tc.redrabbit-第100部分

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a　few　months　back　was　that　he'd　made　a　head　call　before　the　bad　guys　had　crashed　the　party；　and　so　hadn't　been　able　to　wet　his　pants　with　a　gun　to　his　head。　He'd　gotten　it　done；　but　he　damned　sure　didn't　feel　heroic。　He'd　managed　to　survive；　managed　to　kill　that　one　guy　with　the　Uzi；　but　the　only　thing　he　felt　good　about　was　not　killing　that　bastard　Sean　Miller。　No；　he'd　let　the　State　of　Maryland　handle　that　one；　by　the　numbers；　unless　the　Supreme　Court　stepped　in　again；　and　that　didn't　strike　him　as　very　likely　in　this　particular　case；　with　a　bunch　of　Secret　Service　agents　dead。　The　courts　didn't　ignore　dead　cops　very　often。
　　　But　what　would　happen　in　Hungary？　He'd　just　be　a　watcher；　the　semiofficial　CIA　officer　overseeing　the　evacuation　of　some　fool　Russian　who　wanted　to　move　out　of　his　place　in　Moscow。　Damn；　why　the　hell　does　this　sort　of　thing　always　seem　to　happen　to　me？　Jack　wondered。　It　was　like　hitting　the　devil's　lottery；　and　his　number　kept　ing　up。　Would　that　ever　stop？　He　was　paid　to　look　into　the　future　and　make　his　predictions；　but　inside　he　knew　that　he　couldn't　do　it　worth　a　damn。　He　needed　other　people　to　tell　him　what　was　happening；　so　that　then　he　could　pare　it　with　things　that　everyone　knew　had　happened；　and　then　bine　the　two　into　a　wild…ass　guess　on　what　somebody　might　do。　And；　sure；　he'd　done　okay　at　that　in　the　trading　business；　but　nobody　ever　got　killed　over　a　few　shares　of　mon　stock。　And　now；　maybe；　his　cute　little　ass　would　be　on　the　line。　Great。　Just　fucking　great。　He　stared　at　the　ceiling。　Why　were　they　always　white？
　　　Wouldn't　black　be　a　better　color　for　sleeping？　You　could　always　see　white　ceilings；　even　in　a　darkened　room。　Was　there　a　reason　for　that？
　　　Was　there　a　reason　why　he　couldn't　sleep？　Why　was　he　asking　damned…fool　questions　with　no　answers？　However　this　played　out；　he'd　almost　certainly　be　okay。　Basil　wouldn't　let　anything　happen　to　him。　It　would　look　very　bad　to　Langley；　and　the　Brits　couldn't　afford　that…too　embarrassing。　Judge　Moore　wouldn't　forget；　and　it　would　bee　part　of　CIA's　institutional　memory；　and　that　would　be　bad　for　the　next　ten　years　or　more。　So；　no；　SIS　wouldn't　let　anything　bad　happen　to　him。
　　　On　the　other　hand；　they　wouldn't　be　the　only　players　on　the　field　and；　as　in　baseball；　the　problem　was　that　both　teams　played　to　win；　and　you　needed　the　right　timing　to　send　that　95…mph　fastball　out　to　the　cheap　seats。
　　　But　you　can't　wimp　out；　Jack；　he　told　himself。　Others；　whose　opinions　he　valued；　would　be　ashamed　of　him…worse；　he'd　be　ashamed　of　himself。　So；　like　it　or　not；　he　had　to　suit　up　and　go　out　on　the　field　and　hope　he　didn't　drop　the　damned　ball。
　　　Or　just　go　back　to　Merrill　Lynch；　but；　no；　he'd　rather　face　bayonets　than　do　that。　I　really　would；　Ryan　realized；　in　considerable　surprise。　Did　that　make　him　brave；　or　just　hardheaded？　There's　a　question；　he　thought。　And　the　only　answer　had　to　e　from　someone　else；　someone　who　would　only　see　one　side　of　the　equation。　You　could　only　see　the　physical　part；　never　the　thought　that　went　into　it。　And　that　wasn't　enough　to　judge　from；　much　as　newsmen　and　historians　tried　to　shape　reality　in　that　way；　as　though　they　really　understood　such　things　at　a　distance　of　miles　or　years。　Yeah；　sure。
