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er　Doc；　and　the　other　into　Grumpy　…　there　are　seven　such　storage　units　in　the　CIA　puter　room；　each　named　after　one　of　Disney's　Seven　Dwarfs　…　while　the　reference　names　went　into　the　mainframe　so　that　the　puter　would　know　where　to　look　for　the　data　for　which　the　United　States　government　as　yet　had　no　understanding。　That　situation　was　hardly　unknown；　of　course；　and　for　that　reason　CIA　had　every　bit　of　information　it　generated　in　a　puterized　and　thoroughly　cross…referenced　index；　instantly　accessible；　depending　on　classification；　to　anyone　in　either　the　New　or　Old　Headquarters　Buildings　located　one　ridgeline　away　from　the　Potomac　River。　Most　of　the　data　in　the　Seven　Dwarfs　just　sat　there；　forevermore　to　be　untouched；　footnotes　to　footnotes；　never　to　be　of　interest　even　to　the　driest　of　academics。
　
　
　And　so？〃　Zhang　Han　San　asked。
　〃And　so；　our　Russian　neighbors　have　the　luck　of　the　devil；〃　Fang　Gan　replied；　handing　the　folder　over　to　the　senior　Minister　Without　Portfolio。　Zhang　was　seven　years　older　than　Fang；　closer　to　his　country's　Premier。　But　not　that　much；　and　there　was　little　petition　between　the　two　ministers。　〃What　we　could　do　with　such　blessings。。。〃　His　voice　trailed　off。
　〃Indeed。〃　That　any　country　could　have　made　constructive　use　of　oil　and　gold　was　an　obvious　truth　left　unsaid。　What　mattered　here　and　now　was　that　China　would　not；　and　Russia　would。
　〃I　had　planned　for　this；　you　know。〃
　〃Your　plans　were　masterful；　my　friend；〃　Fang　said　from　his　seat；　reaching　inside　his　jacket　for　a　pack　of　cigarettes。　He　held　it　up　to　seek　approval　from　his　host；　who'd　quit　the　habit　five　years　before。　The　response　was　a　dismissive　wave　of　the　hand；　and　Fang　tapped　one　out　and　lit　it　from　a　butane　lighter。　〃But　anyone　can　have　bad　luck。〃
　〃First　the　Japanese　failed　us；　and　then　that　religious　fool　in　Tehran；〃　Zhang　groused。　〃Had　either　of　our　supposed　allies　performed　as　promised；　the　gold　and　the　oil　would　now　be　ours。。。〃
　〃Useful；　certainly；　for　our　own　purposes；　but　I　am　somewhat　doubtful　on　the　subject　of　world　acceptance　of　our　notionally　prosperous　status；〃　Fang　said；　with　a　lengthy　puff。
　The　response　was　yet　another　wave　of　the　hand。　〃You　think　the　capitalists　are　governed　by　principle？　They　need　oil　and　gold；　and　whoever　can　provide　it　cheaply　gets　to　sell　the　most　of　it。　Look　whom　they　buy　from；　my　old　friend；　anyone　who　happens　to　have　it。　With　all　the　oil　in　Mexico；　the　Americans　can't　even　work　up　the　courage　to　seize　it。　How　cowardly　of　them！　In　our　case；　the　Japanese；　as　we　have　learned　to　our　sorrow；　have　no　principles　at　all。　If　they　could　buy　oil　from　the　pany　which　made　the　bombs　dropped　on　Hiroshima　and　Nagasaki；　they　would。　They　call　it　realism；〃　Zhang　concluded　scornfully。　The　real　cite　came　from　Vladimir　Il'ych　Ulyanov；　Lenin　himself；　who'd　predicted；　not　unreasonably；　that　capitalist　nations　would　pete　among　themselves　to　sell　the　Soviet　Union　the　rope　with　which　the　Russians　would　later　hang　them　all。　But　Lenin　had　never　planned　for　Marxism　to　fail；　had　he？　Just　as　Mao　hadn't　planned　for　his　perfect　political/economic　vision　to　fail　in　the　People's　Republic；　as　evidenced　by　such　slogans　as　〃The　Great　Leap　Forward；〃　which；　among　other　things；　had　encouraged　ordinary　peasants　to　smelt　iron　in　their　backyards。　That　the　resulting　slag　hadn't　been　useful　even　to　make　andirons　with　was　a　fact　not　widely　advertised　in　the　East　or　West。
