Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [212]
"Well, I need something, Ed."
"'Mikhail Suslov was an important member of the Politburo, and an important ideological force in this country, and we regret his untimely passing.' That good enough?"
"Your first quote was better and a lot more truthful," the Times correspondent observed.
"You ever meet him?"
Price nodded. "Couple of times, before and after the Hopkins docs worked on his eyes—"
"Is that for real? I mean, I heard a few stories about it, but nothing substantive." Foley acted the words out.
Prince nodded again. "It was true enough. Glasses like Coke-bottle bottoms. Courtly gent, I thought. Well-mannered and all that, but there was a little 'tough guy' underneath. I guess he was the high priest of communism, like."
"Oh, took vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, did he?"
"You know, there was something of the aesthete about him, like he really was a priest of a sort," Prince said, after a moment's reflection.
"Think so?"
"Yeah, something otherworldly about the guy, like he could see things the rest of us couldn't, like a priest or something. He sure enough believed in communism. Didn't apologize for it, either."
"Stalinist?" Foley asked.
"No, but thirty years ago he would have been. I can see him signing the order to kill somebody. Wouldn't lose any sleep over it—not our Mishka."
"Who's going to replace him?"
"Not sure," Prince admitted. "My contacts say they don't know."
"I thought he was tight with another Mike, that Alexandrov guy," Foley offered, wondering if Prince's contacts were as good as he thought they were. Fucking with Western reporters was a game for the Soviet leadership. It was different in Washington, where a reporter had power to use over politicians. That didn't apply here. The Politburo members didn't fear reporters at all—much the reverse, actually.
Prince's contacts weren't all that great: "Maybe, but I'm not sure. What's the talk here?"
"Haven't been to the lunch room yet, Tony. Haven't heard the gossip yet," Foley parried. You don't really expect a tip from me, do you?
"Well, we'll know by tomorrow or day after."
But it would look good for you if you were the first reporter to make the prediction, and you want me to help you, right? Not is this lifetime, Foley thought, but then he had to reconsider. Prince would not be a particularly valuable friend, but perhaps a usable one, and it never made sense to make enemies for the fun of it. On the other hand, to be too helpful to the guy might suggest either that Foley was a spook or knew who the spooks were, and Tony Prince was one of those guys who liked to talk and tell people how smart he is… No, it's better for Prince to think I'm dumb, because he'll tell everyone he knows how smart he is and how dumb I am.
The best cover of them all, he'd learned at The Farm, was to be thought a dullard, and while it was a little hurtful to his ego to play that game, it was helpful to the mission, and Ed Foley was a mission-oriented guy. So . . .fuck Prince and what he thinks. I'm the guy in this city who makes a difference.
"Tell you what, I'll ask around—see what people think."
"Fair enough." Not that I expected anything useful from you, Prince thought a little too loudly.
He was less skillful than he thought at concealing his feelings. He would never be a good poker player, the Chief of Station thought, seeing him out the door. He checked his watch. Lunchtime.
* * *
LIKE MOST EUROPEAN stations, Kiev's was a pale yellow—just like a lot of old royal palaces, in fact, as if in the early nineteenth century there had been a continent-wide surplus of mustard, and some king or other had liked the color, and so everyone had painted his palace that way. It never happened in Britain, thank God, Haydock thought. The ceiling was glass set in iron frames to let the light in but, as in London, the glass was rarely, if ever, cleaned, and was instead coated with soot from long-gone steam engines and