I’LL DO IT, she’d written. I HAVE A PERFECT DODGE. Mary Pat smiled and held up a team photo of Eddie’s hockey squad. Each player had signed it, and at the top in scrawling Russian, Eddie had put, with his mother’s coaching: “To the man who brings us luck. Thanks, Eddie Foley.”
Her husband frowned. It was typical of his wife to use the bold approach, and he knew that she’d used her cover with consummate skill. But . . . he shook his head. But what? The only man in the CARDINAL chain who could identify him had never seen his face. Ed may have lacked her panache, but he was more circumspect. He felt that he was better than his wife at countersurveillance. He acknowledged Mary Pat’s passion for the work, and her acting skill, but—damn it, she was just too bold sometimes. Fine—why don’t you tell her? he asked himself.
He knew what would happen—she’d go practical on him. There wasn’t time to establish another series of cutouts. They both knew that her cover was a solid one, that she hadn’t even come close to suspicion yet.
But—Goddamn it, this business is one continuous series of fucking BUTs!
OK BUT COVER YOUR CUTE LITTLE ASS!!!! he wrote on the plastic pad. Her eyes sparkled as she wiped it clean. Then she wrote her own message:
LET’S GIVE THE MICROPHONES A HARD-ON!
Ed nearly strangled trying not to laugh. Every time before a job, he thought. It wasn’t that he minded. He did find it a little odd, though.
Ten minutes later, in a room in the basement of the apartment building, a pair of Russian wiretap technicians listened with rapt attention to the sounds generated in the Foley bedroom.
Mary Pat Foley woke up at her customary six-fifteen. It was still dark outside, and she wondered how much of her grandfather’s character had been formed by the cold and the dark of the Russian winters . . . and how much of hers. Like most Americans assigned to Moscow, she thoroughly hated the idea of listening devices in her walls. She occasionally took perverse pleasure in them, as she had the previous night, but then there was also the thought that the Soviets had placed them in the bathroom, too. That seemed like something they’d do, she thought, looking at herself in the mirror. The first order of business was to take her temperature. They both wanted another child, and had been working on it for a few months—which beat watching Russian TV. Professionally, of course, pregnancy made one hell of a cover. After three minutes she noted the temperature on a card she kept in the medicine cabinet. Probably not yet, she thought. Maybe in a few more days. She dropped the remains of an Early Pregnancy Test kit in the waste can anyway.
Next, there were the children to rouse. She got breakfast going, and shook everyone loose. Living in an apartment with but a single bathroom imposed a rigid schedule on them. There came the usual grumbles from Ed, and the customary whines and groans from the kids.
God, it’ll be nice to get home, she told herself. As much as she loved the challenge of working in the mouth of the dragon, living here wasn’t exactly fun for the kids. Eddie loved his hockey, but he was missing a normal childhood in this cold, barren place. Well, that would change soon enough. They’d load everyone aboard the Pan Am clipper and wing home, leaving Moscow behind—if not forever, at least for five years. Life in Virginia’s tidewater country. Sailing on the Chesapeake Bay. Mild winters! You had to bundle kids up here like Nanook of the fucking North, she thought. I’m always fighting off colds.
She got breakfast on the table just as Ed vacated the bathroom, allowing her to wash and dress. The routine was that he managed breakfast, then dressed while his wife got the kids going.
In the bathroom, she heard the TV go on, and laughed into the mirror. Eddie loved the morning exercise show—the woman who appeared on it looked like a longshoreman, and he called her Workerwomannnn! Her son yearned for mornings of the Transformers—”More than meets the eye!” he still remembered the opening song. Eddie would miss his Russian friends some, she thought, but the kid was an American and nothing would ever change that. By seven-fifteen everyone was dressed and ready to go. Mary Pat tucked a wrapped parcel under her arm.
“Cleaning day, isn’t it?” Ed asked his wife.
“I’ll be back in time to let her in,” Mary Pat assured him.
“Okay.” Ed opened the door and led the procession to the elevator. As usual, his family was the first one to get moving in the morning. Eddie raced forward and punched the elevator button. It arrived just as the rest of the family reached the door. Eddie jumped onto it enjoying the usual springiness off Soviet elevator cables. To his mother, it always seemed as though the damned thing was going to fall all the way to the basement, but her son thought it entertaining when the car dropped a few inches. Three minutes later they got into the car. Ed took the wheel this morning. On the drive out, the kids waved at the militiaman, who was really KGB, and who waved back with a smile. As soon as the car had turned onto the street, he lifted the phone in his booth.
Ed kept his eye on the rearview mirror, and his wife had already adjusted the outside one so that she could see aft also. The kids got into a dispute in the back, which both parents ignored. “Looks like a nice day,” he said quietly. Nothing following us.
“Uh huh.” Agreed. They had to be careful what they said around the kids, of course. Eddie could repeat anything they said as easily as the opening ditty of the Transformers cartoon. There was always the chance of a radio bug in the car, too.
Ed drove to the school first, allowing his wife to take the kids in. Eddie and Katie looked like teddy bears in their cold-weather clothing. His wife looked unhappy when she came out.
“Nikki Wagner called in sick. They want me to take over her class this afternoon,” she told him on reentering the car. Her husband grunted. Actually, it was perfect. He dropped the Volkswagen into gear and pulled back onto Leninskiy Prospekt. Game time.
Now their checks of the mirrors were serious.
Vatutin hoped that they’d never thought of this before. Moscow streets are always full of dumptrucks, scurrying from one construction site to another. The high cabs of the vehicles made for excellent visibility, and the meanderings of the look-alike vehicles appeared far less sinister than would those of unmarked sedans. He had nine of them working for him today, and the officers driving them communicated via encrypted military radios.
Colonel Vatutin himself was in the apartment next door to Filitov’s. The family who lived there had moved into the Hotel Moscow two days before. He’d watched the videotapes of his subject, drinking himself to insensibility, and used the opportunity to get three other “Two” officers in. They had their own spike-microphones driven into the party wall between the two flats, and listened intently to the Colonel’s staggering through his morning routine. Something told him that this was the day.
It’s the drinking, he told himself while he sipped tea. That drew an amused grimace. Perhaps it takes one drinker to understand another. He was sure that Filitov had been working himself up to something, and he also remembered that the time he’d seen the Colonel with the traitorous bath attendant, he’d come into the steam room with a hangover . . . just as I had. It fitted, he decided. Filitov was a hero who’d gone bad—but a hero still. It could not have been easy for him to commit treason, and he probably needed the drink to sleep in the face of a troubled conscience. It pleased Vatutin that people felt that way, that treason was still a hard thing to do.
“They’re heading this way,” a communications man reported over the radio.
“Right here,” Vatutin told his subordinates. “It will happen within a hundred meters of where we stand.”
Mary Pat ran over what she had to do. Handing over the wrapped photo would allow her to recover the film that she would slip inside her glove. Then there was the signal. She’d rub the back of her gloved hand across her forehead as though wiping off sweat, then scratch her eyebrow. That was the danger-breakout signal. She hoped he’d pay attention. Though she’d never done the signal herself, Ed had once offered a breakout, only to be rejected. It was something she understood better than her husband had—after all, her work with CIA was based more on passion than reason—but enough was enough. This man had been sending data West when she’d learned to play with dolls.