Jack Ryan 3 - Red Rabbit (50 page)

But there was no turning back now, and CIA was competent enough that KGB feared it, and didn't that mean that he was in good hands?

Then he remembered one other thing he had to do today. In his drawer was a pad of contact reports. Mary had suggested he report their meeting, and so he did. He described her as pretty, in her late twenties or early thirties, mother of a fairly nice little son, and none too bright— very American in mannerisms, he wrote—with modest language skills, good vocabulary but poor syntax and pronunciation, which made her Russian understandable but stilted. He didn't make an evaluation of her likelihood to be an intelligence officer, which, he figured, was the smart thing to do. After fifteen minutes of writing, he walked it over to the department security officer.

“This was a waste of time,” he said, handing it to the man, a captain passed over for promotion twice.

The security officer scanned it. “Where did you meet her?”

“It's right there.” He pointed to the contact form. “I took my zaichik for a walk in the park, and she showed up with her little boy. His name is Eddie, actual name is evidently Edward Edwardovich—Edward Junior, as the Americans say it—age four, I think she said, a nice little boy. We talked a few minutes about not very much, and the two of them walked away.”

“Your impression of her?”

“If she is a spy, then I am confident of the victory of socialism,” Zaitzev replied. “She is rather pretty, but far too skinny, and not overly bright. What I suppose is a typical American housewife.”

“Anything else?”

“It's all there, Comrade Captain. It took longer to write that up than it did to speak with her.”

“Your vigilance is noted, Comrade Major.”

“I serve the Soviet Union.” And Zaitzev headed back to his desk. It was a good idea on her part, he thought, to cross this t so assiduously. There might have been a shadow on her, after all, and if not, then there would be a new entry in her KGB file, reported by a KGB officer, certifying that she was no threat to world socialism.

Back at his desk, he returned to making extra-careful mental notes of his daily work. The more he gave CIA, the better he'd be paid. Maybe he would take his daughter to that Disney Planet amusement park, and maybe his little zaichik would enjoy herself there. His signals included other countries, too, and he memorized those as well. One code-named MINISTER in England was interesting. He was probably in their Foreign Ministry, and provided excellent political/diplomatic intelligence that they loved upstairs.

FOLEY TOOK AN embassy car for the drive to the British Embassy. They were cordial enough once he showed his ID, and Nigel came down to meet him in the grand foyer, which was indeed quite grand.

“Hello, Ed!” He gave a hearty handshake and a smile. “Come this way.” They went up the marble stairs and then right to his office. Haydock closed the door and pointed him to a leather chair.

“What can I do for you?”

“We got a Rabbit,” Foley said, skipping the preliminaries.

And that said it all. Haydock knew that Foley was a spook—a “cousin” in the British terminology.

“Why are you telling me?”

“We're going to need your help getting him out. We want to do that through Budapest, and our station there just got burned down. How's your shop there?”

“The chief is Andy Hudson. Former officer in the Parachute Regiment, able chap. But do back up, Edward. What can you tell me, and why is this so important?”

“He's a walk-in, I guess you'd say. He seems to be a communications guy. He feels real as hell, Nigel. I've requested permission to bust him right out, and Langley has green-lighted it. Pair of fives, man,” he added.

“So, high priority and high reliability on this chappie?”

Foley bobbed his head. “Yep. Want the good news?”

“If there is any.”

“He says our comms may be compromised, but your new system hasn't been cracked yet.”

“Good to hear. So, that means I can communicate freely, but you cannot?”

Another nod. “I learned this morning that a communications aid is on its way to me—perhaps they ginned up a couple of pads for me to use. I'll find out later today, maybe.”

Haydock leaned back in his chair and lit up a smoke, a low-tar Silk Cut. He'd switched to them to make his wife happy.

“You have a plan?” the Brit spook asked.

“I figure he takes the train to Budapest. For the rest of it, well…” Foley outlined the idea he and Mary Pat had figured out.

“That is creative, Edward.” Haydock thought. “When did you read up on MINCEMEAT? It's part of the syllabus at our academy, you know.”

“Back when I was a kid. I always thought it was pretty clever.”

“In the abstract, not a bad idea—but, you know, the pieces you need are not something you pick up at the ironmongers.”

“I kinda figured that, Nigel. So, if we want to make the play, better that we get moving on it right quick.”

