"Joe Haldeman - Tool of the Trade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

"Khokhlov!" He said it like a curse. Khokhlov had been a senior
KGB officer who, a few years before, was given an assassination job in
West Berlin and, instead of carrying it out, turned himself over to the
American authorities. He brought some interesting weapons with him,
things you can't buy in a sporting-goods store, not even today. Vladimir
looked at me carefully. "Perhaps I can understand his being reluctant to
murder a stranger in cold blood. But he could have refused the
assignment. This is not 1948."
"Do you think it did much harm?"
'To the KGB, you mean, or the Soviet Union?" I shrugged.
"Perhaps it's not a bad thing for our enemies to think us capable of...
excess. I suppose in that ruthless sense it serves both the Committee
and the Motherland. The other side of the coin, though, is that the CIA
is of course capable of excess itself. Things like this make it easier for
them to justify their actions."
"Did we actually try to kill him afterward? Thallium poisoning?"
"I don't know." He grimaced. "The Thirteenth Department doesn't
confide in me. Thallium does seem unnecessarily exotic.
"At any rate, your own assignment is straightforward enough and,
for the time being, includes nothing illegal. No thallium assassinations.
We want you to function as a 'spotter.' Simply keep your eyes open,
looking for people who might be of use to the KGB, inside your part of
the MIT academic community."
"People who express Communist sympathies?"
"Yes, of course. Also first-generation Americans from the Soviet
Union or Eastern Europe. People in financial trouble, especially. It's
easier to buy an American than to convince him ideologically."
"All right. But we didn't go to all this trouble just to put a spotter in
MIT's psychology department."
"No. But almost all of MIT is of potential importance. We can't
know yet what your ultimate assignment will be. Simply advance in
your field and don't do anything politically suspicious. There will come a
time, maybe five years, maybe ten, when we will need a man with your
credentials, and a spotless record.
"Meanwhile, I will stay in contact with you. Of course it's best that
you know as little about me as possible, not even my real name."
"What if I need to get in touch with you?"
"You won't need to, not at this stage of your assignment. At any
rate, I don't live in Boston, nowhere near."
"But what if my true identity is discovered?"
"You may go to jail," he said softly, "or be deported. Nothing
worse. I wouldn't worry about violence from the CIA or any of the
other intelligence agencies, not unless our silent war becomes much
noisier.
"Besides, the only law you've broken is that of illegal immigration,
which you did ten years ago as a juvenile. And some small lies that
might be considered misdemeanors, in connection with maintaining your
identity. 'Spotting' isn't high-level espionage; they don't devote mat
much energy to countering it."
"I suppose. So how will I get the information to you? Meetings like