tc.redrabbit-第15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！


ry。　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　home。
　　　〃Anything　interesting　today？〃　she　asked。　It　was　almost　their　daily　joke。
　　　〃There　is　never　anything　interesting　at　the　office；〃　he　joked　in　reply。　No；　just　the　usual　messages　to　and　from　field　officers；　which　he　forwarded　to　the　appropriate　pigeonholes　for　in…house　couriers　to　hand…carry　upstairs　to　the　offices　of　the　control　officers　who　really　ran　things　at　KGB。　A　very　senior　colonel　had　e　down　to　see　the　operation　the　previous　week；　which　he'd　done　without　a　smile；　a　friendly　word；　or　a　question　for　twenty　minutes；　before　disappearing　off　to　the　elevator　banks。　Oleg　knew　the　man's　seniority　only　from　the　identity　of　his　escort：　the　colonel　who　ran　his　own　operation。　Whatever　words　had　been　exchanged　had　been　too　distant　for　him　to　overhear…people　tended　to　talk　in　whispers；　if　at　all；　in　his　department…and　he　was　trained　not　to　show　much　interest。
　　　But　training　could　only　go　so　far。　Captain　Oleg　Ivanovich　Zaitzev　was　too　bright　to　turn　his　mind　all　the　way　off。　Indeed；　his　job　required　something　approaching　judgment　for　its　proper　execution；　but　that　was　something　to　be　exercised　as　gingerly　as　a　mouse's　stroll　through　a　roomful　of　cats。　He　always　went　to　his　immediate　superior　and　always　started　off　with　the　most　humble　of　questions　before　getting　approval。　In　fact；　his　judgmental　questions　were　always　approved。　Oleg　was　gifted　in　that；　and　he　was　beginning　to　get　recognized　as　such。　His　majority　wasn't　all　that　far　off。　More　money；　more　access　to　the　closed　stores；　and；　gradually；　more　independence…no；　that　wasn't　quite　right。　A　little　less　circumscription　on　what　he　would　be　able　to　do。　Someday　he　might　even　ask　if　a　message　going　out　made　good　sense。　Do　we　really　want　to　do　this；　rade？　he'd　wanted　to　ask　every　so　often。　Operational　decisions　were　not　his　to　make；　of　course；　but　he　could…or　would　be　able　to　in　the　future…question　the　wording　of　a　directive　in　the　most　oblique　terms。　Every　so　often　he'd　see　something　going　out　to　Officer　457　in　Rome；　for　example；　and　wonder　if　his　country　really　wanted　to　risk　the　consequences　of　having　the　mission　order　go　bad。　And　sometimes　they　did　go　bad。　Just　two　months　before；　he'd　seen　a　dispatch　from　Bonn　warning　that　something　had　gone　wrong　with　the　West　German　counterintelligence　service；　and　the　field　officer　had　urgently　requested　instructions…and　the　instructions　had　been　to　continue　his　mission　without　questioning　the　intelligence　of　his　superiors。　And　that　field　officer　had　disappeared　right　off　the　network。　Arrested　and　shot？　Oleg　wondered。　He　knew　some　of　the　field　officers'　names；　virtually　all　of　the　operations'　names；　and　a　lot　of　the　operational　targets　and　objectives。　Most　of　all；　he　knew　the　code　names　of　hundreds　of　foreign　nationals　who　were　agents　of　the　KGB。　At　its　best；　it　could　be　like　reading　a　spy　novel。　Some　of　the　field　officers　had　a　literary　streak。　Their　dispatches　were　not　the　terse　muniques　of　military　officers。　No；　they　liked　to　municate　the　state　of　mind　of　their　agents；　the　feel　of　the　information　and　the　mission　assigned。　They　could　be　like　travelogue　writers　describing　things　for　a　paying　audience。　Zaitzev　wasn't　really　supposed　to　digest　such　information；　but　he　was　a　man　with　a　mind；　and　besides；　there　were　telltale　codes　built　into　every　dispatch。　The　third　word　misspelled；　for　example；　could　be　a　warning　that　the　officer　had　been　promised。　Every　officer　had　a　different　such　key　system；　and　Zaitzev　had　a　list　of　them　all。　