Red Rabbit

But the other side of that coin was perpetual worry and sleeplessness, and fear. He hadn’t really tasted the fear yet. That would come, he was sure.

Treason had only one punishment. Death for the traitor, followed by ruin for his survivors. They’d be sent off to Siberia—to count trees, as the euphemism went. It was the Soviet hell, a place of eternal damnation, from which death was the only escape.

In fact, it was exactly what his conscience would do to him if he didn’t follow through on his action, Zaitzev realized, finally losing his battle and sliding off into sleep.

* * *

A second later, so it seemed to him, the alarm clock went off. At least, he hadn’t been tormented with dreams. That was the only good news this morning. His head pounded, threatening to push his eyeballs out of their sockets. He staggered into the bathroom, where he splashed water onto his face and took three aspirin, which, he forlornly hoped, might ease his hangover in a few hours.

He couldn’t face sausages for breakfast, since his stomach was also irritated, and so he settled for cereal and milk with some buttered bread on the side. He thought about coffee, but decided a glass of milk would be easier on his stomach.

“You drank too much last night,” Irina told him.

“Yes, darling, I know that now,” he managed to say, not unpleasantly. His condition wasn’t her fault, and she was a good wife to him, and a good mother for Svetlana, his little zaichik. He knew that he’d survive this day. He just wouldn’t like it much. Worst of all, he had to get going early, and this he did, shaving very badly along the way, but becoming presentable with a clean shirt and tie. He tucked four more aspirin into his coat pocket before walking out the door, and, to get his blood moving, he took the stairs down instead of the elevator. There was a mild chill in the morning air, which helped somewhat on the way to the metro. He bought a copy of Izvestia and smoked a Trud, and that helped move him along, too.

If anyone recognized him—well, few would. He was not in the usual carriage, and he was not on the usual train. He was usually fifteen minutes later. He was just one more anonymous face on a subway train filled with anonymous people.

And so no one would note that he was getting off at the wrong station.

The American Embassy was just a couple of blocks away, and he headed that way, checking his watch.

He knew the proper timing because he’d been here once before, as a cadet in the KGB Academy, brought here early one morning in a bus along with forty-five other members of his class. They’d even worn their official uniforms for the trip, probably to remind them of their professional identity. Even then, it had seemed a foolish waste of time, but the academy commandant back then had been a hard-liner, and now the trip served a purpose that would have outraged the man. Zaitzev lit another cigarette as the building came into view.

He checked his watch. At precisely 0730 hours every day, they raised their flag. The academy commandant, ten years before, had pointed and said, “See there, comrades, that is the enemy! That is where he lives in our fine city of Moscow. In that building live spies which those of you who enter the Second Chief Directorate will endeavor to identify and expel from our fair land. There live and work the ones who spy on our country and our people. That is their flag. Remember it always.” And then, exactly on time, the flag had been hoisted to the top of a white pole with a bronze eagle at the top, hauled up by members of the United States Marine Corps in their pretty uniforms. Zaitzev had checked his watch in the metro station. It should be right about… now.

* * *

A bugle blew a tune that he didn’t know. He could just make out the white caps of the Marines, barely visible above the stone parapet of the building’s flat roof. He was on the other side of the street, just by the old church, which KGB had crammed full of electronic devices.

There, he thought, staring, along with a handful of other passersby on the cracked cement sidewalk.

Yes, he saw. The top part of the flag as it appeared was red and white horizontal stripes, not the blue canton with its fifty white stars. The flag was being hoisted upside down! It was unmistakably wrong. And it went all the way to the top of the pole that way.

So, they did as I asked. Quickly, Zaitzev walked to the end of the block and turned right, then right again, and back to the metro station he’d just left, and, with the payment of a large five-kopeck copper coin, he boarded another subway car for the trip to Dzerzhinskiy Square.

Just that quickly, his hangover went away, as though by magic. He scarcely even noticed until he took the escalator up to the street level.

The Americans want to help me, the communications officer told himself. They will help me. Perhaps I can save the life of that Polish priest after all. There was a spring in his step as he entered The Centre.

* * *

“Sir, what the fuck was that all about?” Gunnery Sergeant Drake asked Dominic Corso. They’d just fixed the flag back properly atop its pole.

“Gunny, I can’t say,” was the best Corso could do, though his eyes said a little more.

“Aye aye, sir. How do I log it?”

“You don’t log it, Gunny. Somebody made a dumb mistake, and you fixed it.”

“You say so, Mr. Corso.” The gunnery sergeant would have to explain it to his Marines, but he’d explain it in much the same way in which it had just been explained to him, though, in his case, rather more profanely. If anyone in the Marine Embassy Regiment asked him, he’d just say he’d gotten orders from somebody in the embassy, and Colonel d’Amici would just have to deal with it. What the hell, he could hand the colonel off to Corso. They were both wops, maybe they’d understand each other, the sergeant from Helena, Montana, hoped. If not, then Colonel d’Amici would tear him and his Marines each a new and bloody asshole.

* * *

Zaitzev took his seat after relieving Major Dobrik. The morning traffic was a little lighter than usual, and he began his normal morning routine.

Forty minutes later, that changed again.

“Comrade Major,” a newly familiar voice said. Zaitzev turned to see

Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy.

“Good morning, Comrade Colonel. You have something for me?”

“This.” Rozhdestvenskiy handed over the message blank. “Please send it out immediately, on the pad.”

“By your command. Information copy to you?”

“Correct.” Rozhdestvenskiy nodded.

“I presume it’s permissible to use an internal messenger to get that to your hand?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Very well. I’ll have it out in a few minutes.”

“Good.” Rozhdestvenskiy took his leave.

Zaitzev looked at the dispatch. It was agreeably short. Encryption and transmission took only fifteen minutes.

MOST SECRET

IMMEDIATE AND URGENT

FROM: OFFICE OF CHAIRMAN, Moscow CENTRE

To: REZIDENT SOFIA

REFERENCE: OPERATIONAL DESIGNATOR 15-8-82-666

OPERATIONAL APPROVAL EXPECTED TODAY, VIA CHANNELS DISCUSSED IN OUR MEETING. REPORT WHEN PROPER CONTACTS ESTABLISHED.

And that meant that operation -666 was going forward. The day before, that notice had chilled Zaitzev, but not today. Today he knew he’d be doing something to prevent it. If anything bad happened now, it would be the fault of the Americans. That made a considerable difference. Now he just had to figure how to establish some sort of regular contact with them…

* * *

Upstairs, Andropov had the Foreign Minister in his office.