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ion　here。　For　example；　the　bugs　in　your　flat…how　many　of　them　actually　work？　They're　not　British　Tele；　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　inpetent…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？〃
　　　〃Indeed　it　is…as　good　as　New　Zealand；〃　her　husband　agreed。
　　　〃The　steaks　leave　something　to　be　desired；〃　Mike　Barnes　told　them；　〃but　every　week　we　get　steaks　flown　in　from　Omaha。　Tons　of　them…we　distribute　them　to　all　our　friends。〃
　　　〃That　is　the　truth；〃　Nigel　confirmed。　〃Your　corn…fed　beef　is　superb。　I'm　afraid　we're　all　quite　addicted　to　it。〃
　　　〃Thank　God　for　the　U。S。　Air　Force；〃　Barnes　went　on。　〃They　fly　the　beef　into　all　their　NATO　bases；　and　we're　on　the　distribution　list。　They　e　in　frozen；　not　quite　as　good　as　fresh　at　Delmonico's；　but　close　enough　to　remind　you　of　home。　I　hope　you　guys　brought　a　grill。　We　tend　to　take　them　up　on　the　roof　to　cook　out。　We　import　charcoal；　too。　Ivan　just　doesn't　seem　to　understand　about　that。〃　The　apartment　had　no　balcony；　perhaps　to　protect　them　from　the　diesel　smell　that　pervaded　the　city。
　　　〃What　about　going　to　work？〃　Foley　asked。
　　　〃Better　to　take　the　metro。　It　really　is　great；〃　Barnes　told　him。
　　　〃Leaving　me　with　the　car？〃　Mary　Pat　asked；　with　a　hopeful　smile。　This　was　going　exactly　to　plan。　That　was　expected；　but　anything　that　went　well　in　this　business　came　as　something　of　a　surprise；　like　the　right　presents　under　the　Christmas　tree。　You　always　hoped　Santa　got　the　letter；　but　you　could　never　be　sure。
　　　〃You　might　as　well　learn　how　to　drive　in　this　city；〃　Barnes　said。　〃At　least　you　have　a　nice　car。〃　The　previous　resident　in　this　apartment　had　left　behind　a　white　Mercedes　280　for　them；　which　was　indeed　a　nice　car。　Actually；　a　little　too　nice　at　only　four　years　old。　Not　that　there　were　all　that　many　cars　in　Moscow；　and　the　license　plates　surely　marked　it　as　belonging　to　an　American　diplomat；　and　thus　easy　to　spot　by　any　traffic　cop；　and　by　the　KGB　vehicle　that　would　follow　it　most　places　it　went。　Again；　it　was　reverse…English。　Mary　Pat　would　have　to　learn　to　drive　like　an　Indianapolis　resident　on　her　first　trip　to　New　York。　〃The　streets　are　nice　and　wide；〃　Barnes　told　her；　〃and　the　gas　station　is　only　three　blocks　that　way。〃　He　pointed。　〃It's　a　huge　one。　The　Russians　like　to　build　them　that　way。〃
　　　〃Great；〃　she　observed　for　Barnes's　benefit；　already　dropping　into　her　cover　as　a　pretty；　ditsy　blonde。　Around　the　world；　the　pretty　ones　were　supposed　to　be　the　dumb　ones；　and　blondes　most　of　all。　It　was　a　hell　of　a　lot　easier　to　play　dumb　than　to　be　smart；　after　all；　Hollywood　actors　notwithstanding。
　　　〃What　about　servicing　the　car？〃　Ed　asked。
　　　〃It's　a　Mercedes。　They　don't　break　much；〃　Barnes　assured　them。　〃The　German　embassy　has　a　guy　who　can　fix　anything　that　goes　bad。　We're　cordial　with　our　NATO　allies。　You　guys　soccer　fans？〃
　　　〃Girls'　game；〃　Ed　Foley　responded　immediately。
　　　〃That's　rather　coarse　of　you；〃　Nigel　Haydock　observed。
　　　〃Give　me　American　football　any　time；〃　Foley　countered。
　　　〃Bloody　foolish；　uncivilized　game；　full　of　violence　and　mittee　meetings；〃　the　Brit　sniffed。
　　　Foley　grinned。　〃Let's　eat。〃
　　　They　sat　down。　The　interim　furniture　was　adequate；　something　like　you'd　find　in　a　no…tell　motel　in　Alabama。　You　could　sleep　on　the　bed；　and　the　bug　spray　had　probably　done　for　all　the　crawly　things。　Probably。
　　　The　sandwiches　were　okay。　Mary　Pat　went　to　get　glasses　and　turned　on　the　taps…
　　　〃Remend　against　that　one；　Mrs。　Foley；〃　Nigel　warned。　〃Some　people　e　down　with　stomach　plaints　from　the　tap　water。。。〃
　　　〃Oh？〃　She　paused。　〃And　my　name's　Mary　Pat；　Nigel。〃
　　　Now　they　were　properly　introduced。　〃Yes；　Mary　Pat。　We　prefer　bottled　water　for　drinking。　The　tap　water　is　good　enough　for　bathing；　and　you　can　boil　it　in　a　pinch　for　coffee　and　tea。〃
　　　〃It's　even　worse　in　Leningrad；〃　Nigel　warned。　〃The　natives　are　more　or　less　immunized；　they　tell　me；　but　we　foreigners　can　get　some　serious　GI　problems　there。〃
　　　〃What　about　schools？〃　Mary　Pat　had　been　worried　about　that。
