustics　were　probably　excellent；　and　that　was　what　really　mattered。　Ryan　had　never　been　to　Carnegie　Hall　in　New　York；　but　this　would　be　the　local　equivalent；　just　smaller　and　humbler…though　grudgingly　so。
　　　Ryan　looked　around。　The　box　was　admirably　suited　for　that。　You　could　scan　just　about　every　seat　in　the　theater。
　　　〃Our　friends'　seats…where　are　they？〃　he　asked　quietly。
　　　〃Not　sure。　Tom　will　follow　them　in　and　see　where　they　sit　before　he　joins　us。〃
　　　〃Then　what？〃　Jack　asked　next。
　　　But　Hudson　cut　him　off　with　a　single　word：　〃Later。〃
　　　Back　at　the　embassy；　tom　Trent　had　his　own　work　to　do。　First　of　all；　he　got　two　gallons　of　pure　grain　alcohol；　190　proof；　or　95　percent　pure。　It　was　technically　drinkable；　but　only　for　one　who　wanted　a　very　fast　and　deep　drunk。　He　sampled　it；　just　a　taste　to　make　sure　it　was　what　the　label　said。　This　was　not　a　time　to　take　chances。　One　millimetric　taste　was　enough　for　that。　This　was　as　pure　as　alcohol　ever　got；　with　no　discernible　smell；　and　only　enough　taste　to　let　you　know　that　it　wasn't　distilled　water。　Trent　had　heard　that　some　people　used　this　stuff　to　spike　the　punch　at　weddings　and　other　formal　functions　to。。。　liven　things　up　a　bit。　Surely　this　would　acplish　that　task　to　a　fare…thee…well。
　　　The　next　part　was　rather　more　distasteful。　It　was　time　to　inspect　the　boxes。　The　embassy　basement　was　now　off…limits　to　everyone。　Trent　cut　loose　the　sealing　tape　and　lifted　off　the　cardboard　to　reveal。。。
　　　The　bodies　〃were　in　translucent　plastic　bags；　the　sort　with　handles；　used　by　morticians　to　transport　bodies。　The　bags　even　came　in　more　than　one　size；　he　saw；　probably　to　acmodate　the　bodies　of　children　and　adults　of　various　dimensions。　The　first　body　he　uncovered　was　that　of　a　little　girl。　Blessedly；　the　plastic　obscured　the　face；　or　what　had　once　been　a　face。　All　he　could　really　see　was　a　blackened　smudge；　and　for　the　moment；　that　was　good。　He　didn't　need　to　open　the　bag；　and　that；　too；　was　good。
　　　The　next　boxes　were　heavier　but　somehow　easier。　At　least　these　bodies　were　adults。　He　manhandled　them　onto　the　concrete　floor　of　the　cellar　and　left　them　there；　then　moved　the　dry　ice　to　the　opposite　corner；　where　the　frozen　CO2　would　evaporate　on　its　own　without　causing　harm　or　distraction　to　anyone。　The　bodies　would　have　about　fourteen　hours　to　thaw　out；　and　that；　he　hoped；　would　be　enough。　Trent　left　the　basement；　being　careful　to　lock　the　door。
　　　Then　he　went　to　the　embassy's　security　office。　The　British　legation　had　its　own　security　detail　of　three　men；　all　of　them　former　enlisted　servicemen。　He'd　need　two　of　them　tonight。　Both　were　former　sergeants　in　the　British　army；　Rodney　Truelove　and　Bob　Small；　and　both　were　physically　fit。
　　　〃Lads；　I　need　your　help　tonight　with　something。〃
　　　〃What's　that；　Tom？〃　Truelove　asked。
　　　〃We'll　just　need　to　move　some　objects；　and　do　it　rather　covertly；〃　Trent　semi…explained。　He　didn't　bother　telling　them　it　would　be　something　of　great　importance。　These　were　men　for　whom　everything　was　treated　as　a　matter　of　some　importance。
　　　〃Sneak　in　and　sneak　out？〃　Small　asked。
　　　〃Correct；〃　Trent　confirmed　to　the　former　color　sergeant　in　the　Royal　Engineers。　Small　was　from　the　Royal　Regiment　of　Wales；　the　men　of　Harlech。
　　　〃What　time？〃　Truelove　inquired　next。
　　　〃We'll　leave　here　about　oh…two…hundred。　Ought　not　to　take　more　than　an　hour　overall。〃
　　　〃Dress？〃　This　was　Bob　Small。
　　　And　that　was　a　good　question。　To　wear　coats　and　ties　didn't　feel　right；　but　to　wear　coveralls　would　be　something　a　casual　observer　might　notice。　They'd　have　to　dress　in　such　a　way　as　to　be　invisible。
　　　〃Casual；〃　Trent　decided。　〃Jackets　but　no　coats。　Like　a　local。　Shirts　and　pants；　that　should　be　sufficient。　Gloves；　too。〃　Yeah；　they'll　surely　want　to　wear　gloves；　the　spook　thought。
　　　〃No　problem　with　us；〃　Truelove　concluded。　As　soldiers；　they　were　accustomed　to　doing　things　that　made　no　sense　and　taking　life　as　it　came。　Trent　hoped　they'd　feel　that　way　the　following　morning。
