tc.redrabbit-第42部分

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　　　IMMEDIATE　AND　URGENT
　　　FROM：　OFFICE　OF　CHAIRMAN；　Moscow　CENTRE
　　　To：　REZIDENT　SOFIA
　　　REFERENCE：　OPERATIONAL　DESIGNATOR　15…8…82…666
FOR　ALL　FUTURE　MUNICATIONS　YOUR　OPERATIONAL　CONTACT　WILL　BE　COLONEL　ROZHDESTVENSKIY。　BY　ORDER　OF　THE　CHAIRMAN。

　　　It　was　just　a　housekeeping　message；　but　coded　〃Immediate　and　Urgent。〃　That　meant　it　was　important　to　Chairman　Andropov；　and　the　reference　made　it　an　operation；　not　just　a　query　to　some　rezident。
　　　They　really　want　to　do　it；　Zaitzev　realized。
　　　What　the　hell　could　he　do　about　it？　No　one　in　this　room…no　one　in　the　entire　building…could　forestall　this　operation。　But　outside　the　building。。。？
　　　Zaitzev　lit　a　cigarette。　He'd　be　taking　the　metro　home　as　usual。　Would　that　American　be　there　as　well？
　　　He　was　contemplating　treason；　he　thought　chillingly。　The　crime　had　a　fearsome　sound　to　it；　with　an　even　more　fearsome　reality。　But　the　other　side　of　that　coin　was　to　sit　here　and　read　over　the　dispatches　while　an　innocent　man　was　killed。。。　and；　no；　he　could　not　do　that。
　　　Zaitzev　took　a　message　blank　off　a　centimeter…thick　pad　of　them　on　his　desk。　He　set　the　single　sheet　of　paper　on　the　desk　surface　and　wrote　in　English；　using　a　#1　soft　pencil：　IF　YOU　FIND　THIS　INTERESTING；　WEAR　A　GREEN　TIE　TOMORROW。　That　was　as　far　as　his　courage　stretched　this　afternoon。　He　folded　the　form　and　tucked　it　inside　his　cigarette　pack；　careful　to　do　everything　with　normal　motions；　because　anything　the　least　bit　unusual　in　this　room　was　noticed。　Next；　he　scribbled　something　on　another　blank　form；　then　crumpled　and　tossed　it　into　the　waste　can；　and　went　back　to　his　usual　work。　For　the　next　three　hours；　Oleg　Ivan'ch　would　rethink　his　action　every　time　he　reached　in　his　pocket　for　a　smoke。　Every　time；　he'd　consider　taking　out　the　folded　sheet　of　paper　and　ripping　it　to　small　bits　before　relegating　it　to　the　waste　can　and　then　the　burn　bag。　But　every　time；　he'd　leave　it　there；　telling　himself　that　he'd　done　nothing　yet。　Above　all；　he　tried　to　set　his　mind　free；　to　do　his　regular　work　and　deliberately　put　himself　on　auto…pilot；　trying　to　let　the　day　go　by。　Finally；　he　told　himself　that　his　fate　was　in　hands　other　than　his　own。　If　he　got　home　without　anything　unusual　happening；　he'd　take　the　folded　form　out　of　his　cigarette　pack　and　burn　it　in　his　kitchen；　and　that　would　be　the　end　of　it。　About　four　in　the　afternoon；　Zaitzev　looked　up　at　the　water…stained　ceiling　of　munications　and　whispered　something　akin　to　a　prayer。
　　　Finally；　the　workday　ended。　He　took　the　usual　route　at　the　usual　pace　to　the　usual　metro　stop；　down　the　escalator；　onto　the　platform。　The　metro　schedule　was　as　predictable　as　the　ing　and　going　of　the　tides；　and　he　boarded　the　carriage　along　with　a　hundred　others。
　　　Then　his　heart　almost　stopped　cold　in　his　chest：　There　was　the　American；　standing　in　exactly　the　same　place；　reading　a　newspaper　in　his　right　hand；　with　his　left　holding　on　to　the　overhead　rail；　his　raincoat　unbuttoned　and　loose　around　his　slender　frame。　The　open　pocket　beckoned　to　him　as　the　Sirens　had　to　Odysseus。　Zaitzev　made　his　way　to　the　center　of　the　railcar；　shuffling　between　other　riders。　His　right　hand　fished　in　his　shirt　pocket　for　the　cigarette　pack。　He　deftly　removed　the　message　blank　from　the　pack　and　palmed　it；　shuffling　about　the　car　as　it　slowed　for　a　station；　making　room　for　another　passenger。　It　worked　perfectly。　He　jostled　into　the　American　and　made　the　transfer；　then　drew　back。
