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hing　approaching　judgment　for　its　proper　execution；　but　that　was　something　to　be　exercised　as　gingerly　as　a　mouse's　stroll　through　a　roomful　of　cats。　He　always　went　to　his　immediate　superior　and　always　started　off　with　the　most　humble　of　questions　before　getting　approval。　In　fact；　his　judgmental　questions　were　always　approved。　Oleg　was　gifted　in　that；　and　he　was　beginning　to　get　recognized　as　such。　His　majority　wasn't　all　that　far　off。　More　money；　more　access　to　the　closed　stores；　and；　gradually；　more　independence…no；　that　wasn't　quite　right。　A　little　less　circumscription　on　what　he　would　be　able　to　do。　Someday　he　might　even　ask　if　a　message　going　out　made　good　sense。　Do　we　really　want　to　do　this；　rade？　he'd　wanted　to　ask　every　so　often。　Operational　decisions　were　not　his　to　make；　of　course；　but　he　could…or　would　be　able　to　in　the　future…question　the　wording　of　a　directive　in　the　most　oblique　terms。　Every　so　often　he'd　see　something　going　out　to　Officer　457　in　Rome；　for　example；　and　wonder　if　his　country　really　wanted　to　risk　the　consequences　of　having　the　mission　order　go　bad。　And　sometimes　they　did　go　bad。　Just　two　months　before；　he'd　seen　a　dispatch　from　Bonn　warning　that　something　had　gone　wrong　with　the　West　German　counterintelligence　service；　and　the　field　officer　had　urgently　requested　instructions…and　the　instructions　had　been　to　continue　his　mission　without　questioning　the　intelligence　of　his　superiors。　And　that　field　officer　had　disappeared　right　off　the　network。　Arrested　and　shot？　Oleg　wondered。　He　knew　some　of　the　field　officers'　names；　virtually　all　of　the　operations'　names；　and　a　lot　of　the　operational　targets　and　objectives。　Most　of　all；　he　knew　the　code　names　of　hundreds　of　foreign　nationals　who　were　agents　of　the　KGB。　At　its　best；　it　could　be　like　reading　a　spy　novel。　Some　of　the　field　officers　had　a　literary　streak。　Their　dispatches　were　not　the　terse　muniques　of　military　officers。　No；　they　liked　to　municate　the　state　of　mind　of　their　agents；　the　feel　of　the　information　and　the　mission　assigned。　They　could　be　like　travelogue　writers　describing　things　for　a　paying　audience。　Zaitzev　wasn't　really　supposed　to　digest　such　information；　but　he　was　a　man　with　a　mind；　and　besides；　there　were　telltale　codes　built　into　every　dispatch。　The　third　word　misspelled；　for　example；　could　be　a　warning　that　the　officer　had　been　promised。　Every　officer　had　a　different　such　key　system；　and　Zaitzev　had　a　list　of　them　all。　Only　twice　had　he　caught　such　irregularities；　and　on　one　of　those　occasions　his　supervisors　had　told　him　to　ignore　it　as　a　clerical　error…a　fact　that　still　astounded　him。　But　the　mistake　had　never　been　repeated；　and　so；　maybe　it　really　had　just　been　an　enciphering　error　by　the　officer　in　question。　After　all；　his　superior　had　told　him；　men　trained　at　The　Centre　didn't　often　get　caught　in　the　field。　They　were　the　best　in　the　world；　and　the　Western　enemies　were　not　that　clever；　were　they？　Then　Captain　Zaitzev　had　nodded　submission　to　the　moment；　written　down　his　warning　notation；　and　made　sure　it　was　in　the　permanent　files；　covering　his　ass　like　any　good　bureaucrat。
　　　What　if　his　immediate　superior　were　under　the　control　of　some　Western　spy　agency；　he'd　wondered　at　the　time　and　later　on；　usually　after　a　few　drinks　in　front　of　his　TV　set。　Such　a　promise　would　be　perfection　itself。　Nowhere　in　KGB　was　there　a　single　written　list　of　their　officers　and　agents。　No；　〃partmentalization〃　was　a　concept　invented　here　back　in　the　1920s；　or　perhaps　earlier　still。　Even　Chairman　Andropov　was　not　allowed　to　have　such　a　thing　within　his　reach；　lest　he　defect　to　the　West　and　take　it　with　him。　KGB　trusted　no　one；　least　of　all　its　own　Chairman。　And　so；　oddly；　only　people　in　his　own　department　had　access　to　such　broad　information；　but　they　were　not　operations　personnel。　They　were　just　municators。
　　　But　wasn't　the　one　person　KGB　always　tried　to　promise　the　cipher　clerk　in　a　foreign　embassy？　Because　he　or　she　was　the　one　functionary；　the　one　not　bright　enough　to　be　entrusted　with　anything　of　importance…wasn't　she　the　one　person　who　was　so　entrusted？　It　was　so　often　a　woman；　after　all；　and　KGB　officers　were　trained　to　seduce　them。　He'd　seen　dispatches　along　those　lines；　some　of　them　describing　the　seduction　in　graphic　detail；　perhaps　to　impress　the　men　upstairs　with　their　manly　prowess　and　the　extent　of　their　devotion　to　the　State。　Being　paid　to　fuck　women　didn't　strike　Zaitzev　as　conspicuously　heroic；　but　then；　perhaps　the　women　were　surpassingly　ugly；　and　performing　a　man's　duty　under　such　circumstances　might　have　been　difficult。
