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his　political　peers…with　all　of　these　additional　insights　so　that　they　could　waste　their　time　going　over　the　message　and　its　import　before　considering　what　to　do　about　it。
　　　The　Chairman　wondered　if　this　Polish　colonel　realized　how　easy　his　own　political　bosses　had　had　it。　In　the　end；　all　they'd　had　to　do　was　forward　it　to　their　own　political　masters　for　action；　bucking　the　decision　up　the　tree　of　responsibility　as　government　functionaries　all　do；　regardless　of　place　or　philosophy。　Vassals　were　vassals　the　world　over。
　　　The　Chairman　looked　up　at　him。　〃rade　Colonel；　thank　you　for　bringing　this　to　my　attention。　Please　extend　my　greetings　and　my　respects　to　your　mander。　Dismissed。〃
　　　The　Pole　snapped　to　attention；　saluted　in　the　curious　Polish　way；　did　his　best　parade…ground　about　face；　then　headed　off　to　the　door。
　　　Yuriy　Andropov　watched　the　door　close　before　turning　his　attention　back　to　the　message　and　its　appended　translation。
　　　〃So；　Karol；　you　threaten　us；　eh？〃　He　clucked　his　tongue　and　shook　his　head　before　going　on　as　quietly　as　before。　〃You　are　brave；　but　your　judgment　needs　adjustment；　my　cleric　rade。〃
　　　He　looked　up　again；　pondering。　The　office　had　the　usual　artwork　covering　the　walls；　and　for　the　same　reason　as　in　any　other　office…to　avoid　blankness。　Two　were　oil　paintings　by　Renaissance　masters；　borrowed　from　the　collection　of　some　long…dead　czar　or　nobleman。　A　third　portrait；　rather　a　good　one；　actually；　was　of　Lenin；　the　pale　plexion　and　domed　forehead　known　to　millions　all　around　the　world。　A　nicely　framed　color　photograph　of　Leonid　Brezhnev；　the　current　General　Secretary　of　the　munist　Party　of　the　Soviet　Union；　hung　near　it。　The　photo　was　a　lie；　a　picture　of　a　young　and　vigorous　man；　not　the　senile　old　goat　who　now　sat　at　the　head　of　the　Politburo　table。　Well；　all　men　grew　old；　but　in　most　places；　such　men　left　their　jobs　for　honorable　retirement。　But　not　in　his　country；　Andropov　realized。。。　and　looked　down　at　the　letter。　And　not　this　man；　either。　This　job；　too；　was　for　life。
　　　But　he　is　threatening　to　change　that　part　of　the　equation；　the　Chairman　of　the　mittee　for　State　Security　thought。　And　in　that　was　the　danger。
　　　Danger？
　　　The　consequences　were　unknown；　and　that　was　danger　enough。　His　Politburo　colleagues　would　see　it　the　same　way；　old；　cautious；　and　frightened　men　that　they　were。
　　　And　so　he　had　not　merely　to　report　the　danger。　He　must　also　present　a　means　of　dealing　with　it　effectively。
　　　The　portraits　that　ought　to　have　been　on　his　wall　right　now　were　of　two　men　who　were　semiforgotten。　One　would　have　been　Iron　Feliks…Dzerzhinskiy　himself；　the　founder　of　the　Cheka；　the　antecedent　of　the　KGB。
　　　The　other　ought　to　have　been　Josef　Vissarionovich　Stalin。　The　leader　had　once　posed　a　question　that　was　relevant　to　the　very　situation　that　faced　Andropov　now。　Then；　it　had　been　1944。　Now…now　maybe　it　was　even　more　relevant。
　　　Well；　that　remained　to　be　seen。　And　he'd　be　the　man　to　make　that　determination；　Andropov　told　himself。　All　men　could　be　made　to　disappear。　The　thought　should　have　surprised　him　when　it　leapt　into　his　head；　but　it　didn't。　This　building；　built　eighty　years　earlier　to　be　the　palatial　home　office　of　the　Rossiya　Insurance　pany；　had　seen　a　lot　of　that；　and　its　inhabitants　had　issued　orders　to　cause　many；　many　more　deaths。　They　used　to　have　executions　in　the　basement。　That　had　ended　only　a　few　years　before；　as　KGB　expanded　to　include　all　the　space　in　even　this　massive　structure…and　another　on　the　inner　ring　road　around　the　city…but　the　cleanup　crew　occasionally　whispered　about　the　ghosts　to　be　seen　on　quiet　nights；　sometimes　startling　the　old　washerwomen　with　their　buckets　and　brushes　and　witch…like　hair。　The　government　of　this；　country　didn't　believe　in　such　things　as　spirits　and　ghosts　any　more　than　it　believed　in　a　man's　immortal　soul；　but　doing　away　with　the　superstitions　of　the　simple　peasants　was　a　more　difficult　task　than　getting　the　intelligentsia　to　buy　into　the　voluminous　writings　of　Vladimir　Ilyich　Lenin；　Karl　Marx；　or　Friedrich　Engels；　not　to　mention　the　turgid　prose　attributed　to　Stalin　（but　actually　done　by　a　mittee　formed　of　frightened　men；　and　all　the　worse　because　of　it）；　which　was；　blessedly；　no　longer　much　in　demand　except　to　the　most　masochistic　of　scholars。
　　　No；　Yuriy　Vladimirovich　told　himself；　getting　people　to　believe　in　Marxism　wasn't　all　that　hard。　First；　they　hammered　it　into　their　heads　in　grammar　schools；　and　the　Young　Pioneers；　and　high　schools；　and　the　Komsomolets；　the　Young　munist　League；　and　then　the　really　smart　ones　became　full　Party　members；　keeping　their　Party　cards　〃next　to　their　hearts；〃　in　the　cigarette　pockets　of　their　shirts。
