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　　　〃Jack；　you　don't　mix　alcohol　with　surgery；〃　she　explained　patiently。　〃Okay？　You　don't　drink　and　drive。　You　don't　drink　and　cut；　either。　Not　ever。　Not　once。〃
　　　〃Yes；　doctor。　So　tomorrow　you　just　set　glasses　prescriptions　for　people？〃
　　　〃Uh…huh；　simple　day。　How　about　you？〃
　　　〃Nothing　important。　Same　crap；　different　day。〃
　　　〃I　don't　know　how　you　stand　it。〃
　　　〃Well；　it's　interesting；　secret　crap；　and　you　have　to　be　a　spook　to　understand　it。〃
　　　〃Right。〃　She　poured　the　spaghetti　sauce　into　a　bowl。　〃Here。〃
　　　〃I　haven't　got　the　wine　open　yet。〃
　　　〃So　work　faster。〃
　　　〃Yes；　Professor　the　Lady　Ryan；〃　Jack　responded；　taking　the　bowl　of　sauce　and　setting　it　on　the　table。　Then　he　pulled　the　cork　out　of　the　Chianti。
　　　Sally　was　too　big　a　girl　for　a　high　chair　but　still　small　enough　for　a　booster　seat；　which　she　carried　to　the　chair　herself。　Since　the　dinner　was　〃pisgetty；〃　her　father　tucked　the　cloth　napkin　into　her　collar。　The　sauce　would　probably　get　to　her　pants　anyway；　but　it　would　teach　his　little　girl　about　napkins；　and　that；　Cathy　thought；　was　important。　Then　Ryan　poured　the　wine。　Sally　didn't　ask　for　any。　Her　father　had　indulged　her　once　（over　his　wife's　objections）；　and　that　had　ended　that。　Sally　got　some　Coca…Cola。
　　　Svetlana　was　asleep；　finally。　She　liked　to　stay　up　as　long　as　she　could；　every　night　the　same；　or　so　it　seemed；　until　she　finally　put　her　head　down。　She　slept　with　a　smile；　her　father　saw；　like　a　little　angel；　the　sort　that　decorated　Italian　cathedrals　in　the　travel　books　he　used　to　read。　The　TV　was　on。　Some　World　War　II　movie；　it　sounded　like。　They　were　all　the　same。　The　Germans　attacked　cruelly…well；　occasionally　there　was　a　German　character　with　something　akin　to　humanity；　usually　a　German　munist；　it　would　be　revealed　along　the　way；　torn　by　conflicting　loyalties　to　his　class　（working　class；　of　course）　and　his　country…and　the　Soviets　resisted　bravely；　losing　a　lot　of　defiant　men　at　first　until　turning　the　tide；　usually　outside　Moscow　in　December　1941；　at　Stalingrad　in　January　1943；　or　the　Kursk　Bulge　in　the　summer　of　1943。　There　was　always　a　heroic　political　officer；　a　courageous　private　soldier；　a　wise　old　sergeant；　and　a　bright　young　junior　officer。　Toss　in　a　grizzled　general　who　wept　quietly　and　alone　for　his　men；　then　had　to　set　his　feelings　aside　and　get　the　job　done。　There　were　about　five　different　formulas；　all　of　them　variations　of　the　same　theme；　and　the　only　real　difference　was　whether　Stalin　was　seen　as　a　wise；　godlike　ruler　or　simply　wasn't　mentioned　at　all。　That　depended　on　when　the　film　had　been　shot。　Stalin　had　fallen　out　of　fashion　in　the　Soviet　film　industry　about　1956；　soon　after　Nikita　Sergeyevich　Khrushchev　had　made　his　famous　but　then…secret　speech　revealing　what　a　monster　Stalin　had　been…something　Soviet　citizens　still　had　trouble　with；　especially　the　cab…drivers；　or　so　it　seemed。　Truth　in　his　country　was　a　rare　modity；　and　almost　always　one　hard　to　swallow。