Only　twice　had　he　caught　such　irregularities；　and　on　one　of　those　occasions　his　supervisors　had　told　him　to　ignore　it　as　a　clerical　error…a　fact　that　still　astounded　him。　But　the　mistake　had　never　been　repeated；　and　so；　maybe　it　really　had　just　been　an　enciphering　error　by　the　officer　in　question。　After　all；　his　superior　had　told　him；　men　trained　at　The　Centre　didn't　often　get　caught　in　the　field。　They　were　the　best　in　the　world；　and　the　Western　enemies　were　not　that　clever；　were　they？　Then　Captain　Zaitzev　had　nodded　submission　to　the　moment；　written　down　his　warning　notation；　and　made　sure　it　was　in　the　permanent　files；　covering　his　ass　like　any　good　bureaucrat。
　　　What　if　his　immediate　superior　were　under　the　control　of　some　Western　spy　agency；　he'd　wondered　at　the　time　and　later　on；　usually　after　a　few　drinks　in　front　of　his　TV　set。　Such　a　promise　would　be　perfection　itself。　Nowhere　in　KGB　was　there　a　single　written　list　of　their　officers　and　agents。　No；　〃partmentalization〃　was　a　concept　invented　here　back　in　the　1920s；　or　perhaps　earlier　still。　Even　Chairman　Andropov　was　not　allowed　to　have　such　a　thing　within　his　reach；　lest　he　defect　to　the　West　and　take　it　with　him。　KGB　trusted　no　one；　least　of　all　its　own　Chairman。　And　so；　oddly；　only　people　in　his　own　department　had　access　to　such　broad　information；　but　they　were　not　operations　personnel。　They　were　just　municators。
　　　But　wasn't　the　one　person　KGB　always　tried　to　promise　the　cipher　clerk　in　a　foreign　embassy？　Because　he　or　she　was　the　one　functionary；　the　one　not　bright　enough　to　be　entrusted　with　anything　of　importance…wasn't　she　the　one　person　who　was　so　entrusted？　It　was　so　often　a　woman；　after　all；　and　KGB　officers　were　trained　to　seduce　them。　He'd　seen　dispatches　along　those　lines；　some　of　them　describing　the　seduction　in　graphic　detail；　perhaps　to　impress　the　men　upstairs　with　their　manly　prowess　and　the　extent　of　their　devotion　to　the　State。　Being　paid　to　fuck　women　didn't　strike　Zaitzev　as　conspicuously　heroic；　but　then；　perhaps　the　women　were　surpassingly　ugly；　and　performing　a　man's　duty　under　such　circumstances　might　have　been　difficult。
　　　What　it　came　down　to；　Oleg　Ivanovich　reflected；　was　that　functionaries　were　so　often　entrusted　with　cosmic　secrets；　and　he　was　one　of　them；　and　wasn't　that　amusing？　More　amusing　than　his　cabbage　soup；　certainly；　nutritious　though　it　might　be。　So　even　the　Soviet　state　trusted　some　people；　despite　the　fact　that　〃trust〃　was　a　concept　as　divorced　from　its　way　of　collective　thinking　as　a　man　is　from　Mars。　And　he　was　such　a　man。　Well；　one　result　of　that　irony　was　the　cute　green　shirt　his　little　daughter　wore。　He　set　a　few　books　on　the　kitchen　chair　and　hoisted　Svetlana　there　so　that　she　could　eat　her　dinner。　Svetlana's　hands　were　a　little　small　for　the　zinc…aluminum　tableware；　but　at　least　it　wasn't　too　heavy　for　her　to　use。　He　still　had　to　butter　her　bread　for　her。　It　was　good　to　be　able　to　afford　real　butter。
　　　〃I　saw　something　nice　at　the　special　store　on　the　way　home；〃　Irina　observed　as　women　do　over　dinner；　to　catch　their　husbands　in　a　good　mood。　The　cabbage　was　especially　good　today；　and　the　ham　was　Polish。　So　she'd　shopped　today　at　the　〃closed〃　store；　all　right。　She'd　gotten　into　the　habit　only　nine　months　before；　and　now　she　wondered　aloud　how　she'd　ever　lived　without　it。
　　　〃What's　that？〃　Oleg　asked；　sipping　his　Georgian　tea。
　　　〃Brassieres；　Swedish　ones。〃
　　　Oleg　smiled。　Those　of　Soviet　manufacture　always　seemed　to　be　designed　for　peasant　girls　who　suckled　calves　instead　of　children…far　too　big　for　a　woman　of　his　wife's　more　human　proportions。　〃How　much？〃　he　asked　without　looking　up。
　　　〃Only　seventeen　rubles　each。〃
　　　Seventeen　certificate　rubles；　he　didn't　correct　her。　A　certificate　ruble　had