The Game
A Story of Spying
The two men strode along the uncrowded street in the gray evening, their long coats flapping against their legs in the cold, autumn wind. The older man was smoking a cigarette.
After a long period of silence, the younger of the two – perhaps in his mid-forties – said, “You still believe in all that stuff? Even after all these years.”
His compatriot gave a thin smile. The younger fellow went on. “You know,” he said, “Sometimes I thought it was only the other guys who believed in their cause. I’m sure you had plenty of chances to talk to them.”
The older fellow nodded.
“They really believed in the revolution. There was no putting anyone on where they were concerned. Sure, they could be as cynical as us, but all of them thought someday our side was doomed and their side would prevail. They figured it would only be a matter of time before the contradictions in our system led to its collapse. Then, the revolution would be everywhere I suppose. To be honest, it was hard sometimes not to believe they were on to something.”
The older man spoke for the first time. “Our own flaws are so obvious and evident to us, and theirs are far away, even if we’re the ones paid to know about them.”
“Yes. And, to tell you the truth, well, our guys always seemed so clumsy and inept. And what about all that freedom and democracy stuff – well, sir, maybe you wouldn’t know, but the rest of us felt it sometimes – was it all just a nice message to feed the troops? Were we just amoral agents in a game of survival?”
“No.”