tc.redrabbit-第13章

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　　　〃Ah；　you　are　American。〃
　　　〃Da；　that　is　so。　I　work　at　American　embassy。　My　first　day。　I　am　new　in　Moscow。〃　Shadow　or　not；　he　knew　that　the　only　sensible　thing　was　to　play　this　straight。
　　　〃How　do　you　like　it　here？〃　the　inquisitor　asked。　He　looked　like　a　bureaucrat；　maybe　a　KGB　counterespionage　spook　or　a　stringer。　Or　maybe　just　some　officer…sitter　for　some　government…run　business　who　suffered　from　curiosity。　There　were　some　of　those。　Would　an　ordinary　citizen　approach　him？　Probably　not；　Foley　judged。　The　atmosphere　tended　to　limit　curiosity　to　the　space　between　a　person's　ears。。。　except　that　Russians　were　curious　as　hell　about　Americans　of　every　stripe。　Told　to　disdain　or　even　to　hate　Americans；　the　Russians　frequently　regarded　them　as　Eve　had　regarded　the　apple。
　　　〃The　metro　is　very　impressive；〃　Foley　answered；　looking　around　as　artlessly　as　he　could。
　　　〃Where　in　America　do　you　e　from？〃　was　the　next　question。
　　　〃New　York　City。〃
　　　〃You　play　ice　hockey　in　America？〃
　　　〃Oh；　yes！　I've　been　a　fan　of　the　New　York　Rangers　since　I　was　a　child。　I　want　to　see　the　hockey　here。〃　Which　was　entirely　truthful。　The　Russian　skate…and…pass　game　was　the　closest　thing　to　Mozart　in　the　world　of　sports。　〃The　embassy　has　good　tickets；　they　told　me　today。　Central　Army；〃　he　added。
　　　〃Bah！〃　the　Muscovite　snorted。　〃I　am　Wings　fan。〃
　　　The　guy　might　just　be　genuine；　Foley　thought　with　surprise。　The　Russians　were　as　picky　about　their　hockey　clubs　as　American　baseball　fans　were　with　their　home　teams。　But　the　Second　Chief　Directorate　probably　had　hockey　fans　working　there；　too。　〃Too　careful〃　was　a　concept　he　did　not　admit　to；　especially　here。
　　　〃Central　Army　is　the　champion　team；　isn't　it？〃
　　　〃Too　prissy。　Look　what　happened　to　them　in　America。〃
　　　〃In　America　we　play　a　more　physical…is　that　the　right　word？…game。　To　you　they　must　seem　like　hooligans；　yes？〃　Foley　had　taken　the　train　to　Philadelphia　to　see　that　game。　The　Flyers…more　widely　known　as　the　Broad　Street　Bullies…had　beaten　the　snot　out　of　the　somewhat　arrogant　Russian　visitors；　rather　to　his　amusement。　The　Philadelphia　team　had　even　wheeled　out　its　secret　weapon；　the　aging　Kate　Smith；　singing　〃God　Bless　America；〃　which　for　that　team　was　like　breakfasting　on　nails　and　human　infants。　Damn；　what　a　game　that　one　had　been！
　　　〃They　play　roughly；　yes；　but　they　are　not　fairies。　Central　Army　thinks　they　are　the　Bolshoi；　the　way　they　skate　and　pass。　It's　good　to　see　them　humbled　sometimes。〃
　　　〃Well；　I　remember　the　'80　Olympics；　but　honestly　that　was　a　miracle　for　is　to　defeat　your　fine　team。〃
　　　〃Miracle！　Bah！　Our　coach　was　asleep。　Our　heroes　were　asleep。　Your　children　played　a　spirited　game；　and　they　won　honestly。　The　coach　needed　to　be　shot。〃　Yeah；　this　guy　talked　like　a　fan。
　　　〃Well；　I　want　my　son　to　learn　hockey　over　here。〃
　　　〃How　old　is　he？〃　Genuine　interest　in　the　man's　eyes。
　　　〃Four　and　a　half；〃　Foley　answered。
　　　〃A　good　age　to　learn　to　skate。　There　are　many　opportunities　for　children　to　skate　in　Moscow；　aren't　there；　Vanya？〃　he　observed　to　the　man　next　to　him；　who'd　watched　the　exchange　with　a　mixture　of　curiosity　and　unease。
　　　〃Make　sure　he　gets　good　skates；〃　the　other　man　said。　〃Bad　ones　can　injure　the　ankles。〃　A　typical　Russian　response。　In　this　often　harsh　country；　solicitude　for　children　was　endearingly　genuine。　The　Russian　bear　had　a　soft　heart　for　kids；　but　one　of　icy　granite　for　adults。
　　　〃Thank　you。　I　will　be　sure　to　do　that。〃
　　　〃You　live　in　the　foreigners'　pound？〃
　　　〃Correct；〃　Foley　confirmed。
　　　〃Next　stop　is　yours。〃
　　　〃Oh；　spasiba；　and　good　day　to　you。〃　He　made　his　way　to　the　door；　turning　to　nod　a　friendly　good…bye　to　his　newfound　Russian　friends。　KGB？　he　wondered。　Perhaps；　but　not　certainly。　He'd　determine　that　by　whether　or　not　he　saw　them　on　the　train　a　month　or　so　from　now。
