Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [33]
"The metro is very impressive," Foley answered, looking around as artlessly as he could.
"Where in America do you come from?" was the next question.
"New York City."
"You play ice hockey in America?"
"Oh, yes! I've been a fan of the New York Rangers since I was a child. I want to see the hockey here." Which was entirely truthful. The Russian skate-and-pass game was the closest thing to Mozart in the world of sports. "The embassy has good tickets, they told me today. Central Army," he added.
"Bah!" the Muscovite snorted. "I am Wings fan."
The guy might just be genuine, Foley thought with surprise. The Russians were as picky about their hockey clubs as American baseball fans were with their home teams. But the Second Chief Directorate probably had hockey fans working there, too. "Too careful" was a concept he did not admit to, especially here.
"Central Army is the champion team, isn't it?"
"Too prissy. Look what happened to them in America."
"In America we play a more physical—is that the right word?—game. To you they must seem like hooligans, yes?" Foley had taken the train to Philadelphia to see that game. The Flyers—more widely known as the Broad Street Bullies—had beaten the snot out of the somewhat arrogant Russian visitors, rather to his amusement. The Philadelphia team had even wheeled out its secret weapon, the aging Kate Smith, singing "God Bless America," which for that team was like breakfasting on nails and human infants. Damn, what a game that one had been!
"They play roughly, yes, but they are not fairies. Central Army thinks they are the Bolshoi, the way they skate and pass. It's good to see them humbled sometimes."
"Well, I remember the '80 Olympics, but honestly that was a miracle for us to defeat your fine team."
"Miracle! Bah! Our coach was asleep. Our heroes were asleep. Your children played a spirited game, and they won honestly. The coach needed to be shot." Yeah, this guy talked like a fan.
"Well, I want my son to learn hockey over here."
"How old is he?" Genuine interest in the man's eyes.
"Four and a half," Foley answered.
"A good age to learn to skate. There are many opportunities for children to skate in Moscow, aren't there, Vanya?" he observed to the man next to him, who'd watched the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and unease.
"Make sure he gets good skates," the other man said. "Bad ones can injure the ankles." A typical Russian response. In this often harsh country, solicitude for children was endearingly genuine. The Russian bear had a soft heart for kids, but one of icy granite for adults.
"Thank you. I will be sure to do that."
"You live in the foreigners' compound?"
"Correct," Foley confirmed.
"Next stop is yours."
"Oh, spasiba, and good day to you." He made his way to the door, turning to nod a friendly good-bye to his newfound Russian friends. KGB? he wondered. Perhaps, but not certainly. He'd determine that by whether or not he saw them on the train a month or so from now.
What Ed Foley didn't know was that the entire exchange had been observed by a man a mere two meters away, holding a copy of today's Sovietskiy Sport. His name was Oleg Zaitzev, and Oleg Ivanovich was KGB.
The Station Chief left the subway car and followed the crush to the escalator. At one time, it would have led him to a full-standing portrait of Stalin, but that was gone now, and not replaced. The outside air was acquiring the early autumn chill, just enough to feel good after the stuffiness of the metro. Around him, ten or more men lit up their foul-smelling cigarettes and walked their separate