　　　In　any　case；　his　bags　were　packed；　and　with　luck　the　worst　part　of　this　trip　would　be　the　airplane　ride。　Much　as　he　hated　it；　it　was　fairly　predictable。。。　unless　a　wing　fell　off。
　　　〃What　the　fuck　is　this　all　about？〃　John　Tyler　asked　nobody　in　particular。　The　telex　in　his　hand　only　gave　orders；　not　the　reasons　behind　them。
　　　The　bodies　had　been　transported　to　the　city　coroner；　with　a　request　for　no　action　to　be　taken　with　them。　Tyler　thought　for　a　moment　and　then　called　the　Assistant　U。S。　Attorney　he　usually　worked　with。
　　　〃You　want　what？　Peter　Mayfair　asked　in　some　incredulity。　He'd　graduated　third　in　his　Harvard　Law　School　class　three　years　before　and　was　racing　up　the　career　ladder　at　the　U。S。　Attorney's　office。　People　called　him　Max。
　　　〃You　heard　me。〃
　　　〃What　is　this　all　about？〃
　　　〃I　don't　know。　I　just　know　it　es　straight　from　Emil's　office。　It　sounds　like　stuff　from　the　other　side　of　the　river；　but　the　telex　doesn't　say　beans。　How　do　we　do　it？〃
　　　〃Where　are　the　bodies？〃
　　　〃Coroner's　office；　I　guess。　There's　a　note　on　them…mother　and　daughter…that　says　don't　post　them。　So　I　suppose　they're　in　the　freezer。〃
　　　〃And　you　want　them　raw；　like？〃
　　　〃Frozen；　I　suppose；　but　yeah；　raw。〃　What　a　hell　of　a　way　to　put　it；　the　Assistant　Special　Agent　in　Charge　thought。
　　　〃Any　families　involved？〃
　　　〃The　police　haven't　located　any　yet　that　I　know　of。〃
　　　〃Okay；　we　hope　it　stays　that　way。　If　there's　no　family　to　say　no；　we　declare　them　indigent　and　get　the　coroner　to　release　them　to　federal　custody；　you　know；　like　a　dead　drunk　on　the　street。　They　just　put　them　in　a　cheap　box　and　bury　them　in　Potter's　Field。　Where　you　going　to　take　them？〃
　　　〃Max；　I　don't　know。　Guess　I　send　a　reply　telex　to　Emil　and　he'll　tell　me。〃
　　　〃Fast？〃　Mayfair　asked；　wondering　what　priority　went　on　this。
　　　〃Last　week；　Max。〃
　　　〃Okay；　if　you　want；　I'll　drive　down　to　the　coroner's　right　now。〃
　　　〃Meet　you　there；　Max。　Thanks。〃
　　　〃You　owe　me　a　beer　and　dinner　at　Legal　Seafood；〃　the　U。S。　Attorney　told　him。
　　　〃Done。〃　He'd　have　to　deliver　on　this　one。
　　　
　　　CHAPTER　25　…　EXCHANGING　THE　BOGIES
　　　The　bodies　were　loaded　in　cheap　aluminum　boxes；　the　sort　used　for　transporting　bodies　by　air；　and　then　loaded　on　a　van　used　by　the　FBI　and　driven　to　Logan　International　Airport。　Special　Agent　Tyler　called　Washington　to　ask　what　came　next；　and　fortunately　his　car　radio　was　encrypted。
　　　FBI　Director　Emil　Jacobs；　it　turned　out；　hadn't　thought　things　all　the　way　through　quite　yet　either；　and　he　had　to　call　Judge　Moore　at　CIA；　where　more　rapid　dancing　was　done；　until　it　was　decided　to　load　them　on　the　British　Airways　747　scheduled　to　leave　Boston　for　London　Heathrow；　so　that　Basil's　people　could　collect　them。　This　was　done　with　alacrity　because　BA　cooperated　readily　with　American　police　agencies；　and　Flight　214　rolled　away　from　the　gate　on　time　at　8：10　and　soon　thereafter　climbed　to　altitude　for　the　three…thousand…mile　hop　to　Heathrow's　Terminal　Four。