　　　But　by　then；　they　knew　better。　The　politically　aware　members　professed　their　belief　at　Party　meetings　because　they　had　to　do　that　to　get　ahead。　In　the　same　way；　the　smart　courtiers　in　pharaonic　Egypt　kneeled　and　shielded　their　eyes　from　the　bright…light…emanating　face；　lest　they　be　blinded…they　held　up　their　hands　because；　in　Pharaoh；　in　the　person　of　their　Living　God；　was　personal　power　and　prosperity；　and　so　they　knelt　their　obeisance　and　denied　their　senses　and　their　sensibility　and　got　ahead。　So　it　was　here。　Five　thousand　years；　was　it？　He　could　check　a　history　book。　The　Soviet　Union　turned　out　some　of　the　world's　foremost　medieval　historians；　and　doubtless　some　petent　antiquarians　as　well；　because　that　was　one　area　of　scholarship　where　politics　didn't　matter　much。　The　facts　of　ancient　Egypt　were　too　distant　from　contemporary　reality　to　matter　to　the　philosophical　speculation　of　Marx　or　the　endless　ramblings　of　Lenin。　And　so　some　fine　scholars　went　into　that　field。　More　went　into　the　pure　sciences；　because　pure　science　was　pure　science　and　a　hydrogen　atom　had　no　politics。
　　　But　agriculture　did。　Manufacturing　did。　And　so　the　best　and　brightest　stayed　away　from　those　areas；　opting　instead　for　political　studies。　Because　there　success　was　to　be　found。　You　didn't　have　to　believe　it　any　more　than　you　believed　that　Ramses　II　was　the　living　son　of　the　sun　god；　or　whatever　the　hell　god　he　was　supposed　to　have　issued　from。　Instead；　Yuriy　Vladimirovich　figured；　the　courtiers　saw　that　Ramses　had　numerous　wives　and　even　more　numerous　progeny；　and　that；　on　the　whole；　wasn't　a　bad　life　for　a　man　to　have。　The　classical　equivalent　of　a　dacha　in　the　Lenin　Hills　and　summers　on　the　beach　at　Sochi。　So；　did　the　world　ever　really　change？
　　　Probably　not；　the　Chairman　of　the　mittee　for　State　Security　decided。　And　his　job　was　largely　to　protect　against　change。
　　　And　this　letter　threatened　change；　didn't　it？　It　was　a　threat；　and　he　might　have　to　do　something　about　the　threat。　That　meant　doing　something　about　the　man　behind　it。
　　　It　had　happened　before。　It　could　happen　again；　he　decided。
　　　Andropov　would　not　live　long　enough　to　learn　that　in　considering　this　action；　he　would　set　in　motion　the　demise　of　his　own　country。
　　　
　　　CHAPTER　1　…　RUMBLINGS　AND　DREAMS
　　　〃When　do　you　start；　Jack？〃　Cathy　asked　in　the　quiet　of　their　bed。
　　　And　her　husband　was　glad　it　was　their　bed。　fortable　as　the　New　York　hotel　had　been；　it　is　never　the　same；　and　besides；　he'd　had　quite　enough　of　his　father…in…law；　with　his　Park　Avenue　duplex　and　immense　sense　of　self…importance。　Okay；　Joe　Muller　had　a　good　ninety　million　in　the　bank　and　his　diversified　portfolio；　and　it　was　growing　nicely　with　the　new　presidency；　but　enough　was　enough。
　　　〃Day　after　tomorrow；〃　her　husband　answered。　〃I　suppose　I　might　go　in　after　lunch；　just　to　look　around。〃
　　　〃You　ought　to　be　asleep　by　now；〃　she　said。
　　　There　were　drawbacks　to　marrying　a　physician；　Jack　occasionally　told　himself。　You　couldn't　hide　much　from　them。　A　gentle；　loving　touch　could　convey　your　body　temperature；　heart　rate；　and　Christ　knew　what　else；　and　docs　hid　their　feelings　about　what　they　found　with　the　skill　of　a　professional　poker　player。　Well；　some　of　the　time。
　　　〃Yeah；　long　day。〃　It　was　short　of　five　in　the　evening　in　New　York；　but　his　〃day〃　had　lasted　longer　than　the　normal　twenty…four。　He　really　had　to　learn　to　sleep　on　airplanes。　It　wasn't　as　though　his　seat　had　been　unfortable。　He'd　upgraded　the　government…issue　tickets　to　first　class　on　his　own　American　Express　card；　and　soon　the　frequent…flyer　miles　would　build　up　so　much　that　such　upgrades　would　be　automatic。　Yeah；　great；　Jack　thought。　They'd　know　him　by　sight　at　Heathrow　and　Dulles。　Well；　at　least　he　had　his　new　black　diplomatic　passport　and　didn't　have　to　be　troubled　with　inspections　and　such。　Ryan　was　technically　assigned　to　the　U。S。　Embassy　at　London's　Grosvenor　Square；　just　across　the　street　from　the　building　that　had　housed　Eisenhower's　WW2　office；　and　with　that　assignment　came　the　diplomatic　status　that　made　him　a　super…person；　un…trammeled　by　such　inconveniences　as　civil　law。　He　could　smuggle　a　couple　pounds　of　heroin　into　England；　and　no　one　could　so　much　as　touch　his　bags　without　permission…which　he　could　summarily　withhold；　claiming　diplomatic　privilege　and　urgent　business。　It　was　an　open　secret　that　diplomats　didn't　trouble　themselves　with　customs　duties　for　such　things　as　perfumes　for　their　wives　（or　significant　others）　and/or　booze　for　themselves；　but　to　Ryan's　Catholic　measure　of　personal　conduct；　these　were　venial　sins；　n