tc.redrabbit-第83部分

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　　　〃Hungarian　native；　cousin　of　Miklos　Rozsa；　Hollywood　poser…Ben　Hur；　and　like　that。　Musical　family；　I　guess。　He's　supposed　to　be　excellent。　The　Hungarian　State　Railroad　has　four　orchestras；　believe　it　or　not；　and　Jozsef　is　going　to　conduct　number　one。　You　can　go　there　by　train　or　fly；　depends　on　how　much　time　you　have。〃
　　　〃Interesting；〃　Foley　thought　aloud。　Fascinating；　he　thought　inside。
　　　〃You　know；　the　Moscow　State　Orchestra　opens　up　beginning　of　next　month。　They　have　a　new　conductor；　guy　named　Anatoliy　Sheymov。　Haven't　heard　him　yet；　but　he's　supposed　to　be　pretty　good。　I　can　get　you　tickets　easy。　Ivan　likes　to　show　off　to　us　foreigners；　and　they　really　are　world…class。〃
　　　〃Thanks；　Mike；　I'll　think　about　it。　Later；　man。〃　Foley　took　his　leave。
　　　And　he　smiled　all　the　way　back　to　his　office。
　　　〃Bloody　hell；〃　Sir　Basil　observed；　reading　over　the　newest　cable　from　Moscow。　〃What　bloody　genius　came　up　with　this　idea？〃　he　asked　the　air。　Oh；　he　saw。　The　American　officer；　Edward　Foley。　How　the　hell　will　he　make　this　e　about？　the　Director　General　wondered。
　　　He'd　been　about　to　leave　for　lunch　at　Westminster　Palace　across　the　river；　and　he　couldn't　break　that　one　off。　Well；　it　would　be　something　to　ruminate　over　with　his　roast　beef　and　Yorkshire　pudding。
　　　〃Lucky　me；〃　Ryan　observed；　back　in　his　office。
　　　〃Jack；　it　will　be　less　dangerous　than　crossing　the　street〃…which　could　be　a　lively　exercise　in　London。
　　　〃I　can　take　care　of　myself；　Simon；〃　Ryan　reminded　his　workmate。　〃But　if　I　screw　up；　somebody　else　takes　the　fall。〃
　　　〃You'll　not　be　responsible　for　any　of　that。　You'll　just　be　there　to　observe。　I　don't　know　Andy　Hudson　myself；　but　he　has　an　excellent　professional　reputation。〃
　　　〃Great；〃　Ryan　mented。　〃Lunchtime；　Simon；　and　I　feel　like　a　beer。〃
　　　〃Duke　of　Clarence　all　right？〃
　　　〃Isn't　that　the　guy　who　drowned　in　a　barrel　of　malmsey　wine？〃
　　　〃Worse　ways　to　go；　Sir　John；〃　Harding　observed。
　　　〃What　is　malmsey　anyway？〃
　　　〃Strong　and　sweet；　rather　like　a　Madeira。　It　now　es　from　those　islands；　in　fact。〃
　　　One　more　piece　of　trivia　learned；　Ryan　thought；　going　to　get　his　coat。
　　　In　Moscow；　Zaitzev　checked　his　personnel　file。　He'd　accrued　twelve　days　of　vacation　time。　He　and　his　family　hadn't　gotten　a　time　slot　at　Sochi　the　previous　summer…the　KGB　quota　had　been　filled　in　July　and　August…and　so　they　had　gone　without。　It　was　easier　to　schedule　a　vacation　with　a　preschool　child；　as　in　any　other　country…you　got　to　run　away　from　town　whenever　you　wished。　Svetlana　was　in　state…provided　day　care；　but　missing　a　few　days　of　blocks　and　crayons　was　a　lot　easier　to　arrange　than　a　week　or　two　of　state　primary　school；　which　was　frowned　upon。
　　　Upstairs；　colonel　Rozhdestvenskiy　was　going　over　the　latest　message　from　Colonel　Bubovoy　in　Sofia；　just　brought　in　by　courier。　So　the　Bulgarian　premier　had　agreed　to　Moscow's　request　with　a　decent　lack　of　annoying　questions。　The　Bulgars　knew　their　place。　The　chief　of　state　of　a　supposedly　sovereign　nation　knew　how　to　take　his　orders　from　a　field…grade　officer　of　Russia's　mittee　for　State　Security。　Which　was　just　as　it　should　be；　the　colonel　thought。　And　now　Colonel　Strokov　of　the　Dirzhavna　Sugurnost　would　be　out　picking　his　shooter；　undoubtedly　a　Turk；　and　Operation　…666　could　go　forward。　He　would　report　this　to　Chairman　Andropov　later　in　the　day。