　〃Alas；　fortune　did　not　smile　upon　us；　and　so；　the　oil　and　gold　are　not　ours。
　〃For　the　moment；〃　Zhang　murmured。
　〃What　was　that？〃　Fang　asked；　not　having　quite　caught　the　ment。
　Zhang　looked　up；　almost　startled　from　his　internal　reverie。　〃Hmph？　Oh；　nothing；　my　friend。〃　And　with　that　the　discussion　turned　to　domestic　matters。　It　lasted　a　total　of　seventy…five　minutes　before　Fang　went　back　to　his　office。　There　began　another　routine。　〃Ming；〃　Fang　called；　gesturing　on　the　way　to　his　inner　office。
　The　secretary　stood　and　scampered　after　him；　closing　the　door　behind　before　finding　her　seat。
　〃New　entry；〃　Fang　said　tiredly；　for　it　had　been　a　lengthy　day。　〃Regular　afternoon　meeting　with　Zhang　Han　San；　and　we　discussed。。。〃　His　voice　went　on；　relating　the　substance　and　contents　of　the　meeting。　Ming　duly　took　her　notes　for　her　minister's　official　diary。　The　Chinese　were　inveterate　diarists；　and　besides　that；　members　of　the　Politburo　felt　both　an　obligation　（for　scholarly　history）　and　a　personal　need　（for　personal　survival）　to　document　their　every　conversation　on　matters　political　and　concerning　national　policy；　the　better　to　document　their　views　and　careful　judgment　should　one　of　their　number　make　an　error　of　judgment。　That　this　meant　his　personal　secretary；　as；　indeed；　all　of　the　Politburo　members'　personal　secretaries；　had　access　to　the　most　sensitive　secrets　of　the　land　was　not　a　matter　of　importance；　since　these　girls　were　mere　robots；　recording　and　transcription　machines；　little　more　than　that　…　well；　a　little　more；　Fang　and　a　few　of　his　colleagues　thought　with　the　acpanying　smile。　You　couldn't　have　a　tape　machine　suck　on　your　penis；　could　you？　And　Ming　was　especially　good　at　it。　Fang　was　a　munist；　and　had　been　for　all　of　his　adult　life；　but　he　was　not　a　man　entirely　devoid　of　heart；　and　he　had　the　affection　for　Ming　that　another　man；　or　even　himself；　might　have　had　for　a　favored　daughter。。。　except　that　you　usually　didn't　fuck　your　own　daughter。。。。　His　diary　entry　droned　on　for　twenty　minutes；　his　trained　memory　recounting　every　substantive　part　of　his　exchange　with　Zhang；　who　was　doubtless　doing　the　same　with　his　own　private　secretary　right　at　this　moment　…　unless　Zhang　had　succumbed　to　the　Western　practice　of　using　a　tape　machine；　which　would　not　have　surprised　Fang。　For　all　of　Zhang's　pretended　contempt　for　Westerners；　he　emulated　them　in　so　many　ways。
　
　
　Theyd　also　tracked　down　the　name　of　Klementi　Ivan'ch　Suvorov。　He　was　yet　another　former　KGB　officer；　part　then　of　the　Third　Chief　Directorate；　which　had　been　a　hybrid　department　of　the　former　spy　agency；　tasked　to　overseeing　the　former　Soviet　military；　and　also　to　overseeing　certain　special　operations　of　the　latter　force；　like　the　Spetsnaz；　Oleg　Provalov　knew。　He　turned　a　few　more　pages　in　Suvorov's　package；　found　a　photograph　and　fingerprints；　and　also　discovered　that　his　first　assignment　had　been　in　the　First　Chief　Directorate；　known　as　the　Foreign　Directorate　because　of　its　work　in　gathering　intelligence　from　other　nations。　Why　the　change？　he　wondered。　Usually　in　KGB；　you　stayed　where　you　were　initially　put。　But　a　senior　officer　in　the　Third　had　drafted　him　by　name　from　the　First。。。　why？　Suvorov；　K。　I。；　asked　for　by　name　by　General　Major　Pavel　Konstantinovich　Kabinet。　The　name　made　Provalov　pause。　He'd　heard　it　somewhere；　but　exactly　where；　he　couldn't　recall；　an　unusual　state　of　affairs　for　a　long…term　investigator。　Provalov　made　a　note　and　set　it　aside。