“Agreed.” Haydock paused. “Basil will want to know a few things. What else can I tell him?”

“He ought to get a hand-carried letter from Judge Moore this morning. All I can really say is, this guy looks pretty real.”

“You said he's a communications officer—in The Centre, is it?”

“Yep.”

“That could be very valuable indeed,” Haydock agreed. “Especially if he's a mail clerk.” He pronounced it clark. The invocation of the name of Foley's training officer almost caused him to smile… but not quite.

It was a slower nod this time, with Foley's eyes locked in on his host. “That's what we're thinking, guy.”

It finally got home. “Bloody hell,” Haydock breathed. “That would be valuable. And he's just a walk-in?”

“Correct. A little more complicated than that, but that's what it comes down to, bud.”

“Not a trap, not a false-flag?”

“I've thought about that, of course, but it just doesn't make sense, does it?” Foley asked. The Brit knew he was Agency, but didn't know he was Station Chief. “If they've ID'd me, why tip their hand this early?”

“True,” Nigel had to agree. “That would be clumsy. So, Budapest, is it? Easier than out of Moscow—at least there's that.”

“There's bad news, too. His wife isn't in on the plan.” Foley had to tell him that.

“You must be joking, Edward.”

“Wish I was, man. But that's how it's going down.”

“Ah. Well, what's life without a few complications? Any preferences how to get your Rabbit out?” He asked, not quite letting Foley know what he was thinking.

“That's for your guy Hudson in Budapest, I suppose. It's not my turf, not my place to tell him how to run his operation.”

Haydock just nodded. It was one of those things that went without saying but had to be said anyway. “When?” he asked.

“Soon, as soon as possible. Langley's almost as hot for this as I am.” And, he didn't add, it was sure as hell a way for him to make an early mark as Chief of Station Moscow.

“Rome, you're thinking? Sir Basil has been rattling my windows about that.”

“Your Prime Minister interested?”

“About as much as your President, I should imagine. That play might well muddy the waters rather thoroughly.”

“Big-time,” Foley agreed. “Anyway, I wanted to give you a heads-up. Sir Basil will probably have a signal for you later today.”

“Understood, Edward. When that arrives, I'll be able to begin taking action.” He checked his watch—too soon to offer his guest a beer in the embassy pub. Pity.

“When you get authorization, give me a call. Okay?”

“Certainly. We shall get things sorted out for you, Ed. Andy Hudson's a good officer, and he runs a tight operation in Budapest.”

“Great.” Foley stood.

“How about a dinner soon?” Haydock asked.

“I guess we'd better do it soon. Penny looks about due. When will you be flying her home?”

“A couple of weeks. The little bugger is rolling about and kicking all the time now.”

“Always a good sign, man.”

“And we have a good physician right here in the embassy, should he be a little early.” Just that the embassy doc didn't really want to deliver a baby. They never did.

“Well, if it's a boy, Eddie will lend you his Transformers tapes,” Ed promised.

“ Transformers ? What's that?”

“If it's a boy, you'll find out,” Foley assured him.

STAGING

THE JUNIOR FIELD OFFICER arrived in London's Heathrow Terminal Four just before seven in the morning. He breezed through immigration and customs and headed out, where he saw his driver holding the usual sign card, this one in a false name, of course, since CIA spooks only used their real names when they had to. The driver's name was Leonard Watts. Watts drove an embassy Jaguar, and, since he had a diplomatic passport and tags on the car, he wasn't all that concerned with speed limits.

“How was the flight?”

“Fine. Slept most of the way.”

“Well, welcome to the world of field operations,” Watts told him. “The more sleep you get, the better.”

“I suppose.” It was his first overseas assignment, and not a very demanding one. “Here's the package.” And his cover wasn't enhanced by the fact that he was traveling with only the courier package and a small bag that had spent the trip in the overhead bin, with a clean shirt, clean underwear, and shaving kit.

“Name's Len, by the way.”

“Okay, I'm Pete Gatewood.”

“First time in London?”

“Yeah,” Gatewood answered, trying to get used to sitting in the left front seat without a steering wheel to protect him, and being driven by a NASCAR reject. “How long to get to the embassy?”

“Half hour.” Watts concentrated on his driving. “What are you carrying?”

“Something for the COS, is all I know.”

