tc.redrabbit-第37节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


tre　the　Pope's　appearance　schedule　for　the　indefinite　future。　Andropov　hadn't　lost　interest　in　that　bit　of　information。
　　　And　now　the　Bulgarians　would　be　involved。　Zaitzev　worried　about　that；　but　he　didn't　need　to　wonder　all　that　much。　He'd　seen　those　dispatches　before。　The　Bulgarian　State　Security　Service　was　the　loyal　vassal　of　KGB。　The　municator　knew　that。　He'd　seen　enough　messages　go　to　Sofia；　sometimes　through　Bubovoy；　sometimes　directly；　and　sometimes　for　the　purpose　of　ending　someone's　life。　KGB　didn't　do　much　of　that　anymore；　but　Diryhavna　Susurnost　did；　on　occasion。　Zaitzev　imagined　that　they　had　a　small　subunit　of　the　DS　officers　who　were　trained　and　skilled　and　practiced　at　that　particular　skill。　And　the　message　header　had　the　666　suffix；　so　this　dispatch　concerned　the　same　thing　that　Rome　had　been　initially　queried　on。　So　this　was　going　forward。
　　　His　agency…his　country…wanted　to　kill　that　Polish　priest；　and　that；　Zaitzev　thought；　was　probably　a　bad　thing。
　　　He　took　the　escalator　down　to　the　subterranean　station　amid　the　usual　afterwork　crowd。　Usually；　the　crowd　of　people　was　forting。　It　meant　that　Zaitzev　was　in　his　element；　surrounded　by　his　countrymen；　people　just　like　himself；　serving　one　another　and　the　State。　But　was　that　true？　What　would　these　people　think　of　Andropov's　mission？　It　was　hard　to　gauge。　The　subway　ride　was　usually　quiet。　Some　people　might　talk　to　friends；　but　group　discussions　were　rare；　except　perhaps　for　some　unusual　sporting　event；　a　bad　referee's　call　at　a　soccer　match；　or　a　particularly　spectacular　play　on　the　hockey　rink。　Other　than　that；　people　were　usually　alone　with　their　thoughts。
　　　The　train　stopped；　and　Zaitzev　shuffled　aboard。　As　usual；　there　were　no　seats　available。　He　grasped　the　overhead　handrail　and　kept　thinking。
　　　Are　the　others　on　the　train　thinking　as　well？　If　so；　about　what？　Jobs？　Children？　Wives？　Lovers？　Food？　You　couldn't　tell。　Even　Zaitzev　couldn't　tell；　and　he'd　seen　these　people…these　same　people…on　the　metro　for　years。　He　knew　only　a　few　names；　mainly　given　names　overheard　in　conversations。　No；　he　knew　them　only　by　their　favorite　sports　teams。。。
　　　It　struck　him　suddenly　and　hard　how　alone　he　was　in　his　society。　How　many　real　friends　do　I　have？　Zaitzev　asked　himself。　The　answer　was　shockingly　few。　Oh；　sure；　there　were　people　at　work　he　chatted　with。　He　knew　the　most　intimate　details　about　their　wives　and　children…but　friends　in　whom　he　could　confide；　with　whom　he　could　talk　over　some　troubling　development；　to　whom　he　could　go　for　guidance　in　a　troubling　situation。。。　No；　he　didn't　have　any　of　those。　That　made　him　unusual　in　Moscow。　Russians　often　made　deep　and　close　friendships；　and　consecrated　them　often　enough　with　the　deepest　and　sometimes　the　darkest　of　secrets；　as　though　daring　one　of　their　intimates　to　be　a　KGB　informer；　as　though　courting　a　trip　to　the　Gulag。　But　his　job　denied　him　that。　He'd　never　dare　to　discuss　the　things　he　did　at　work；　not　even　to　his　coworkers。