　　　〃The　American…British　school　looks　after　the　children　well；〃　Penny　Haydock　promised。　〃I　work　there　myself　part…time。　And　the　academic　program　there　is　top…drawer。〃
　　　〃Eddie's　starting　to　read　already；　isn't　he；　honey？〃　the　proud　father　announced。
　　　〃Just　'Peter　Rabbit'　and　that　sort　of　thing；　but　not　bad　for　four；〃　an　equally　pleased　mother　confirmed　for　the　rest。　For　his　part；　Eddie　had　found　the　sandwich　plate　and　was　gnawing　through　something。　It　wasn't　his　treasured　bologna；　but　a　hungry　kid　is　not　always　discriminating。　There　were　also　four　large　jars　of　Skippy's　Super　Chunk　peanut　butter　packed　away　in　a　safe　place。　His　parents　figured　they　could　get　grape　jelly　anywhere；　but　probably　not　Skippy。　The　local　bread；　everyone　said；　was　decent；　if　not　exactly　the　Wonder　Bread　that　American　children　had　been　raised　on。　And　Mary　Pat　had　a　bread…maker　in　their　cargo　container；　now　on　a　truck　or　train　between　Moscow　and　Leningrad。　A　good　cook；　she　was　a　positive　artist　at　baking　bread；　and　expected　that　to　be　her　entree　into　the　embassy　social　set。
　　　Not　all　that　far　away　from　where　they　sat；　a　letter　changed　hands。　The　deliverer　was　from　Warsaw；　and　had　been　dispatched　by　his　government…actually；　by　an　agency　of　his　government　to　an　agency　of　the　recipient　government。　The　messenger　was　not　all　that　pleased　by　his　mission。　He　was　a　munist…he　had　to　be　in　order　to　be　entrusted　with　such　a　task…but　he　was　nonetheless　a　Pole；　as　was　the　subject　of　the　message　and　the　mission。　And　that　was　the　rub。
　　　The　message　was　in　fact　a　photocopy　of　the　original；　which　had　arrived　by　hand　to　an　office…an　important　one…in　Warsaw　only　three　days　before。
　　　The　messenger；　a　full　colonel　in　his　country's　intelligence　service；　was　personally　known　to　the　recipient；　by　sight　if　not　especially　by　affection。
　　　The　Russians　used　their　western　neighbors　for　many　tasks。　The　Poles　had　a　real　talent　for　intelligence　operations；　for　the　same　reason　the　Israelis　did：　They　were　surrounded　by　enemies。　To　their　west　was　Germany；　and　to　their　east　was　the　Soviet　Union。　The　unhappy　circumstances　involved　in　both　had　resulted　in　Poland's　putting　many　of　its　best　and　brightest　into　the　intelligence　business。
　　　The　recipient　knew　all　that。　In　fact；　he　already　knew　word　for　word　the　content　of　the　message。　He'd　learned　it　the　previous　day。　He　was　not　surprised　at　the　delay；　though。　The　Polish　government　had　taken　that　day　to　consider　the　contents　and　its　import　before　forwarding　it；　and　the　recipient　took　no　umbrage。　Every　government　in　the　world　took　at　least　one　day　to　go　over　such　things。　It　was　just　the　nature　of　men　in　positions　of　authority　to　diddle　and　waver；　even　though　they　had　to　know　that　delay　was　a　waste　of　time　and　air。　Even　Marxism…Leninism　couldn't　alter　human　nature。　Sad；　but　true。　The　New　Soviet　Man；　like　the　New　Polish　Man；　was；　in　the　end；　still　a　man。
　　　The　ballet　being　played　out　now　was　as　stylized　as　any　performed　by　the　Kirov　troupe　in　Leningrad。　The　recipient　even　imagined　he　could　hear　the　music　playing。　He　actually　preferred　Western　jazz　to　classical；　but　in　any　case　the　music　at　the　ballet　was　just　the　garnish；　the　system　that　told　the　dancers　when　to　leap　together　like　pretty；　trained　dogs。　The　ballerinas　were　far　too　slender　for　Russian　tastes；　of　course；　but　real　women　were　far　too　heavy　for　those　little　fairies　they　called　men　to　toss　about。
　　　Why　was　his　mind　wandering？　He　resumed　his　seat；　falling　back　slowly　into　his　leather　chair　as　he　unfolded　the　letter。　It　was　written　in　Polish；　and　he　didn't　speak　or　read　Polish；　but　affixed　to　it　was　a　translation　in　literate　Russian。　Of　course；　he'd　have　his　own　translators　go　over　it；　plus　two　or　three　psychiatrists　to　consider　the　mental　state　of　the　drafter　and　to　pose　their　own　multipage　analysis；　which　he'd　have　to　read；　time　waster　though　that　would　be。　Then　he'd　have　to　report　on　it；　to　provide　his　political　superiors…no；　his　political　peers…with　all　of　these　additional　insights　so　that　they　could　waste　their　time　going