tc.redrabbit-第29节

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o　a　brown　envelope；　which　he　handed　to　the　colonel。
　　　〃Has　anyone　seen　this？〃　Rozhdestvenskiy　asked。
　　　〃Certainly　not；　rade；〃　Zaitzev　replied。
　　　〃Very　well。〃　Colonel　Rozhdestvenskiy　walked　away　without　another　word。　For　his　part；　Zaitzev　left　his　work　desk　and　headed　off　to　the　cafeteria　for　lunch。　The　food　was　the　best　reason　to　work　at　The　Centre。
　　　What　he　could　not　leave　behind　as　he　stopped　at　the　lavatory　to　wash　his　hands　was　the　message　sequence。　Yuriy　Andropov　wanted　to　kill　the　Pope；　and　the　rezident　in　Rome　didn't　like　the　idea。　Zaitzev　wasn't　supposed　to　have　any　opinions。　He　was　just　part　of　the　munications　system。　It　rarely　occurred　to　the　hierarchy　of　the　mittee　for　State　Security　that　its　people　actually　had　minds。。。
　　　。。。　and　even　consciences。。。
　　　Zaitzev　took　his　place　in　line　and　got　the　metal　tray　and　utensils。　He　decided　on　the　beef　stew　and　four　thick　slices　of　bread；　with　a　large　glass　of　tea。　The　cashier　charged　him　fifty…five　kopecks。　His　usual　luncheon　mates　had　already　been　and　gone；　so　he　ended　up　picking　an　end　seat　at　a　table　filled　with　people　he　didn't　know。　They　were　talking　about　football；　and　he　didn't　join　in；　alone　with　his　thoughts。　The　stew　was　quite　good；　as　was　the　bread；　fresh　from　the　ovens。　About　the　only　thing　they　didn't　have　here　was　proper　silverware；　as　they　did　in　the　private　dining　rooms　on　the　upper　floors。　Instead　they　used　the　same　feather…light　zinc…aluminum　as　all　the　other　Soviet　citizens。　It　worked　well　enough；　but　because　it　was　so　light；　it　felt　awkward　in　his　hands。
　　　So；　he　thought；　I　was　right。　The　Chairman　is　thinking　about　murdering　the　Pope。
　　　Zaitzev　was　not　a　religious　man。　He　had　not　been　to　a　church　in　his　entire　life…except　those　large　buildings　converted　to　museums　since　the　Revolution。　All　he　knew　about　religion　was　the　propaganda　dispensed　as　a　matter　of　course　in　Soviet　public　education。　And　yet　some　of　the　children　he'd　known　in　school　had　talked　about　believing　in　God；　and　he　hadn't　reported　them；　because　informing　just　wasn't　his　way。　The　Great　Questions　of　Life　were　things　he　didn't　much　think　about。　For　the　most　part；　life　in　the　Soviet　Union　was　limited　to　yesterday；　today；　and　tomorrow。　The　economic　facts　of　life　really　didn't　allow　a　person　to　make　long…term　plans。　There　were　no　country　houses　to　buy；　no　luxury　cars　to　desire；　no　elaborate　vacations　to　save　for。　In　mitting　what　it　called　socialism　on　the　people；　the　government　of　his　country　allowed…forced…everyone　to　aspire　to　much　the　same　things；　regardless　of　individual　tastes；　which　meant　getting　on　an　endless　list　and　being　notified　when　one's　name　came　up…and　being　unknowingly　bumped　by　those　with　greater　Party　seniority…or　not；　because　some　people　had　access　to　better　places。　His　life；　like　everyone　else's；　was　like　that　of　a　steer　on　a　feed　lot。　He　was　cared　for　moderately　well　and　fed　the　same　bland　food　at　the　same　time　on　endlessly　identical　days。　There　was　a　grayness；　an　overarching　boredom；　to　every　aspect　of　life…alleviated　in　his　case　only　by　the　content　of　the　messages　which　he　processed　and　forwarded。　He　wasn't　supposed　to　think　about　the　messages；　much　less　remember　them；　but　without　anybody　to　talk　to；　all　he　could　do　was　dwell　on　them　in　the　privacy　of　his　own　mind。　Today　his　mind　had　just　one　occupant；　and　it　would　not　silence　itself。　It　raced　around　like　a　hamster　in　an　exercise　wheel；　going　round　and　round　but　always　returning　to　the　same　place。
