tc.redrabbit-第41部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　　〃We　have　some　living　here　as　well；〃　Harding　admitted。　He　didn't　want　to　admit　that　the　Russians　also　had　a　few　Brits…nowhere　near　as　many；　just　enough　to　be　a　considerable　embarrassment　to　Century　House。　〃You're　a　hard　man　to　debate；　Jack。〃
　　　〃I　just　speak　the　truth；　buddy。　That's　what　we're　here　for；　isn't　it？〃
　　　〃That's　the　theory；〃　Harding　had　to　admit。　This　Ryan　fellow　would　never　be　a　bureaucrat；　the　Brit　decided；　and　wondered　if　that　was　a　good　thing　or　bad。　The　Americans　took　a　different　slant　on　things；　and　the　contrast　to　his　own　organization's　take　was　entertaining；　at　least。　Ryan　had　a　lot　to　learn。。。　but　he　also　had　a　few　things　to　teach；　Harding　realized。　〃How's　your　book　ing　along？〃
　　　Ryan's　face　changed。　〃Haven't　gotten　much　work　done　lately。　I　do　have　my　puter　set　up。　Hard　to　concentrate　on　that　after　a　full　day　here…but　if　I　don't　make　the　time；　the　thing　will　never　get　done。　At　heart；　I'm　lazy；〃　Ryan　admitted。
　　　〃Then　how　did　you　bee　rich？〃　Harding　demanded。　He　got　a　grin。
　　　〃I'm　also　greedy。　Gertrude　Stein　said　it；　pal：　'I've　been　rich　and　I've　been　poor。　It's　better　to　be　rich。'　Truer　words　have　never　been　spoken。〃
　　　〃I　must　discover　that　for　myself　someday；〃　the　British　civil　servant　observed。
　　　Oops；　Ryan　thought。　Well；　it　wasn't　his　fault；　was　it？　Simon　was　smart　enough　to　make　money　in　the　real　world；　but　he　didn't　seem　to　think　in　those　terms。　It　made　good　sense　to　have　a　smart　guy　here　in　the　analyst　pool　at　Century　House；　even　though　that　meant　sacrificing　his　own　well…being　for　his　country。　But　that　was　not　a　bad　thing；　and　Ryan　reflected　that　he　was　doing　it；　too。　His　advantage　was　that　he'd　made　his　money　up　front　and　could　afford　to　kiss　this　job　off　and　go　back　to　teaching　whenever　the　urge　struck　him。　It　was　a　sort　of　independence　that　most　government　employees　would　never　know。。。　And　their　work　probably　suffered　because　of　it；　Jack　thought。
　　　Zaitzev　made　his　way　out　past　the　various　security　checkpoints。　Some　people　were　frisked　at　random　by　the　guards　to　make　sure　that　they　weren't　taking　anything　out　with　them；　but　the　checks…he'd　suffered　through　his　share　of　them…were　too　cursory　to　be　effective；　he　thought。　Just　enough　to　be　a　nuisance；　and　not　regular　enough　to　be　a　real　threat…perhaps　once　in　thirty　days…and；　if　you　got　frisked　one　day；　you　knew　you　were　safe　for　at　least　the　next　five　or　so；　because　the　guards　knew　all　the　faces　of　the　people　they　checked　out；　and　even　here　there　was　human　contact　and　friendly　relationships　among　the　employees；　especially　at　the　working　level…a　kind　of　blue…collar　solidarity　that　was　in　some　ways　surprising。　As　it　happened；　Zaitzev　was　allowed　to　pass　without　inspection　and　made　his　way　into　the　capacious　square；　then　walked　to　the　metro　station。
　　　He　didn't　usually　dress　in　the　paramilitary　uniform…most　KGB　employees　did　not　choose　to　do　so；　as　though　their　employment　might　make　them　seem　tainted　to　their　fellow　citizens。　Neither　did　he　hide　it。　If　anyone　asked；　he　gave　an　honest　answer；　and　the　questioning　usually　stopped　there；　because　everyone　knew　that　you　didn't　ask　questions　about　what　went　on　at　the　mittee　for　State　Security。　There　were　occasional　movies　and　TV　shows　about　KGB；　and　some　of　them　were　even　fairly　honest；　though　they　gave　little　away　concerning　methods　and　sources　beyond　what　some　fiction　writer　might　imagine；　which　wasn't　always　all　that　accurate。　There　was　a　small　office　at　The　Centre　that　consulted　on　such　things；　usually　taking　things　out　and…rarely…putting　accurate　things　in；　because　it　was　in　his　agency's　interest　to　be　fearful　and　forbidding　to　Soviet　citizens　and　foreigners　alike。　How　many　ordinary　citizens　supplement　their　ines　by　being　informers？　Zaitzev　wondered。　He　almost　never　saw　any　dispatches　about　that…that　sort　of　thing　rarely　went　overseas。
　　　The　things　that　did　go　out　of　the　country　were　troubling　enough。　Colonel　Bubovoy　would　probably　be　in　Moscow　the　next　day。　There　was　regular　air　service　between　Sofia　and　Moscow　through　Aeroflot。　Colonel　Goderenko　in　Rome　had　been　told　to　sit　down　and　shut　up；　and　to　forward　to　The　Centre　the　Pope's　appearance　schedule　for　the　indefinite　future。　Andropov　hadn't　lost　interest　in　that　bit　of　information。
