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a　contemplative　sip　of　his　own。　〃Only　when　it　suits　them；　I　think。　But　that　depends　on　who　one　is　talking　about。　Suslov；　for　example；　believes　totally…but　the　rest　of　them？　To　some　greater　or　lesser　extent；　they　do　and　they　don't。　I　suppose　you　can　characterize　them　as　people　who　used　to　go　to　church　every　Sunday；　then　fell　away　from　the　habit。　Part　of　them　still　believes；　but　some　greater　or　lesser　part　does　not。　What　they　do　believe　in　is　the　fact　that　the　state　religion　is　the　source　of　their　power　and　status。　And　so；　for　all　the　mon　folk　out　there；　they　must　appear　to　believe；　because　believing　is　the　only　thing　that　gives　them　that　power　and　status。〃
　　　〃Intellectual　inertia？〃　Ryan　wondered　aloud。
　　　〃Exactly；　Jack。　Newton's　first　law　of　motion。〃
　　　Part　of　Ryan　wanted　to　object　to　the　discourse。　The　world　had　to　make　more　sense　than　that。　But　did　it？　What　rule　said　that　it　had　to？　he　asked　himself。　And　who　enforced　such　rules？　And　was　it　expressed　that　simply？　What　Harding　had　just　explained　in　less　than　two　hundred　words　purported　to　justify　hundreds　of　billions　of　dollars　in　expenditures；　strategic　weapons　of　inprehensible　power；　and　millions　of　people　whose　uniforms　denoted　enmity　that　demanded　aggression　and　death　in　time　of　war　or　near…war。
　　　But　the　world　was　about　ideas；　good　and　bad；　and　the　conflict　between　this　one　and　Ryan's　own　defined　the　reality　in　which　Ryan　worked；　defined　the　belief　system　of　the　people　who'd　tried　to　kill　him　and　his　family。　And　that　was　as　real　as　it　had　to　be；　wasn't　it？　No；　there　was　no　rule　that　pelled　the　world　to　make　sense。　People　decided　on　their　own　what　made　sense　and　what　did　not。　So；　was　everything　about　the　world　a　matter　of　perception？　Was　it　all　a　thing　of　the　mind？　What　was　reality？
　　　But　that　was　the　question　behind　all　of　metaphysics。　When　Ryan　had　studied　it　at　Boston　College；　it　had　been　so　purely　theoretical　that　it　seemed　to　have　no　attachment　at　all　to　reality。　It　had　been　a　lot　for　Ryan　to　absorb　at　age　nineteen；　and；　he　realized；　just　as　much　to　absorb　at　age　thirty…two。　But　here　the　marks　were　often　recorded　in　human　blood；　not　on　a　report　card。
　　　〃Christ；　Simon。　You　know；　it　would　be　a　lot　easier　if　they　did　believe　in　God。〃
　　　〃Then；　Jack；　it　would　be　just　another　religious　war；　and　those　are　bloody　affairs；　too；　you　may　recall。　Think　of　it　as　the　crusades；　one　version　of　God　against　another。　Those　wars　were　quite　nasty　enough。　The　true　believers　in　Moscow　think　that　they　are　riding　the　wave　of　history；　that　they　are　bringing　perfection　to　the　human　condition。　It　must　drive　them　mad　when　they　see　that　their　country　can　scarcely　feed　itself；　and　so　they　try　to　ignore　it…but　it　is　difficult　to　ignore　an　empty　belly；　isn't　it？　So　they　blame　it　all　on　us　and　on　'wreckers'…traitors　and　saboteurs…in　their　own　country。　Those　are　the　people　they　imprison　or　kill。〃　Harding　shrugged。　〃Personally；　I　regard　them　as　infidels；　believers　in　a　false　god。　It's　just　easier　that　way。　