tc.redrabbit-第27部分

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　　　〃That　is　correct；　Captain。〃
　　　Zaitzev　nodded；　then　handed　the　message　blank　to　Colonel　Rozhdestvenskiy　for　his　signature/confirmation。　Everything　in　KGB　had　to　have　a　paper　trail。　Zaitzev　looked　down　at　the　checklist。　Message；　originator；　recipient；　encryption　method；　point　of　contact。。。　yes；　he　had　everything；　and　all　spaces　were　properly　signed。　He　looked　up。　〃Colonel；　it　will　go　out　shortly。　I　will　call　you　to　confirm　transmission　time。〃　He　would　also　send　a　paper　record　upstairs　for　the　permanent　operations　files。　He　made　a　final　written　notation　and　handed　off　the　carbon　copy。
　　　〃Here's　the　dispatch　number。　It　will　also　be　the　operation…reference　number　until　such　time　as　you　change　it。〃
　　　〃Thank　you；　Captain。〃　The　colonel　took　his　leave。
　　　Oleg　Ivanovich　looked　again　at　the　wall　clock。　Rome　was　three　hours　behind　Moscow　time。　Ten　or　fifteen　minutes　for　the　rezident　to　clear…text　the　message…the　field　people　were　so　clumsy　at　such　things；　he　knew…and　then　to　think　about　it；　and　then。。。？　Zaitzev　made　a　small　wager　with　himself。　The　Rome　rezident　would　send　back　a　request　for　clarification。　Sure　as　hell。　The　captain　had　been　sending　out　messages　and　getting　them　back　from　this　man　for　some　years。　Goderenko　was　a　careful　man　who　liked　things　clear。　So　he'd　leave　the　Rome　pad　in　his　desk　drawer　in　readiness　for　the　return　message。　He　counted：　209　characters；　including　blank　spaces　and　punctuation。　A　pity　they　couldn't　do　this　on　one　of　those　new　American　puters　they　were　playing　with　upstairs。　But　there　was　no　sense　wishing　for　the　moon。　Zaitzev　pulled　out　the　cipher…pad　book　from　his　desk　drawer　and　unnecessarily　wrote　down　its　number　before　walking　to　the　west　side　of　the　capacious　room。　He　knew　nearly　all　of　them　by　number；　a　product　of　his　chess　background；　Zaitzev　imagined。
　　　〃Pad　one…one…five…eight…nine…zero；〃　he　told　the　clerk　behind　the　metal　screen；　handing　off　the　paper　slip。　The　clerk；　a　man　of　fifty…seven　long　years；　most　of　them　here；　walked　a　few　meters　to　fetch　the　proper　cipher　book。　It　was　a　loose…leaf　binder；　about　ten　centimeters　across　by　twenty…five　high；　filled　with　punched　paper　pages；　probably　five　hundred　or　more。　The　current　page　was　marked　with　a　plastic　tag。
　　　The　pages　looked　like　those　in　a　telephone　book；　until　you　looked　closely　and　saw　that　the　letters　didn't　form　names　in　any　known　language；　except　by　random　accident。　There　were　on　average　two　or　three　such　occurrences　per　page。　Outside　Moscow；　on　the　Outer　Ring　Road；　was　the　headquarters　of　Zaitzev's　own　directorate；　the　Eighth；　the　part　of　KGB　tasked　with　making　and　breaking　codes　and　ciphers。　On　the　roof　of　the　building　was　a　highly　sensitive　antenna　which　led　to　a　teletype　machine。　The　receiver　that　lay　between　the　antenna　and　the　teletype　listened　in　on　random　atmospheric　noise；　and　the　teletype　interpreted　these　〃signals〃　as　dot…dash　letters；　which　the　adjacent　teletype　machine　duly　printed　up。　In　fact；　several　such　machines　were　cross…connected　in　such　a　way　that　the　randomness　of　the　atmospheric　noise　was　re…randomized　into　totally　unpredictable　gibberish。　From　that　gibberish　were　made　the　one…time　pads；　which　were　supposed　to　be　totally　random　transpositions　that　no　mathematical　formula　could　predict　or；　therefore；　decrypt。　The　one…time…pad　cipher　was　universally　regarded　as　the　most　secure　of　encryption　systems。　That　was　important；　since　the　Americans　were　the　world　leaders　at　cracking　ciphers。　Their　〃Venona〃　project　had　even　promised　Soviet　ciphers　of　the　late　1940s　and　'50s；　much　to　the　disfort　of　Zaitzev's　parent　agency。　The　most　secure　one…time　pads　were　also　the　most　cumbersome　and　inconvenient；　even　for　experienced　hands　like　Captain　Zaitzev。　But　that　couldn't　be　helped。　And　Andropov　himself　wanted　to　know　how　to　get　physically　close　to　the　Pope。
　　　That's　when　it　hit　Zaitzev：　Physically　close　to　the　Pope。　But　why　would　anyone　want　that？　Surely　Yuriy　Vladimirovich　didn't　want　anyone　to　hear　his　confession。
　　　What　was　he　being　asked　to　transmit？
