Jack Ryan 3 - Red Rabbit (61 page)

 Better and better,
Jack thought. His hatred for flying was something he'd have to get over, and intellectually he knew that sooner or later he'd do it. It was just that he hadn't quite gotten over it yet. Well, at least he wouldn't be flying anywhere in a CH-46 with a fluky transmission. He drew the line there.

“My total time away from home?” And sleeping apart from my wife , Ryan thought.

“Four days, perhaps as many as seven. It depends on how things work out in Budapest,” C replied. “That is difficult to predict.”

NONE OF THEM had ever eaten at sixty miles per hour. The adventure for their little girl just got better and better. Dinner was adequate. The beef was about average for the Soviet Union, and so they could not be disappointed by it, along with potatoes and greens, and, of course, a carafe of vodka, one of the better brands, to erase the pain of travel. They were heading into the setting sun, now in country used exclusively for farming. Irina leaned across the table to cut the zaichik's meat for her, watching their little angel eat her dinner, like the big girl she proclaimed herself to be, along with a glass of cold milk.

“So, looking forward to the trip now, my dear?” Oleg asked his wife.

“Yes, especially the shopping.” Of course.

Part of Oleg Ivan'ch was calm—in fact, the calmest he'd been in weeks. It was really happening. His treason—part of his consciousness thought of it that way—was under way. How many of his countrymen, he wondered—indeed, how many of his coworkers at The Centre—would take the chance if they had the courage to do so? You couldn't know. He lived in a country and worked at an office where everyone concealed their inner thoughts. And at KGB, even the Russian custom of sanctifying especially close friendships by speaking things that could put you in prison, trusting that a true friend would never denounce you—no, a KGB officer didn't do such things. KGB was founded on the dichotomous balance of loyalty and betrayal. Loyalty to the state and its principles, and betrayal of any who violated them. But since he didn't believe in those principles anymore, he had turned to treason to save his soul.

And now the treason was under way. If the Second Chief Directorate knew of his plans, they would have been mad to allow him on this train. He could leave it at any intermediate stop—or just jump off the train when it slowed, approaching some preplanned point—and escape to Western hands, which could be waiting anywhere for him. No, he was safe, at least as long as he was on this train. And so he could be calm for now, and he'd let the days come as they would and see what happened. He kept telling himself that he was doing the right thing, and from that knowledge came his feeling, however illusory, of personal safety. If there were a God, surely He would protect a man on the run from evil.

DINNER IN THE Ryan house was spaghetti again. Cathy had a particularly good recipe for sauce—from her mom, who didn't have a single drop of Italian blood in her veins—and her husband loved it, especially with good Italian bread, which Cathy had found at a local bakery in downtown Chatham. No surgery tomorrow, so they had wine with dinner. Time to tell her.

“Honey, I have to travel in a few days.”

“The NATO thing?”

“'Fraid so, babe. Looks like three or four days—maybe a little more.”

“What's it about, can you say?”

“Nope, not allowed.”

“Spook business?”

“Yep.” He was allowed to say that.

“What's a spook?” Sally asked.

“It's what daddy does,” Cathy said, without thinking.

“Spook, like in the Wizzerdaboz ?” Sally went on.

“What?” her father asked.

“The Cowardly Lion says he believes in spooks, remember?” Sally pointed out.

“Oh, you mean the Wizard of Oz ”, It was her favorite movie so far this year.

“That's what I said , Daddy.” How could her daddy be so stupid?

“Well, no, Daddy isn't one of those,” Jack told his daughter.

“Then why did Mommy say so?” Sally persisted. She has the makings of a good FBI agent , Jack thought at that moment.

It was Cathy's turn. “Sally, Mommy was just making a joke.”

“Oh.” Sally went back to work on her pisghetti. Jack gave his wife a look. They couldn't talk about his work in front of his daughter—not ever. Kids never kept secrets for more than five minutes, did they? So, he'd learned, never say anything in front of a kid that you didn't want on the first page of The Washington Post. Everyone on Grizedale Close thought that John Patrick Ryan worked at the U.S. Embassy and was lucky enough to be married to a surgeon. They didn't need to know that he was an officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. Too much curiosity. Too many jokes.

