tc.redrabbit-第61部分

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lack　world　in　one　capacity　or　another；　and　the　jargon　wasn't　all　that　hard　to　pick　up。　But　the　black　world　had　walls；　and　that　was　that。
　　　Foley　took　his　copy　of　the　message；　tucked　it　in　his　office　safe；　and　set　both　the　bination　and　the　alarm。　Then　he　headed　down　to　the　embassy　cafeteria；　where　a　TV　was　tuned　in　to　ESPN。　There　he　learned　that　his　Yankees　had　lost　another　one…three　straight；　and　in　a　pennant　race！　Is　there　no　fairness　in　the　world？　he　grumbled。
　　　Mary　Pat　was　doing　housework；　which　was　boring；　but　a　good　opportunity　for　her　to　put　her　brain　in　neutral　while　her　imagination　ran　wild。　Okay；　she'd　be　meeting　Oleg　Ivanovich　again。　It　would　be　up　to　her　to　figure　a　way　to　get　the　〃package〃…yet　another　CIA　term　of　art；　meaning　the　material　or　person（s）　to　be　taken　out　of　the　country…to　a　safe　place。　There　were　many　ways　to　do　such　a　thing。　They　were　all　dangerous；　but　she　and　Ed　and　other　CIA　field　spooks　were　trained　to　do　dangerous　things。　Moscow　was　a　city　of　millions；　and　in　such　an　environment　three　people　on　the　move　were　just　part　of　the　background　noise；　like　one　single　leaf　falling　in　an　autumn　forest；　one　more　buffalo　in　the　herd　in　Yellowstone　National　Park；　one　more　car　on　the　L。A。　Freeway　during　rush　hour。　That　wasn't　hard；　was　it？
　　　Well；　actually；　it　was。　In　the　Soviet　Union；　every　aspect　of　personal　life　was　subject　to　control。　As　applied　to　America；　sure；　the　package　was　just　one　more　car　on　the　L。A。　Freeway；　but　going　to　Las　Vegas　meant　crossing　a　state　line；　and　you　had　to　have　a　reason　for　that。　Nothing　was　easy　here　in　the　sense　that　everything　was　easy　in　America。
　　　And　there　was　something　else。。。
　　　It　would　be　better；　Mary　Pat　thought；　that　the　Russians　didn't　know　he　was　gone。　After　all；　it　was　not　a　murder　if　there　wasn't　a　corpse　to　let　every　one　know　that　somebody　had　died。　And　it　wasn't　a　defection　unless　they　knew　that　one　of　their　citizens　had　turned　up　somewhere　else…where　he　wasn't　supposed　to　be。　So；　how　much　the　better。。。　was　it　possible。。。？　she　wondered。
　　　Wouldn't　that　be　a　kick　in　the　ass？　But　how　to　make　it　happen？　It　was　something　to　speculate　on　while　she　vacuumed　the　living　room　rug。　And；　oh；　by　the　way；　vacuuming　would　invalidate　whatever　bugs　the　Russians　had　implanted　in　the　walls。。。　And　so　she　stopped　at　once。　Why　waste　that　chance？　She　and　Ed　could　municate　with　their　hands；　but　the　bandwidth　was　like　maple　syrup　in　January。
　　　She　wondered　if　Ed　would　go　for　this。　He　might；　she　thought。　It　wasn't　the　sort　of　thing　he'd　think　up。　Ed；　for　all　his　skills；　wasn't　a　cowboy。　Though　he　had　his　talents；　and　good　ones　they　were；　he　was　more　a　bomber　pilot　than　a　fighter　pilot。　But　Mary　Pat　thought　like　Chuck　Yeager　in　the　X…1；　like　Pete　Conrad　in　the　lunar　module。　She　was　just　better　at　thinking　long…ball。
　　　The　idea　also　had　strategic　implications。　If　they　could　get　their　Rabbit　out　unknown　to　the　opposition；　then　they　could　make　indefinite　use　of　whatever　he　knew；　and　that　possibility；　if　you　could　figure　out　how　to　make　it　happen；　was　very　enticing　indeed。　It　wouldn't　be　easy；　and　it　might　be　a　needless　plication…and　if　so；　it　could　be　discarded…but　it　was　worth　thinking　about；　if　she　could　get　Ed's　brain　into　it。　She'd　need　his　planning　talents　and　his　reality…checking　ability；　but　the　basic　idea　set　her　head　abuzz。　It　would　e　down　to　available　assets。。。　And　that　would　be　the　hard　part。　But　〃hard〃　didn't　mean　〃impossible。〃　And；　for　Mary　Pat；　〃impossible〃　didn't　mean　〃impossible〃　either；　did　it？　she　asked　herself。
