tc.thebearandthedragon-第8部分

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world；　except；　of　course；　in　China；　and　that　set　of　facts　only　added　to　a　racial/ethnic　antipathy　that　went　back　at　least　as　far　as　Kublai　Khan。
　He'd　gotten　too　used　to　fitting　in。　Nomuri　had　joined　CIA　to　serve　his　country；　and　to　have　a　little　fun；　he'd　thought　at　the　time。　Then　he'd　learned　what　a　deadly　serious　business　field…intelligence　was；　followed　by　the　challenge　of　slipping　into　places　he　wasn't　supposed　to　be；　of　obtaining　information　he　wasn't　supposed　to　get；　and　then　giving　it　to　people　who　weren't　supposed　to　know　it。　It　wasn't　just　serving　his　country　that　kept　Nomuri　in　the　business。　There　was　also　the　thrill；　the　rush　of　knowing　what　others　didn't　know；　of　beating　people　at　their　own　game；　on　their　own　turf。
　But　in　Japan　he　looked　like　everyone　else。　Not　here　in　Beijing。　He　was　also　a　few　inches　taller　than　the　average　Chinese　…　that　came　from　his　childhood　diet　and　American　furniture　…　and　better　dressed　in　Western…style　clothes。　The　clothes　he　could　fix。　His　face　he　could　not。　For　starters；　he'd　have　to　change　his　haircut；　Chet　thought。　At　least　that　way　he　could　disappear　from　behind；　and　perhaps　shake　an　MSS　tail　that　way。　He　had　a　car　to　drive　around；　paid　for　by　NEC；　but　he'd　get　a　bicycle；　too；　a　Chinese　make　rather　than　an　expensive　European　one。　If　asked　about　it；　he'd　say　it　was　good　exercise　…　and　besides；　wasn't　it　a　perfectly　fine　socialist　bicycle？　But　such　questions　would　be　asked；　and　notice　of　his　presence　would　be　taken；　and　in　Japan；　Nomuri　realized；　he'd　gotten　slack　and　fortable　running　his　agents。　He'd　known　that　he　could　disappear　in　a　place　as　intimate　as　a　steaming　bathhouse；　and　there　talk　about　women　and　sports　and　many　other　things；　but　rarely　business。　In　Japan　every　business　operation　was　secret　at　some　level　or　other；　and　even　with　the　intimate　friends　with　whom　he　discussed　their　wives'　shortings；　a　Japanese　salaryman　would　not　discuss　goings…on　in　the　office　until　after　they　were　overt　and　public。　And　that　was　good　for　operational　security；　wasn't　it？

　Looking　around　like　any　other　tourist；　he　wondered　how　he　would　handle　such　things　here。　But　most　of　all　he　noticed　that　eyes　lingered　on　him　as　he　walked　from　one　side　of　this　immense　square　to　the　other。　How　had　this　place　sounded　when　the　tanks　were　here？　He　stood　still　for　a　moment；　remembering。。。　it　was　right　there；　wasn't　it？　。　。　。　the　guy　with　the　briefcase　and　shopping　bag　who'd　held　up　a　pany　of　tanks；　just　by　standing　there。。。　because　even　the　private　in　the　driver's　seat　of　a　Type　80　PRC　tank　didn't　have　the　stones　to　run　over　the　guy；　despite　whatever　his　captain　might　have　been　screaming　at　him　over　the　interphones　from　his　place　on　top　of　the　turret。　Yeah；　it　was　right　about　here　that　had　happened。　Later　on；　of　course；　in　about　a　week；　the　guy　with　the　briefcase　had　been　arrested　by　MSS；　so　said　CIA's　sources；　and　he'd　been　taken　away　and　interrogated　to　see　what　had　persuaded　him　to　take　so　public　and　so　foolish　a　political　stand　against　both　the　government　and　the　armed　forces　of　his　country。　That　had　probably　lasted　a　while；　the　CIA　officer　thought；　standing　here　and　looking　around　from　the　spot　where　one　brave　man　had　taken　his　stand。。。　because　the　MSS　interrogators　just　wouldn't　have　believed　that　it　had　been　one　man　acting　on　his　own。。。　