“Three or four days?” Cathy asked.

“That's what they tell me. Maybe a little longer, but not too much, I think.”

“Important?” Sally had gotten her inquisitive nature from her mother, Jack figured… and maybe a little bit from himself.

“Important enough that they're throwing my ass on an airplane, yeah.” That actually worked. Cathy knew of her husband's hatred for air travel.

“Well, you have your Valium prescription. Want a beta-blocker, too?”

“No thanks, babe, not this time.”

“You know, if you got airsick, it would be easier to understand.” And easier to treat, she didn't have to add.

“Babe, you were there when my back went out, remember? I have some bad memories from flying. Maybe when we go home, we can take the boat,” he added, with some hope in his voice. But, no, it wouldn't work out that way. It never did in the real world.

“Flying is fun,” Sally protested. She definitely got that from her mother.

TRAVEL IS INEVITABLY TIRING, and so the Zaitzev family was agreeably surprised to see their beds turned out when they got back to their compartments. Irina got her daughter changed into her little yellow nightgown with flowers on what would have been the bodice. She gave her parents the usual good-night kiss and climbed onto her bed all by herself—she insisted on doing that—and slid under the covers. Instead of sleeping, she propped her head on the pillow and looked out the window at the darkened countryside passing by. Just a few lights from buildings on the collective farms but, for all that, fascinating to the little girl.

Her mother and father left the connecting door partly open, lest she have a nightmare or other sudden need to get a reassuring hug. Before going to bed, Svetlana had looked under the bed to see if there might be a hiding place for a big black bear, and she was satisfied that no such hiding place existed. Oleg and Irina opened books and gradually nodded off to the rocking of the train.

“BEATRIX IS RUNNING,” Moore told Admiral Greer. “The Rabbit and his family are on the train, probably crossing into the Ukraine right about now.”

“I hate waiting like this,” the DDI observed. It was easier for him to admit it. He'd never gone into the field on an intelligence mission. No, his job had always been at a desk, looking over important information. It was times like this that reminded him of the simple pleasures of standing watch on a ship of war—mainly submarines, in his case—where you could look at wind and wave, feel the breeze on your face and, merely by speaking a few words, change the course and speed of your ship instead of waiting to see what the ocean and distant enemy might do to you. You had the illusion there of being master of your fate.

“Patience is the hardest of the virtues to acquire, James, and the higher you get, the more you need the bastard. For me, this is like sitting on the bench, waiting for the lawyers to get to the damned point. It can take forever, especially when you know what the fools are going to say,” Moore admitted. He'd also been there and done that, out in the field. But so much of that job was composed of waiting, too. No man controlled his fate, a knowledge that came late in life. You just tried to muddle along from one point to another, making as few mistakes as possible.

“Tell the President about this one yet?”

Moore shook his head. “No sense getting him overly excited. If he thinks this guy has information that he doesn't have—hell, why disappoint him? We do enough of that here, don't we?”

“Arthur, we never have enough information, and the more we get, the more we appreciate what we need and don't have.”

“James, my boy, neither one of us is educated to be a philosopher.”

“Comes with the gray hair, Arthur.” Then Mike Bostock walked in.

“Couple more days and BEATRIX goes into the history books,” he announced with a smile.

“Mike, where the hell did you learn to believe in Santa Claus?” the DCI asked.

“Judge, it's like this: We got us a defector who's defecting right now. We have a good team to get him out of Redland. You trust your troops to do the job you send them out to do.”

“But they're not all our troops,” Greer pointed out.

“Basil runs a good shop, Admiral. You know that.”

“True,” Greer admitted.

“So, you just wait to see what's under the Christmas tree, Mike?” Moore asked.

“I sent Santa my letter, and Santa always delivers. Everybody knows that.” He was beaming at the possibilities. “What are we going to do with him when he arrives?”

“The farmhouse out at Winchester, I imagine,” Moore thought out loud. “Give him a nice place to depressurize—let him travel around some on day trips.”

“What stipend?” Greer inquired.

