Jack Ryan 3 - Red Rabbit (73 page)

Oleg Ivan'ch, he saw, drank vodka as though it were water after a hot day of cutting the grass. His wife, over in 1-C, was doing the same. Ryan felt positively virtuous sipping gently at his French wine.

“SIGNAL IN FROM BASIL,” Bostock reported over the phone. “The Rabbit is in the air. ETA Manchester in ninety minutes.”

“Great,” Judge Moore breathed, relieved as always when a black operation worked out as planned. Better still, they'd run it without Bob Ritter, who, though a good man, was not entirely indispensable.

“Three more days and we can debrief him,” Bostock said next. “The nice house out by Winchester?”

“Yeah, we'll see if he likes horse country.” The house even had a Steinway piano for Mrs. Rabbit to play and lots of green for the kid to run around on.

ALAN KINGSHOT WAS just pulling into the parking area at the Manchester airport, along with two subordinates. There would be a large back Daimler automobile to take the arriving defectors out to Somerset in the morning. He hoped they didn't mind driving. It would be nearly a two-hour drive.

For the moment, they'd be quartering at a nice country house just a few minutes from the airport. They'd probably done quite enough traveling for the moment, with still more to come before the end of the week. But then he started thinking about it. Might that be too hard on them? The question gave him something to ponder at one of the airport's bars.

RYAN WAS PRETTY well potted. Maybe alcohol interacted with anxiety, he thought, taking a moment to go to the forward rest room on the airliner, and feeling better when he got back and was strapped in. He almost never took his seat belt off. The food served was just sandwiches—English ones, with their unnatural affection for a weed called watercress. What he really wanted now was a good corned beef, but the Brits didn't even know what corned beef was, thinking it the canned junk that looked like dog food to most Americans. In fact, the Brits probably fed better stuff to their dogs, as enthralled as they were with their pets. The lights passing underneath the airliner proved that they were overflying Western Europe. The Eastern part was never well lit, as he'd learned coming south from Budapest.

BUT ZAITZEV wasn't sure. What if this was a very elaborate ruse to get him to spill the beans? What if the Second Chief Directorate had staged a huge maskirovka village for his brief benefit?

“Ryan?”

Jack turned. “Yes?”

“What will I see in England when we get there?”

“I don't know what the plan is after we get to Manchester,” Ryan reported.

“You are CIA?” the Rabbit asked again.

“Yes.” Jack nodded.

“How can I be sure of this?”

“Well…” Ryan fished out his wallet. “Here are my driver's license, credit cards, some cash. My passport is fake, of course. I'm an American, but they fixed me up with a British one. Oh,” Ryan realized, “you're worried that this is all faked?”

“How can I be sure?”

“My friend, in less than an hour, you will be certain it is not. Here—” He opened his wallet again. “This is my wife, my daughter, and our new son. My address at home—in America, that is—is here on my driver's license, 5000 Peregrine Cliff Road, Anne Arundel County, Maryland. That is right on the Chesapeake Bay. It takes me about an hour to drive from there to CIA Headquarters at Langley. My wife is an eye surgeon at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. It is world-famous. You must have heard of it.”

Zaitzev just shook his head.

“Well, a couple years ago, three docs from Hopkins fixed the eyes of Mikhail Suslov. I understand he just died. His replacement, we think, will be Mikhail Yevgeniyevich Alexandrov. We know a little about him, but not enough. In fact, we don't know enough about Yuriy Vladimirovich.”

“What do you not know?”

“Is he married? We've never seen a picture of his wife, if any.”

“Yes, everyone knows this. His wife is Tatiana, elegant woman, my wife says she has noble features. But no children for them,” Oleg concluded.

 Well, there's factoid' #1 from the Rabbit
, Ryan thought.

“How is it possible that you do not know this?” Zaitzev demanded.

“Oleg Ivan'ch, there are many things we do not know about the Soviet Union,” Jack admitted. “Some are important, and some are not.”

“Is this true?”

“Yes, it is.”

Something rattled loose in Zaitzev's head. “You say your name Ryan?”

“That's right.”

“Your father policeman?”

“How did you know that?” Ryan asked in some surprise.

“We have small dossier on you. Washington rezidentura do it. Your family attacked by hooligans, yes?”

