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ine　that　was　the　Soviet　state；　which　they　all　purported　to　serve　and　which　purported　to　serve　them　and　their　families。。。
　　　But　it　was　all　a　lie；　wasn't　it？　Zaitzev　asked　himself。　Was　it？　How　did　the　murder　of　a　priest　serve　the　Soviet　State？　How　did　it　serve　all　these　people？　How　did　it　serve　him　and　his　wife　and　his　little　daughter？　By　feeding　them？　By　giving　him　the　ability　to　shop　in　the　〃closed〃　shops　and　buy　things　that　the　other　workers　could　not　even　think　about　getting　for　themselves？
　　　But　he　was　better　off　than　nearly　everyone　else　on　the　subway　car；　Oleg　Ivan'ch　reminded　himself。　Ought　he　not　be　grateful　for　that？　Didn't　he　eat　better　food；　drink　better　coffee；　watch　a　better　TV　set；　sleep　on　better　sheets？　Didn't　he　have　all　the　creature　forts　that　these　people　would　like　to　have？　Why　am　I　suddenly　so　badly　troubled？　the　municator　asked　himself。　The　answer　was　so　obvious　that　it　took　nearly　a　minute　for　him　to　grasp　the　answer。　It　was　because　his　position；　the　one　that　gave　him　the　forts　he　enjoyed；　also　gave　him　knowledge；　and　in　this　case；　for　the　first　time　in　his　life；　knowledge　was　a　curse。　He　knew　the　thoughts　of　the　men　who　determined　the　course　his　country　was　taking；　and　in　that　knowledge　he　saw　that　the　course　was　a　false　one。。。　an　evil　one；　and　inside　his　mind　was　an　agency　that　looked　at　the　knowledge　and　judged　it　wrong。　And　in　that　judgment　came　the　need　to　do　something　to　change　it。　He　could　not　object　and　expect　to　keep　what　passed　for　freedom　in　his　country。　There　was　no　agency　open　to　him　through　which　he　could　make　his　judgment　known　to　others；　though　others　might　well　concur　with　his　judgment；　might　ask　the　men　who　governed　their　country　for　a　redress　of　their　grievances。　No；　there　was　no　way　for　him　to　act　within　such　a　system　as　it　existed。　To　do　that；　you　had　to　be　so　very　senior　that　before　you　voiced　doubts　you　had　to　think　carefully；　lest　you　lose　your　privilege；　and　so　whatever　consciences　you　had　were　tempered　by　the　cowardice　that　came　with　having　so　much　to　lose。　He'd　never　heard　of　any　senior　political　figure　in　his　country　standing　up　that　way；　standing　on　a　matter　of　principle　and　telling　his　peers　that　they　were　doing　something　wrong。　No；　the　system　precluded　that　by　the　sort　of　people　it　selected。　Corrupted　men　only　selected　other　corrupted　men　to　be　their　peers；　lest　they　have　to　question　the　things　that　gave　them　their　own　vast　privileges。　Just　as　the　princes　under　the　czars　rarely　if　ever　considered　the　effect　their　rule　had　on　the　serfs；　so　the　new　princes　of　Marxism　never　questioned　the　system　that　gave　them　their　place　in　the　world。　Why？　Because　the　world　hadn't　changed　its　shape…just　its　color；　from　czarist　white　to　socialist　red…and　in　keeping　the　shape；　it　kept　its　method　of　working；　and　in　a　red　world；　a　little　extra　spilled　blood　was　difficult　to　notice。
　　　The　metro　carriage　stopped　at　his　station；　and　Zaitzev　made　his　way　to　the　sliding　metal　door；　to　the　platform；　left　to　the　escalator；　up　to　the　street　on　a　fine；　clear；　late…summer　day；　again　part　of　a　crowd；　but　one　that　dispersed　as　it　moved。　A　medium…sized　contingent　walked　at　a　steady　pace　toward　the　stone　edifice　of　The　Centre；　through　the　bronze　doors；　and　past　the　first　security　checkpoint。　Zaitzev　showed　his　pass　to　the　uniformed　guard；　who　checked　the　picture　against　his　face　and　jerked　his　head　to　the　right；　signaling　that　it　was　all　right　for　him　to　enter　the　vast　office　building。　Showing　the　same　lack　of　emotion　as　he　would　any　other　day；　Zaitzev　took　the　stone　steps　down　to　the　basement　level　through　another　checkpoint　and　finally　into　the　open…bay　work　area　of　the　signals　center。