　　　No；　whatever　problems　he　had　with　this　666　series　of　messages　were　ones　he　had　to　work　out　for　himself。　Even　his　Irina　couldn't　know。　She　might　talk　with　her　friends　at　GUM；　and　that　would　surely　be　death　for　him。　Zaitzev　let　out　a　breath　and　looked　around。。。
　　　There　he　was　again；　that　American　embassy　official；　reading　Sovietskiy　Sport　and　minding　his　own　business。　He　was　wearing　a　raincoat…rain　had　been　forecast；　but　had　not　materialized…but　not　a　hat。　The　coat　was　open；　not　buttoned　or　belted。　He　was　less　than　two　meters　away。。。
　　　On　an　impulse；　Zaitzev　shifted　his　position　from　one　side　of　the　car　to　the　other；　switching　hands　on　the　overhead　rail　as　though　to　stretch　a　stiff　muscle。　That　move　put　him　next　to　the　American。　And；　on　further　impulse；　Zaitzev　slid　his　hand　into　the　raincoat　pocket。　There　was　nothing　in　there；　no　keys　or　pocket　change；　just　empty　cloth。　But　he　had　established　that　he　could　reach　into　this　American's　pocket　and　remove　his　hand　without　notice。　He　backed　away；　sweeping　his　eyes　around　the　subway　car　to　see　if　anyone　had　noticed　or　had　even　been　looking　his　way。　But。。。　no；　almost　certainly　not。　His　maneuver　had　gone　undetected；　even　by　the　American。
　　　Foley　didn'T　EVEN　let　his　eyes　move　as　he　read　to　the　bottom　of　the　hockey　article。　Had　he　been　in　New　York　or　any　other　Western　city；　he　would　have　thought　that　someone　had　just　attempted　to　pick　his　pocket。　Strangely；　he　didn't　expect　that　here。　Soviet　citizens　were　not　allowed　to　have　Western　currency；　and　so　there　was　nothing　but　trouble　to　be　gained　in　robbing　an　American　on　the　street；　much　less　picking　his　pocket。　And　KGB；　which　was　probably　still　shadowing　him；　was　most　unlikely　to　do　anything　like　that。　If　they　wanted　to　lift　his　wallet；　they'd　use　a　two…man　team；　as　professional　American　pickpockets　did；　one　to　delay　and　distract；　and　the　other　to　make　the　lift。　You　could　get　almost　anyone　that　way；　unless　the　target　was　alerted；　and　staying　alert　for　so　long　was　a　lot　to　ask；　even　of　an　expert　professional　spook。　So　you　employed　passive　defenses；　like　wrapping　a　rubber　band　or　two　around　the　wallet…simple；　but　very　effective；　and　one　of　the　things　they　taught　you　at　The　Farm；　the　sort　of　basic　tradecraft　that　didn't　announce　〃spy！〃　to　everyone。　The　NYPD　advised　people　to　do　the　same　thing　on　the　streets　of　Manhattan；　and　he　was　supposed　to　look　like　an　American。　Since　he　had　a　diplomatic　passport　and　〃legal〃　cover；　theoretically；　his　person　was　inviolable。　Not　necessarily　from　a　street　thug；　of　course；　and　both　the　KGB　and　the　FBI　were　not　above　having　a　highly　trained　street　thug　rough　someone　up；　albeit　within　carefully　thought…through　parameters；　lest　things　get　out　of　control。　The　entire　state　of　affairs　made　the　Imperial　Court　of　Byzantium　look　simple　by　parison；　but　Ed　Foley　didn't　make　the　rules。