　　　And　now　the　Bulgarians　would　be　involved。　Zaitzev　worried　about　that；　but　he　didn't　need　to　wonder　all　that　much。　He'd　seen　those　dispatches　before。　The　Bulgarian　State　Security　Service　was　the　loyal　vassal　of　KGB。　The　municator　knew　that。　He'd　seen　enough　messages　go　to　Sofia；　sometimes　through　Bubovoy；　sometimes　directly；　and　sometimes　for　the　purpose　of　ending　someone's　life。　KGB　didn't　do　much　of　that　anymore；　but　Diryhavna　Susurnost　did；　on　occasion。　Zaitzev　imagined　that　they　had　a　small　subunit　of　the　DS　officers　who　were　trained　and　skilled　and　practiced　at　that　particular　skill。　And　the　message　header　had　the　666　suffix；　so　this　dispatch　concerned　the　same　thing　that　Rome　had　been　initially　queried　on。　So　this　was　going　forward。
　　　His　agency…his　country…wanted　to　kill　that　Polish　priest；　and　that；　Zaitzev　thought；　was　probably　a　bad　thing。
　　　He　took　the　escalator　down　to　the　subterranean　station　amid　the　usual　afterwork　crowd。　Usually；　the　crowd　of　people　was　forting。　It　meant　that　Zaitzev　was　in　his　element；　surrounded　by　his　countrymen；　people　just　like　himself；　serving　one　another　and　the　State。　But　was　that　true？　What　would　these　people　think　of　Andropov's　mission？　It　was　hard　to　gauge。　The　subway　ride　was　usually　quiet。　Some　people　might　talk　to　friends；　but　group　discussions　were　rare；　except　perhaps　for　some　unusual　sporting　event；　a　bad　referee's　call　at　a　soccer　match；　or　a　particularly　spectacular　play　on　the　hockey　rink。　Other　than　that；　people　were　usually　alone　with　their　thoughts。
　　　The　train　stopped；　and　Zaitzev　shuffled　aboard。　As　usual；　there　were　no　seats　available。　He　grasped　the　overhead　handrail　and　kept　thinking。
　　　Are　the　others　on　the　train　thinking　as　well？　If　so；　about　what？　Jobs？　Children？　Wives？　Lovers？　Food？　You　couldn't　tell。　Even　Zaitzev　couldn't　tell；　and　he'd　seen　these　people…these　same　people…on　the　metro　for　years。　He　knew　only　a　few　names；　mainly　given　names　overheard　in　conversations。　No；　he　knew　them　only　by　their　favorite　sports　teams。。。
　　　It　struck　him　suddenly　and　hard　how　alone　he　was　in　his　society。　How　many　real　friends　do　I　have？　Zaitzev　asked　himself。　The　answer　was　shockingly　few。　Oh；　sure；　there　were　people　at　work　he　chatted　with。　He　knew　the　most　intimate　details　about　their　wives　and　children…but　friends　in　whom　he　could　confide；　with　whom　he　could　talk　over　some　troubling　development；　to　whom　he　could　go　for　guidance　in　a　troubling　situation。。。　No；　he　didn't　have　any　of　those。　That　made　him　unusual　in　Moscow。　Russians　often　made　deep　and　close　friendships；　and　consecrated　them　often　enough　with　the　deepest　and　sometimes　the　darkest　of　secrets；　as　though　daring　one　of　their　intimates　to　be　a　KGB　informer；　as　though　courting　a　trip　to　the　Gulag。　But　his　job　denied　him　that。　He'd　never　dare　to　discuss　the　things　he　did　at　work；　not　even　to　his　coworkers。
　　　No；　whatever　problems　he　had　with　this　666　series　of　messages　were　ones　he　had　to　work　out　for　himself。　Even　his　Irina　couldn't　know。　She　might　talk　with　her　friends　at　GUM；　and　that　would　surely　be　death　for　him。　Zaitzev　let　out　a　breath　and　looked　around。。。
　　　There　he　was　again；　that　American　embassy　official；　reading　Sovietskiy　Sport　and　minding　his　own　business。　He　was　wearing　a　raincoat…rain　had　been　forecast；　but　had　not　materialized…but　not　a　hat。　The　coat　was　open；　not　buttoned　or　belted。　He　was　less　than　two　meters　away。。。
　　　On　an　impulse；　Zaitzev　shifted　his　position　from　one　side　of　the　car　to　the　other；　switching　hands　on　the　overhead　rail　as　though　to　stretch　a　stiff　muscle。　That　move　put　him　next　to　the　American。　And；　on　further　impulse；　Zaitzev　slid　his　hand　into　the　raincoat　pocket。　There　was　nothing　in　there；　no　keys　or　pocket　change；　just　empty　cloth。　But　he　had　established　that　he　could　reach　into　this　American's　pocket　and　remove　his　hand　without　notice。　He　backed　away；　sweeping　his　eyes　around　the　subway　car　to　see　if　anyone　had　noticed　or　had　even　been　looking　his　way。　But。。。　no；　almost　certainly　not。　His　man