Red Rabbit

The Party man conceded the point: "I suppose that is so, Yuriy-but the risk of failure…"

"Misha, in every aspect of life, there is risk. The important thing is that the operation not be tied to us. That we can assure with certainty. If nothing else, a serious wound will at least lessen Karol's ardor for making trouble for us, will it not?"

"It should-"

"And half a chance of failure means half a chance of total success," Andropov reminded his guest.

"Then I will support you. Leonid Ilyich will go along as well. That will carry the day. How long after that to get things moving?"

"A month or so, perhaps six weeks."

"That quickly?" Party matters rarely sped along that well.

"What is the point of taking such, such-'executive action,' isn't that what the Americans call it?-if it is to take so long? If it is to be done, better that it should be done quickly, so as to forestall further political intrigue by this man."

"Who will replace him?"

"Some Italian, I suppose. His selection was a major aberration. Perhaps his death will encourage the Romans to go back to their old habits," Andropov suggested. It generated a laugh from his guest.

"Yes, they are so predictable, these religious fanatics."

"So tomorrow I will float the mission, and you will support me?" Andropov wanted that one very clear.

"Yes, Yuriy Vladimirovich. You will have my support. And you will support me for Suslov's full voting seat at the table."

"Tomorrow, comrade," Andropov promised.

CHAPTER 12 - HANDOFF

This time, the alarm clock worked, and woke them both. Ed Foley rose and headed for the bathroom, quickly made way for his wife, then headed to Eddie's room to shake him loose while Mary Pat started breakfast. Their son immediately switched on the TV and got the morning exercise show that every city in the world seemed to have, starring, as everywhere in the world, a woman of impressive physique-she looked capable of waltzing through the Army's Ranger School at Fort Be

That started at 6:30. The trick was to watch it and then try to figure out what was really happening in the world-just like at home, the CIA officer thought, with an early-morning grumble. Well, he'd have the Early Bird at the embassy for that, sent by secure fax from Washington for the senior embassy staffers. For an American citizen, living in Moscow was like being on a desert island. At least they had a satellite dish at the embassy so they could download CNN and other programming. It made them feel like real people-almost.

Breakfast was breakfast. Little Eddie liked Frosted Flakes-the milk was from Finland, because his mother didn't trust the local grocery store, and the foreigners-only store was convenient to the compound. Ed and Mary Pat didn't talk much over breakfast, in deference to the bugs that littered their walls. They never talked at home about important matters, except via hand code-and never in front of their son, because little kids were incapable of keeping secrets of any kind. In any case, their KGB surveillance people were probably bored with the Foleys by now, which they'd both worked hard at, inserting just enough randomness in their behavior to make them look like Americans. But a considered amount. Not too much. They'd pla

Mary Pat had her husband's clothes all laid out on the bed, including the green tie to go with his brown suit. Like the President, Ed looked good in brown, his wife thought. Ed would wear a raincoat again, and he would keep it unbuttoned and loose around his body should another message be passed, and his senses would be thoroughly sandpapered all day.

"What are your plans for the day?" he asked Mary Pat in the living room.

"The usual. I might get together with Pe

"Oh? Well, say hello for me. Maybe we can get together for di

"Good idea," his wife said. "Maybe they can explain rugby to me."

"It's like football, honey, just the rules are a little goofy," the Station Chief explained. "Well, off to keep the reporters happy."

"Right!" Mary Pat laughed, working her eyes at the walls. "That guy from the Boston Globe is such an ass."

Outside, the morning was pleasant enough-just a hint of cool air to suggest the approach of autumn. Foley walked off toward the station, waving at the gate guard. The guy on morning duty actually smiled once in a while. He'd clearly been around foreigners too much, or had been trained to do so by KGB. His uniform was that of the Moscow Militia-the city police-but Foley thought he looked a little too intelligent for that. Muscovites thought of their police as a rather low form of life, and such an agency would not attract the brightest of people.

The couple blocks to the metro station passed quickly. Crossing the streets was reasonably safe here-far more so than in New York-because private cars were pretty rare. And it was a good thing. Russian drivers made the Italians look prudent and orderly. The guys driving the ubiquitous dump trucks must all have been former tank crewmen, judging by their road ma