“Well, it isn't routine. They woke me up for it,” Watts groused.

“Where have you worked?” Gatewood asked, hoping to get this maniac to slow down some.

“Oh, around. Bonn, Berlin, Prague. Getting ready to retire, back to Indiana. We got a football team to watch now.”

“Yeah, and all the corn, too,” Gatewood observed. He'd never been to Indiana, and had no particular wish to tour the farming state, which did, he reminded himself, turn out some fairly good basketball players.

Soon enough, or nearly so, they were passing a large green park on the left, and a few blocks after that, the green rectangle of Grosvenor Square. Watts stopped the car to let Gatewood out. He dodged around the “flower pots” designed to keep car bombers from getting too close to the concrete that surrounded the surpassingly ugly building, and walked it. The Marines inside checked his ID and made a call. Presently, a middle-aged woman came into the entrance foyer and led him to an elevator that took him to the third floor, just next door to the technical group that worked closely with the British GCHQ at Cheltenham. Gatewood walked into the proper corner office and saw a middle-aged man sitting at an oaken desk.

“You're Gatewood?”

“Yes, sir. You're…?”

“I'm Randy Silvestri. You have a package for me,” the COS London announced.

“Yes, sir.” Gatewood opened the zipper on his bag and pulled out the large manila envelope. He handed it over.

“Interested in what's in it?” Silvestri asked, eyeing the youngster.

“If it concerns me, I expect you'll tell me, sir.”

The Station Chief nodded his approval. “Very good. Annie will take you downstairs for breakfast if you want, or you can catch a cab for your hotel. Got some Brit money?”

“A hundred pounds, sir, in tens and twenties.”

“Okay, that'll handle your needs. Thanks, Gatewood.”

“Yes, sir.” And Gatewood left the office.

Silvestri ripped open the package after determining that the closure hadn't been disturbed beforehand. The flat ring binder had what looked like forty or fifty printed sheets of paper—all space-and-a-half random letters. So, a one-time-cipher pad—for Station Moscow, the cover note said. He'd have that couriered to Moscow on the noon British Airways flight. And two letters, one for Sir Basil, with hand delivery indicated. He'd have a car drive him to Century House after calling ahead. The other one was for that Ryan kid that Jim Greer liked so much, also for hand delivery via Basil's office. He wondered what was up. It had to be nontrivial for this sort of handling. He picked up his phone and hit speed-dial #5.

“This is Basil Charleston.”

“Basil, it's Randy. Something just came in for you. Can I bring it over?”

A sound of shuffling papers. Basil would know this was important. “Say, ten o'clock, Randy?”

“Right. See you then.” Silvestri sipped his coffee and estimated the time required. He could sit here for about an hour before heading over. Next he punched his intercom button.

“Yes, sir?”

“Annie, I have a package to be couriered to Moscow. We got a bagman on deck?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, could you take this down to him?”

“Yes, sir.” CIA secretaries are not paid to be verbose.

“Good. Thanks.” Silvestri hung up.

JACK AND CATHY were on the train, passing through Elephant and Castle—and he'd still not learned how the damned place had gotten that name, Jack reminded himself. The weather looked threatening. England wasn't broad enough for a storm system to linger, Ryan thought. Maybe there was just a series of rain clouds coming across the Atlantic? In any case, between yesterday and today, his personal record of fair weather over here seemed to be ending. Too bad.

“Just glasses this week, babe?” he asked his wife, her head buried as usual in a medical journal.

“All week,” she confirmed. Then she looked up. “It's not as exciting as surgery, but it's still important, you know.”

“Cath, if you do it, it must be important.”

“And you can't say what you'll be doing?”

“Not until I get to my desk.” And probably not then, either. Whatever it was, it had doubtless been transmitted via secure printer or fax line overnight… unless it was something really important, and had been sent via courier. The time difference actually made that fairly convenient. The early 747 from Dulles usually got in between six and seven in the morning, and then it was forty minutes more to his desk. The government could work more efficiently than Federal Express when it wanted to. Another fifteen minutes of his Daily Telegraph and her NEJM and they parted company at Victoria. Cathy perversely took the tube. Ryan opted for a cab. It hustled past the Palace of Westminster, then hopped across the Thames. Ryan paid the four pounds fifty and added a healthy tip. Ten seconds later, he was inside.