tc.redrabbit-第6部分

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rgid　prose　attributed　to　Stalin　（but　actually　done　by　a　mittee　formed　of　frightened　men；　and　all　the　worse　because　of　it）；　which　was；　blessedly；　no　longer　much　in　demand　except　to　the　most　masochistic　of　scholars。
　　　No；　Yuriy　Vladimirovich　told　himself；　getting　people　to　believe　in　Marxism　wasn't　all　that　hard。　First；　they　hammered　it　into　their　heads　in　grammar　schools；　and　the　Young　Pioneers；　and　high　schools；　and　the　Komsomolets；　the　Young　munist　League；　and　then　the　really　smart　ones　became　full　Party　members；　keeping　their　Party　cards　〃next　to　their　hearts；〃　in　the　cigarette　pockets　of　their　shirts。
　　　But　by　then；　they　knew　better。　The　politically　aware　members　professed　their　belief　at　Party　meetings　because　they　had　to　do　that　to　get　ahead。　In　the　same　way；　the　smart　courtiers　in　pharaonic　Egypt　kneeled　and　shielded　their　eyes　from　the　bright…light…emanating　face；　lest　they　be　blinded…they　held　up　their　hands　because；　in　Pharaoh；　in　the　person　of　their　Living　God；　was　personal　power　and　prosperity；　and　so　they　knelt　their　obeisance　and　denied　their　senses　and　their　sensibility　and　got　ahead。　So　it　was　here。　Five　thousand　years；　was　it？　He　could　check　a　history　book。　The　Soviet　Union　turned　out　some　of　the　world's　foremost　medieval　historians；　and　doubtless　some　petent　antiquarians　as　well；　because　that　was　one　area　of　scholarship　where　politics　didn't　matter　much。　The　facts　of　ancient　Egypt　were　too　distant　from　contemporary　reality　to　matter　to　the　philosophical　speculation　of　Marx　or　the　endless　ramblings　of　Lenin。　And　so　some　fine　scholars　went　into　that　field。　More　went　into　the　pure　sciences；　because　pure　science　was　pure　science　and　a　hydrogen　atom　had　no　politics。
　　　But　agriculture　did。　Manufacturing　did。　And　so　the　best　and　brightest　stayed　away　from　those　areas；　opting　instead　for　political　studies。　Because　there　success　was　to　be　found。　You　didn't　have　to　believe　it　any　more　than　you　believed　that　Ramses　II　was　the　living　son　of　the　sun　god；　or　whatever　the　hell　god　he　was　supposed　to　have　issued　from。　Instead；　Yuriy　Vladimirovich　figured；　the　courtiers　saw　that　Ramses　had　numerous　wives　and　even　more　numerous　progeny；　and　that；　on　the　whole；　wasn't　a　bad　life　for　a　man　to　have。　The　classical　equivalent　of　a　dacha　in　the　Lenin　Hills　and　summers　on　the　beach　at　Sochi。　So；　did　the　world　ever　really　change？
　　　Probably　not；　the　Chairman　of　the　mittee　for　State　Security　decided。　And　his　job　was　largely　to　protect　against　change。
　　　And　this　letter　threatened　change；　didn't　it？　It　was　a　threat；　and　he　might　have　to　do　something　about　the　threat。　That　meant　doing　something　about　the　man　behind　it。
　　　It　had　happened　before。　It　could　happen　again；　he　decided。
　　　Andropov　would　not　live　long　enough　to　learn　that　in　considering　this　action；　he　would　set　in　motion　the　demise　of　his　own　country。
　　　
　　　CHAPTER　1　…　RUMBLINGS　AND　DREAMS
　　　〃When　do　you　start；　Jack？〃　Cathy　asked　in　the　quiet　of　their　bed。
　　　And　her　husband　was　glad　it　was　their　bed。　fortable　as　the　New　York　hotel　had　been；　it　is　never　the　same；　and　besides；　he'd　had　quite　enough　of　his　father…in…law；　with　his　Park　Avenue　duplex　and　immense　sense　of　self…importance。　Okay；　Joe　Muller　had　a　good　ninety　million　in　the　bank　and　his　diversified　portfolio；　and　it　was　growing　nicely　with　the　new　presidency；　but　enough　was　enough。
　　　〃Day　after　tomorrow；〃　her　husband　answered。　〃I　suppose　I　might　go　in　after　lunch；　just　to　look　around。〃
　　　〃You　ought　to　be　asleep　by　now；〃　she　said。
　　　There　were　drawbacks　to　marrying　a　physician；　Jack　occasionally　told　himself。　You　couldn't　hide　much　from　them。　A　gentle；　loving　touch　could　convey　your　body　temperature；　heart　rate；　and　Christ　knew　what　else；　and　docs　hid　their　feelings　about　what　they　found　with　the　skill　of　a　professional　poker　player。　Well；　some　of　the　time。
