Jack Ryan 3 - Red Rabbit (36 page)

A BUGLE BLEW a tune that he didn't know. He could just make out the white caps of the Marines, barely visible above the stone parapet of the building's flat roof. He was on the other side of the street, just by the old church, which KGB had crammed full of electronic devices.

 There
, he thought, staring, along with a handful of other passersby on the cracked cement sidewalk.

 Yes,
he saw. The top part of the flag as it appeared was red and white horizontal stripes, not the blue canton with its fifty white stars. The flag was being hoisted upside down! It was unmistakably wrong. And it went all the way to the top of the pole that way.

 So, they did as I asked
. Quickly, Zaitzev walked to the end of the block and turned right, then right again, and back to the metro station he'd just left, and, with the payment of a large five-kopeck copper coin, he boarded another subway car for the trip to Dzerzhinskiy Square.

Just that quickly, his hangover went away, as though by magic. He scarcely even noticed until he took the escalator up to the street level.

 The Americans want to help me,
the communications officer told himself. They will help me. Perhaps I can save the life of that Polish priest after all. There was a spring in his step as he entered The Centre.

“SIR, what the fuck was that all about?” Gunnery Sergeant Drake asked Dominic Corso. They'd just fixed the flag back properly atop its pole.

“Gunny, I can't say,” was the best Corso could do, though his eyes said a little more.

“Aye aye, sir. How do I log it?”

“You don't log it, Gunny. Somebody made a dumb mistake, and you fixed it.”

“You say so, Mr. Corso.” The gunnery sergeant would have to explain it to his Marines, but he'd explain it in much the same way in which it had just been explained to him, though, in his case, rather more profanely. If anyone in the Marine Embassy Regiment asked him, he'd just say he'd gotten orders from somebody in the embassy, and Colonel d'Amici would just have to deal with it. What the hell, he could hand the colonel off to Corso. They were both wops, maybe they'd understand each other, the sergeant from Helena, Montana, hoped. If not, then Colonel d'Amici would tear him and his Marines each a new and bloody asshole.

ZAITZEV TOOK HIS seat after relieving Major Dobrik. The morning traffic was a little lighter than usual, and he began his normal morning routine.

Forty minutes later, that changed again.

“Comrade Major,” a newly familiar voice said. Zaitzev turned to see

Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy.

“Good morning, Comrade Colonel. You have something for me?”

“This.” Rozhdestvenskiy handed over the message blank. “Please send it out immediately, on the pad.”

“By your command. Information copy to you?”

“Correct.” Rozhdestvenskiy nodded.

“I presume it's permissible to use an internal messenger to get that to your hand?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Very well. I'll have it out in a few minutes.”

“Good.” Rozhdestvenskiy took his leave.

Zaitzev looked at the dispatch. It was agreeably short. Encryption and transmission took only fifteen minutes.

MOST SECRET

IMMEDIATE AND URGENT

FROM: OFFICE OF CHAIRMAN, Moscow CENTRE

To: REZIDENT SOFIA

REFERENCE: OPERATIONAL DESIGNATOR 15-8-82-666

OPERATIONAL APPROVAL EXPECTED TODAY, VIA CHANNELS DISCUSSED IN OUR MEETING. REPORT WHEN PROPER CONTACTS ESTABLISHED.

And that meant that operation -666 was going forward. The day before, that notice had chilled Zaitzev, but not today. Today he knew he'd be doing something to prevent it. If anything bad happened now, it would be the fault of the Americans. That made a considerable difference. Now he just had to figure how to establish some sort of regular contact with them…

UPSTAIRS, Andropov had the Foreign Minister in his office.

“So, Andrey, how do we go about this?”

“Ordinarily our Ambassador would meet with their First Secretary, but, in the interests of security, we might want to try another method of approach.”

“How much executive authority does their First Secretary have?” the Chairman asked.

“About as much as Koba did thirty years ago. Bulgaria is run in a very tight way. Their Politburo members represent various constituencies, but only their Party First Secretary really has decision-making power.”

“Ah.” That was good news to Yuriy Vladimiroviclh. He lifted his desk phone. “Send in Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy,” he told his secretary.

The colonel appeared through the dresser door in two minutes. “Yes, Comrade Chairman.”

