Read Online Shadow of the Condor by James Grady - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Grady
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Malcolm ordered coffee from the stewardess, two other conversations in different places were taking place. The first conversation was between a night duty officer in the East Berlin office of the KGB and his superior. The superior rested his steaming cup of tea on the desk and leaned back in his swivel chair. With a very tired sigh he put his huge feet on top of the desk. "Oh, Myia," he said, his voice heavy and old, "life can be very hard."
The duty officer solicitously shifted in his hard wooden chair. Over the last, two years these evening tea breaks had grown into a valuable custom. He could tell his superior relished the opportunity to drop the heavy, chain-of-command authority and lighten his load of responsibilities by talking informally with a kindly underling. And ambitious Illyia prided himself on being a good listener.
"Yes," Illyia replied, hoping the conversation would be about more than family problems, "that it can be, that it can be."
"Would that we were back in Mother Russia, where we have competent men to help us, not bunglers like these Germans. Why we tolerated them and accepted them after the Great Patriotic War is beyond me. There is much to be said for solidarity of the working classes, but when these Germans-who make such a boast of their efficiency -bungle and flop about so, it can be trying to those of us who must clean up after them."
"That it can be, Comrade Captain," said Illyia. His interest mounted. Something definitely was or had happened. He decided to risk boldness. "And what have our friends done now?"
"Hmmph," grunted, the older Russian as he leaned farther back in his chair and closed his eyes. "'Friends?' What haven't they done? They've spoiled a perfectly good reconnaissance mission, that's what they've done. And put us in what our English counterparts would call 'a pickle.' I wonder who thought that up? An absurd euphemism if I ever heard one!"
"Ah, well," said Illyia, groping for the right words. He was afraid he would break the fragile chain of relaxed communication if he pressed too hard for details, yet he was also afraid to shift subjects and lose what might be a fantastic opportunity. "Even the English have their bunglers."
"Yes, but unfortunately for us, none of them appear to be agents as those the Germans employ for intelligence.
Nk Bahl Intelligence! It would make me laugh if it were not so horrible!"
"Surely things can't be that bad, Comrade.",
"They can't be?" shouted the commanding officer. He slammed his feet to the floor and leaned over the desk, his eyes blazing. "They can't be? Ha, that's what you think!"
"Well,’’
"Comrade Illyia," the commander interrupted in a reprimanding tone, "have you ever heard of anything so stupid as to hire a courier, a professional intelligence operative, mind you, not some idiot compromised off the street, but a professional intelligence operative ... who drinks? Yes, drinks! And not drinks Re a man, like a wise operative, no, no, no, but who drinks until he gets blind, stinking drunk like a common peasant, and who not only gets drunk but who rambles about the business when he is drunk?"
"You're right," Illyia quickly interjected, "what could be stupider than that?"
"What could be more stupid than that? I'll tell you! You not only hire that courier and send him places where he can babble, you tell him things to babble, and he does, and he gets caught, and there you are!"
"Where, Comrade?’’
"In trouble, that's where. Their stupid accounting department let the courier know some of the funds he was carrying were destined for a missile reconnaissance mission in the United States . They even let him make the drop himself at the London airport, and what is worse, they let him know what flight out our reconnaissance man was taking. Their stupid courier not only drinks, he's curious maybe he thought of going over someday, I don't know. He hangs around until he sees our man pick up the delivery." no backup. Moscow still hasn't
The duty officer solicitously shifted in his hard wooden chair. Over the last, two years these evening tea breaks had grown into a valuable custom. He could tell his superior relished the opportunity to drop the heavy, chain-of-command authority and lighten his load of responsibilities by talking informally with a kindly underling. And ambitious Illyia prided himself on being a good listener.
"Yes," Illyia replied, hoping the conversation would be about more than family problems, "that it can be, that it can be."
"Would that we were back in Mother Russia, where we have competent men to help us, not bunglers like these Germans. Why we tolerated them and accepted them after the Great Patriotic War is beyond me. There is much to be said for solidarity of the working classes, but when these Germans-who make such a boast of their efficiency -bungle and flop about so, it can be trying to those of us who must clean up after them."
"That it can be, Comrade Captain," said Illyia. His interest mounted. Something definitely was or had happened. He decided to risk boldness. "And what have our friends done now?"
"Hmmph," grunted, the older Russian as he leaned farther back in his chair and closed his eyes. "'Friends?' What haven't they done? They've spoiled a perfectly good reconnaissance mission, that's what they've done. And put us in what our English counterparts would call 'a pickle.' I wonder who thought that up? An absurd euphemism if I ever heard one!"
"Ah, well," said Illyia, groping for the right words. He was afraid he would break the fragile chain of relaxed communication if he pressed too hard for details, yet he was also afraid to shift subjects and lose what might be a fantastic opportunity. "Even the English have their bunglers."
"Yes, but unfortunately for us, none of them appear to be agents as those the Germans employ for intelligence.
Nk Bahl Intelligence! It would make me laugh if it were not so horrible!"
"Surely things can't be that bad, Comrade.",
"They can't be?" shouted the commanding officer. He slammed his feet to the floor and leaned over the desk, his eyes blazing. "They can't be? Ha, that's what you think!"
"Well,’’
"Comrade Illyia," the commander interrupted in a reprimanding tone, "have you ever heard of anything so stupid as to hire a courier, a professional intelligence operative, mind you, not some idiot compromised off the street, but a professional intelligence operative ... who drinks? Yes, drinks! And not drinks Re a man, like a wise operative, no, no, no, but who drinks until he gets blind, stinking drunk like a common peasant, and who not only gets drunk but who rambles about the business when he is drunk?"
"You're right," Illyia quickly interjected, "what could be stupider than that?"
"What could be more stupid than that? I'll tell you! You not only hire that courier and send him places where he can babble, you tell him things to babble, and he does, and he gets caught, and there you are!"
"Where, Comrade?’’
"In trouble, that's where. Their stupid accounting department let the courier know some of the funds he was carrying were destined for a missile reconnaissance mission in the United States . They even let him make the drop himself at the London airport, and what is worse, they let him know what flight out our reconnaissance man was taking. Their stupid courier not only drinks, he's curious maybe he thought of going over someday, I don't know. He hangs around until he sees our man pick up the delivery." no backup. Moscow still hasn't
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