　So；　they　had　a　name　and　a　photo　for　this　Suvorov　fellow。　Had　he　known　Amalrik　and　Zimyanin；　the　supposed　…　and　deceased　…　killers　of　Avseyenko　the　pimp？　It　seemed　possible。　In　the　Third　Directorate　he　would　have　had　possible　access　to　the　Spetsnaz；　but　that　could　have　been　a　mere　coincidence。　The　KGB's　Third　Directorate　had　been　mainly　concerned　with　political　control　of　the　Soviet　military；　but　that　was　no　longer　something　the　State　needed；　was　it？　The　entire　panoply　of　political　officers；　the　zampoliti　who　had　so　long　been　the　bane　of　the　Soviet　military；　was　now　essentially　gone。
　Where　are　you　now？　Provalov　asked　the　file　folder。　Unlike　Central　Army　Records；　KGB　records　were　usually　pretty　good　at　showing　where　former　intelligence　officers　lived；　and　what　they　were　doing。　It　was　a　carryover　from　the　previous　regime　that　worked　for　the　police　agencies；　but　not　in　this　case。　Where　are　you？　What　are　you　doing　to　support　yourself？　Are　you　a　criminal？Areyou　a　murderer？　Homicide　investigations　by　their　nature　created　more　questions　than　answers；　and　frequently　ended　with　many　such　questions　forever　unanswered　because　you　could　never　look　inside　the　mind　of　a　killer；　and　even　if　you　could；　what　you　might　find　there　didn't　have　to　make　any　sort　of　sense。
　This　murder　case　had　begun　as　a　plex　one；　and　was　only　being　more　so。　All　he　knew　for　certain　was　that　Avseyenko　was　dead；　along　with　his　driver　and　a　whore。　And　now；　maybe；　he　knew　even　less。　He'd　assumed　almost　from　the　beginning　that　the　pimp　had　been　the　real　target；　but　if　this　Suvorov　fellow　had　hired　Amalrik　and　Zimyanm　to　do　the　killing；　why　would　a　former　…　he　checked　…　lieutenant　colonel　in　the　Third　Chief　Directorate　of　the　KGB　go　out　of　his　way　to　kill　a　pimp？　Was　not　Sergey　Golovko　an　equally　likely　target　for　the　killing；　and　would　that　not　also　explain　the　murder　of　the　two　supposed　killers；　for　eliminating　the　wrong　target？　The　detective　lieutenant　opened　a　desk　drawer　for　a　bottle　of　aspirin。　It　wasn't　the　first　headache　this　case　had　developed；　and　it　didn't　seem　likely　that　this　would　be　the　last。　Whoever　Suvorov　was；　if　Golovko　had　been　the　target；　he　had　not　made　the　decision　to　kill　the　man　himself。　He'd　been　a　contract　killer；　and　therefore　someone　else　had　made　the　decision　to　do　the　killing。
　But　who？
　And　why？
　Cui　bonuo　was　the　ancient　question　…　old　enough　that　the　adage　was　in　a　dead　language。　To　whom　the　good？　Who　profited　from　the　deed？
　He　called　Abramov　and　Ustinov。　Maybe　they　could　run　Suvorov　down；　and　then　he'd　fly　north　to　interview　the　man。　Provalov　drafted　the　fax　and　fired　it　off　to　St。　Petersburg；　then　left　his　desk　for　the　drive　home。　He　checked　his　watch。　Only　two　hours　late。　Not　bad　for　this　case。
　
　
　General　Lieutanent　Gennady　Iosifovich　Bondarenko　looked　around　his　office。　He'd　had　his　three　stars　for　a　while；　and　sometimes　he　wondered　if　he'd　get　any　farther。　He'd　been　a　professional　soldier　for　thirty…one　years；　and　the　job　to　which　he'd　always　aspired　was　manding　General　of　the　Russian　Army。　Many　good　men；　and　some　bad　ones；　had　been　there。　Gregoriy　Zhukov；　for　one；　the　man　who'd　saved　his　country　from　the　Germans。　There　were　many　statues　to　Zhukov；　whom　Bondarenko　had　heard　lecture　when　he　was　a　wet…nosed　cadet　all　those　years　before；　seeing　the　blunt；　bulldog　face　and　ice…blue　determined　eyes　of　a　killer；　a　true　Russian　hero　whom　politics　c