　　　Hell；　no。
　　　The　PAN　AM　flight　rolled　off　on　time；　lurching　across　the　lumpy　taxiways　of　Sheremetyevo　Airport；　which　was　famous　in　the　world　of　aviation　for　its　roller…coaster　paving。　But　the　runways　were　adequate；　and　the　big　JT…9D　Pratt　and　Whitney　turbofan　engines　pushed　the　airframe　to　rotation　speed；　and　the　aircraft　took　flight。　Tommy　Cox；　in　seat　3…A；　noted　with　a　smile　the　usual　reaction　when　an　American　airliner　departed　Moscow：
　　　The　passengers　all　cheered　and/or　applauded。　There　was　no　rule；　and　the　flight　crew　didn't　encourage　it。　It　just　happened　all　on　its　own…that's　how　impressed　Americans　were　with　Soviet　hospitality。　It　appealed　to　Cox；　who　had　no　love　for　the　people　who'd　supplied　the　machine　guns　that　had　splashed　his　Huey　four　times　and；　by　the　way；　earned　him　a　total　of　three　Purple　Heart　medals；　a　miniature　ribbon　of　which　decorated　the　lapels　of　all　his　suitcoats；　along　with　the　two　repeat　stars。　He　looked　out　the　window；　watching　the　ground　fall　away　to　his　left　and；　when　he　heard　the　wele　ding；　fished　out　a　Winston　to　light　with　his　Zippo。　It　was　a　pity　he　couldn't　drink　or　sleep　on　these　flights；　but　the　movie　was　one　he　hadn't　seen；　remarkably　enough。　In　this　job　you　learned　to　appreciate　the　small　things。　Twelve　hours　to　New　York；　but　a　direct　flight　was　better　than　having　to　stop　over　in　Frankfurt　or　Heathrow。　Such　places　were　just　an　opportunity　for　him　to　drag　this　fucking　canvas　bag　around；　sometimes　without　benefit　of　a　cart　or　trolley。　Well；　he　had　a　full　pack　of　smokes；　and　the　dinner　menu　didn't　look　too　bad。　And　the　government　actually　paid　him　to　sit　down　for　twelve　hours；　baby…sitting　a　piece　of　cheap　luggage。　It　was　better　than　flying　his　Huey　around　the　Central　Highlands。　Cox　was　long　past　wondering　what　important　information　he　transported　in　his　bag。　And　if　other　people　were　that　interested；　that　was　their　problem。
　　　Ryan　had　gotten　a　hot　three　pages　done…not　a　very　productive　day；　and　he　couldn't　claim　that　the　artistry　of　his　prose　demanded　a　slow　writing　pace。　His　language　was　literate…he'd　learned　his　grammar　from　priests　and　nuns　for　the　most　part；　and　his　word　mechanics　were　serviceable…but　not　particularly　elegant。　In　his　first　book；　Doomed　Eagles；　every　bit　of　artistic　language　he'd　attempted　to　put　into　his　manuscript　had　been　edited　out；　to　his　quiet　and　submissive　fury。　And　so　the　few　critics　who　had　read　and　mented　on　his　historical　epic　had　faintly　praised　the　quality　of　his　analysis；　but　then　tersely　noted　that　it　might　be　a　good　textbook　for　academic　students　of　history；　but　not　something　on　which　a　casual　reader　might　wish　to　waste　his　money。　And　so　the　book　had　netted　7；865　copies　sold…not　much　to　show　for　two　and　a　half　years'　work；　but　that；　Jack　reminded　himself；　was　just　his　first　outing；　and　maybe　a　new　publisher　would　get　him　an　editor　who　was　more　an　ally　than　an　enemy。　He　could　hope；　after　all。
　　　But　the　damned　thing　would　not　get　done　until　he　did　it；　and　three　pages　wasn't　much　to　show　for　a　full　day　in　his　den。　He　was　time…sharing　his　brain　with　another　problem；　and　that　wasn't　a　useful　productivity　tool。
　　　〃How　did　it　go？〃　Cathy　asked；　suddenly　appearing　at　his　shoulder。
　　　〃Not　too　bad；〃　he　lied。
　　　〃Where　are　you　up　to？〃
　　　〃May。　Halsey　is　fighting　off　his　skin　disease。〃
