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　　　〃It's　even　worse　in　Leningrad；〃　Nigel　warned。　〃The　natives　are　more　or　less　immunized；　they　tell　me；　but　we　foreigners　can　get　some　serious　GI　problems　there。〃
　　　〃What　about　schools？〃　Mary　Pat　had　been　worried　about　that。
　　　〃The　American…British　school　looks　after　the　children　well；〃　Penny　Haydock　promised。　〃I　work　there　myself　part…time。　And　the　academic　program　there　is　top…drawer。〃
　　　〃Eddie's　starting　to　read　already；　isn't　he；　honey？〃　the　proud　father　announced。
　　　〃Just　'Peter　Rabbit'　and　that　sort　of　thing；　but　not　bad　for　four；〃　an　equally　pleased　mother　confirmed　for　the　rest。　For　his　part；　Eddie　had　found　the　sandwich　plate　and　was　gnawing　through　something。　It　wasn't　his　treasured　bologna；　but　a　hungry　kid　is　not　always　discriminating。　There　were　also　four　large　jars　of　Skippy's　Super　Chunk　peanut　butter　packed　away　in　a　safe　place。　His　parents　figured　they　could　get　grape　jelly　anywhere；　but　probably　not　Skippy。　The　local　bread；　everyone　said；　was　decent；　if　not　exactly　the　Wonder　Bread　that　American　children　had　been　raised　on。　And　Mary　Pat　had　a　bread…maker　in　their　cargo　container；　now　on　a　truck　or　train　between　Moscow　and　Leningrad。　A　good　cook；　she　was　a　positive　artist　at　baking　bread；　and　expected　that　to　be　her　entree　into　the　embassy　social　set。
　　　Not　all　that　far　away　from　where　they　sat；　a　letter　changed　hands。　The　deliverer　was　from　Warsaw；　and　had　been　dispatched　by　his　government…actually；　by　an　agency　of　his　government　to　an　agency　of　the　recipient　government。　The　messenger　was　not　all　that　pleased　by　his　mission。　He　was　a　munist…he　had　to　be　in　order　to　be　entrusted　with　such　a　task…but　he　was　nonetheless　a　Pole；　as　was　the　subject　of　the　message　and　the　mission。　And　that　was　the　rub。
　　　The　message　was　in　fact　a　photocopy　of　the　original；　which　had　arrived　by　hand　to　an　office…an　important　one…in　Warsaw　only　three　days　before。
　　　The　messenger；　a　full　colonel　in　his　country's　intelligence　service；　was　personally　known　to　the　recipient；　by　sight　if　not　especially　by　affection。
　　　The　Russians　used　their　western　neighbors　for　many　tasks。　The　Poles　had　a　real　talent　for　intelligence　operations；　for　the　same　reason　the　Israelis　did：　They　were　surrounded　by　enemies。　To　their　west　was　Germany；　and　to　their　east　was　the　Soviet　Union。　The　unhappy　circumstances　involved　in　both　had　resulted　in　Poland's　putting　many　of　its　best　and　brightest　into　the　intelligence　business。
　　　The　recipient　knew　all　that。　In　fact；　he　already　knew　word　for　word　the　content　of　the　message。　He'd　learned　it　the　previous　day。　He　was　not　surprised　at　the　delay；　though。　The　Polish　government　had　taken　that　day　to　consider　the　contents　and　its　import　before　forwarding　it；　and　the　recipient　took　no　umbrage。　Every　government　in　the　world　took　at　least　one　day　to　go　over　such　things。　It　was　just　the　nature　of　men　in　positions　of　authority　to　diddle　and　waver；　even　though　they　had　to　know　that　delay　was　a　waste　of　time　and　air。　Even　Marxism…Leninism　couldn't　alter　human　nature。　Sad；　but　true。　The　New　Soviet　Man；　like　the　New　Polish　Man；　was；　in　the　end；　still　a　man。
　　　The　ballet　being　played　out　now　was　as　stylized　as　any　performed　by　the　Kirov　troupe　in　Leningrad。　The　recipient　even　imagined　he　could　hear　the　music　playing。　He　actually　preferred　Western　jazz　to　classical；　but　in　any　case　the　music　at　the　ballet　was　just　the　garnish；　the　system　that　told　the　dancers　when　to　leap　together　like　pretty；　trained　dogs。　The　ballerinas　were　far　too　slender　for　Russian　tastes；　of　course；　but　real　women　were　far　too　heavy　for　those　little　fairies　they　called　men　to　toss　about。
　　　Why　was　his　mind　wandering？　He　resumed　his　seat；　falling　back　slowly　into　his　leather　chair　as　he　unfolded　the　letter。　It　was　written　in　Polish；　and　he　didn't　speak　or　read　Polish；　but　affixed　to　it　was　a　translation　in　literate　Russian。　Of　course；　he'd　have　his　own　translators　go　over　it；　plus　two　or　three　psychiatrists　to　consider　the　mental　state　of　the　drafter　and　to　pose　their　own　multipage　analysis；　which　he'd　have　to　read；　time　waster　though　that　would　be。　Then　he'd　have　to　report　on　it；　to　provide　his　political　superiors…no；　his　political　peers…with　all　of　these　additional　insights　so　that　they　could　waste　their　time　going　over　the　message　and　its　import　before　considering　what　to　do　about　it。