　　　It　was　approaching　five　in　the　morning　when　Zaitzev　awoke　in　his　upper　bunk；　not　sure　why　he　had　done　so。　He　rolled　a　little　to　look　out　the　window　when　it　hit　him：　The　train　was　stopped　at　a　station。　He　didn't　know　which　one…he　didn't　have　the　schedule　memorized…and　he　felt　a　sudden　chill。　What　if　some　Second　Chief　Directorate　men　had　just　boarded？　In　the　daylight；　he　might　have　shaken　it　off；　but　KGB　had　the　reputation　of　arresting　people　in　the　middle　of　the　night；　when　they'd　be　less　likely　to　resist　effectively；　and　suddenly　the　fear　came　back。　Then　he　heard　feet　walking　down　the　corridor。。。　but　they　passed　him　by；　and　moments　later　the　train　started　moving　again；　pulling　away　from　the　wooden　station　building；　and　presently　the　view　outside　was　just　darkness　again。　Why　did　this　frighten　me？　Zaitzev　asked　himself。　Why　now？　Wasn't　he　safe　now？　Or　almost　so；　he　corrected　himself。　The　answer　was；　no；　not　until　his　feet　stood　on　foreign　soil。　He　had　to　remind　himself　of　that　fact；　until　he　stood　on　foreign；　nonsocialist　soil。　And　he　wasn't　there　yet。　With　that　reminder　refixed　in　his　mind；　he　rolled　back　and　tried　to　get　back　to　sleep。　The　motion　of　the　train　eventually　overcame　his　anxiety；　and　he　returned　to　dreams　that　were　not　the　least　bit　reassuring。
　　　The　British　Airways　747　also　flew　through　darkness；　its　passengers　mainly　asleep　while　the　flight　crew　monitored　its　numerous　instruments　and　sipped　their　coffee；　taking　time　to　enjoy　the　night　stars；　and　watched　the　horizon　for　the　first　hint　of　dawn。　That　usually　came　over　the　west　coast　of　Ireland。
　　　Ryan　awoke　earlier　than　usual。　He　slipped　out　of　bed　without　disturbing　his　wife；　dressed　casually；　and　went　outside。　The　milkman　was　driving　into　the　cul…de…sac　at　the　end　of　Grizedale　Close。　He　stopped　his　truck　and　got　out　with　the　half…gallon　of　whole　milk　his　kids　drank　like　a　Pratt　&　Whitney　engine　guzzled　jet　fuel；　and　a　loaf　of　bread。　He　was　halfway　to　the　house　before　he　noticed　his　customer。
　　　〃Anything　amiss；　sir？〃　the　milkman　asked；　thinking　perhaps　a　child　was　ill；　the　usual　reason　for　the　parents　of　young　children　to　be　up　and　about　at　this　time　of　day。
　　　〃No；　just　woke　up　a　little　early；〃　Ryan　replied　with　a　yawn。
　　　〃Anything　special　you　might　need？〃
　　　〃Just　a　cigarette；〃　Ryan　replied；　without　thinking。　Under　Cathy's　iron　rule；　he　hadn't　had　one　since　arriving　in　England。
　　　〃Well；　here；　sir。〃　The　man　extended　a　pack　with　one　shaken　loose。
　　　It　surprised　the　hell　out　of　Ryan。　〃Thanks；　buddy。〃　But　he　took　it　anyway；　along　with　the　light　from　a　butane　lighter。　He　coughed　with　the　first　drag；　but　got　over　it　pretty　fast。　It　was　a　remarkably　friendly　feeling　in　the　still；　predawn　air；　and　the　wonderful　thing　about　bad　habits　was　how　quickly　one　picked　them　back　up。　It　was　a　strong　cigarette；　like　the　Marlboros　he'd　smoked　in　his　senior　year　of　high　school；　part　of　the　ascension　to　manhood　back　in　the　late　1960s。　The　milkman　ought　to　quit；　Jack　thought；　but　he　probably　wasn't　married　to　a　Hopkins　surgeon。
　　　He　didn't　often　get　to　talk　t