tc.redrabbit-第60节

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　　　〃Anyway；　we　had　this　e　in　from　East　Germany。〃　Jack　handed　the　folder　across。　〃Some　rumbles　in　their　political　hierarchy　last　week。〃
　　　〃Those　bloody　Prussians；〃　Harding　breathed；　as　he　took　it　and　flipped　to　the　first　page。
　　　〃Cheer　up。　The　Russians　don't　much　like　them　either。〃
　　　〃I　don't　blame　them　a　bit。〃
　　　Zaitzev　was　doing　some　hard　thinking　at　his　desk；　as　his　brain　worked　on　autopilot。　He'd　have　to　meet　with　his　new　American　friend。　There　was　danger　involved；　unless　he　could　find　a　nice；　anonymous　place。　The　good　news　was　that　Moscow　abounded　with　such　places。　The　bad　news　was　that　the　Second　Chief　Directorate　of　the　KGB　probably　knew　all　of　them。　But　if　it　was　crowded　enough；　that　didn't　matter。
　　　What　would　he　say？
　　　What　would　he　ask　for？
　　　What　would　he　offer　them？
　　　Those　were　all　good　questions；　weren't　they？　The　dangers　would　only　increase。　The　best　possible　oute　would　be　for　him　to　leave　the　Soviet　Union　permanently；　with　his　wife　and　daughter。
　　　Yes；　that　was　what　he'd　ask　for；　and　if　the　Americans　said　no；　he'd　just　melt　back　into　his　accustomed　reality；　knowing　that　he'd　tried。　He　had　things　they　would　want；　and　he'd　make　it　clear　to　them　that　the　price　of　that　information　was　his　escape。
　　　Life　in　the　West；　he　thought。　All　the　decadent　things　the　State　preached　to　everyone　who　could　read　a　newspaper　or　watch　TV；　all　the　awful　things　they　talked　about。　The　way　America　treated　its　minorities。　They　even　showed　pictures　on　TV　of　the　slum　areas…but　they　also　showed　automobiles。　If　America　oppressed　its　blacks；　why；　then；　did　it　allow　them　to　purchase　so　many　automobiles？　Why　did　it　permit　them　to　riot　in　the　streets？　Had　that　sort　of　thing　happened　in　the　USSR；　the　government　would　have　called　in　armed　troops。　So　no；　the　state　propaganda　could　not　be　entirely　true；　could　it？　And；　besides；　wasn't　he　white？　What　did　he　care　about　some　discontented　blacks　who　could　buy　any　car　they　wished？　Like　most　Russians；　he'd　only　seen　black　people　on　TV…his　first　reaction　was　to　wonder　if　there　really　were　such　a　thing　as　a　chocolate　man；　but；　yes；　there　were。　KGB　ran　operations　in　Africa。　But　then　he　asked　himself：　Could　he　remember　a　KGB　operation　in　America　using　a　black　agent？　Not　very　many；　perhaps　one　or　two；　and　those　had　both　been　sergeants　in　the　American　army。　If　blacks　were　oppressed；　how　then　did　they　get　to　bee　sergeants？　In　the　Red　Army；　only　the　politically　reliable　were　admitted　to　Sergeant　School。　So；　one　more　lie　uncovered…and　that　one　only　because　he　worked　for　KGB。　What　other　lies　was　he　being　told？　Why　not　leave？　Why　not　ask　the　Americans　for　a　ticket　out？
　　　But　will　they　grant　it？　Zaitzev　wondered。
　　　Surely　they　would。　He　could　tell　them　about　all　manner　of　KGB　operations　in　the　West。　He　had　the　names　of　officers　and　the　code　names　of　agents…traitors　to　the　Western　governments；　people　whom　they　would　definitely　wish　to　eliminate。
　　　Was　that　being　an　accessory　to　murder？　he　asked　himself。
　　　No；　it　was　not。　Those　persons　were　traitors；　after　all。　And　a　traitor　was　a　traitor。。。
