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other practically at their apartment house's doorstep； even the most paranoid Directorate Two shadow would not find his use of it terribly suspicious； despite the well…known American love for cars。 He didn't look around any more than a tourist would； and thought that maybe he'd made one tail。 There'd probably be more than that for the moment。 He was a new embassy employee； and the Russians would want to see if he wiggled like a CIA spook。 He decided to act like an innocent American abroad； which might or might not be the same thing to them。 It depended on how experienced his current shadow was； and there was no telling that。 For certain； he'd have a tail for a couple weeks。 That was an expected annoyance。 So would Mary Pat。 So； probably； would Eddie。 The Soviets were a paranoid bunch； but then； he could hardly plain about that； could he？ Not hardly。 It was his job to crack into the deepest secrets of their country。 He was the new Chief of Station； but he was supposed to be a stealthy one。 This was one of Bob Ritter's new and more creative ideas。 Typically； the identity of the boss spook in an embassy wasn't expected to be a secret。 Sooner or later； everyone got burned one way or another； either ID'd by a false…flag operation or through an operational error； and that was like losing one's virginity。 Once gone； it never came back。 But the Agency only rarely used a husband…wife team in the field； and he'd spent years building his cover。 A graduate of New York's Fordham University； Ed Foley had been recruited fairly young； vetted by an FBI background check； and then gone to work for The New York Times as a reporter on a general beat。 He'd turned in a few interesting stories； but not too many； and had eventually been told that； while the Times wasn't going to fire him； it might be better for him to seek employment with a smaller newspaper where he might blossom better on his own。 He'd taken the hint and gotten a job with the State Department as a Press Attache； a job that paid a decent bureaucratic wage； though without a supergrade's destiny。 His official job at the embassy would be to schmooze the elite foreign correspondents of the great American papers and TV networks； granting them access to the ambassador and other embassy officials； and then keeping out of the way while they filed their important stories。
His most important job was to appear petent； but little more。 Already the local Times correspondent was telling his colleagues that Foley hadn't had the right stuff to make it big as a journalist at America's Foremost Newspaper； and since he wasn't old enough to teach yet…the other resting place for inpetent reporters…he was doing the next worst thing； being a government puke。 It was his job to foster that arrogance； knowing that the KGB would have its people ping on the American press corps for their evaluation of the embassy personnel。 The best cover of all for a spook was to be regarded as dull and dim； because the dull and the dim weren't smart enough to be spies。 For that； he thanked Ian Fleming and the movies he'd inspired。 James Bond was a clever boy。 Not Ed Foley。 No； Ed Foley was a functionary。 The crazy part was that the Soviets； whose entire country was governed by dull functionaries； more often than not fell for this story just as readily as if they were someone fresh off the pig farm in Iowa。
There is nothing predictable about the espionage business。。。 except here； the Station Chief told himself。 The one thing you could depend on with the Russians was predictability。 Everything was written down in some huge book； and everybody here played the game by the book。
Foley got aboard the subway car； looking around at his fellow passengers； seeing how they looked at him。 His clothing marked him as a foreigner as clearly as a glowing halo marked a saint in a Renaissance painting。
〃Who are you？〃 a neutral voice asked； rather to Foley's surprise。
〃Excuse me？〃 Foley replied in badly accented Russian。
〃Ah； you are American。〃
〃Da； that is so。 I work at American embassy。 My first day。 I am new in Moscow。〃 Shadow or not； he knew that the only sensible thing was to play this straight。
〃How do you like it here？〃 the inquisitor asked。 He looked like a bureaucrat； maybe a KGB counterespionage spook or a stringer。 Or maybe just some officer…sitter for some government…run business who suffered from curiosity。 There were some of those。 Would an ordinary citizen approach him？ Probably not； Foley judged。 The atmosphere tended to limit curiosity to the space between a person's ears。。。 except that Russians were curious as hell about Americans of every stripe。 Told to disdain or even to hate Americans； the Russians frequently regarded them as Eve had regarded the apple。
〃The metro is very impressive；〃 Foley answered； looking around as artlessly as he could。
〃Where in America do you e from？〃 was the next question。
〃New York City。〃
〃You play ice hockey in America？〃
〃Oh； yes！ I've been a fan of the New York Rangers since I was a child。 I want to see the hockey here。〃 Which was entirely truthful。 The Russian skate…and…pass game was the closest thing to Mozart in the world of sports。 〃The embassy has good tickets； they told me today。 Central Army；〃 he added。
〃Bah！〃 the Muscovite snorted。 〃I am Wings fan。〃
The guy might just be genuine； Foley thought with surprise。 The Russians were as picky about their hockey clubs as American baseball fans were with their home teams。 But the Second Chief Directorate probably had hockey fans working there； too。 〃Too careful〃 was a concept he did not admit to； especially here。
〃Central Army is the champion team； isn't it？〃
〃Too prissy。 Look what happened to them in America。〃
〃In America we play a more physical…is that the right word？…game。 To you they must seem like hooligans； yes？〃 Foley had taken the train to Philadelphia to see that game。 The Flyers…more widely known as the Broad Street Bullies…had beaten the snot out of the somewhat arrogant Russian visitors； rather to his amusement。 The Philadelphia team had even wheeled out its secret weapon； the aging Kate Smith； singing 〃God Bless America；〃 which for that team was like breakfasting on nails and human infants。 Damn； what a game that one had been！
〃They play roughly； yes； but they are not fairies。 Central Army thinks they are the Bolshoi； the way they skate and pass。 It's good to see them humbled sometimes。〃
〃Well； I remember the '80 Olympics； but honestly that was a miracle for is to defeat your fine team。〃
〃Miracle！ Bah！ Our coach was asleep。 Our heroes were asleep。 Your children played a spirited game； and they won honestly。 The coach needed to be shot。〃 Yeah； this guy talked like a fan。
〃Well； I want my son to learn hockey over here。〃
〃How old is he？〃 Genuine interest in the man's eyes。
〃Four and a half；〃 Foley answered。
〃A good age to learn to skate。 There are many opportunities for children to skate in Moscow； aren't there； Vanya？〃 he observed to the man next to him； who'd watched the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and unease。
〃Make sure he gets good skates；〃 the other man said。 〃Bad ones can injure the ankles。〃 A typical Russian response。 In this often harsh country； solicitude for children was endearingly genuine。 The Russian bear had a soft heart for kids； but one of icy granite for adults。
〃Thank you。 I will be sure to do that。〃
〃You live in the foreigners' pound？〃
〃Correct；〃 Foley confirmed。
〃Next stop is yours。〃
〃Oh； spasiba； and good day to you。〃 He made his way to the door； turning to nod a friendly good…bye to his newfound Russian friends。 KGB？ he wondered。 Perhaps； but not certainly。 He'd determine that by whether or not he saw them on the train a month or so from now。
What Ed Foley didn't know was that the entire exchange had been observed by a man a mere two meters away； holding a copy of today's Sovietskiy Sport。 His name was Oleg Zaitzev； and Oleg Ivanovich was KGB。
The Station Chief left the subway car and followed the crush to the escalator。 At one time； it would have led him to a full…standing portrait of Stalin； but that was gone now； and not replaced。 The outside air was acquiring the early autumn chill；