As on the previous workdays, he took his time, reading over all the morning traffic before sending it upstairs, trusting his trained memory to record and file away all of the important details.
Some, of course, contained information that was hidden in multiple ways. There was probably a penetration agent within CIA, for example, but his code name—TRUMPET—was all Zaitzev knew. Even the data he transmitted were concealed by the use of layered super-encryption, including a one-time pad. But the data went to a colonel on the sixth floor who specialized in CIA investigations and worked closely with the Second Chief Directorate—so, by implication, TRUMPET was giving KGB something in which the Second Directorate was interested, and that meant agents operating for CIA right here in Moscow. Which was enough to give him chills, but the Americans he’d talked to—he’d warned them about communications security, and that would flag any dispatch about him to a very limited number of people. And he knew that TRUMPET was being paid huge amounts of money, and so, probably he was not a senior CIA official, who, Zaitzev judged, were probably very well paid. An ideological agent would have given him cause to worry, but there were none of them in America whom he knew bout—and he would know, wouldn’t he?
In a week, perhaps less, the communicator told himself, he’d be in the West and safe. He hoped his wife would not go totally amok when he told her his plans, but probably she would not. She had no immediate family. Her mother had died the previous year, to Irina’s great sorrow, and she had neither brothers nor sisters to hold her back, and she was not happy working at GUM because of all the petty corruption there. And he would promise to get her the piano she longed to have, but which even his KGB post couldn’t get for her, so meager was the supply.
So he shuffled his papers, perhaps more slowly than usual, but not greatly so, he thought. There were few really hard workers, even in KGB. The cynical adage in the Soviet Union was “As long as they pretend to pay us, we will pretend to work,” and the principle applied here as well. If you exceeded your quota, they’d just increase it the following year without any improvement in your working conditions—and so, few worked hard enough to be noticed as Heroes of Socialist Labor.
Just after 11:00, Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy appeared in the comms room. Zaitzev caught his eye and waved him over.
“Yes, Comrade Major?” the colonel asked.
“Comrade Colonel,” he said quietly, “there have been no recent communications about six-six-six. Is there anything I need to know?”
The question took Rozhdestvenskiy aback. “Why do you ask?”
“Comrade Colonel,” Zaitzev went on humbly, “it was my understand ing that this operation is important and that I am the only communicator cleared for it. Have I acted improperly in any way?”
“Ah.” Rozhdestvenskiy relaxed. “No, Comrade Colonel, we have no complaints with your activities. The operation no longer requires communications of this type.”
“I see. Thank you, Comrade Colonel.”
“You look tired, Major Zaitzev. Is anything the matter?”
“No, comrade. I suppose I could use a vacation. I didn’t get to go anywhere during the summer. A week or two off duty would be a blessing, before the winter hits.”
“Very well. If you have any difficulties, let me know, and I’ll try to smooth things out for you.”
Zaitzev managed a grateful smile. “Why, thank you, Comrade Colonel.”
“You do good work down here, Zaitzev. We’re all entitled to some time off, even State Security people.”
“Thank you again, Comrade Colonel. I serve the Soviet Union.” Rozhdestvenskiy nodded and took his leave. As he walked out the door, Zaitzev took a long breath and went back to work memorizing dispatches… but not for the Soviet Union. So, he thought, -666 was being handled by courier now. He’d learn no more about it, but he’d just learned that it was going forward on a high-priority basis. They were really going to do it. He wondered if the Americans would get him out quickly enough to forestall it. The information was in his hands, but the ability to do anything about it was not. It was like being Cassandra of old, daughter of King Priam of Troy, knowing what was going to happen, but unable to get anyone to do anything about it. Cassandra had angered the gods somehow or other and received that curse as a result, but what had he done to deserve it? Zaitzev wondered, suddenly angry at CIA’s inefficiency. But he couldn’t just board a Pan American flight out of Sheremetyevo International Airport, could he?
CHAPTER 22:
PROCUREMENTS AND ARRANGEMENTS
THE SECOND FACE-TO-FACE meeting was back at GUM department store, where a certain Little Bunny needed some fall/winter clothing, which her father wanted to get her—which was something of a surprise for Irina Bogdanova, but a pleasant one. Mary Pat, the supreme expert on shopping in the Foley family, wandered about looking at the various items on sale, surprised to see that they weren’t all Soviet schlock. Some were even attractive… though not quite attractive enough to buy. She dawdled again in the fur department—the furs here might have sold fairly well in New York, though they were not quite on a par with Fendi. There weren’t enough Italian designers in Russia. But the quality of the furs—that is, the animal skins themselves—wasn’t too shabby. The Soviets just didn’t know how to sew them together properly. That was too bad, really, she thought. The saddest thing about the Soviet Union was how the government of that gray country prevented its citizens from actually accomplishing much. There was so little originality here. The best things to buy were all old, pre-revolutionary art works, usually small ones, almost always religious pieces, sold at impromptu flea markets to raise needed money for some family or other. She’d already purchased several pieces, trying not to feel like a thief in doing so. To assuage her conscience, she never haggled, almost always paying the price asked instead of trying to chisel it down by a few percent. That would have been like armed robbery, she thought, and her ultimate mission in Moscow—this was a core belief for her—was to help these people, though in a way they could hardly have understood or approved. But, for the most part, Muscovites liked her American smile and friendliness. And certainly they liked the blue-stripe certificate rubles she paid with, cash money that would give them access to luxury items or, almost as good, cash that they could exchange at a rate of three or four to one.
She wandered about for half an hour, then saw her target in the children’s clothing area. She maneuvered that way, taking time to lift and examine various items before coming up behind him.
“Good evening, Oleg Ivan’ch,” she said quietly, handling a parka meant for a girl of three or four.
“Mary, is it?”
“That is correct. Tell me, do you have any vacation days available to you?”
“Yes, I do. Two weeks of it, in fact.”
“And you told me that your wife likes classical music?”
“That is also correct.”
“There is a fine conductor. His name is Jozsef Rozsa. He will start performing in the main concert hall in Budapest on Sunday evening. The best hotel for you to check in to is the Astoria. It is a short distance from the train station, and is popular with Soviet guests. Tell all your friends what you are doing. Arrange to buy them things in Budapest. Do everything that a Soviet citizen does. We will handle the rest,” she assured him.
“All of us,” Zaitzev reminded her. “All of us come out?”
“Of course, Oleg. Your little zaichik will see many wonders in America, and the winters are not so fierce as they are here,” MP added.
“We Russians enjoy our winters,” he pointed out, with a little amour propre.
“In that case, you will be able to live in an area as cold as Moscow. And if you desire warm weather in February, you can drive or fly to Florida and relax on a sunny beach.”
“You are tourist agent, Mary?” the Rabbit asked.
“For you, Oleg, I am just that. Are you comfortable passing information to my husband on the metro?”
“Yes.”
You shouldn’t be, Mary Pat thought. “What is your best necktie?”
“A blue one with red stripes.”
“Very well, wear that one two days before you take the train to Budapest. Bump into him and apologize, and we will know. Two days before you leave Moscow, wear your blue-striped tie and bump into him on the metro,” she repeated. You had to be careful doing this. People could make the goddamnedest mistakes in the simplest of matters, even when—no, especially when—their lives were on the line. That was why she was making it as easy as possible. Only one thing to remember. Only one thing to do.