　　　The　Chairman　wondered　if　this　Polish　colonel　realized　how　easy　his　own　political　bosses　had　had　it。　In　the　end；　all　they'd　had　to　do　was　forward　it　to　their　own　political　masters　for　action；　bucking　the　decision　up　the　tree　of　responsibility　as　government　functionaries　all　do；　regardless　of　place　or　philosophy。　Vassals　were　vassals　the　world　over。
　　　The　Chairman　looked　up　at　him。　〃rade　Colonel；　thank　you　for　bringing　this　to　my　attention。　Please　extend　my　greetings　and　my　respects　to　your　mander。　Dismissed。〃
　　　The　Pole　snapped　to　attention；　saluted　in　the　curious　Polish　way；　did　his　best　parade…ground　about　face；　then　headed　off　to　the　door。
　　　Yuriy　Andropov　watched　the　door　close　before　turning　his　attention　back　to　the　message　and　its　appended　translation。
　　　〃So；　Karol；　you　threaten　us；　eh？〃　He　clucked　his　tongue　and　shook　his　head　before　going　on　as　quietly　as　before。　〃You　are　brave；　but　your　judgment　needs　adjustment；　my　cleric　rade。〃
　　　He　looked　up　again；　pondering。　The　office　had　the　usual　artwork　covering　the　walls；　and　for　the　same　reason　as　in　any　other　office…to　avoid　blankness。　Two　were　oil　paintings　by　Renaissance　masters；　borrowed　from　the　collection　of　some　long…dead　czar　or　nobleman。　A　third　portrait；　rather　a　good　one；　actually；　was　of　Lenin；　the　pale　plexion　and　domed　forehead　known　to　millions　all　around　the　world。　A　nicely　framed　color　photograph　of　Leonid　Brezhnev；　the　current　General　Secretary　of　the　munist　Party　of　the　Soviet　Union；　hung　near　it。　The　photo　was　a　lie；　a　picture　of　a　young　and　vigorous　man；　not　the　senile　old　goat　who　now　sat　at　the　head　of　the　Politburo　table。　Well；　all　men　grew　old；　but　in　most　places；　such　men　left　their　jobs　for　honorable　retirement。　But　not　in　his　country；　Andropov　realized。。。　and　looked　down　at　the　letter。　And　not　this　man；　either。　This　job；　too；　was　for　life。
　　　But　he　is　threatening　to　change　that　part　of　the　equation；　the　Chairman　of　the　mittee　for　State　Security　thought。　And　in　that　was　the　danger。
　　　Danger？
　　　The　consequences　were　unknown；　and　that　was　danger　enough。　His　Politburo　colleagues　would　see　it　the　same　way；　old；　cautious；　and　frightened　men　that　they　were。
　　　And　so　he　had　not　merely　to　report　the　danger。　He　must　also　present　a　means　of　dealing　with　it　effectively。
　　　The　portraits　that　ought　to　have　been　on　his　wall　right　now　were　of　two　men　who　were　semiforgotten。　One　would　have　been　Iron　Feliks…Dzerzhinskiy　himself；　the　founder　of　the　Cheka；　the　antecedent　of　the　KGB。
　　　The　other　ought　to　have　been　Josef　Vissarionovich　Stalin。　The　leader　had　once　posed　a　question　that　was　relevant　to　the　very　situation　that　faced　Andropov　now。　Then；　it　had　been　1944。　Now…now　maybe　it　was　even　more　relevant。
　　　Well；　that　remained　to　be　seen。　And　he'd　be　the　man　to　make　that　determination；　Andropov　told　himself。　All　men　could　be　made　to　disappear。　The　thought　should　have　surprised　him　when　it　leapt　into　his　head；　but　it　didn't。　This　building；　built　eighty　years　earlier　to　be　the　palatial　home　office　of　the　Rossiya　Insurance　pany；　had　seen　a　lot　of　that；　and　its　inhabitants　had　issued　orders　to　cause　many；　many　more　deaths。　They　used　to　have　executions　in　the　basement。　That　had　ended　only　a　few　years　before；　as　KGB　expanded　to　include　all　the　space　in　even　this　massive　structure…and　another　on　the　inner　ring　road　around　the　city…but　the　cleanup　crew　occasionally　whispered　about　the　ghosts　to　be　seen　on　quiet　nights；　sometimes　startling　the　old　washerwomen　with　their　buckets　and　brushes　and　witch…like　hair。　The　government　of　this；　country　didn't　believe　in　such　things　as　spirits　and　ghosts　any　more　than　it　believed　in　a　man's　immortal　soul；　but　doing　away　with　the　superstitions　of　the　simple　peasants　was　a　more　difficult　task　than　getting　the　intelligentsia　to　buy　into　the　voluminous　writings　of　Vladimir　Ilyich　Lenin；　Karl　Marx；　or　Friedrich　Engels；　not　to　mention　the　turgid　prose