　　　And　what　does　that　make　you；　Oleg　Ivanovich？　The　little　voice　in　his　mind　asked；　just　to　torment　him。
　　　But　he　was　strong　enough　now　to　shake　it　off　with　a　simple　movement　of　his　head　left　and　right。　Traitor？　No；　he　was　preventing　a　murder；　and　that　was　an　honorable　thing。　And　he　was　an　honorable　man。
　　　But　he　still　had　to　figure　a　way　to　do　it。　He　had　to　meet　with　an　American　spy　and　say　what　he　wanted。
　　　Where　and　how？
　　　It　would　have　to　be　a　crowded　place；　where　people　could　bump　into　each　other　so　naturally　that　even　a　counterspy　from　the　Second　Chief　Directorate　would　not　be　able　to　see　what　was　happening　or　hear　what　was　being　said。
　　　And　suddenly　he　realized：　His　own　wife　worked　in　such　a　place。
　　　So　he'd　write　it　down　on　another　blank　message　form　and　transfer　it　on　the　metro　as　he'd　already　done　twice。　Then　he'd　see　if　the　Americans　really　wanted　to　play　his　game。　He　was　in　the　Chairman's　seat　now；　wasn't　he？　He　had　something　they　wanted；　and　he　controlled　how　they　could　get　it；　and　he　would　make　the　rules　in　this　game；　and　they　would　have　to　play　by　those　rules。　It　was　just　that　simple；　wasn't　it？
　　　Yes；　he　told　himself。
　　　Wasn't　this　rich？　He'd　be　doing　something　the　KGB　had　always　wanted　to　do；　dictate　terms　to　the　American　CIA。
　　　Chairman　for　a　day；　the　municator　told　himself。　The　words　had　a　delicious　taste　to　them。
　　　In　London；　Cathy　watched　as　two　local　ophthalmic　surgeons　worked　on　one　Ronald　Smithson；　a　bricklayer　with　a　tumor　behind　his　right　eye。　The　X…rays　showed　a　mass　about　half　the　size　of　a　golf　ball；　which　had　been　so　worrisome　that　Mr。　Smithson　had　only　waited　five　weeks　for　the　procedure　to　be　done。　That　was　maybe　thirty…three　days　longer　than　it　would　have　been　at　Hopkins；　but　considerably　faster　than　was　usual　over　here。
　　　The　two　Moorefields　surgeons　were　Clive　Hood　and　Geoffrey　Phillips；　both　experienced　senior　residents。　It　was　a　fairly　routine　procedure。　After　exposing　the　tumor；　a　sliver　was　removed　for　freezing　and　dispatch　to　Pathology…they　had　a　good　histopathologist　on　duty　and　he　would　decide　if　the　growth　was　benign　or　malignant。　Cathy　hoped　for　the　former；　as　the　malignant　variety　of　this　tumor　could　be　troublesome　for　its　victims。　But　the　odds　were　heavily　on　the　patient's　side；　she　thought。　On　visual　examination　it　didn't　look　terribly　aggressive；　and　her　eye　was　right　about　85　percent　of　the　time。　It　was　bad　science　to　tell　herself　that；　and　she　knew　it。　It　was　almost　superstition；　but　surgeons；　like　baseball　players；　knew　about　superstition。　That　was　why　they　put　their　socks　on　the　same　way　every　morning…pantyhose；　in　her　case…because　they　just　fell　into　a　pattern　of　living；　and　surgeons　were　creatures　of　habit；　and　they　tended　to　translate　those　dumb　personal　habits　into　the　oute　of　their　procedures。　So；　with　the　frozen　section　off　to　Pathology；　it　was　just　a　matter　of　excising　the　pinkish…gray　encapsulated　mass。。。
　　　〃What　time　is　it；　Geoffrey？〃　Dr。　Hood　asked。
　　　〃Quarter　to　one；　Clive；〃　Dr。　Phillips　reported；　checking　the　wall　clock。
　　　〃How　about　we　break　for　lunch；　then？〃