　　　Andropov　wants　to　kill　the　Pope。
　　　He'd　processed　assassination　messages　before。　Not　many。　KGB　was　gradually　drifting　away　from　it。　Too　many　things　went　wrong。　Despite　the　professional　skill　and　cleverness　of　the　field　officers；　policemen　in　other　countries　were　endlessly　clever　and　had　the　mindless　patience　of　a　spider　in　its　web；　and　until　KGB　could　just　wish　a　person　dead　and　have　it　e　to　pass；　there　would　be　witnesses　and　evidence；　because　a　cloak　of　invisibility　was　something　found　only　in　tales　for　children。
　　　More　often　he　processed　messages　about　defectors　or　suspected　would　be　defectors…or；　just　as　deadly；　suspicion　of　officers　and　agents　who'd　〃doubled；〃　gone　over　to　serve　the　enemy。　He'd　even　seen　such　evidence　passed　along　in　message　form；　calling　an　officer　home　for　〃consultations〃　from　which　they'd　rarely　returned　back　to　their　rezidenturas。　Exactly　what　happened　to　them…that　was　just　the　subject　of　gossip；　all　of　it　unpleasant。　One　officer　who'd　gone　bad；　the　story　went；　had　been　loaded　alive　into　a　crematorium；　the　way　the　German　SS　was　supposed　to　have　done。　He'd　heard　there　was　a　film　of　it；　and　he'd　talked　to　people　who　knew　people　who　knew　people　who'd　seen　it。　But　he　had　never　actually　seen　it　himself；　nor　met　anyone　who　had。　Some　things；　Oleg　Ivanovich　thought；　were　too　beyond　the　pale　even　for　the　KGB。　No；　most　of　the　stories　talked　of　firing　squads…which　often　fucked　up；　so　the　stories　went…or　a　single　pistol　round　in　the　head；　as　Lavrenti　Beriya　had　done　himself。　Those　stories；　everyone　believed。　He'd　seen　photos　of　Beria；　and　they　seemed　to　drip　with　blood。　And　Iron　Feliks　would　doubtless　have　done　it　between　bites　of　his　sandwich。　He　was　the　kind　of　man　to　give　ruthlessness　an　evil　name。
　　　But　it　was　generally　felt；　if　not　widely　spoken；　that　KGB　was　being　more　kulturniy　in　its　dealings　with　the　world。　More　cultured。　More　civilized。　Kinder　and　gentler。　Traitors；　of　course；　were　executed；　but　only　after　a　trial　in　which　they　were　at　least　given　a　pro　forma　chance　to　explain　their　actions　and；　if　they　were　innocent；　to　prove　it。　It　almost　never　happened；　but　only　because　the　State　only　prosecuted　the　truly　guilty。　The　investigators　in　the　Second　Chief　Directorate　were　among　the　most　feared　and　skilled　people　in　the　entire　country。　It　was　said　they　were　never　wrong　and　never　fooled；　like　some　kind　of　gods。
　　　Except　that　the　State　said　that　there　were　no　gods。
　　　Men；　then…and　women。　Everyone　knew　about　the　Sparrow　School；　about　which　the　men　often　spoke　with　twisty　grins　and　winking　eyes。　Ah；　to　be　an　instructor　or；　better　still；　a　quality…assurance　officer　there！　they　dreamed。　And　to　be　paid　for　it。　As　his　Irina　often　noted；　all　men　were　pigs。　But；　Zaitzev　mused；　it　could　be　fun　to　be　a　pig。
