Summit Read Online Free Page B

hard life still to be faced.
    Volodya Osipov seemed never to think of the future. He had an engineering job that was too boring even to talk about, and he spent most of his time operating na lyevo, buying this, selling that, always managing to stay clear of the authorities. He seemed to have a limitless supply of Bolshoi tickets and restaurant reservations and American condoms; he knew whom to bribe to get medicines that even doctors couldn't obtain; he was the kind of person who kept the Soviet economic system afloat.
    And he adored Olga Chukova. He praised her to the skies and gave her French perfume and invented a thousand pet names for her. He made love to her as if she were a goddess. He listened sympathetically to her troubles as she poured them out to him in bed or lying side by side in the Lenin Hills and staring out at the city. And if he didn't make her troubles go away, at least he made their burden a little lighter while he was with her.
    And then one day she learned the truth. She tried not to think about that day anymore, but it haunted her dreams nevertheless. It was the day her life ended. She tried to go on in the same way, but soon enough he knew she knew. And it didn't seem to matter to him. He felt no guilt, and she couldn't even bring herself to feel angry at him for feeling no guilt, for ruining her life. He was the way he was.
    And now he was sitting next to her, wanting to know what kind of day she had had, and she knew that what she would say to him would be pored over by cipher clerks and junior attaches, then beamed to a satellite and across the ocean for some other bored clerk to glance at and file. But Volodya was smiling at her, and his hand still rested on her arm in that intimate, reassuring way of his, and she knew that she had no choice but to answer his question. Absolutely no choice.
    "It was very bad," she whispered.
    "It's always so difficult, isn't it?" His voice was filled with sympathy. She was sure it was genuine.
    "It's getting worse, Volodya."
    "Tell me all about it, my nightingale."
    Doctor Chukova half smiled. They were middle-aged lovers, sitting on a park bench on a beautiful spring evening; they were a pair of spies, plotting in the shadow of the Kremlin; she was a nightingale, about to sing. "It was a West German—Dieter Schmidt is his name. He's leaving Moscow soon. But not soon enough."
    "The same setup—a potential defector who turns out to be anything but?"
    She nodded.
    "And your young friend in the pyramid listens in and does whatever it is that she does?"
    "Yes. They're killing her, Volodya. It keeps getting harder and harder to bring her around afterward. She can't speak, she can scarcely move. It'll be weeks before she gets her strength back."
    "And was she successful?"
    "I think so. It sounded like she was, but what do I know? All I know is that they keep making her do it, so they must think something is happening. They are destroying her, and I am a party to it."
    "It is a harsh world," Volodya said, stroking her shoulder. "It destroys many people. The best we can do is smile and go about our business and hope we are not called upon to destroy—or be destroyed."
    "But I am a doctor. I should be able to do more than—" She paused. This was dangerous, but she had to say something, she couldn't hold it in anymore. "Why don't they save her, Volodya?" she demanded. She couldn't bring herself to say who she thought "they" were; there was no need, in any case. "She's such a danger to them. But she needn't be, if—" Doctor Chukova sighed and didn't say any more. The point was clear enough.
    Volodya scratched his head and stared at his Italian leather boots. "What can I say?" he asked her. "People like you and me are not consulted about such matters. But you know, it occurs to me that if she is a danger to certain people, it would be far easier for them to destroy her than to save her."
    Doctor Chukova nodded, accepting his point. "It is always easier to destroy than to