　　　〃Three　human　bodies？〃　Alan　Kingshot　asked　in　considerable　surprise。　He　was　Sir　Basil's　most　senior　field　officer；　a　very　experienced　operator　who'd　worked　the　streets　of　every　major　European　city；　first　as　a　〃legal〃　officer　and　later　as　a　headquarters　troubleshooter；　in　his　thirty…seven　years　of　service　to　Queen　and　Country。　〃Some　sort　of　switch；　is　it？〃
　　　〃Yes。　The　chap　who　suggested　it　is　a　fan　of　MINCEMEAT；　I　imagine；〃　Basil　responded。
　　　Operation　MINCEMEAT　was　a　World　War　II　legend。　It　had　been　designed　to　give　Germany　the　impression　that　the　next　major　Allied　operation　would　not　be　the　planned　Operation　HUSKY；　the　invasion　of　Sicily；　and　so　it　had　been　decided　to　suggest　to　German　intelligence　that　Corsica　was　the　intended　invasion　target。　To　do　this；　the　Germans　were　given　the　body　of　a　dead　alcoholic　who'd　been　transformed　after　a　death　of　dissipation　into　a　major　of　the　Royal　Marines；　putatively　a　planning　officer　for　the　fictitious　operation　to　seize　Corsica。　The　body　had　been　dropped　in　the　water　off　the　Spanish　coast　by　the　submarine　HMS　Seraph；　from　which　it　had　washed　to　shore；　been　duly　picked　up；　delivered　to　the　local　police；　autopsied；　and　the　document　case　handcuffed　to　the　cadaver's　wrist　handed　over　to　the　local　Abwehr　officer。　He'd　fired　the　papers　off　to　Berlin；　where　they'd　had　the　intended　effect；　moving　several　German　divisions　to　an　island　with　no　more　military　significance　than　the　fact　that　it　was　Napoleon's　birthplace。　The　story　was　called　The　Man　Who　Never　Was；　the　subject　of　a　book　and　a　movie；　and　further　proof　of　the　wretched　performance　of　German　intelligence；　which　couldn't　tell　the　difference　between　the　body　of　a　dead　drunk　and　that　of　a　professional　soldier。
　　　〃What　else　do　we　know？　I　mean；〃　Kingshot　pointed　out；　〃what　age　and　gender；　sir？〃
　　　〃Yes；　and　hair　color　and　so　forth。　The　manner　of　death　will　also　be　important。　We　do　not　know　those　things　yet。　So　the　initial　question　is　a　broad　one：　Is　it　possible　to　do　this？〃
　　　〃In　the　abstract；　yes；　but　before　we　can　go　forward　with　it；　I　shall　need　a　lot　of　specifics。　As　I　said；　height；　weight；　hair　and　eye　color；　gender　to　be　sure。　With　that；　we　can　go　forward。〃
　　　〃Well；　Alan；　get　thinking　about　it。　Get　me　a　specific　list　of　what　you　need　by　tomorrow　noon。〃
　　　〃What　city　will　this　be　in？〃
　　　〃Budapest　probably。〃
　　　〃Well；　that's　something；〃　the　field　spook　thought　aloud。
　　　〃Damned　grisly　business；〃　Sir　Basil　muttered　after　his　man　left。