the　concept　of　acting　on　one's　own　was　not　something　encouraged　in　a　munist　regime；　and　was　therefore　entirely　alien　to　those　who　enforced　the　will　of　the　State　on　those　who　broke　the　State's　rules。　Whoever　he'd　been；　the　guy　with　the　briefcase　was　dead　now　…　the　sources　were　pretty　clear　on　that。　An　MSS　official　had　mented　on　the　matter　with　satisfaction　later　on；　before　someone　whose　ears　were　distantly　connected　to　America。　He'd　taken　the　bullet　in　the　back　of　the　head；　and　his　family　…　a　wife　and　an　infant　son；　the　source　believed　…　had　been　billed　for　the　pistol　round　needed　to　execute　the　husband/father/counterrevolutionary/enemy…of…the…state　in　question。　Such　was　justice　in　the　People's　Republic　of　China。
　And　what　was　it　they　called　foreigners　here？　Barbarians。　Yeah；　Nomuri　thought；　sure；　Wilbur。　The　myth　of　central　position　was　as　alive　here　as　it　had　been　on　the　Ku…Damm　of　Adolf　Hitler's　Berlin。　Racism　was　the　same　all　over　the　world。　Dumb。　That　was　one　lesson　his　country　had　taught　the　world；　Chester　Nomuri　thought；　though　America　still　had　to　absorb　the　lesson　herself。
　
　
　She　was　a　whore；　and　a　very　expensive　one；　Mike　Reilly　thought　from　his　seat　behind　the　glass。　Her　hair　had　been　unnaturally　blonded　by　some　expensive　shop　in　Moscow　…　she　needed　another　treatment；　since　there　was　a　hint　of　dark　brown　at　the　roots　…　but　it　went　well　with　her　cheekbones　and　eyes；　which　were　not　quite　any　shade　of　blue　he'd　ever　seen　in　a　woman's　eyes。　That　was　probably　a　hook　for　her　repeat　customers；　the　color；　he　thought；　but　not　the　expression。　Her　body　could　have　been　sculpted　by　Phidias　of　Athens　to　be　a　goddess　fit　for　public　worship；　ample　curves　everywhere；　the　legs　thinner　than　normal　for　Russian　tastes；　but　ones　that　would　have　gotten　along　well　at　the　corner　of　Hollywood　and　Vine；　if　that　were　still　a　nice　neighborhood　in　which　to　be　spotted。。。
　。。。but　the　expression　in　her　lovely　eyes　could　have　stopped　the　heart　of　a　marathon　runner。　What　was　it　about　prostitution　that　did　this　to　women？　Reilly　shook　his　head。　He　hadn't　worked　that　particular　class　of　crime　very　often　…　it　was　mainly　a　violation　for　local　cops　…　and　not　enough；　he　supposed；　to　understand　its　practitioners。　The　look　in　her　eyes　was　frightening。　Only　men　were　supposed　to　be　predators；　so　he　and　most　men　thought。　But　this　woman　belied　that　belief　to　a　fare…thee…well。
　Her　name　was　Tanya　Bogdanova。　She　was；　she　said；　twenty…three　years　of　age。　She　had　the　face　of　an　angel；　and　the　body　of　a　movie　star。　It　was　her　heart　and　soul　the　FBI　agent　was　unsure　of。　Maybe　she　was　just　wired　differently　from　normal　people；　as　so　many　career　criminals　seemed　to　be。　Maybe　she'd　been　sexually　abused　in　her　youth。　But　even　at　twenty…three；　her　youth　was　a　very　distant　thing；　judging　from　the　way　her　eyes　looked　at　her　interrogator。　Reilly　looked　down　at　her　dossier…folder　from　Militia　headquarters。　There　was　only　one　shot　of　her　in　it；　a　distant　black…and…white　of　her　with　a　john　…　well；　probably　an　ivan；　Reilly　thought　with　a　grunt　…　and　in　this　photo　her　face　was　animated；　youthful；　and　as　alluring　as　the　young　Ingrid　Bergman　had　been　to　Bogie　in　Casablanca。　Tanya　could　act；　Reilly　thought。　If　this　were　the　real　Tanya　in　front　of　him；　as　it　probably　was；　then　the　one　in　the　photo　was　a　construct；　a　role　to　be　played；　an　illusion　…　a　wonderful　one；　to　be　sure；　but　potentially　a　highly　dangerous　lie　to　anyone　taken　in　by　it。　The　girl　on　the　other　side　of　the　one…way　mirror　could　have　dug　a　man's　eyeballs　out　with　her　nail　file；　and　then　eaten　them　raw　before　going　to　her　next　appointment　at　the　new　Moscow　Four　Seasons　Hotel　and　Convention　Center。