　　　What　Ed　Foley　didn't　know　was　that　the　entire　exchange　had　been　observed　by　a　man　a　mere　two　meters　away；　holding　a　copy　of　today's　Sovietskiy　Sport。　His　name　was　Oleg　Zaitzev；　and　Oleg　Ivanovich　was　KGB。
　　　The　Station　Chief　left　the　subway　car　and　followed　the　crush　to　the　escalator。　At　one　time；　it　would　have　led　him　to　a　full…standing　portrait　of　Stalin；　but　that　was　gone　now；　and　not　replaced。　The　outside　air　was　acquiring　the　early　autumn　chill；　just　enough　to　feel　good　after　the　stuffiness　of　the　metro。　Around　him；　ten　or　more　men　lit　up　their　foul…smelling　cigarettes　and　walked　their　separate　ways。　It　was　only　half　a　block　to　the　walled　pound　of　apartment　blocks；　with　its　guard　shack　and　the　uniformed　attendant；　who　looked　Foley　over　and　decided　he　was　an　American　by　the　quality　of　his　overcoat；　without　acknowledging　his　passage　by　even　a　nod；　and　certainly　not　a　smile。　The　Russians　didn't　smile　much。　It　was　something　that　struck　all　American　visitors　to　the　country；　the　outwardly　dour　nature　of　the　Russian　people　seemed　almost　inexplicable　to　foreigners。
　　　Two　stops　farther　down；　Oleg　Zaitzev　wondered　if　he　should　write　up　a　contact　report。　KGB　officers　were　encouraged　to　do　so；　partly　as　a　sign　of　loyalty；　partly　to　show　their　eternal　vigilance　against　citizens　of　the　Main　Enemy；　as　America　was　known　within　his　professional　munity。　It　was　mostly　to　show　their　institutional　paranoia；　a　characteristic　openly　fostered　by　KGB。　But　by　profession　Zaitzev　was　a　paper…pusher　and　he　didn't　feel　the　need　to　generate　more　meaningless　paper。　It　would　just　be　looked　at；　read　in　a　cursory　way　at　most；　and　tossed　into　some　file　box　by　some　other　bureaucrat　from　his　upstairs　office；　never　to　be　read　again。　His　time　was　too　precious　for　that　sort　of　nonsense。　Besides；　he　hadn't　even　talked　to　the　foreigner；　had　he？　He　left　the　train　at　the　proper　stop；　rode　up　the　moving　stairs　into　the　crisp　evening　air；　lighting　his　Trud　cigarette　as　he　got　outside。　It　was　a　vile　thing。　He　had　access　to　the　〃closed〃　stores　and　could　have　bought　French；　British；　or　even　American　smokes；　but　they　were　too　costly；　and　his　funds　were　not　as　unlimited　as　his　choices。　So；　he　smoked　the　well…known　〃Labor〃　brand；　like　untold　millions　of　his　countrymen。　The　quality　of　his　clothing　was　a　tiny　bit　better　than　that　worn　by　most　of　his　rades；　but　not　overly　so。　Not　so　much　that　he　stood　out　from　the　others。　It　was　two　blocks　to　his　apartment　building。　His　flat　was　#3　on　the　first…the　Americans　would　have　called　it　the　second…floor　instead　of　higher　up；　and　that　was　fine　with　him；　because　it　meant　that　he　didn't　risk　a　heart　attack　if　the　elevator　didn't　work；　which　happened　about　once　a　month。　Today　it　worked。　The　elderly　woman　who　occupied　the　janitor/superintendent's　flat　on　the　ground　floor　had　her　door　closed　today；　instead　of　open　to　denote　some　mechanical　problem　she'd　have　to　warn　him　about。　So　nothing　in　the　building　was　broken　today。　Not　quite　cause　for　celebration；　just　one　of　the　small　things　in　life　for　which　to　be　grateful　to　God　or　whoever　determined　the　vagaries　of　fate。　The　cigarette　died　as　he　walked　through　the　main　door。　Zaitzev　flicked　the　butt　into　the　ashtray　and　walked　to　the　elevator；　which；　remarkably；　was　waiting　for　him　with　the　door　open。
　　　〃Good　evening；　rade　Zaitzev；〃　the　operator　said　in　greeting。
　　　〃Good　evening；　rade　Glenko。〃　The　man　was　a　disabled　veteran　of　the　Great　Patriotic　War；　with　the　medals　to　prove　it。　Artilleryman；　so　he　said。　Probably　the　building　informer；　the　man　who　reported　unusual　occurrences　to　some　other　KGB　stringer；　in　return　for　which　he　got　a　niggardly　stipend　to　supplement　whatever　pension　the　Red　Army　paid　him。　That　was　the　extent　of　their　exchange。　Glenko　turned　the　handle　and　brought　the　elevator　car　smoothly　to　his　floor　and　opened　the　door。　From　there；　it　was　a　mere　five　meters　to　his　home。