I've　studied　their　political　theology；　but　that　has　limited　value　because；　as　I　said；　so　many　of　them　do　not　really　believe　in　the　substance　of　their　system。　Sometimes　they　think　like　tribal　Russians；　whose　outlook　on　the　world　has　always　been　skewed　by　our　standards。　Russian　history　is　such　a　muddle　that　studying　it　has　its　own　limits　in　terms　of　Western　logic。　They're　xenophobes　of　a　very　high　order；　always　have　been…but　for　fairly　reasonable　historical　causes。　They've　always　had　threats　from　both　east　and　west。　The　Mongols；　for　example；　have　been　as　far　west　as　the　Baltic；　and　the　Germans　and　French　have　hammered　on　the　gates　of　Moscow。　As　we　say；　they're　a　rum　lot。　One　thing　I　do　know　is　that　no　sane　man　wants　them　as　masters。　A　pity；　really。　They　have　so　many　marvelous　poets　and　posers。〃
　　　〃Flowers　in　a　junkyard；〃　Ryan　suggested。
　　　〃Exactly；　Jack。　Very　good。〃　Harding　fished　for　his　pipe　and　lit　it　with　a　kitchen　match。　〃So；　how　do　you　like　the　beer？〃
　　　〃Excellent；　much　better　than　at　home。〃
　　　〃I　don't　know　how　you　Americans　can　stomach　it。　But　your　beef　is　better　than　ours。〃
　　　〃Corn…fed。　Turns　out　better　meat　than　grass　does；〃　Ryan　sighed。　〃I'm　still　getting　used　to　life　over　here。　Every　time　I　start　feeling　fortable；　something　hits　me　like　a　snake　in　high　grass。〃
　　　〃Well；　you've　had　less　than　a　week　to　get　used　to　us。〃
　　　〃My　kids　will　be　talking　funny。〃
　　　〃Civilized；　Jack；　civilized；〃　Harding　observed　with　a　good　laugh。　〃You　Yanks　do　ravage　our　language；　you　know。〃
　　　〃Yeah；　right。〃　Pretty　soon　he'd　refer　to　baseball　as　〃rounders；〃　which　was　a　girls'　game　over　here。　They　didn't　know　dick　about　a　good　fastball。
　　　For　his　part；　Ed　Foley　found　himself　suddenly　outraged　by　the　bugs　that　he　knew　had　to　be　in　his　apartment。　Every　time　he　made　love　to　his　wife；　some　KGB　desk　weenie　was　listening　in。　Probably　a　nice　perverse　diversion　for　their　counterespionage　spooks；　but　it　was；　by　God；　the　Foleys'　love　life；　and　was　nothing　sacred？　He　and　Mary　Pat　had　been　briefed　in　on　what　to　expect；　and　his　wife　had　actually　joked　about　it；　on　the　flight　over…you　couldn't　bug　airplanes。　She'd　called　it　a　way　of　showing　those　barbarians　how　real　people　lived；　and　he'd　laughed；　but　here　and　now　it　wasn't　so　goddamned　funny。　It　was　like　being　an　animal　in　the　goddamned　zoo；　with　people　watching　and　laughing　and　pointing。　Would　KGB　keep　a　log　of　how　often　he　and　his　wife　got　it　on？　They　might；　he　thought；　looking　for　marital　difficulties　as　a　pretext　for　recruiting　him　or　Mary　Pat。　Everyone　did　it。　So；　they'd　have　to　make　love　regularly　just　to　discourage　that　possibility；　though　playing　a　reverse　false…flag　did　have　interesting　theoretical　possibilities　of　its　own。。。　No；　the　Station　Chief　decided；　it'd　be　an　unnecessary　plication　for　their　stay　in　Moscow；　and　being　Chief　of　Station　was　already　plex　enough。
