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And they wanted to kill a priest。
He'd seen the dispatches。 In a very small way； he； Oleg Ivanovich Zaitzev； was helping。 And that was eating at something inside him。 A conscience？ Was he supposed to have one of those？ But a conscience was something that measured one set of facts or ideas against another and was either content or not。 If not； if it found some action at fault； then the conscience started plaining。 It whispered。 It forced him to look and keep looking until the issue was resolved； until the wrong action was stopped； or reversed； or atoned for…
But how did you stop the Party or the KGB from doing something？
To do that； Zaitzev knew； you had； at the very least； to demonstrate that the proposed action was contrary to political theory or would have adverse political consequences； because politics was the measure of right and wrong。 But wasn't politics too fleeting for that？ Didn't 〃right〃 and 〃wrong〃 have to depend on something more solid than mere politics？ Wasn't there some higher value system？ Politics was just tactics； after all； wasn't it？ And while tactics were important； strategy was more so； because strategy was the measure of what you used tactics for； and strategy in this case was supposed to be what was right…transcendentally right。 Not just right at the moment； but right for all times…something historians could examine in a hundred or a thousand years and pronounce as correct action。
Did the Party think in such terms？ How exactly did the munist Party of the Soviet Union make its decisions？ What was good for the people？ But who measured that？ Individuals did； Brezhnev； Andropov； Suslov； the rest of the full voting members of the Politburo； advised by the non…voting candidate members； further advised by the Council of Ministers and the members of the Central mittee of the Party； all the senior members of the nomenklatura…the ones to whom the rezident in Paris shipped perfume and pantyhose in the diplomatic bag。 Zaitzev had seen enough of those dispatches。 And he'd heard the stories。 Those were the ones who lavished presents and status upon their children； the ones who raced down the center lane of the broad Moscow boulevards； the corrupt Marxist princes who ruled his country with hands of iron。
Did those princes think in terms of what was good for the narod…the masses； as they were called…the numberless workers and peasants whom they ruled； for whose good they supposedly looked after？
But probably the minor princes under Nikolay Romanov had thought and spoken the same way。 And Lenin had ordered them all shot as enemies of the people。 As modern movies spoke of the Great Patriotic War； so earlier movies had portrayed them for less sophisticated audiences as evil buffoons； hardly serious enemies； easily hated and easily killed； caricatures of real people who were all so different from those men who'd replaced them； of course。。。
As the princes of old had driven their troika…harnessed sleds over the very bodies of the peasants on their way to the royal court； so today the officers of the Moscow militia kept the center lane open for the new nomenklatura members who didn't have time for traffic delays。
Nothing had really changed。。。
Except that the czars of old had at least paid lip service to a higher authority。 They'd financed St。 Basil's Cathedral here in Moscow； and other noblemen had financed countless other churches in lesser cities； because even the Romanovs had acknowledged a power higher than theirs。 But the Party acknowledged no higher order。
And so it could kill without regret； because killing was often a political necessity； a tactical advantage to be undertaken when and where convenient。
Was that all this was？ Zaitzev asked himself。 Were they killing the Pope just because it was more convenient？
Oleg Ivan'ch poured himself another portion of vodka from the nearby bottle and took another swallow。
There were many inconveniences in his life。 It was too long a walk from his desk to the water cooler。 There were people at work whom he didn't like…Stefan Yevgeniyevich Ivanov； for example； a more senior major in munications。 How he'd managed to get promoted four years ago was a mystery to everyone in the section。 He was disregarded by the more senior people as a drone who was unable to do any useful work。 Zaitzev supposed every business had one such person； an embarrassment to the office； but not easily removed because。。。 because he was just there and that was all there was to it。 Were Ivanov out of the way； Oleg could be promoted…if not in rank； then in status to chief of the section。 Every single breath Ivanov took was an inconvenience to Oleg Ivan'ch； but that didn't give him the right to kill the more senior municator； did it？
No； he'd be arrested and prosecuted； and perhaps even executed for murder。 Because it was forbidden by law。 Because it was wrong。 The law； the Party； and his own conscience told him that。
But Andropov wanted to kill Father Karol； and his conscience didn't say nay。 Would some other conscience do so？ Another swallow of vodka。 Another snort。 A conscience； on the Politburo？
Even in the KGB； there were no ruminations。 No debates。 No open discussion。 Just action messages and notices of pletion or failure。 Evaluations of foreigners； of course； discussions of the thinking of foreigners； real agents； or mere agents of influence…called 〃useful fools〃 in the KGB lexicon。 Never had a field officer written back about an order and said； 〃No； rade； we ought not to do that because it would be morally wrong。〃 Goderenko in Rome had e closest； posing the observation that killing Karol might have adverse consequences on operations。 Did that mean that Ruslan Borissovich had a troubled conscience as well？ No。 Goderenko had three sons…one in the Soviet navy； another； he'd heard； at the KGB's own academy out on the Ring Road； and the third in Moscow State University。 If Ruslan Borissovich had any difficulties with the KGB； any action could mean； if not death； then at least serious embarrassment for his children； and few men took action like that。
So； was his the only conscience in KGB？ Zaitzev took a swallow to ponder that one。 Probably not。 There were thousands of men in The Centre； and thousands more elsewhere； and just the laws of statistics made it likely that there were plenty of 〃good〃 men （however one defined that）； but how did one identify them？ It was certain death…or lengthy imprisonment…to try to go looking for them。 That was the baseline problem he had。 There was no one in whom he could confide his doubts。 No one with whom he could discuss his worries…not a doctor； not a priest。。。 not even his wife； Irina。。。
No； he had only his vodka bottle； and though it helped him think； after a fashion； it wasn't much of a panion。 Russian men were not averse to shedding tears； but they wouldn't have helped either。 Irina might ask a question； and he wouldn't be able to answer to anyone's satisfaction。 All he had was sleep。 It would not help； he was sure； and in this he was right。
Another hour and two more slugs of the vodka at least drugged him into sleepiness。 His wife was dozing in front of the TV…the Red Amy had won the Battle of Kursk； again； and the movie ended at the beginning of a long march that would lead to the Reichstag in Berlin； full of hope and enthusiasm for the bloody task。 Zaitzev chuckled to himself。 It was more than he had at the moment。 He carried his empty glass to the kitchen； then roused his wife for the trip to the bedroom。 He hoped that sleep would e quickly。 The quarter…liter of alcohol in his belly should help。 And so it did。
〃You know； Arthur； there are a lot of things we don't know about him；〃 Jim Greer said。
〃Andropov； you mean？〃
〃We don't even know if the bastard's married；〃 the DDI continued。
〃Well； Robert； that's your department；〃 the DCI observed； with a look at Bob Ritter。
〃We think he is； but he's never brought his wife； if any； to an official function。 That's usually how we find out；〃 the DDO had to admit。 〃They often hide their families； like Mafia dons。 They're so anal about hiding everything over there。 And； yeah； we're not all that good about digging the information up； because it