　　　Opening　his　apartment　door；　he　was　greeted　by　the　smell　of　boiling　cabbage…so　cabbage　soup　for　dinner。　Not　unusual。　It　was　a　staple　of　the　Russian　diet；　along　with　rich　black　bread。
　　　〃Papa！〃　Oleg　Ivanovich　bent　down　to　scoop　up　his　little　Svetlana。　She　was　the　light　of　Zaitzev's　life；　with　her　cherubic　face　and　weling　smile。
　　　〃How　is　my　little　zaichik　today？〃　He　scooped　her　up　in　his　arms　and　accepted　her　darling　little　kiss。
　　　Svetlana　attended　a　day…care　center　crowded　with　other　children　her　age…not　quite　a　preschool；　not　quite　a　nursery。　Her　clothing　prised　about　the　only　colorful　things　to　be　had　in　his　country；　in　this　case　a　green　pullover　shirt　and　gray　pants　over　little　red　leather　shoes。　If　his　access　to　the　〃closed〃　shops　had　one　advantage；　it　was　in　what　he　could　get　his　little　girl。　The　Soviet　Union　didn't　even　have　cloth　diapers　for　its　infants…mothers　usually　made　them　out　of　old　bedsheets…much　less　the　disposable　kind　favored　in　the　West。　As　a　result；　there　was　a　premium　on　getting　the　little　ones　toilet…trained；　which　little　Svetlana　had　managed　some　time　ago；　much　to　her　mother's　relief。　Oleg　followed　the　smell　of　cabbage　to　his　wife　in　the　kitchen。
　　　〃Hello；　darling；〃　Irina　Bogdanova　said　from　the　stove。　Cabbage；　potatoes；　and　what　he　hoped　was　some　ham　cooking。　Tea　and　bread。　No　vodka　yet。　The　Zaitzevs　drank；　but　not　to　excess。　They　usually　waited　until　Svetlana　went　down　to　bed。　Irina　worked　as　an　accountant　at　the　GUM　department　store。　The　possessor　of　a　degree　from　Moscow　State　University；　she　was　liberated　in　the　Western　sense；　but　not　emancipated。　Hanging　by　the　kitchen　table　was　the　string　bag　she　carried　in　her　purse　everywhere　she　went；　eyes　always　on　the　lookout　for　something　she　might　buy　to　eat　or　brighten　their　drab　flat。　It　meant　standing　in　line；　which　was　the　task　of　women　in　the　Soviet　Union；　along　with　cooking　dinner　for　her　man；　regardless　of　his　professional　status　in　life　or　hers。　She　knew　that　he　worked　for　State　Security；　but　did　not　know　his　job　there；　just　that　it　paid　a　fairly　fortable　salary；　and　came　with　a　uniform　that　he　rarely　wore；　and　a　rank　soon　to　take　a　jump　upward。　So；　whatever　he　did；　he　did　it　well　enough；　she　judged；　and　that　was　sufficient。　The　daughter　of　an　infantryman　in　the　great　Patriotic　War；　she'd　gone　to　state　schools　and　gotten　above…average　marks；　but　never　quite　achieved　what　she'd　wished。　She'd　shown　some　talent　at　the　piano；　but　not　enough　to　go　onward　to　a　state　conservatory。　She'd　also　tried　her　hand　at　writing；　but　there；　too；　she'd　fallen　short　of　the　necessary　talent　to　get　published。　Not　an　unattractive　woman；　she　was　thin　by　Russian　standards。　Her　mouse…brown　hair　fell　to　her　shoulders　and　was　usually　well　brushed…out。　She　read　a　good　deal；　whichever　books　she　could　get　that　were　worth　her　time；　and　enjoyed　listening　to　classical　music。　She　and　her　husband　occasionally　attended　concerts　at　the　Tchaikovsky。　Oleg　preferred　the　ballet；　and　so　they　went　there　as　well；　helped；　Irina　assumed；　by　his　job　at　#2　Dzerzhinskiy　Square。　He　was　not　yet　so　senior　as　to　allow　them　to　hobnob　with　senior　State　Security　officials　at　radely　parties。　Perhaps　when　he　got　his　colonelcy；　she　hoped。　For　the　moment　they　lived　the　middle…class　life　of　state…employed　bureaucrats；　scratching　by　on　their　bined　salaries。　The　good　news　was　that　they　had　occasional　access　to　the　〃closed〃　KGB　stores　where　at　least　they　could　buy　nice　things　for　her　and　Svetlana。　And；　who　knew；　maybe　they　could　afford　to　have　another　child　in　due　course。　They　were　both　young　enough；　and　a　little　boy　would　brighten　their　ho