　　　〃Fine　with　me。　I　could　use　something　to　eat。　We'll　need　to　call　in　another　anesthesiologist　to　keep　Mr。　Smithson　unconscious；〃　their　gas…passer　observed。
　　　〃Well；　call　and　get　one；　Owen；　would　you？〃　Hood　suggested。
　　　〃Righto；〃　Dr。　Ellis　agreed。　He　left　his　chair　at　the　patient's　head　and　walked　to　the　wall　phone。　He　was　back　in　seconds。　〃Two　minutes。〃
　　　〃Excellent。　Where　to；　Geoffrey？〃　Hood　asked。
　　　〃The　Frog　and　Toad？　They　serve　a　fine　bacon；　lettuce；　and　tomato　with　chips。〃
　　　〃Splendid；〃　Hood　said。
　　　Cathy　Ryan；　standing　behind　Dr。　Phillips；　kept　her　mouth　shut　behind　the　surgical　mask；　but　her　china…blue　eyes　had　gone　wide。　They　were　leaving　a　patient　unconscious　on　the　table　while　they　went　to　lunch？　Who　were　these　guys；　witch　doctors？
　　　The　backup　anesthesiologist　came　in　just　then；　all　gowned　up　and　ready　to　take　over。　〃Anything　I　need　to　know；　Owen？〃　he　asked　Ellis。
　　　〃Entirely　routine；〃　the　primary　gas…passer　replied。　He　pointed　to　the　various　instruments　measuring　the　patient's　vital　signs；　and　they　were　all　in　the　dead　center　of　normal　values；　Cathy　saw。　But　even　so。。。
　　　Hood　led　them　out　to　the　dressing　room；　where　the　four　medics　shucked　their　greens　and　grabbed　their　coats；　then　left　for　the　corridor　and　the　steps　down　to　street　level。　Cathy　followed；　not　knowing　what　else　to　do。
　　　〃So；　Caroline；　how　do　you　like　London？〃　Hood　asked　pleasantly。
　　　〃We　like　it　a　lot；〃　she　answered；　still　somewhat　shell…shocked。
　　　〃And　your　children？〃
　　　〃Well；　we　have　a　very　nice　nanny；　a　young　lady　from　South　Africa。〃
　　　〃One　of　our　more　civilized　local　customs；〃　Phillips　observed　approvingly。
　　　The　pub　was　scarcely　a　block　away；　west　on　City　Road。　A　table　was　quickly　found。　Hood　immediately　fished　out　a　cigarette　and　lit　it。　He　noticed　Cathy's　disapproving　look。
　　　〃Yes；　Mrs。　Ryan；　I　know　it's　not　healthy　and　bad　form　for　a　physician；　but　we　are　all　entitled　to　one　human　weakness；　aren't　we？〃
　　　〃You're　seeking　approval　from　the　wrong　person；〃　she　responded。
　　　〃Ah；　well；　I'll　blow　the　smoke　away　from　you；　then。〃　Hood　had　himself　a　chuckle　as　the　waiter　came　over。　〃What　sort　of　beer　do　you　have　here？〃　he　asked　him。
　　　It　was　good　that　he　smoked；　Cathy　told　herself。　She　had　trouble　handling　more　than　one　major　shock　at　a　time；　but　at　least　that　one　gave　her　fair　warning。　Hood　and　Phillips　both　decided　on　John　Courage。　Ellis　preferred　Tetley's。　Cathy　opted　for　a　Coca…Cola。　The　docs　mainly　talked　shop；　as　physicians　often　do。
　　　For　her　part；　Caroline　Ryan　sat　back　in　her　wooden　chair；　observing　three　physicians　enjoying　beer；　and；　in　one　case；　a　smoke；　while　their　blissfully　unconscious　patient　was　on　nitrous　oxide　in　Operating　Room　#3。
　　　〃So；　how　do　we　do　things　here？　Differently　from　Johns　Hopkins？〃　Hood　asked；　as　he　stubbed　out　his　cigarette。
　　　Cathy　nearly　gagged；　but　decided　not　to　make　any　of　the　ments　running　around　her　brain。　〃Well；　surgery　is　surgery。　I'm　surprised　that　you　don't　have　very　many　CAT　scans。　Same　for　MRI　and　PET　scanners。　How　can　you　do　without　them？　I　mean；　at　home；　for　Mr。　Smithson；　I　wouldn't　even　think　of　goin