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〃We have some living here as well；〃 Harding admitted。 He didn't want to admit that the Russians also had a few Brits…nowhere near as many； just enough to be a considerable embarrassment to Century House。 〃You're a hard man to debate； Jack。〃
〃I just speak the truth； buddy。 That's what we're here for； isn't it？〃
〃That's the theory；〃 Harding had to admit。 This Ryan fellow would never be a bureaucrat； the Brit decided； and wondered if that was a good thing or bad。 The Americans took a different slant on things； and the contrast to his own organization's take was entertaining； at least。 Ryan had a lot to learn。。。 but he also had a few things to teach； Harding realized。 〃How's your book ing along？〃
Ryan's face changed。 〃Haven't gotten much work done lately。 I do have my puter set up。 Hard to concentrate on that after a full day here…but if I don't make the time； the thing will never get done。 At heart； I'm lazy；〃 Ryan admitted。
〃Then how did you bee rich？〃 Harding demanded。 He got a grin。
〃I'm also greedy。 Gertrude Stein said it； pal： 'I've been rich and I've been poor。 It's better to be rich。' Truer words have never been spoken。〃
〃I must discover that for myself someday；〃 the British civil servant observed。
Oops； Ryan thought。 Well； it wasn't his fault； was it？ Simon was smart enough to make money in the real world； but he didn't seem to think in those terms。 It made good sense to have a smart guy here in the analyst pool at Century House； even though that meant sacrificing his own well…being for his country。 But that was not a bad thing； and Ryan reflected that he was doing it； too。 His advantage was that he'd made his money up front and could afford to kiss this job off and go back to teaching whenever the urge struck him。 It was a sort of independence that most government employees would never know。。。 And their work probably suffered because of it； Jack thought。
Zaitzev made his way out past the various security checkpoints。 Some people were frisked at random by the guards to make sure that they weren't taking anything out with them； but the checks…he'd suffered through his share of them…were too cursory to be effective； he thought。 Just enough to be a nuisance； and not regular enough to be a real threat…perhaps once in thirty days…and； if you got frisked one day； you knew you were safe for at least the next five or so； because the guards knew all the faces of the people they checked out； and even here there was human contact and friendly relationships among the employees； especially at the working level…a kind of blue…collar solidarity that was in some ways surprising。 As it happened； Zaitzev was allowed to pass without inspection and made his way into the capacious square； then walked to the metro station。
He didn't usually dress in the paramilitary uniform…most KGB employees did not choose to do so； as though their employment might make them seem tainted to their fellow citizens。 Neither did he hide it。 If anyone asked； he gave an honest answer； and the questioning usually stopped there； because everyone knew that you didn't ask questions about what went on at the mittee for State Security。 There were occasional movies and TV shows about KGB； and some of them were even fairly honest； though they gave little away concerning methods and sources beyond what some fiction writer might imagine； which wasn't always all that accurate。 There was a small office at The Centre that consulted on such things； usually taking things out and…rarely…putting accurate things in； because it was in his agency's interest to be fearful and forbidding to Soviet citizens and foreigners alike。 How many ordinary citizens supplement their ines by being informers？ Zaitzev wondered。 He almost never saw any dispatches about that…that sort of thing rarely went overseas。
The things that did go out of the country were troubling enough。 Colonel Bubovoy would probably be in Moscow the next day。 There was regular air service between Sofia and Moscow through Aeroflot。 Colonel Goderenko in Rome had been told to sit down and shut up； and to forward to The Centre the Pope's appearance schedule for the indefinite future。 Andropov hadn't lost interest in that bit of information。
And now the Bulgarians would be involved。 Zaitzev worried about that； but he didn't need to wonder all that much。 He'd seen those dispatches before。 The Bulgarian State Security Service was the loyal vassal of KGB。 The municator knew that。 He'd seen enough messages go to Sofia； sometimes through Bubovoy； sometimes directly； and sometimes for the purpose of ending someone's life。 KGB didn't do much of that anymore； but Diryhavna Susurnost did； on occasion。 Zaitzev imagined that they had a small subunit of the DS officers who were trained and skilled and practiced at that particular skill。 And the message header had the 666 suffix； so this dispatch concerned the same thing that Rome had been initially queried on。 So this was going forward。
His agency…his country…wanted to kill that Polish priest； and that； Zaitzev thought； was probably a bad thing。
He took the escalator down to the subterranean station amid the usual afterwork crowd。 Usually； the crowd of people was forting。 It meant that Zaitzev was in his element； surrounded by his countrymen； people just like himself； serving one another and the State。 But was that true？ What would these people think of Andropov's mission？ It was hard to gauge。 The subway ride was usually quiet。 Some people might talk to friends； but group discussions were rare； except perhaps for some unusual sporting event； a bad referee's call at a soccer match； or a particularly spectacular play on the hockey rink。 Other than that； people were usually alone with their thoughts。
The train stopped； and Zaitzev shuffled aboard。 As usual； there were no seats available。 He grasped the overhead handrail and kept thinking。
Are the others on the train thinking as well？ If so； about what？ Jobs？ Children？ Wives？ Lovers？ Food？ You couldn't tell。 Even Zaitzev couldn't tell； and he'd seen these people…these same people…on the metro for years。 He knew only a few names； mainly given names overheard in conversations。 No； he knew them only by their favorite sports teams。。。
It struck him suddenly and hard how alone he was in his society。 How many real friends do I have？ Zaitzev asked himself。 The answer was shockingly few。 Oh； sure； there were people at work he chatted with。 He knew the most intimate details about their wives and children…but friends in whom he could confide； with whom he could talk over some troubling development； to whom he could go for guidance in a troubling situation。。。 No； he didn't have any of those。 That made him unusual in Moscow。 Russians often made deep and close friendships； and consecrated them often enough with the deepest and sometimes the darkest of secrets； as though daring one of their intimates to be a KGB informer； as though courting a trip to the Gulag。 But his job denied him that。 He'd never dare to discuss the things he did at work； not even to his coworkers。
No； whatever problems he had with this 666 series of messages were ones he had to work out for himself。 Even his Irina couldn't know。 She might talk with her friends at GUM； and that would surely be death for him。 Zaitzev let out a breath and looked around。。。
There he was again； that American embassy official； reading Sovietskiy Sport and minding his own business。 He was wearing a raincoat…rain had been forecast； but had not materialized…but not a hat。 The coat was open； not buttoned or belted。 He was less than two meters away。。。
On an impulse； Zaitzev shifted his position from one side of the car to the other； switching hands on the overhead rail as though to stretch a stiff muscle。 That move put him next to the American。 And； on further impulse； Zaitzev slid his hand into the raincoat pocket。 There was nothing in there； no keys or pocket change； just empty cloth。 But he had established that he could reach into this American's pocket and remove his hand without notice。 He backed away； sweeping his eyes around the subway car to see if anyone had noticed or had even been looking his way。 But。。。 no； almost certainly not。 His man