　　　What　it　came　down　to；　Oleg　Ivanovich　reflected；　was　that　functionaries　were　so　often　entrusted　with　cosmic　secrets；　and　he　was　one　of　them；　and　wasn't　that　amusing？　More　amusing　than　his　cabbage　soup；　certainly；　nutritious　though　it　might　be。　So　even　the　Soviet　state　trusted　some　people；　despite　the　fact　that　〃trust〃　was　a　concept　as　divorced　from　its　way　of　collective　thinking　as　a　man　is　from　Mars。　And　he　was　such　a　man。　Well；　one　result　of　that　irony　was　the　cute　green　shirt　his　little　daughter　wore。　He　set　a　few　books　on　the　kitchen　chair　and　hoisted　Svetlana　there　so　that　she　could　eat　her　dinner。　Svetlana's　hands　were　a　little　small　for　the　zinc…aluminum　tableware；　but　at　least　it　wasn't　too　heavy　for　her　to　use。　He　still　had　to　butter　her　bread　for　her。　It　was　good　to　be　able　to　afford　real　butter。
　　　〃I　saw　something　nice　at　the　special　store　on　the　way　home；〃　Irina　observed　as　women　do　over　dinner；　to　catch　their　husbands　in　a　good　mood。　The　cabbage　was　especially　good　today；　and　the　ham　was　Polish。　So　she'd　shopped　today　at　the　〃closed〃　store；　all　right。　She'd　gotten　into　the　habit　only　nine　months　before；　and　now　she　wondered　aloud　how　she'd　ever　lived　without　it。
　　　〃What's　that？〃　Oleg　asked；　sipping　his　Georgian　tea。
　　　〃Brassieres；　Swedish　ones。〃
　　　Oleg　smiled。　Those　of　Soviet　manufacture　always　seemed　to　be　designed　for　peasant　girls　who　suckled　calves　instead　of　children…far　too　big　for　a　woman　of　his　wife's　more　human　proportions。　〃How　much？〃　he　asked　without　looking　up。
　　　〃Only　seventeen　rubles　each。〃
　　　Seventeen　certificate　rubles；　he　didn't　correct　her。　A　certificate　ruble　had　actual　value。　You　could；　theoretically；　even　exchange　it　for　a　foreign　〃hard〃　currency；　as　opposed　to　the　valueless　paper　that　they　used　to　pay　the　average　factory　worker；　whose　value　was　entirely　theoretical。。。　like　everything　else　in　his　country；　when　you　got　down　to　it。
　　　〃What　color？〃
　　　〃White。〃　Perhaps　the　special　store　had　black　or　red　ones；　but　it　was　a　rare　Soviet　woman　who　would　wear　such　things。　People　were　very　conservative　in　their　habits　here。
　　　With　dinner　finished；　Oleg　left　the　kitchen　to　his　wife　and　took　his　little　girl　into　the　living　room　and　the　TV　set。　The　TV　news　announced　that　the　harvest　was　under　way；　as　it　was　every　year；　with　the　heroic　laborers　on　the　collective　farms　bringing　in　the　first　crop　of　summer　wheat　in　the　northern　areas；　where　they　had　to　grow　and　harvest　it　quickly。　A　fine　crop；　the　TV　said。　Good；　Oleg　thought；　no　bread　shortages　this　winter。。。probably。　You　could　never　really　be　sure　about　what　was　said　on　the　TV。　Next；　some　plaining　coverage　of　the　American　nuclear　weapons　being　deployed　in　the　NATO　countries；　despite　the　reasonable　Soviet　requests　that　the　West　forgo　such　unnecessary；　destabilizing；　and　provocative　actions。　Zaitzev　knew　that　the　Soviet　SS…20s　were　going　into　place　elsewhere；　and　they；　of　course；　were　in　no　way　destabilizing。　The　big　show　on　TV　tonight　was　We　Serve　the　Soviet　Union；　about　military　operations；　fine　young　Soviet　men　serving　their　country。　Today　would　be　rare　coverage　of　men　doing　their　〃international　duty〃　in　Afghanistan。　The　Soviet　media　didn't　often　cover　that；　and　Oleg　was　curious　as　to　what　they'd　show。　There　were　occasional　discussions　over　lunch　at　work　about　the　war　in　Afghanistan。　He　tended　to　listen　rather　than　talk；　because　he'd　been　excused　from　military　service；　something　he　didn't　regret　one　little　bit。　He'd　heard　too　many　stories　about　the　casual　brutality　in　the　infantry　units；　and　besides；　the　uniforms　were　not　attractive　to　wear。　His　rarely　worn　KGB　uniform　was　bad　enough。　Still；　pictures　told　stories　that　mere　words　did　not；　and　he　had　the　keen　eye　for　detail　that　his　job　required。
　　　〃You　know；　every　year　they　harvest　wheat　in　Kansas；　and　it　never　makes　the　NBC　Nightly　News；〃　Ed　Foley　said　to　his　wife。
　　　〃I　suppose　feeding　themselves　is　a　major　acplishment；〃　Mary　Pat　observed。　〃How's　the　office？〃
　　　〃Small。〃　Then　he　waved　his　hands　in　such　a　way　as　to　say　that　nothing　interesting　had　happened。
　　　Soon　she'd　have　to　drive　their　car　around　to　check　for　alert　signals。　They　were　working　Agent　CARDINAL　here　in　Moscow；　and　he　was　their　most　important　assignment。　The　colonel　knew　that　he'd　have　new　handlers　here。　Setting　that　arrangement　up　would　be　touchy；　but　Mary　Pat　was　accustomed　to　handling　the　touchy　ones。
　　　
　　　CHAPTER　4　…　INTRODUCTIONS
　　　It　was　five　in　the　evening　in　London；　and　noon　in　Langley；　when　Ryan　lit　up　his　secure　phone　to　call　home。　He'd　have　to　get　used　to　the　time　zones。　Like　a　lot　of　people；　he　found　that　his　creative　times　of　day　tended　to　divide　themselves　into　two　parts。　Mornings　were　best