　　　Zaitzev　took　a　deep　breath。　The　deed　was　done。　What　happened　now　was　indeed　in　other　hands。
　　　Was　the　man　really　an　American…or　some　false…flag　from　the　Second　Chief　Directorate？
　　　Had　the　〃American〃　seen　his　face？
　　　Did　that　matter？　Weren't　his　fingerprints　on　the　message　form？　Zaitzev　didn't　have　a　clue。　He'd　been　careful　when　tearing　off　the　form…and；　if　questioned；　he　could　always　say　that　the　pad　just　lay　on　his　desk；　and　anyone　could　have　taken　a　form…even　asked　him　for　it！　It　might　be　enough　even　to　foil　a　KGB　investigation　if　he　stuck　to　his　story。　Soon　enough；　he　was　off　the　subway　car　and　walking　into　the　open　air。　He　hoped　nobody　saw　his　hands　shake　as　he　lit　up　a　smoke。
　　　Foley's　highly　trained　senses　had　failed　him。　With　his　coat　loose　about　him；　he　hadn't　noticed　any　touch；　except　for　the　usual　bumps　associated　with　the　subway；　whether　in　Moscow　or　New　York。　But　as　he　made　his　way　off　the　train；　he　stuck　his　left　hand　into　the　left…side　pocket；　and　there　was　something　there；　and　he　knew　that　it　wasn't　something　he'd　placed　there　himself。　A　quizzical　look　crossed　his　face；　which　his　training　quickly　erased。　He　succumbed　to　the　temptation　to　look　around　for　a　tail；　but　instantly　realized　that；　given　his　regular　schedule；　there'd　be　a　fresh　face　here　on　the　surface　to　track　him；　or　most　likely　a　series　of　cameras　atop　the　surrounding　buildings。　Movie　film　was　as　cheap　here　as　everywhere　else　in　the　world。　And　so　he　walked　home；　just　as　on　any　other　day；　nodded　at　the　guard　at　the　gate；　and　then　made　his　way　into　the　elevator；　then　through　the　door。
　　　〃I'm　home；　honey；〃　Ed　Foley　announced；　taking　out　the　paper　only　after　the　door　was　closed。　He　was　reasonably　certain　that　there　were　no　cameras　in　the　apartment…even　American　technology　wasn't　that　far　along　yet；　and　he'd　seen　enough　of　Moscow　to　be　unimpressed　with　their　technical　capabilities。　His　fingers　unfolded　the　paper；　and　then　he　stopped　cold　in　his　tracks。
　　　〃What's　for　dinner？〃　he　called　out。
　　　〃e　and　see；　Ed。〃　Mary　Pat's　voice　came　from　the　kitchen。
　　　Hamburgers　were　sizzling　on　the　stove。　Mashed　potatoes　and　gravy；　plus　baked　beans；　your　basic　American　working…class　dinner。　But　the　bread　was　Russian；　and　that　wasn't　bad。　Little　Eddie　was　in　front　of　the　TV；　watching　a　Transformers　tape；　which　would　keep　him　occupied　for　the　next　twenty　minutes。
　　　〃Anything　interesting　happen　today？〃　Mary　Pat　asked　from　the　stove。　She　turned　for　her　kiss；　and　her　husband　replied　with　their　personal　code　phrase　for　the　unusual。
　　　〃Not　a　thing；　baby。〃　That　piqued　her　interest　enough　that　when　he　held　up　the　sheet　of　paper；　she　took　it；　and　her　eyes　went　wide。
　　　It　wasn't　so　much　the　handwritten　message　as　the　printed　header：　STATE　SECURITY　OFFICIAL　MUNICATION。
　　　Damn。　His　wife's　lips　mouthed　the　word。
　　　The　Moscow　COS　nodded　thoughtfully。
　　　〃Can　you　watch　the　burgers；　honey？　I　have　to　get　something。〃
　　　Ed　took　the　spatula　and　flipped　one　over。　His　wife　was　back　quickly；　holding　a　kelly　green　tie。
　　　
　　　CHAPTER　11　…　HAND　JIVE
　　　Of　course；　there　was　little　to　be　done　at　the　moment。　Dinner　was　served　and　eaten；　and　Eddie　went　back　to　his　VCR　and　cartoon　tapes。　Four…year…olds　were　easy　to　please；　even　in　Moscow。　His　parents　got　down　to　business。　Years　ago；　they'd　seen　The　Miracle　Worker　on　TV；　in　which　Annie　Sullivan　（Anne　Bancroft）　taught　Helen　Keller　（Patty　Duke）　the　use　of　the　manual　alphabet；　and　they'd　decided　it　was　a　useful　skill　to　learn　as　a　means　of　municating　not　quickly　but　quietly　and　with　their　own　shorthand。