“Depends,” Moore said. He was the one who controlled that out of the Agency's black budget. “If it's good information… oh, as much as a million, I imagine. And a nice place to work after we tickle all of it out of him.”

“Where, I wonder?” Bostock put in.

“Oh, we let him decide that.”

It was both a simple and a complex process. The arriving Rabbit family would have to learn English. New identities. They'd need new names, for starters, probably make them Norwegian immigrants to explain away the accents. CIA had the power to admit a total of one hundred new citizens every year through the Immigration and Naturalization Service (and they'd never used them all up). The Rabbits would need a set of Social Security numbers, driver's licenses—probably driving lessons beforehand, maybe for both, certainly for the wife—from the Commonwealth of Virginia. (The Agency had a cordial relationship with the state government. Richmond never asked too many questions.)

Then came the psychological help for people who'd walked away from everything they'd ever known and had to find their footing in a new and grossly different country. The Agency had a Columbia University professor of psychology on retainer to handle that. Then they'd get some older defectors to hand-walk them through the transition. None of this was ever easy on the new immigrants. For Russians, America was like a toy store for a child who'd never known such a thing as a toy store existed—it was overwhelming in every respect, with virtually no common points of comparison, almost like a different planet. They had to make it as comfortable for the defectors as possible. First, for the information, and second, to make sure they didn't want to go back—it would be almost certain death, at least for the husband, but it had happened before, so strong was the call of home for every man.

“If he likes a cold climate, send him to Minneapolis-Saint Paul,” Greer suggested. “But, gentlemen, we are getting a little bit ahead of ourselves.”

“James, you are always the voice of sober counsel,” the DCI observed with a smile.

“Somebody has to be. The eggs haven't hatched yet, people. Then we count the chicks.”

 And what if he doesn't know squat
? Moore thought. What if he's just a guy who wants a ticket out ?

 God damn this business
! the DCI completed the thought.

“Well, Basil will keep us posted, and we have your boy Ryan looking out for our interests.”

“That's great news, Judge. Basil must be laughing into his beer about that.”

“He's a good boy, Mike. Don't underestimate him. Those who did are in Maryland State Penitentiary now, waiting for the appeals process to play out,” Greer said, in defense of his protégé.

“Well, yeah, he was a Marine once,” Bostock conceded. “What do I tell Bob when he calls in?”

“Nothing,” the DCI said at once. “Until we find out from the Rabbit what part of our comms are compromised, we are careful what goes out on a wire. Clear?”

Bostock nodded his head like a first-grader. “Yes, sir.”

“I've had S and T go over our phone lines. They say they're clean. Chip Bennett is still raising hell and running in circles at Fort Meade.” Moore didn't have to say that this alleged claim from the Rabbit was the scariest revelation to Washington since Pearl Harbor. But maybe they'd be able to turn it around on Ivan. Hope sprang eternal at Langley, just like everywhere else. It was unlikely that the Russians knew anything his Directorate of Science and Technology didn't, but you had to pay to see the cards.

RYAN WAS QUIETLY packing his things. Cathy was better at it, but he didn't know what he'd need. How did one pack for being secret-agent man? Business suit. His old Marine utilities? (He still had them, butter bar on the collar and all.) Nice leather shoes? Sneaks? That, he thought, sounded appropriate. He ended up deciding on a middle-of-the-road suit and two pairs of walking shoes, one semiformal, one informal. And it all had to fit in one bag—for that, an L.L. Bean canvas two-suiter that was easy to carry and fairly anonymous. He left his passport in the desk drawer. Sir Basil would be giving him a nice new British one, another diplomatic or fuck-you passport. Probably a new name to go with it. Damn, Jack thought, a new name to remember and respond to. He was used to having only one.

One nice thing about Merrill Lynch: You always knew who the hell you were. Sure, Jack's mind went on, let the whole damned world know you were a flunky of Joe Muller. Not in this lifetime. Any opinionated asshole could make money, and his father-in-law was one of them.

“Finished?” Cathy asked from behind him.

“Just about, babe,” Jack answered.

“It's not dangerous, what you're doing, is it?”

“I don't expect it to be, babe.” But Jack couldn't lie, and his uncertainty conveyed just enough.

“Where are you going?”