　　　Andy　Hudson　was　sitting　in　his　office；　relaxing　after　his　Ploughman's　Lunch　in　the　embassy's　pub；　along　with　a　pint　of　John　Courage　beer。　Not　a　tall　man；　he　had　eighty…two　parachute　jumps　under　his　belt；　and　had　the　bad　knees　to　prove　it。　He'd　been　invalided　out　of　active　service　eight　years　before；　but　because　he　liked　a　little　excitement　in　his　life；　he'd　opted　to　join　the　Secret　Intelligence　Service；　and　worked　his　way　rapidly　up　the　ladder　mainly　on　the　strength　of　his　superior　language　skills。　Here　in　Budapest；　he　needed　those。　The　Hungarian　language　is　known　as　Indo…Altaic　to　philologists。　Its　nearest　European　neighbor　is　Finnish　and；　after　that；　Mongolian。　It　has　no　relationship　at　all　with　any　European　language；　except　for　some　Christian　names；　which　were　conveyed　when　the　Magyar　people　succumbed　to　Christianity；　after　killing　off　enough　missionaries　to　bee　bored　with　doing　so。　Along　the　way；　they'd　also　lost　whatever　warrior　ethos　they'd　once　had。　The　Hungarians　were　about　the　most　un…warlike　people　on　the　continent。
　　　But　they　were　pretty　good　at　intrigue；　and；　like　any　society；　they　had　a　criminal　element…but　theirs　had　mainly　gone　into　the　munist　Party　and　power　apparat。　The　Secret　Police　here；　the　Allavedelmi　Hatosag；　could　be　as　nasty　as　the　Cheka　had　been　under　Iron　Feliks　himself。　But　nasty　wasn't　quite　the　same　as　efficient。　It　was　as　though　they　tried　to　make　up　for　their　inbred　inefficiency　by　viciousness　against　those　whom　they　blundered　into　catching。　And　their　police　were　notoriously　stupid…there　was　a　Hungarian　aphorism；　〃As　stupid　as　six　pairs　of　policeman's　boots；〃　which　Hudson　had　largely　found　to　be　true。　They　weren't　the　Metropolitan　Police；　but　Budapest　wasn't　London；　either。
　　　In　fact；　he　found　life　pleasant　here。　Budapest　was　a　surprisingly　pretty　city；　very　French　in　its　architecture；　and　surprisingly　casual　for　a　munist　capital。　The　food　was　remarkably　good；　even　in　the　government…run　worker　canteens　that　dotted　every　street　corner；　where　the　fare　was　not　elegant　but　tasty。　Public　transportation　was　adequate　to　his　purposes；　which　were　mainly　political　intelligence。　He　had　a　source…called　PARADE…inside　the　Foreign　Ministry　who　fed　him　very　useful　information　about　the　Warsaw　Pact　and　East　Bloc　politics　in　general；　in　return　for　cash；　and　not　very　much　cash　at　that；　so　low　were　his　expectations。
　　　Like　the　rest　of　Central　Europe；　Budapest　was　an　hour　ahead　of　London。　The　embassy　messenger　knocked　on　Hudson's　door；　then　reached　in　to　toss　an　envelope　onto　his　desk。　Hudson　set　down　his　small　cigar　and　lifted　it。　From　London；　he　saw。　Sir　Basil　himself。。。
　　　Bloody　hell；　Hudson　thought。　His　life　was　about　to　get　a　little　bit　more　interesting。
　　　〃More　details　to　follow；〃　it　ended。　About　right。　You　never　knew　it　all　until　you　had　to　do　it。　Sir　Basil　wasn't　a　bad　chap　to　work　for　but；　like　most　spymasters；　he　greatly　enjoyed　being　clever；　which　was　something　never　fully　appreciated　out　in　the　field；　where　the　worker　bees　had　wasps　to　worry　about。　Hudson　had　a　staff　of　three；　including　himself。　Budapest　wasn't　a　major　station；　and　for　him　it　was　a　way　station　until　something　more　important　opened　up。　As　it　was；　he　was　young　to　be　a　Station　Chief。　Basil　was　giving　him　the　chance　to　stretch　his　legs。　That　suited　Hudson。　Most　Station　Chiefs　sat　in　their　offices　like　spiders　in　their　web；　which　looked　dramatic　but　could　actually　be　quite　boring；　since　it　involved　writing　endl