　　　The　night　crew　was　just　finishing　up。　At　Zaitzev's　desk　was　the　man　who　worked　the　midnight…to…eight　shift；　Nikolay　Konstantinovich　Dobrik；　a　newly　promoted　major　like　himself。
　　　〃Good　morning；　Oleg；〃　Dobrik　said　in　radely　greeting；　acpanied　by　a　stretch　in　his　swivel　chair。
　　　〃And　to　you；　Kolya。　How　was　the　night　watch？〃
　　　〃A　lot　of　traffic　last　night　from　Washington。　That　madman　of　a　president　was　at　it　again。　Did　you　know　that　we　are　'the　focus　of　evil　in　the　modern　world'？〃
　　　〃He　said　that？〃　Zaitzev　asked　incredulously。
　　　Dobrik　nodded。　〃He　did。　The　Washington　rezidentura　sent　us　the　text　of　his　speech…it　was　red　meat　for　his　party　faithful；　but　it　was　incendiary　even　so。　I　expect　the　ambassador　will　get　instructions　from　the　foreign　ministry　about　it；　and　the　Politburo　will　probably　have　something　to　say。　But　at　least　it　gave　me　a　lively　watch　to　read　it　all！〃
　　　〃They　didn't　put　it　on　the　pad；　did　they？〃　A　plete　transmission　on　a　one…time　cipher　pad　would　have　been　a　nightmare　job　for　the　clerks。
　　　〃No；　it　was　a　machine　job；　thank　God；〃　Dobrik　replied。　His　choice　of　words　wasn't　entirely　ironic。　That　euphemism　was　a　mon　one；　even　at　The　Centre。　〃Our　officers　are　trying　to　make　sense　of　his　words　even　now。　The　political　department　will　be　going　over　it　for　hours…days；　more　likely；　plete　with　the　psychiatrists；　I　wager。〃
　　　Zaitzev　managed　a　chuckle。　The　back…and…forth　between　the　head　doctors　and　the　field　officers　would　undoubtedly　be　entertaining　to　read…and；　like　good　clerks；　they　tended　to　read　all　of　the　entertaining　dispatches。
　　　〃You　have　to　wonder　how　such　men　get　to　rule　major　countries；〃　Dobrik　observed；　standing　up　and　lighting　a　cigarette。
　　　〃I　think　they　call　it　the　democratic　process；〃　Zaitzev　responded。
　　　〃Well；　in　that　case；　thanks　be　for　the　Collective　Will　of　the　People　as　expressed　through　the　beloved　Party。〃　Dobrik　was　a　good　Party　member；　despite　the　planned　irony　of　his　remark；　as　was　everyone　in　this　room；　of　course。
　　　〃Indeed；　Kolya。　In　any　case〃…Zaitzev　looked　over　at　the　wall　clock。　He　was　six　minutes　early…〃I　relieve　you；　rade　Major。〃
　　　〃And　I　thank　you；　rade　Major。〃　Dobrik　headed　off　to　the　exit。
　　　Zaitzev　took　the　seat；　still　warm　from　Dobrik's　backside；　and　signed　in　on　the　time　sheet；　noting　the　time。　Next　he　dumped　the　contents　of　the　desk　ashtray　into　the　trash　bucket…Dobrik　never　seemed　to　do　that…and　started　a　new　day　at　the　office。　Relieving　his　colleague　had　been　a　rote　process；　if　a　pleasant　one。　He　hardly　knew　Dobrik；　except　for　these　moments　at　the　start　of　his　day。　Why　anyone　would　volunteer　for　continuous　night　duty　mystified　him。　At　least　Dobrik　always　left　a　clean　desk　behind；　not　one　piled　up　with　unfinished　work；　which　gave　Zaitzev　a　few　minutes　to　get　caught　up　and　mentally　organized　for　the　day。
　　　In　this　case；　however；　those　few　minutes　merely　brought　back　the　images　that；　it　seemed；　were　not　about　to　go　away。　And　so　Oleg　Ivanovich　lit　up　his　first　work　cigarette　of　the　day　and　shuffled　the　papers　on　the　metal　desk　while　his　mind　was　elsewhere；　doing　things　that　he　himself　didn't　want　to　know　about　just　yet。　It　was　ten　minutes　after　the　hour　when　a　cipher　clerk　came　to　him　with　a　folder。
