TWO AND A half miles across town, Ed Foley was first in the door, with his wife, Mary Patricia, just behind him, leading Eddie by the hand. Eddie’s young blue eyes were wide with a child’s curiosity, but even now the four-and-a-half-year-old was learning that Moscow wasn’t Disney World. The culture shock was about to fall like Thor’s own hammer, but it would expand his horizons a bit, his parents thought. As it would theirs.
“Uh-huh,” Ed Foley said on his first look. An embassy consular officer had lived here before, and he’d at least made an effort to clean the place up, no doubt helped by a Russian domestic—the Soviet government provided them, and diligent they were… for both their bosses. Ed and Mary Pat had been thoroughly briefed for weeks—nay, months—before taking the long Pan Am flight out of JFK for Moscow.
“So, this is home, eh?” Ed observed in a studiously neutral voice.
“Welcome to Moscow,” Mike Barnes told the newbies. He was another consular officer, a career FSO on the way up, and had this week’s duty as the embassy greeter. “The last occupant was Charlie Wooster. Good guy, back at Foggy Bottom now, catching the summer heat.”
“How are the summers here?” Mary Pat asked.
“Kinda like Minneapolis,” Barnes answered. “Not real hot, and the humidity’s not too bad, and the winters are actually not as severe—I grew up in Minneapolis,” he explained. “Of course, the German army might not agree, or Napoleon, but, well, nobody ever said Moscow was supposed to be like Paris, right?”
“Yeah, they told me about the nightlife,” Ed chuckled. It was all right with him. They didn’t need a stealthy Station Chief in Paris, and this was the biggest, ripest plum assignment he’d never expected to get. Bulgaria, maybe, but not the very belly of the beast. Bob Ritter must have been really impressed by his time in Tehran. Thank God Mary Pat had delivered Eddie when she had. They’d missed the takeover in Iran by, what, three weeks? It had been a troublesome pregnancy, and Mary Pat’s doc had insisted on their coming back to New York for the delivery. Kids were a gift from God, all right… Besides, that had made Eddie a New Yorker, too, and Ed had damned well wanted his son to be a Yankees and Rangers fan from birth. The best news of this assignment, aside from the professional stuff, was that he’d see the best ice hockey in the world right here in Moscow. Screw the ballet and the symphony. These fuckers knew how to skate. Pity the Russkies didn’t understand baseball. Probably too sophisticated for the muzhiks. All those pitches to choose from…
“It’s not real big,” Mary Pat observed, looking at one cracked window. They were on the sixth floor. At least the traffic noise wouldn’t be too bad. The foreigners’ compound—ghetto—was walled and guarded. This was for their protection, the Russians insisted, but street crime against foreigners wasn’t a problem in Moscow. The average Russian citizen was forbidden by law to have foreign currency in his possession, and there was no convenient way to spend it in any case. So there was little profit in mugging an American or Frenchman on the streets, and there was no mistaking them—their clothing marked them about as clearly as peacocks among crows.
“Hello!” It was an English accent. The florid face appeared a moment later. “We’re your neighbors. Nigel and Penny Haydock,” the face’s owner said. He was about forty-five, tall and skinny, with prematurely gray and thinning hair. His wife, younger and prettier than he probably deserved, appeared an instant later with a tray of sandwiches and some welcoming white wine.
“You must be Eddie,” the flaxen-haired Mrs. Haydock observed. That’s when Ed Foley noticed the maternity dress. She was about six months gone, by the look of her. So the briefings had been right in every detail. Foley trusted CIA, but he’d learned the hard way to verify everything, from the names of people living on the same floor to whether the toilet flushed reliably. Especially in Moscow, he thought, heading for the bathroom. Nigel followed.
“The plumbing works reliably here, but it is noisy. No one complains,” Haydock explained.
Ed Foley flipped the handle and, sure enough, it was noisy.
“Fixed that myself. Bit of a handyman, you see,” he said. Then, more quietly, “Be careful where you speak in this place, Ed. Bloody bugs everywhere. Especially the bedrooms. The bloody Russians like to count our orgasms, so it seems. Penny and I try not to disappoint.” A sly grin. Well, to some cities you brought your own nightlife.