　　　W＇ell＇；　what　do　＇yo＇u　think？　Ed　asked　Mary。
　　　This　could　b＇e＇　pretty　h＇ot＇；　his　wife　replied。
　　　Y＇ep＇。
　　　Ed；　this　guy　works　in　MERCURY；　th＇eir＇　version　anyway！　Wow！
　　　More　likely　he　just　has　access　to　their　mess＇age＇　forms；　the　Chief　of　Station　cautioned　slowly。　But　I'll　wear　the　green　tie　and　take　the　same　subway　train　for　the　next　w＇eek＇　or　so。
　　　FAB；　his　wife　agreed；　which　was　shorthand　for　Fuckin'　A；　Bubba！
　　　Hope　it　isn't　a　trap　or　a　false…flag；　Ed　observed。
　　　Part　of　the　terr＇itory＇；　h＇oney＇；　MP　responded。　The　thought　of　being　burned　didn't　frighten　her；　though　she　didn't　want　to　suffer　the　embarrassment。　She　looked　for　opportunities　more　than　her　husband　did…he　worried　more。　But；　strangely；　not　this　time。　If　the　Russians　had　〃made〃　him　as　the　Chief　of　Station　or　even　just　as　a　field　spook…not　likely；　Ed　thought…they'd　be　total　idiots　to　burn　him　like　this；　not　this　fast　and　not　this　amateurishly。　Unless　they　were　trying　to　make　some　sort　of　political　point；　and　he　couldn't　see　the　logic　of　that…and　the　KBG　was　as　coldly　logical　as　Mr。　Spock　ever　was　on　planet　Vulcan。　Even　the　FBI　wouldn't　play　this　loose　a　game。　So　this　opportunity　had　to　be　real；　unless　KGB　was　shaking　down　every　embassy　employee　it　could；　just　to　see　what　might　fall　off　the　tree。　Possible；　but　damned　unlikely；　and　therefore　worth　the　gamble；　Foley　judged。　He'd　wear　the　green　tie　and　see　what　happened；　and　be　damned　careful　to　check　all　the　faces　on　the　subway　car。
　　　Tell　L＇angley＇？　Mary　asked　next。
　　　He　just　shook　his　head。　2　early　4　that。
　　　She　nodded　agreement。　Next；　Mary　Pat　mimed　riding　a　horse。　That　meant　that　there　was　a　chase　and　they　were　really　in　the　game；　finally。　It　was　as　though　she　were　afraid　that　her　skills　were　going　stale。　Damned　little　chance　of　that；　her　husband　thought。　He　was　willing　to　bet　that　his　wife　had　gone　all　the　way　through　parochial　school　without　a　single　rap　on　the　knuckles；　because　the　sisters　had　never　once　caught　her　misbehaving。。。
　　　And；　for　that　matter；　Ed　reflected；　neither　had　he。
　　　W＇ell＇；　tomor＇row＇　will　be　inter＇esting＇；　he　told　her；　getting　a　sexy　nod　as　a　reply。
　　　The　hard　part　for　the　rest　of　the　evening　was　not　dwelling　on　the　opportunity。　Even　with　their　training；　their　thoughts　kept　ing　back　to　the　idea　of　working　an　agent　in　the　Russian　MERCURY。　It　was　a　conceptual　homer　in　the　bottom　of　the　ninth　in　the　seventh　game　of　the　World　Series…Reggie　Jackson　Foley　as　Mister　October。
　　　Damn。
　　　〃So；　Simon；　what　do　we　really　know　about　the　guy？〃
　　　〃Not　all　that　much　on　the　personal　level；〃　Harding　admitted。　〃He's　a　Party　man　first；　last；　and　always。　His　horizons　have　been　broadened；　I　suppose；　from　his　chairmanship　of　KGB。　There's　talk　that　he　prefers　Western　liquor　to　his　own　vodka；　and　stories　that　he　enjoys　American　jazz；　but　those　could　be　stories　floated　in…house　by　The　Centre　to　help　him　appear　amenable　to　the　West…not　bloody　likely；　in　my　humble　opinion。　The　man　is　a　thug。　His　Party　record　is　not　one　of　gentleness。　One　doesn't　advance　in　that　organization　except　by　toughness…and　remarkably　often　the　highflyers　are　men　who　have　crushed　their　own　mentors　along　the　way。　It's　a　Darwinian　organization　gone　mad；　Jack。　The　fittest　survive；　but　they　prove　themselves　to　be　the　fittest　by　s