　　　〃Yeah；　long　day。〃　It　was　short　of　five　in　the　evening　in　New　York；　but　his　〃day〃　had　lasted　longer　than　the　normal　twenty…four。　He　really　had　to　learn　to　sleep　on　airplanes。　It　wasn't　as　though　his　seat　had　been　unfortable。　He'd　upgraded　the　government…issue　tickets　to　first　class　on　his　own　American　Express　card；　and　soon　the　frequent…flyer　miles　would　build　up　so　much　that　such　upgrades　would　be　automatic。　Yeah；　great；　Jack　thought。　They'd　know　him　by　sight　at　Heathrow　and　Dulles。　Well；　at　least　he　had　his　new　black　diplomatic　passport　and　didn't　have　to　be　troubled　with　inspections　and　such。　Ryan　was　technically　assigned　to　the　U。S。　Embassy　at　London's　Grosvenor　Square；　just　across　the　street　from　the　building　that　had　housed　Eisenhower's　WW2　office；　and　with　that　assignment　came　the　diplomatic　status　that　made　him　a　super…person；　un…trammeled　by　such　inconveniences　as　civil　law。　He　could　smuggle　a　couple　pounds　of　heroin　into　England；　and　no　one　could　so　much　as　touch　his　bags　without　permission…which　he　could　summarily　withhold；　claiming　diplomatic　privilege　and　urgent　business。　It　was　an　open　secret　that　diplomats　didn't　trouble　themselves　with　customs　duties　for　such　things　as　perfumes　for　their　wives　（or　significant　others）　and/or　booze　for　themselves；　but　to　Ryan's　Catholic　measure　of　personal　conduct；　these　were　venial　sins；　not　mortal。
　　　The　usual　muddle　of　thoughts　in　a　fatigued　brain；　he　recognized。　Cathy　would　never　allow　herself　to　operate　in　this　mental　state。　Sure；　as　an　intern　they'd　kept　her　on　duty　for　endless　hours…the　idea　being　to　get　her　accustomed　to　making　good　decisions　under　miserable　circumstances…but　part　of　her　husband　wondered　how　many　patients　were　sacrificed　on　the　altar　of　medical　boot　camp。　If　trial　lawyers　ever　managed　to　figure　out　how　to　make　money　off　of　that。。。
　　　Cathy…Dr。　Caroline　Ryan；　M。D。；　FACS；　her　white　lab　coat　and　plastic　name　tag　announced…had　struggled　through　that　phase　of　her　training；　and　more　than　once　her　husband　had　worried　about　her　drive　home　in　her　little　Porsche　sports　car；　after　thirty…six　straight　hours　on　duty　in　obstetrics；　or　pediatrics；　or　general　surgery；　fields　she　wasn't　interested　in　herself；　but　about　which　she　had　to　know　a　little　in　order　to　be　a　proper　Johns　Hopkins　doc。　Well；　she'd　known　enough　to　patch　up　his　shoulder　that　afternoon　in　front　of　Buckingham　Palace。　He　hadn't　bled　to　death　in　front　of　his　wife　and　daughter；　which　would　have　been　pretty　ignominious　for　everyone　involved；　especially　the　Brits。　Would　my　knighthood　have　been　awarded　posthumously？　he　wondered　with　a　stifled　chuckle。　Then；　finally；　his　eyes　closed　for　the　first　time　in　thirty…nine　hours。
　　　〃I　hope　he　likes　it　over　there；〃　Judge　Moore　said；　at　his　end…of…the…day　senior　staff　get…together。
　　　〃Arthur；　our　cousins　know　their　hospitality；〃　James　Greer　pointed　out。　〃Basil　ought　to　be　a　good　teacher。〃
　　　Ritter　didn't　say　anything。　This　Ryan　amateur　had　gotten　himself　a　lot　of…way　the　hell　too　much…publicity　for　any　employee　of　the　CIA；　even　more　so　since　he　was　a　DI　guy。　As　far　as　Ritter　was　concerned；　the　Directorate　of　Intelligence　was　the　tail　wagging　the　Operations　Directorate　dog。　Sure；　Jim　Greer　was　a　fine　spook　and　a　good　man　to　work　with；　but　he　wasn't　a　field　spook；　and…Congress　to　the　contrary…that's　what　the　Agency　needed。　At　least　Arthur　Moore　understood　that。　But　on　The　Hill；　if　you　said　〃field　intelligence　officer〃　to　the　representatives　who　controlled　appropriations；　they　recoiled　like　Dracula　from　a　golden　crucifix　and　collectively　went　ewwww　Then　it　was　time　to　speak。
　　　〃What　do　you　suppose　they'll　let　him　in　on？〃　the　DDO　wondered　aloud。
　　　〃Basil　will　regard　him　as　my　personal　representative；〃　Judge　Moore　said；　after　a　moment's　consideration。　〃So；　everything　they　share　with　us；　they　will　share　with　him。〃
　　　〃They're　going　to　co…opt　him；　Arthur；〃　Ritter　warned。　〃He's　into　things　they　don't　know　about。　They　will　try　to　squeeze　things　out　of　Ryan。　He　doesn't　know　how　to　defend　against　that。〃
　　　〃Bob；　I　briefed　him　on　that　myself；〃　Greer　announced。　The　DDO　knew　that　already；　of　course；　but　Ritter　had　a　real　talent　for　acting　grumpy　when　he　didn't　get　his　way。　Greer　wondered　what　it　had　been　like　to　be　Bob's　mother。　〃Don't　underestimate　this　kid；　Bob。　He's　smart。　I'll　wager　you　a　steak　dinner　that　he　gets　more　things　out　of　the　Brits　than　they　get　out　of　him。〃
　　　〃Sucker　bet；〃