　〃Who　were　his　enemies；　Tanya？〃　the　militiaman　asked　in　the　interrogation　room。
　〃Who　were　his　friends？〃　she　asked　in　bored　reply。　〃He　had　none。　Of　enemies　he　had　many。〃　Her　spoken　language　was　literate　and　almost　refined。　Her　English　was　supposed　to　be　excellent　as　well。　Well；　she　doubtless　needed　that　for　her　customers。。。　it　was　probably　worth　a　few　extra　bucks；　D…marks；　pounds；　or　euros；　a　nice　hard　currency　for　whose　printed　notes　she'd　give　a　discount；　doubtless　smiling　in　a　coquettish　way　when　she　told　her　john；　jean；　johannes；　or　ivan　about　it。　Before　or　after？　Reilly　wondered。　He'd　never　paid　for　it；　though　looking　at　Tanya；　he　understood　why　some　men　might。。。
　〃What's　she　charge？〃　he　whispered　to　Provalov。
　〃More　than　I　can　afford；〃　the　detective　lieutenant　grunted。　〃Something　like　six　hundred　euros；　perhaps　more　for　an　entire　evening。　She　is　medically　clean；　remarkably　enough。　A　goodly　collection　of　condoms　in　her　purse；　American；　French；　and　Japanese　brands。〃
　〃What's　her　background？　Ballet；　something　like　that？〃　the　FBI　agent　asked；　menting　implicitly　on　her　grace。
　Provalov　grunted　in　amusement。　〃No；　her　tits　are　too　big　for　that；　and　she's　too　tall。　She　weighs　about；　oh；　fifty…five　kilos　or　so；　I　would　imagine。　Too　much　for　one　of　those　little　fairies　in　the　Bolshoi　to　pick　up　and　throw　about。　She　could　bee　a　model　for　our　growing　fashion　industry；　but；　no；　on　what　you　ask；　her　background　is　quite　ordinary。　Her　father；　deceased；　was　a　factory　worker；　and　her　mother；　also　deceased；　worked　in　a　consumer…goods　store。　They　both　died　of　conditions　consistent　with　alcohol　abuse。　Our　Tanya　drinks　only　in　moderation。　State　education；　undistinguished　grades　in　that。　No　siblings；　our　Tanya　is　quite　alone　in　the　world　…　and　has　been　so　for　some　time。　She's　been　working　for　Rasputin　for　almost　four　years。　I　doubt　the　Sparrow　School　ever　turned　out　so　polished　a　whore　as　this　one。　Gregoriy　Filipovich　himself　used　her　many　times；　whether　for　sex　or　just　for　his　public　escort；　we're　not　sure；　and　she　is　a　fine　adornment；　is　she　not？　But　whatever　affection　he　may　have　had　for　her；　as　you　see；　was　not　reciprocated。〃
　〃Anyone　close　to　her？〃
　Provalov　shook　his　head。　〃None　known　to　us；　not　even　a　woman　friend　of　note。〃
　The　interview　was　pure　vanilla；　Reilly　saw；　like　fishing　for　bass　in　a　well…stocked　lake；　one　of　twenty…seven　interrogations　to　this　point　concerning　the　death　of　G。　F。　Avseyenko　…　everyone　seemed　to　forget　the　fact　that　there　had　been　two　additional　human　beings　in　the　car；　but　they　probably　hadn't　been　the　targets。　It　wasn't　getting　any　easier。　What　they　really　needed　was　the　truck；　something　with　physical　evidence。　Like　most　FBI　agents；　Reilly　believed　in　tangibles；　something　you　could　hold　in　your　hand；　then　pass　off　to　a　judge　or　jury；　and　have　them　know　it　was　both　evidence　of　a　crime　and　proof　of　who　had　done　it。　Eyewitnesses；　on　the　other　hand；　were　often　liars；　at　best　they　were　easy　for　defense　lawyers　to　confuse；　and　therefore　they　were　rarely　trusted　by　cops　or　juries。　The　truck　might　have　blast　residue　from　the　RPG　launch；　maybe　fingerprints　on　the　greasy　wrapping　paper　the　Russians　used　for　their　weapons；　maybe　anything　…　best　of　all　would　be　a　cigarette　smoked　by　the　driver　or　the　shooter；　since　the　FBI　could　DNA…match　the　res