　　　Fogal　pantyhose　were　French　in　origin。　The　packaging　proclaimed　that。　Irina　nearly　fainted；　holding　the　package　in　her　hand。　The　contents　were　real　but　seemed　not　to　be；　so　sheer　as　to　be　a　manufactured　shadow　and　no　more　substantial　than　that。　She'd　heard　about　these　things；　but　she'd　never　held　them　in　her　hand；　much　less　worn　any。　And　to　think　that　any　woman　in　the　West　could　own　as　many　as　she　needed。　The　wives　of　Oleg's　Russian　colleagues　would　swoon　wearing　them；　and　how　envious　her　own　friends　at　GUM　would　be！　And　how　careful　they'd　be　putting　them　on；　afraid　to　create　a　run；　careful　not　to　blunder　into　things　with　their　legs；　like　children　who　bruised　every　single　day。　These　hose　were　far　too　precious　to　endanger。　She　had　to　get　the　right　size　for　the　women　on　Oleg's　list。。。　plus　six　pairs　for　herself。
　　　But　what　size？　To　buy　any　article　of　clothing　that　was　too　large　was　a　deadly　insult　to　a　woman　in　any　culture；　even　Russia；　where　women　tended　more　to　the　Rubenesque　than　to　a　starving　waif　in　the　Third　World。。。　or　Hollywood。　The　sizes　shown　on　the　packages　were　A；　B；　C；　and　D。　This　was　an　additional　plication；　since　in　Cyrillic；　〃B〃　corresponded　to　the　Roman　〃V〃　and　〃C〃　to　〃S；〃　but　she　took　a　deep　breath　and　bought　a　total　of　twenty　pairs　of　size　C；　including　the　six　for　herself。　They　were　hideously　expensive；　but　the　econ　rubles　in　her　purse　were　not　all　hers；　and　so　with　another　deep　breath　she　paid　cash　for　the　collection；　to　the　smile　of　the　female　salesclerk；　who　could　guess　what　was　going　on。　Walking　out　of　the　store　with　such　luxuries　made　her　feel　like　a　czarist　princess；　a　good　sensation　for　any　female　in　the　world。　She　now　had　489　rubles　left　to　spend　on　herself；　and　that　almost　produced　a　panic。　So　many　nice　things。　So　little　money。　So　little　closet　space　at　home。
　　　Shoes？　A　new　coat？　A　new　handbag？
　　　She　left　out　jewelry；　since　that　was　Oleg's　job；　but；　like　most　men；　he　didn't　know　a　thing　about　what　women　wore。
　　　What　about　foundation　garments？　Irina　wondered　next。　A　Chantarelle　brassiere？　Did　she　dare　purchase　something　that　elegant？　That　was　at　least　a　hundred　rubles；　even　at　this　favorable　exchange　rate。。。　And　it　would　be　something　only　she　knew　she　had　on。　Such　a　brassiere　would　feel　like。。。　hands。　Like　the　hands　of　your　lover。　Yes；　she　had　to　get　one　of　those。
　　　And　cosmetics。　She　had　to　get　cosmetics。　It　was　the　one　thing　Russian　women　always　paid　attention　to。　She　was　in　the　right　city　for　that。　Hungarian　women　cared　about　skin　care　as　well。　She'd　go　to　a　good　store　and　ask；　rade　to　rade。　Hungarian　women…their　faces　proclaimed　to　the　world　that　they　cared　about　their　skin。　In　this　the　Hungarians　were　most　kulturniy。
　　　It　took　another　two　hours　of　utter　bliss；　so　pleasant　that　she　didn't　even　notice　her　husband　and　daughter　waiting　about。　She　was　living　every　Soviet　woman's　dream；　spending　money　in…well；　if　not　the　West；　then　the　next　best　thing。　And　it　was　wonderful。　She'd　wear　the　Chantarelle　to　the　concert　tonight；　listen　to　Bach；　and　pretend　she　was　in　another　time　and　another　place；　where　everyone　was　kulturniy　and　it　was　a　good　thing　to　be　a　woman。　It　was　a　pity　that　no　such　place　existed　in　the　Soviet　Union。
　　　Outside　the　succession　of　women's　stores；　Oleg　just　stood　around　and　smoked　his　cigarettes　like　any　other　man　in　the　world；　intensely　bored　by　the　details　of　women's　shopping。　How　they　could　enjoy　the　process　of　picking　and　paring；　picking　and　paring；　never　making　a　decision；　just　sucking　in　the　ambience　of　being　surrounded　by　things　they　couldn't　wear　and　didn't　really　like？　They　always　took　the　dress　and　held　it　up　to　their　necks　and　looked　in　a　mirror　and　decided　nyet；　not　this　one。　On　and　on　and　on；　past　the　sunset　and　into　the　night；　as　though　their　very　souls　depended　on　it。　Oleg　had　learned　patience　with　his　current　life…threatening　adventure；　but　one　thing　he'd　never　learned；　and　never　expected　to　learn；　was　how　to　watch　a　woman　shop。。。　without　wishing　to　throttle　her。　Just　standing　there　like　a　fucking　beast　of　burden；　holding　the　things　she'd　finally　decided　to　purchase…then　waiting　while　she　decided　to　change　her　mind　or　not。　Well；　it　couldn't　last　forever。　T