　　　Kill　the　Pope…why？　He　was　no　threat　to　this　country。　Stalin　himself　had　once　joked；　How　many　divisions　does　the　Pope　have？　So　why　kill　the　man？　Even　the　rezident　warned　against　it。　Goderenko　feared　the　political　repercussions。　Stalin　had　ordered　Trotsky　killed；　and　had　dispatched　a　KGB　officer　to　do　it；　knowing　that　he'd　suffer　long…term　imprisonment　for　the　task。　But　he'd　done　it；　faithful　to　the　Will　of　the　Party；　in　a　professional　gesture　that　they　talked　about　in　the　academy　training　classes…along　with　the　more　casual　advice　that　we　really　don't　do　that　sort　of　thing　anymore。　It　was　not；　the　instructors　didn't　add；　kulturniy。　And　so；　yes；　KGB　was　drifting　away　from　that　sort　of　behavior。
　　　Until　now。　Until　today。　And　even　our　senior　rezident　is　advising　against　it。　Why？　Because　he　doesn't　want　himself　and　his　agency…and　his　country！…to　be　so　nekulturniy？
　　　Or　because　to　do　so　would　be　worse　than　foolish？　It　would　be　wrong。。。？　〃Wrong〃　was　a　concept　foreign　to　citizens　in　the　Soviet　Union。　At　least；　what　people　perceived　as　things　that　were　morally　wrong。　Morality　in　his　country　had　been　replaced　by　what　was　politically　correct　or　incorrect。　Whatever　served　the　interests　of　his　country's　political　system　was　worthy　of　praise。　That　which　did　not　was　worthy　of。。。　death？
　　　And　who　decided　such　things？
　　　Men　did。
　　　Men　did　because　there　was　no　morality；　as　the　world　understood　the　term。　There　was　no　God　to　pronounce　what　was　good　and　what　was　evil。
　　　And　yet。。。
　　　And　yet；　in　the　heart　of　every　man　was　an　inborn　knowledge　of　right　and　wrong。　To　kill　another　man　was　wrong。　To　take　a　man's　life　you　had　to　have　a　just　cause。　But　it　was　also　men　who　decided　what　constituted　such　cause。　The　right　men　in　the　right　place　with　the　right　authority　had　the　ability　and　the　right　to　kill　because…why？
　　　Because　Marx　and　Lenin　said　so。
　　　That　was　what　the　government　of　his　country　had　long　since　decided。
　　　Zaitzev　buttered　his　last　piece　of　bread　and　dipped　it　in　the　remaining　gravy　in　his　bowl　before　eating　it。　He　knew　he　was　thinking　overly　deep；　even　dangerous；　thoughts。　His　parent　society　did　not　encourage　or　even　permit　independent　thinking。　You　were　not　supposed　to　question　the　Party　and　its　wisdom。　Certainly　not　here。　In　the　KGB　cafeteria；　you　never；　ever；　not　even　once　heard　someone　wonder　aloud　if　the　Party　and　the　Motherland　it　served　and　protected　were　even　capable　of　doing　an　incorrect　act。　Oh；　maybe　once　in　a　while；　people　speculated　on　tactics；　but　even　then　the　talk　was　within　limits　that　were　taller　and　stronger　than　the　Kremlin's　own　brick　walls。
　　　His　country's　morality；　he　mused；　had　been　predetermined　by　a　German　Jew　living　in　London；　and　the　son　of　a　czarist　bureaucrat　who　simply　hadn't　liked　the　czar　much　and　whose　overly　adventurous　brother　had　been　executed　for　taking　direct　action。　That　man　had　found　shelter　in　that　most　capitalistic　of　nations；　Switzerland；　then　had　been　dispatched　back　to　Mother　Russia　by　the　Germans　in　the　hope　that　he　could　upset　the　czar's　governm