　　　But　Zaitzev　wasn't　watching　the　movie　now。　Oleg　Ivanovich　sipped　at　his　vodka；　eyes　focused　on　the　TV　screen；　without　seeing　it。　It　had　just　struck　him　how　huge　a　step　he'd　taken　that　afternoon　on　the　metro。　At　the　time；　it　had　almost　been　a　lark；　like　a　child　playing　a　prank；　reaching　into　that　American's　pocket　like　a　sneak…thief；　just　to　see　if　he　could　do　it。　No　one　had　noticed。　He'd　been　clever　and　careful　about　it；　and　even　the　American　hadn't　noticed；　or　else　he　would　have　reacted。
　　　So　he'd　just　proven　that　he　had　the　ability　to。。。　what？　To　do　what？　Oleg　Ivan'ch　asked　himself　with　surprising　intensity。
　　　What　the　hell　had　he　done　on　the　metro　coach？　What　had　he　been　thinking　about？　Actually；　he　hadn't　really　thought　about　it　at　all。　It　had　just　been　some　sort　of　foolish　impulse。。。　hadn't　it？
　　　He　shook　his　head　and　took　another　sip　of　his　drink。　He　was　a　man　of　intelligence。　He　had　a　university　degree。　He　was　an　excellent　chess　player。　He　had　a　job　that　required　the　highest　security　clearance；　that　paid　well；　and　that　had　just　put　him　at　the　bottom　entry　level　of　the　nomenklatura。　He　was　a　person　of　importance…not　much；　but　some。　The　KGB　trusted　him　with　knowledge　about　many　things。　The　KGB　had　confidence　in　him。。。　but。。。
　　　But　what？　he　asked　himself。　What　came　after　the　〃but〃　part？　His　mind　was　wandering　in　directions　he　didn't　understand　and　could　barely　see。。。
　　　The　priest。　It　came　down　to　that；　didn't　it？　Or　did　it？　What　was　he　thinking？　Zaitzev　asked　himself。　He　didn't　really　know　if　he　was　thinking　anything　at　all。　It　was　as　though　his　hand　had　developed　a　mind　of　its　own；　taking　action　without　the　brain's　or　the　mind's　permission；　leading　off　in　a　direction　that　he　didn't　understand。
　　　Yes；　it　had　to　be　that　damned　priest。　Was　he　bewitched？　Was　some　outside　force　taking　control　of　his　body？
　　　No！　That　is　not　possible！　Zaitzev　told　himself。　That　was　something　from　ancient　tales；　the　sort　of　thing　old　women　discussed…prattled　about…over　a　boiling　pot。
　　　But　why；　then；　did　I　put　my　hand　in　the　American's　pocket？　his　mind　demanded　of　itself；　but　there　was　no　immediate　answer。
　　　Do　you　want　to　be　apart　of　murder？　some　small　voice　asked。　Are　you　willing　to　facilitate　the　murder　of　an　innocent　man？
　　　Was　he　innocent？　Zaitzev　asked　himself；　taking　another　swallow。　Not　a　single　dispatch　crossing　his　desk　suggested　otherwise。　In　fact；　he　could　hardly　remember　any　mention　of　this　Father　Karol　in　any　KGB　messages　during　the　past　couple　years。　Yes；　they'd　taken　note　of　his　trip　back　to　Poland　soon　after　being　elected　Pope；　but　what　man　didn't　go　home　after　his　promotion　to　see　his　friends　and　seek　their　approval　of　his　new　place　in　the　world？
　　　The　Party　was　made　up　of　men；　too。　And　men　made　mistakes。　He　saw　them　every　day；　even　from　the　skilled；　highly　trained　officers　of　KGB；　who　were　punished；　or　chided；　or　just　remarked　upon　by　their　superiors　in　The　Centre。　Leonid　Ilyich　made　mistakes。　People　chuckled　about　them　over　lunch　often　enough…or　talked　more　quietly　about　the　things　his　greedy　children　did；　especially　his　daughter。　Hers　was　a　petty　corruption；　and　while　people　talked　about　it；　they　usually　spoke　quietly。　But　he　was　thinking　about　a　much　larger　and　more　dangerous　kind　of　corruption。