“Andrey, this is Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy, my executive assistant. Colonel, does our Sofia rezident talk directly to the Bulgarian head of government?”

“Rarely, comrade, but he has done so occasionally in the past.” Rozhdestvenskiy was surprised that the Chairman didn't know that, but he was still learning how field operations worked. At least he had the good sense to ask questions, and he was not embarrassed to do so.

“Very well. For security reasons, we would prefer that the entire Bulgarian Politburo not know the scope of this operation -666. So, do you think we could have Colonel Bubovoy brief in their party chief and get approval by a more direct route?”

“To that end, a signed letter from Comrade Brezhnev would probably be necessary,” Rozhdestvenskiy answered.

“Yes, that would be the best way to do it,” the Foreign Minister agreed at once. “A good thought, colonel,” he added approvingly.

“Very well. We'll get that today. Leonid Ilyich will be in his office, Audrey?”

“Yes, Yuriy. I will call ahead and tell him what is needed. I can have it drafted in my office if you wish, or would you prefer it to be done here?”

“With your permission, Andrey,” Andropov said graciously, “better that we should do it. And we'll have it couriered to Sofia for delivery tomorrow or the day after.”

“Better to give our Bulgarian comrade a few days, Yuriy. They are our allies, but they remain a sovereign country, after all.”

“Quite so, Andrey.” Every country in the world had a bureaucracy, whose entire purpose was to delay important things from happening.

“And we don't want the world to know that our rezident is making a highly important call on the man,” the Foreign Minister added, teaching the KGB Chairman a little lesson in operational security, Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy noted.

“How long after that, Aleksey Nikolay'ch?” Andropov asked his aide,

“Several weeks, at least.” He saw annoyance in his boss's eyes and decided to explain. “Comrade Chairman, selecting the right assassin will not be a matter of lifting a phone and dialing a number. Strokov will necessarily be careful in making his selection. People are not as predictable as machines, after all, and this is the most important—and most sensitive—aspect of the operation.”

“Yes, I suppose that is so, Aleksey. Very well. Notify Bubovoy that a hand-delivered message is on the way.”

“Now, Comrade Chairman, or after we have it signed and ready for dispatch?” Rozhdestvenskiy asked the question like a skilled bureaucrat, letting his boss know the best way without saying it out loud.

 This colonel would go far
, the Foreign Minister thought, taking note of his name for the first time.

“A good point, Colonel. Very well, I will let you know when the letter is ready to go.”

“By your command, Comrade Chairman. Do you need me further?”

“No, that is all for now,” Andropov answered, sending him on his way.

“Yuriy Vladimirovich, you have a good aide.”

“Yes, there is so much for me still to learn here,” Andropov admitted. “And he educates me every day.”

“You are fortunate in having so many expert people.”

“That is the truth, Andrey Andreyevich. That is the truth.”

DOWN THE HALL in his office, Rozhdestvenskiy drew up the brief dispatch for Bubovoy. This was moving fast, he thought, but not fast enough for the Chairman of the KGB. He really wanted that priest dead. The Politburo certainly seemed fearful of political earthquakes, but Rozhdestvenskiy himself was doubtful of that. The Pope, after all, was just one person, but the colonel had tailored his advice to what his boss wanted to hear, like a good functionary, while also letting the Chairman know the things he needed to know. His job actually carried great power with it.

Rozhdestvenskiy knew that he could break the careers of officers whom he did not like and influence operations to a significant degree. If CIA ever tried to recruit him, he could be an agent of great value. But Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy was a patriot, and besides, the Americans probably had no idea who he was and what he did. The CIA was more feared than it deserved to be. The Americans didn't really have a feel for espionage. The English did, but KGB and its antecedents had enjoyed some success at infiltrating it in the past. Less so today, unfortunately. The young Cambridge communists of the 1930s were all old now, either in British prisons or drawing their government pensions in peace, or living out their years in Moscow, like Kim Philby, considered a drunk even by Muscovites. He probably drank because he missed his country—missed the place in which he'd grown up, the food and drink and football games, the newspapers with which he'd always philosophically disagree, but he'd miss them even so. What a terrible thing it must be to be a defector, Rozhdestvenskiy thought.