　　　〃Dermatitis？　That　can　be　nasty；　even　today；〃　Cathy　noted。　〃It　can　drive　the　poor　patients　crazy。〃
　　　〃Since　when　are　you　a　dermatologist？〃
　　　〃M。D。；　Jack；　remember？　I　may　not　know　it　all；　but　I　know　most　of　it。〃
　　　〃All　that；　and　humble；　too。〃　He　made　a　face。
　　　〃Well；　when　you　get　a　cold；　don't　I　take　good　care　of　you？〃
　　　〃I　suppose。〃　She　did；　actually。　〃How　are　the　kids？〃
　　　〃Fine。　Sally　had　a　good　time　on　the　swings；　and　she　made　a　new　friend；　Geoffrey　Froggatt。　His　father's　a　solicitor。〃
　　　〃Great。　Isn't　there　anything　but　lawyers　around　here？〃
　　　〃Well；　there's　a　doctor　and　a　spook；〃　Cathy　pointed　out。　〃Trouble　is；　I　can't　tell　people　what　you　do；　can　I？〃
　　　〃So　what　do　you　tell　them？〃　Jack　asked。
　　　〃That　you　work　for　the　embassy。〃　Close　enough。
　　　〃Another　desk…sitting　bureaucrat；〃　he　grumped。
　　　〃Well；　you　want　to　go　back　to　Merrill　Lynch？〃
　　　〃Ugh。　Not　in　this　lifetime。〃
　　　〃Some　people　like　making　tons　of　money；〃　she　pointed　out。
　　　〃Only　as　a　hobby；　babe。〃　Were　he　to　go　back　to　trading；　his　father…in…law　would　gloat　for　a　year。　No；　not　in　this　lifetime。　He'd　served　his　time　in　hell；　like　a　good　Marine。　〃I　have　more　important　things　to　do。〃
　　　〃Like　what？〃
　　　〃I　can't　tell　you；〃　he　countered。
　　　〃I　know　that；〃　his　wife　responded；　with　a　playful　smile。　〃Well；　at　least　it　isn't　insider　trading。〃
　　　Actually；　it　was；　Ryan　couldn't　say…the　nastiest　sort。　Thousands　of　people　working　every　day　to　find　out　things　they　weren't　supposed　to　know；　and　then　taking　action　they　weren't　supposed　to　take。
　　　But　both　sides　played　that　game…played　it　diligently…because　it　wasn't　about　money。　It　was　about　life　and　death；　and　those　games　were　as　nasty　as　they　got。　But　Cathy　didn't　lose　any　sleep　over　the　cancer　tissue　she　consigned　to　the　hospital　incinerator　and　probably　those　cancer　cells　wanted　to　live；　too；　but　that　was　just　too　damned　bad；　wasn't　it？
　　　Colonel　Bubovoy　had　the　dispatch　on　his　desk　and　read　it。　His　hands　didn't　shake；　but　he　lit　a　cigarette　to　help　his　contemplation。　So；　the　Politburo　was　willing　to　go　forward　with　this。　Leonid　Ilyich　himself　had　signed　the　letter　to　the　Bulgarian　Party　chairman。　He'd　have　the　ambassador　call　Monday　morning　to　set　up　the　meeting；　which　ought　not　to　take　too　long。　The　Bulgarians　were　lapdogs　of　the　Soviet　Union；　but　occasionally　useful　lapdogs。　The　Soviets　had　assisted　in　the　murder　of　Georgiy　Markov　on　Westminster　Bridge　in　London…KGB　had　supplied　the　weapon；　if　you　could　call　it　that；　an　umbrella　to　deliver　the　poison…filled　metal　miniball　to　transfer　the　ricin；　and　so　silence　the　annoying　defector　who'd　talked　too　much　on　BBC　World　Service。　That　had　been　a　while；　and　such　debts　had　no　expiration　date；　did　they？　Not　at　this　level　of　statecraft。　So　Moscow　was　calling　in　the　debt。　Besides　that；　there　was　the　agreement　from　1964；　when　it　had　been　agreed　that　DS　would　handle　KGB's　wet　work　in　the　West。　And　Leonid　Ilyich　was　promising　to　transfer　a　full　battalion's　worth　of　the　new　version　of　the　T…72　main…battle　tank；　which　was　always　the　sort　of　thing　to　make　a　munist　chief　of　state　feel　better　about　his　political　security。　And　it　was　cheaper　than　the　MiG…29s　the　Bulgarians　were　asking　for。　As　though　a　Bulgarian　pilot　could　handle　such　an　aircraft…the　Russian　joke　was　that　they　had　to　tuck　their　mustaches　into　the　flight　helmet　before　closing　the　visor；　Bubovoy　reminded　himself。　Mustaches　or　not；　the　Bulgarians　were　regarded　as　the　children　o