　　　Where　did　the　legitimacy　of　the　State　e　from？　In　the　abstract；　it　came　from　the　people；　but　the　people　had　no　say　in　things。　The　Party　did；　but　only　a　small　minority　of　the　people　were　in　the　Party；　and　of　those　only　a　much　smaller　minority　achieved　anything　resembling　power。　And　so　the　legitimacy　of　his　State　resided　atop　what　was　by　any　logical　measure　。。。　a　fiction。。。
　　　And　that　was　a　very　big　thought。　Other　countries　were　ruled　by　dictators；　often　fascists　on　the　political　Right。　Fewer　countries　were　ruled　by　people　on　the　political　Left。　Hitler　represented　the　most　powerful　and　dangerous　of　the　former；　but　he'd　been　overthrown　by　the　Soviet　Union　and　Stalin　on　one　side；　and　by　the　Western　states　on　the　other。　The　two　most　unlikely　of　allies　had　bined　to　destroy　the　German　threat。　And　who　were　they？　They　claimed　to　be　democracies；　and　while　that　claim　was　consistently　denigrated　by　his　own　country；　the　elections　held　in　those　countries　were　real…they　had　to　be；　since　his　country　and　his　agency；　the　KGB；　spent　time　and　money　trying　to　influence　them…and　so　there；　the　Will　of　the　People　had　some　reality　to　it；　or　else　why　would　KGB　try　to　affect　it？　Exactly　how　much；　Zaitzev　didn't　know。　There　was　no　telling　from　the　information　available　in　his　own　country；　and　he　didn't　bother　listening　to　the　Voice　of　America　and　other　obvious　propaganda　arms　of　the　Western　nations。
　　　So；　it　wasn't　the　people　who　wanted　to　kill　the　priest。　It　was　Andropov；　certainly；　and　the　Politburo；　possibly；　who　wished　to　do　it。　Even　his　workmates　at　The　Centre　had　no　particular　bone　to　pick　with　Father　Karol。　There　was　no　talk　of　his　enmity　to　the　Soviet　Union。　The　State　TV　and　radio　had　not　called　out　for　class　hatred　against　him；　as　they　did　for　other　foreign　enemies。　There　had　been　no　pejorative　articles　about　him　in　Pravda　that　he'd　seen　of　late。　Just　some　rumbles　about　the　labor　problems　in　Poland；　and　those　were　not　overly　loud；　more　the　sort　of　thing　a　neighbor　might　say　about　a　misbehaving　child　next　door。
　　　But　that's　what　it　had　to　be　all　about。　Karol　was　Polish；　and　a　source　of　pride　for　the　people　there；　and　Poland　was　politically　troubled　because　of　labor　disputes。　Karol　wanted　to　use　his　political　or　spiritual　power　to　protect　his　people。　That　was　understandable；　wasn't　it？
　　　But　was　killing　him　understandable？
　　　Who　would　stand　up　and　say；　〃No；　you　cannot　kill　this　man　because　you　dislike　his　politics〃？　The　Politburo？　No；　they'd　go　along　with　Andropov。　He　was　the　heir　apparent。　When　Leonid　Ilyich　died；　he'd　be　the　one　to　take　his　chair　at　the　head　of　the　table。　Another　Party　man。　Well；　what　else　could　he　be？　The　Party　was　the　Soul　of　the　People；　so　the　saying　went。　That　was　about　the　only　mention　of　〃soul〃　the　Party　permitted。
　　　Did　some　part　of　a　man　live　on　after　death？　That　was　what　the　soul　was　supposed　to　be；　but　here　the　Party　was　the　soul；　and　the　Party　was　a　thing　of　men；　and　little　more。　And　corrupt　men　at　that。
　　　And　they　wanted　to　kill　a　priest。
　　　He'd　seen　the　dispatches。　In　a　very　small