 WHAT WILL I DO
? Zaitzev asked himself. What will I ask for ?

Money? CIA probably paid its spies very well—more money than he would ever be able to spend. Luxuries beyond his imagination. A videotape machine! They were just becoming available in Russia, mainly made in Hungary, patterned after Western machines. The bigger problem was in getting tapes—pornographic ones were particularly in demand. Some of his KGB coworkers spoke of such things. Zaitzev had never seen one himself, but he was curious, as any man might be. The Soviet Union was run by such conservative men. Maybe the Politburo members were just too old to enjoy sex, and so saw no need for younger citizens to indulge.

He shook his head. Enough! He had to decide what to tell the American in the metro. That was a task that he chewed on with his lunch in the KGB cafeteria.

MEETING PLACE

MARY PAT WAS EXPECTED to come into the embassy sometimes, to see her husband about family matters or to purchase special food items from the commissary. To do this, she always dressed up—better than she did for the Moscow streets—with her hair well-brushed and held in place by a youthful headband, and her makeup done, so that when she drove into the compound parking lot she would look like a typical air-headed American blonde. She smiled to herself. She liked being a natural blonde, and anything that made her appear dumb worked for her cover.

So she breezed in the front door, waving airily at the ever-polite Marines, and into the elevator. She found her husband alone in his office.

“Hey, baby.” Ed rose to kiss her, then drew back to take in the whole picture. “Looking good.”

“Well, it's an effective disguise.” It had worked fine in Iran, too, especially when she'd been pregnant. That country didn't treat women especially well, but it did extend them an odd deference, especially when pregnant, she'd found, right before she'd skipped the country for good. It was one station she didn't particularly miss.

“Yeah, babe. Just gotta get you a surfboard and a nice beach, maybe the Banzai Pipeline.”

“Oh, Ed, that's just so tubular . And Banzai Beach is in Hawaii, dummy.” A quick gear change. “The flag go up wrong?”

“Yep. The TV cameras didn't show anyone on the street paying particular attention to it. But you could see it from a block away, and the security cameras don't look that far out. We'll see if our friend drops a message in my pocket on the ride home tonight.”

“What did the Marines say?” she asked.

“They asked why, but Dom didn't tell them anything. Hell, he doesn't know either, does he?”

“He's a good spook, Dominic is,” Mary Pat judged.

“Ritter likes him. Oh,” Foley remembered. He fished a message out of his drawer and handed it across.

“Shit,” his wife breathed, scanning it quickly. “The Pope? Those motherfuckers want to kill the Pope?” Mary Pat didn't always talk like a California blonde.

“Well, there's no information to suggest that directly, but, if they want to, we're supposed to find out.”

“Sounds like a job for WOODCUTTER,” who was their man in the Party Secretariat.

“Or maybe CARDINAL?” Ed wondered.

“We haven't flagged him yet,” MP pointed out, but it would soon be time to check in with him. They checked his apartment every night for the light-and-blinds combination in his living room. His apartment was agreeably close to their own, and the ratline was well established, beginning with a piece of paper tape on a lamppost. Setting that flag signal was MP's job. She'd already walked Little Eddie by it half a dozen times. “Is this a job for him?” she asked.

“The President wants to know,” her husband pointed out.

“Yeah.” But CARDINAL was their most important agent-in-place, and not one to be alerted unless it was really critical. CARDINAL would also know to get something like this out on his own if he became aware of it. “I'd hold off on that unless Ritter says different.”

“Agreed,” Ed Foley conceded. If Mary Pat advised caution, then caution was justified. After all, she was the one who enjoyed taking risks and betting her skill against the house odds. But that didn't mean that his wife was a reckless player, either. “I'll sit on that one for a while.”

“Be nice to see what your new contact will do next.”

“Bet your cute little tushy, babe. Want to meet the Ambassador?”

“I suppose it's time,” she agreed.

“SO, RECOVER FROM yesterday?” Ryan asked Harding. It was the first time he'd beaten his workmate into the office.

“Yes, I suppose I have.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I haven't met the President yet, myself. And I'm not exactly looking forward to the experience. Like Mark Twain said about the guy who got himself tarred and feathered, if it weren't for the honor of the thing, he would just as soon have missed it.”