　　　Only　the　ambassador；　the　defense　attache；　and　his　own　officers　were　allowed　to　know　who　he　was。　Ron　Fielding　was　the　overt　COS；　and　his　job　was　to　wiggle　like　a　good　worm　on　the　hook。　When　parking　his　car；　he'd　occasionally　leave　his　sun　visor　down　or　rotated　ninety　degrees；　sometimes　he'd　wear　a　flower　in　his　buttonhole　and　take　it　out　halfway　down　a　block　as　though　signaling　someone　or；　best　of　all；　he'd　bump　into　people；　simulating　a　brush…pass。　That　sort　of　thing　could　make　the　Second　Chief　Directorate　counterspooks　go　nuts…race　after　innocent　Muscovites；　perhaps　snatch　a　few　up　for　interrogations；　or　put　a　squad　of　officers　on　the　poor　random　bastard　to　watch　everything　he　did。　If　nothing　else；　it　forced　KGB　to　waste　assets　on　fool's　errands；　chasing　after　phantom　geese。　Best　of　all；　it　persuaded　them　that　Fielding　was　a　clumsy　Station　Chief。　It　always　made　the　other　side　feel　good；　and　that　was　always　a　smart　move　for　CIA。　The　game　he　played　made　other　power　moves　look　like　a　game　of　Chutes　and　Ladders。
　　　But　the　fact　that　there　were　probably　bugs　in　his　bedroom　pissed　him　off。　And　he　couldn't　do　the　usual　things　to　contravene　them；　like　playing　the　radio　and　talking　under　it。　No；　he　couldn't　act　like　a　trained　spook。　He　had　to　be　dumb；　and　playing　dumb　required　brains　and　discipline　and　the　utmost　thoroughness。　Not　a　single　mistake　was　allowed。　That　one　mistake　could　get　people　killed；　and　Ed　Foley　had　a　conscience。　It　was　a　dangerous　thing　for　a　field　spook　to　have；　but　it　was　impossible　not　to　have。　You　had　to　care　about　your　agents；　those　foreign　nationals　who　worked　for　you　and　fed　you　information。　All…well；　nearly　all…had　problems。　The　big　one　here　was　alcoholism。　He　expected　every　agent　he　ran　into　to　be　a　boozer。　Some　were　quite　mad。　Most　were　people　who　〃wanted　to　get　even…with　their　bosses；　with　the　system；　with　the　country；　with　munism；　with　their　spouses；　with　the　whole　perverse　world。　Some；　a　very　few；　might　be　genuinely　attractive　people。　But　Foley　would　not　pick　them。　They　would　pick　him。　And　he'd　have　to　play　the　cards　he　was　dealt。　The　rules　of　this　game　were　hard　and　damned　harsh。　His　life　was　safe。　Oh；　sure；　he　might　get　a　little　roughed　up…or　Mary　Pat…but　they　both　had　diplomatic　passports；　and　to　seriously　mess　with　him　meant　that　somewhere　in　America　some　Soviet　diplomat　of　fairly　high　rank　might　get　a　rough　time　at　the　hands　of　some　street　thugs…who　might　or　might　not　be　trained　law…enforcement　personnel。　Diplomats　didn't　like　such　things；　and　so　it　was　avoided；　in　fact；　the　Russians　played　by　the　rules　more　faithfully　than　the　Americans　did。　So　he　and　his　wife　were　safe；　but　their　agents；　if　and　when　blown；　would　get　less　mercy　than　a　mouse　would　get　from　a　particularly　sadistic　cat。　There　was　still　torture　here；　still　interrogations　that　lasted　into　long　hours。　Due　process　of　law　was　whatever　the　government　at　the　time　felt　like　it　was。　And　the　appeals　process　was　limited　to　whether　or　not　the　shooter's　pistol　was　loaded。　So　he　had　to　treat　his　agents；　whether　drunks；　whores；　or　felons；　like　his　own　children；　changing　their　diapers；　getting　them　a　bedtime　glass　of　water；　and　wiping　their　noses。
　　　All　in　all；　Ed　Foley　thought；　it　was　one　hell　of　a　game。　And　it　kept　him　awake　at　night。　Could　the　Russians　tell　that？　Were　there　cameras　in　the　walls？　Wouldn't　that　be　perverse？　But　American　technology　wasn't　that　advanced；　so　he　was　damned　sure　the　Russians'　wasn