“Two years here?” The toilet seemed to run forever. Foley was tempted to lift the tank cover to see if Haydock had replaced the plumbing hardware inside with something special. He decided he didn’t have to look to check that.
“Twenty-nine months. Seven to go. It’s a lively place to work. I’m sure they told you, everywhere you go, you’ll have a ‘friend’ handy. Don’t underestimate them, either. The Second Directorate chaps are thoroughly trained…” The toilet ran its course, and Haydock changed his voice. “The shower—the hot water is pretty reliable, but the spray pipe, it rattles, just like the one in our flat…” He turned the faucet to demonstrate. Sure enough, it rattled. Had someone worked on the wall to loosen it? Ed wondered. Probably. Probably this very handyman with him.
“Perfect.”
“Yes, you will get a lot of work done in here. Shower with a friend and save water—isn’t that what they say in California?”
Foley managed his first laugh in Moscow. “Yeah, that’s what they say, all right.” He gave his visitor a look. He was surprised that Haydock had introduced himself so early, but maybe it was just reverse-English tradecraft to be so obvious. The business of espionage had all manner of rules, and the Russians were rule-followers. So, Bob Ritter had told him, toss away part of the rulebook. Stick to your cover and be a dumbass unpredictable American every chance you get. He’d also told the Foleys that Nigel Haydock was one guy they could trust. He was the son of another intelligence officer—a man betrayed by Kim Philby himself, one of the poor bastards who’d parachuted into Albania into the waiting arms of the KGB reception committee. Nigel had been five years old then, just old enough always to remember what it was like to lose your father to the enemy. Nigel’s motivation was probably as good as Mary Pat’s, and that was pretty damned good. Better even than his own, Ed Foley might admit after a few drinks. Mary Pat hated the bastards as the Lord God Himself hated sin. Haydock wasn’t the Station Chief here, but he was the head bird-dog for the SIS’s operation in Moscow, and that made him pretty good. The CIA’s Director, Judge Moore, trusted the Brits: after Philby, he’d seen them go through SIS with a flamethrower hotter than even James Jesus Angleton’s fly rod and cauterize every possible leak. In turn, Foley trusted Judge Moore, and so did the President. That was the craziest part of the intelligence business: You couldn’t trust anybody—but you had to trust somebody.
Well, Foley thought, checking the hot water with his hand, nobody ever said the business made much sense. Like classical metaphysics. It just was.
“When’s the furniture get here?”
“The container ought to be on a truck in Leningrad right now. Will they tamper with it?”
Haydock shrugged. “Check everything,” he warned, then softened. “You can never know how thorough they are, Edward. The KGB is a great bloody bureaucracy—you don’t know the meaning of the word until you see it in operation here. For example, the bugs in your flat—how many of them actually work? They’re not British Telecom, nor are they AT&T. It’s the curse of this country, really, and it works for us, but that, too, is unreliable. When you’re followed, you can’t know if it’s an experienced expert or some bloody nimrod who can’t find his way to the loo. They look alike and dress alike. Just like our people, when you get down to it, but their bureaucracy is so large that there’s a greater likelihood it will protect the incompetent—or maybe not. God knows, at Century House we have our share of drones.”
Foley nodded. “At Langley, we call it the Intelligence Directorate.”
“Quite. We call ours the Palace of Westminster,” Haydock observed, with his own favorite prejudice. “I think we’ve tested the plumbing enough.”
Foley turned off the faucet and the two men returned to the living room, where Penny and Mary Pat were getting acquainted.
“Well, we have enough hot water anyway, honey.”
“Glad to hear it,” Mary Pat responded. She turned back to her guest. “Where do you shop around here?”
Penny Haydock smiled: “I can take you there. For special items, we can order from an agency in Helsinki, excellent quality: English, French, German—even American, for things like juices and preserved foods. The perishables are Finnish in origin, and they’re generally very good, especially the lamb. Don’t they have the finest lamb, Nigel?”