"Who's he?"
The C.I.A. man shook his head. "You'll never meet him. But he's making the arrangements for you to contact the underground."
Hank Kuran turned in his seat. "What underground? In Moscow?"
The bright, pink faced C.I.A. man chuckled and began to say something but the older one cut him off. "Let me, Jimmy." He continued to Hank. "Actually, we don't know nearly as much as we should about it, but a Soviet underground is there and getting stronger. You've heard of the stilyagi and the metrofanushka?"
Hank nodded. "Moscow's equivalent to the juvenile delinquents, or the Teddy Boys, as the British call them."
"Not only in Moscow, they're everywhere in urban Russia. At any rate, our underground friends operate within the stilyagi, the so-called jet-set, using them as protective coloring."
"This is new to me," Hank said. "And I don't quite get it."
"It's clever enough. Suppose you're out late some night on an underground job and the police pick you up. They find out you're a juvenile delinquent, figure you've been out getting drunk, and toss you into jail for a week. It's better than winding up in front of a firing squad as a counterrevolutionary, or a Trotskyite, or whatever they're currently calling anybody they shoot."
The chauffeur rapped on the glass that divided their seat from his, and motioned ahead.
"Here's the airport," Jimmy said. "We'll drive right over to the plane. Hid your face with your hat, just for luck."