　　　Those　rules　now　did　not　allow　him　to　check　his　pocket　or　make　the　least　sign　that　he　knew　that　someone's　hand　had　been　in　there。　Maybe　someone　had　dropped　him　a　note…a　notice　of　desire　to　defect；　even。　But　why　him？　His　cover　was　supposed　to　be　as　solid　as　a　T…bill；　unless　someone　in　the　embassy　had　made　a　very　shrewd　guess　and　then　ratted　him　out。。。　But　no；　even　then；　KGB　wouldn't　tip　their　hand　this　quickly。　They'd　watch　him　for　a　few　weeks　at　least；　just　to　see　what　else　he　might　lead　them　to。　KGB　played　the　game　too　skillfully　for　that　sort　of　play；　so；　no；　there　wasn't　much　chance　that　whoever　had　searched　his　pocket　was　a　Second　Chief　Directorate　guy。　And　probably　not　a　pickpocket；　either。　Then　what？　Foley　wondered。　He'd　have　to　be　patient　to　find　out；　but　Foley　knew　a　lot　about　patience。　He　kept　on　reading　his　newspaper。　If　it　were　someone　who　wanted　to　do　a　little　business；　why　scare　him　off？　At　the　very　least；　he'd　let　him　feel　clever。　It　was　always　useful　to　help　other　people　feel　smart。　That　way；　they　could　continue　their　mistakes。
　　　Three　more　stops　before　he　got　off　the　subway。　Foley　had　known　up　front　that　it　would　be　a　lot　more　productive　to　ride　it　than　to　drive　the　car。　That　Mercedes　was　just　too　standout…ish　for　this　place。　It　would　make　Mary　Pat　stand　out；　too；　but　to　her　way　of　thinking；　that　worked　for　her　rather　than　against。　His　wife　had　brilliant　field　instincts；　better　than　his；　but　she　often　scared　him　in　her　daring。　It　wasn't　so　much　that　Mary　Pat　was　a　risk…taker。　Every　member　of　the　DO　took　risks。　It　was　her　relish　for　doing　so　that　occasionally　worried　him。　For　him；　playing　with　the　Russians　was　part　of　the　job。　It　was　business；　as　Don　Vito　Corleone　would　have　put　it；　not　personal。　But　for　Mary　Patricia；　it　was　as　personal　as　hell；　because　of　her　grandfather。
　　　She'd　lusted　to　be　part　of　CIA　before　they'd　met　in　the　Student　Union　at　Fordham；　and　then　again　at　the　CIA　recruiter's　desk；　and　they'd　hit　it　off　soon　after　that。　She'd　already　had　her　Russian…language　skills。　She　could　pass　for　a　native。　She　could　alter　her　accent　for　any　region　of　the　country。　She　could　feign　being　an　instructor　in　poetry　at　Moscow　State　University；　and　she　was　pretty；　and　pretty　women　had　an　advantage　over　everyone　else。　It　was　the　oldest　of　prejudices；　that　the　attractive　among　us　had　to　be　good　people；　that　the　bad　people　had　to　be　ugly　because　they　did　ugly　things。　Men　were　especially　deferential　to　pretty　women；　other　women　were　less　so；　because　they　envied　their　looks；　but　even　they　were　nice　by　instinct。　So　Mary　Pat　could　skate　on　a　lot　of　things；　because　she　was　just　that　pretty　American　girl；　that　ditsy　blonde；　because　blondes　were　universally　thought　to　be　dumb；　even　here　in　Russia；　where　they　were　not　all　that　unmon。　The　ones　here　were　probably　natural　blondes；　too；　because　the　local　cosmetics　industry　was　about　as　advanced　as　it　must　have　been　in　twelfth…century　Hungary；　and　there　wasn't　much　Clairol　Blond　#100G　in　the　local　drugstores。　No；　the　Soviet　Union　paid　scant　attention　to　the　needs　of　its　womenfolk；　which　led　his　mind　to　another　question…why　had　the　Russians　stopped　at　only　one　revolution？　In　America　there　would　have　been　hell　to　pay　for　the　lack　of　choices　in　clothes　and　cosmetics　the　women　had　here。。。
　　　The　train　stopped　at　his　station。　Foley　made　his　way　to　the　door　and　walked　to　the　escalator。　Halfway　up；　his　curiosity　got　the　better　of　him。　He　rubbed　his　nose　as