　　　The　Rome　rezident；　Goderenko；　was　a　highly　experienced　field　officer　whose　rezidentura　operated　many　Italian　and　other　nationals　as　agents　for　the　KGB。　He　forwarded　all　manner　of　information；　some　overtly　important；　some　merely　amusing；　though　potentially　useful　in　promising　otherwise　important　people　with　embarrassing　foibles。　Was　it　that　only　the　important　had　such　weaknesses；　or　did　their　positions　merely　allow　them　to　entertain　themselves　in　manners　which　all　men　dreamt　about　but　few　could　indulge　in？　Whatever　the　answer；　Rome　would　have　to　be　a　good　city　for　it。　City　of　the　Caesars；　Zaitzev　thought；　it　ought　to　be。　He　thought　of　the　travel　and　history　books　he'd　read　on　the　city　and　the　era…classical　history　in　the　Soviet　Union　had　some　political　mentary；　but　not　all　that　much。　The　political　spin　applied　to　every　single　aspect　of　life　was　the　most　tiring　intellectual　feature　of　life　in　his　country；　often　enough　to　drive　a　man　to　drink…which；　in　the　USSR；　wasn't　all　that　distant　a　drive；　of　course。　Time　to　go　back　to　work。　He　took　a　cipher　wheel　from　his　top　drawer。　It　vas　like　a　phone　dial…you　set　the　letter　to　be　transposed　at　the　top　of　one　dial；　then　rotated　the　other　to　the　letter　indicated　on　the　page　of　the　transposition　pad。　In　this　case；　he　was　working　from　the　beginning　of　the　twelfth　line　of　page　284。　That　reference　would　be　included　in　the　first　line　of　the　transmission　so　that　the　recipient　would　know　how　to　get　clear　text　from　the　transmitted　gibberish。
　　　It　was　laborious　despite　the　use　of　the　cipher　wheel。　He　had　to　set　the　clear…text　letter　he'd　written　in　the　message　form；　then　dial　to　the　transposition　letter　on　the　printed　page　of　the　cipher…pad　book；　and　write　down　each　individual　result。　Each　operation　required　him　to　set　his　pencil　down；　dial；　pick　up　the　pencil　again；　recheck　his　results…twice　in　his　case…and　begin　again。　（The　cipher　clerks；　who　did　nothing　else；　worked　two…handed；　a　skill　Zaitzev　had　not　acquired。）　It　was　beyond　tedious；　hardly　the　sort　of　work　designed　for　someone　educated　in　mathematics。　Like　checking　spelling　tests　in　a　primary　school；　Zaitzev　grumbled　to　himself。　It　took　more　than　six　minutes　to　get　it　right。　It　would　have　taken　less　time　had　he　been　allowed　to　have　a　helper　in　the　process；　but　that　would　have　violated　the　rules；　and　here　the　rules　were　adamantine。
　　　Then；　with　the　task　done；　he　had　to　repeat　everything　to　make　sure　he　hadn't　transmitted　any　garbles；　because　garbles　screwed　everything　up　on　both　ends　of　the　system；　and　this　way；　if　they　happened；　he　could　blame　them　on　the　teletype　operators…which　everyone　did　anyway。　Another　four　and　a　half　minutes　confirmed　that　he　hadn't　made　any　errors。　Good。
　　　Zaitzev　rose　and　walked　to　the　other　side　of　the　room；　through　the　door　into　the　transmission　room。　The　noise　there　was　enough　to　drive　a　man　mad。　The　teletypes　were　of　an　old　design…actually；　one　had　been　stolen　from　Germany　in　the　1930s…and　sounded　like　machine　guns；　though　without　the　banging　noise　of　exploding　cartridges。　In　front　of　each　machine　was　a　uniformed　typist…they　were　all　men；　each　sitting　erect　like　a　statue；　his　hands　seemingly　affixed　to　the　keyboard　in　front　of　him。　They　all　had　ear　protection；　lest　the　noise　in　the　room　land　them　in　a　psychiatric　hospital。　Zaitzev　walked　his　message　form　to　the　room　supervisor；　who　took　the　sheet　without　a　word…he　wore　ear…protectors；　too…and　walked　it　to　the　leftmost　typist　in　the　back　row。　There；　the　supervisor　clipped　it　to　a　vertical　board　over　the　keyboard。　At　the　top　of　the　form　was　the　identifier　for　the　destination。　The　typist　dialed　the　proper　number；　then　waited　for　the　warbling　sound　of　the　teleprinter　at　the　other　end…it　had　been　designed　to　get　past　the　ear　plugs；　and　it　also　lit　up　a　yellow　light　on　the　teletype　machine。　He　then　typed　in　the　gibberish。
　　　How　they　did　that　without　going　mad；　Zaitzev　did　not　understand。　The　human　mind　craved　patterns　and　good　sense；　but　typing　TKALNNETPTN　required　robotic　attention　to　detail　and　a　total　denial　of　humanity。　Some　said　that　the　typists　were　all　expert　pianists；　but　that　couldn't　be　true；　Zaitzev　was　sure。　Even　the　most　discordant　piano　piece　had　some　unifying　harmony　to　it。　But　not　a　one…time…