　　　〃From　Station　Washington；　rade　Major；〃　the　clerk　announced。
　　　〃Thank　you；　rade；〃　Zaitzev　acknowledged。
　　　Taking　the　manila　folder；　he　opened　it　and　started　leafing　through　the　dispatches。
　　　Ah；　he　thought；　this　CASSIUS　fellow　has　reported　in。。。　yes；　more　political　intelligence。　He　didn't　know　the　name　or　face　that　went　along　with　CASSIUS；　but　he　had　to　be　an　aide　to　a　senior　parliamentarian；　possibly　even　a　senator。　He　delivered　high…quality　political　intelligence　that　hinted　at　access　to　hard　intelligence　information。　So　a　servant　to　a　very　senior　American　politician　worked　for　the　Soviet　Union；　too。　He　wasn't　paid；　which　made　him　an　ideologically　motivated　agent；　the　very　best　sort。
　　　He　read　through　the　dispatch　and　then　searched　his　memory　for　the　right　recipient　upstairs。。。　Colonel　Anatoliy　Gregorovich　Fokin；　in　the　political　department；　whose　address　was　Washington　Desk；　Line　PR；　First　Department；　First　Chief　Directorate；　up　on　the　fourth　floor。
　　　Outside　of　town；　colonel　Ilya　Fedorovich　Bubovoy　walked　off　his　morning　flight　from　Sofia。　To　catch　it；　he'd　had　to　arise　at　three　in　the　morning；　an　embassy　car　taking　him　to　the　airport　for　the　flight　to　Moscow。　The　summons　had　e　from　Aleksey　Rozhdestvenskiy；　whom　he'd　known　for　some　years　and　who　had　shown　him　the　courtesy　to　call　the　day　before　and　assure　him　that　nothing　untoward　was　meant　by　this　summons　to　The　Centre。　Bubovoy　had　a　clear　conscience；　but　it　was　nice　to　know；　even　so。　You　never　could　be　sure　with　KGB。　Like　children　called　to　the　principal's　office；　officers　were　often　known　to　have　a　few　upper…gastric　butterflies　on　the　way　into　headquarters。　In　any　case；　his　tie　was　properly　knotted；　and　his　good　shoes　shined　properly。　He　did　not　wear　his　uniform；　as　his　identity　as　the　Sofia　rezident　was　technically　secret。
　　　A　uniformed　sergeant　of　the　Red　Army　met　him　at　the　gate　and　led　him　out　to　a　car…in　fact；　the　sergeant　was　KGB；　but　that　wasn't　for　public　knowledge：　Who　knew　if　CIA　or　other　Western　services　had　eyes　at　the　airport？　Bubovoy　picked　up　a　copy　of　Sovietskiy　Sports　a　kiosk　on　the　walk　out　to　the　car。　It　would　be　thirty…five　minutes　in。　Sofia's　soccer　team　had　just　beaten　Moscow　Dynamo；　3…2；　a　few　days　before。　The　colonel　wondered　if　the　local　sportswriters　would　be　calling　for　the　heads　of　the　Moscow　team；　couched　in　appropriate　Marxist　rhetoric；　of　course。　Good　socialists　always　won；　but　the　sportswriters　tended　to　get　confused　when　one　socialist　team　lost　to　another。
　　　Foley　was　on　the　metro　as　well；　running　a　little　late　this　morning。　A　power　failure　had　reset　his　alarm　clock　without　formal　notice；　so　he'd　been　awakened　by　sunlight　through　the　windows　instead　of　the　usual　metallic　buzz。　As　always；　he　tried　not　to　look　around　too　much；　but　he　couldn't　help　checking　for　the　owner　of　the　hand　that　had　searched　his　pocket。　But　none　of　the　faces　looked　back　at　him。　He'd　try　again　that　afternoon；　on　the　train　that　left　the　station　at　17：41；　just　in　case。　In　case　of　what？　Foley　didn't　know；　but　that　was　one　of　the　exciting　things　about　his　chosen　line　of　work。　If　it　had　been　just　happenstance；　all　well　and　good；　but　for　the　next　few　days　he'd　be　on　the　same　train；　in　the　same　coach；　standing　in　much　the　same　place。　If　he　had　a　shadow；　the　man　wouldn't　remark　on　it。　The　Russians　actually　found　it　forting　to　trail　someone　who　followed　a　routine…the　randomness　of　Americans　could　driv