“Correct.” KGB is interested in me, eh ? Jack thought. “Terrorists, they tried to kill me and my family. My son was born that night.”

“And you join CIA after that?”

“Again, yes—officially, anyway. I've done work for the Agency for several years.” Then curiosity took full hold. “What does my dossier say about me?”

“It say you are rich fool. You were officer in naval infantry, and your wife is rich and you marry her for that reason. To get more money for self.”

 So, even the KGB is a prisoner of its own political prejudices
, Jack thought. Interesting .

“I am not poor,” Jack told the Rabbit. “But I married my wife for love, not money. Only a fool does that.”

“How many capitalists are fools?”

Ryan had himself a good laugh. “A lot more than you might think. You do not need to be very smart in America to become rich.” New York and Washington in particular were full of rich idiots, but Ryan thought the Rabbit needed a little while before he learned that lesson. “Who did the dossier on me?”

“Reporter in Washington resydentura of Izvestia is junior KGB officer. He do it last summer.”

“And how did you come to know about it?”

“His dispatch come to my desk, and I forward to America—Canada Institute—is KGB office. You know that, yes?”

“Yes,” Jack confirmed. “That is one we do know.” That was when his ears popped. The airliner was descending. Ryan gunned down the last of his third white wine and told himself it would all be over in a few minutes. One thing he'd learned from Operation BEATRIX: This field work wasn't for him.

The no-smoking sign dinged back on. Ryan brought his chair to its full upright position, and then the lights of Manchester appeared through the windows, the car headlights and the airport fence, and in a few more seconds… thump, the wheels touched down in Merry Old England. It might not be the same as America, but for the moment it would do.

Oleg, he saw, had his face against the window, checking out the tail colors of the aircraft. There were too many for this to be a Soviet Air Force base and a huge maskirovka. He visibly started to relax.

“We welcome you to Manchester,” the pilot said over the intercom. “The time is three-forty, and the temperature outside is fifty-four degrees Fahrenheit. We appreciate your patience earlier today, and we hope to see you again soon in British Midlands Airways.”

 Yeah
, Jack thought. In your dreams, skipper .

Ryan sat and waited as the aircraft taxied to the international-arrivals area. A truck-borne stairway came to the front door, which the lead stew duly opened. Ryan and the Rabbit family were first off and down the steps, where they were guided to some cars instead of the waiting transfer bus.

Alan Kingshot was there to take his hand. “How was it, Jack?”

“Just like a trip to Disney World,” Ryan answered, without a trace of audible irony in his voice.

“Right. Let's get you all loaded and off to a comfortable place.”

“Works for me, pal. What is it, quarter of three?” Ryan hadn't changed his watch back yet. Britain was an hour behind the rest of Europe.

“That's right,” the field spook confirmed.

“Damn,” Jack reacted. Too damned late to call home and tell Cathy he was back. But, then, he wasn't really back. Now he had to play CIA representative for the first interview of the Red Rabbit. Probably Sir Basil had him doing this because he was too junior to be very effective. Well, maybe he'd show his British host just how dumb he was, Ryan growled to himself. But first it was time for sleep. Stress, he'd learned, was about as tiring as jogging—just harder on the heart.

BACK IN BUDAPEST, the three bodies were at the city morgue, an institution as depressing behind the Iron Curtain as in front of it. When Zaitzev's identity as a Russian citizen had been confirmed, a call had been made to the Soviet Embassy, where it was speedily established that the man in question was a KGB officer. That generated interest in the rezidentura, just across the street from the hotel where he'd ostensibly died, and more telephone calls were made.

Before five in the morning, Professor Zoltan Biro was awakened in his bed by the AVH. Biro was professor of pathology at the Ignaz Semmelweis Medical College. Named for one of the fathers of the germ theory that had transformed the science of medicine in the nineteenth century, it remained a good one, even attracting students from West Germany, none of whom would attend the postmortem examinations ordered by the country's Belügyminisztérium, which would also be attended by the physician-in-residence at the Soviet Embassy.

The first done would be the adult male. Technicians took blood samples from all three bodies for analysis in the adjacent laboratory.

“This is the body of a male Caucasian, approximately thirty-five years of age, length approximately one hundred seventy-five centimeters, weight approximately seventy-six kilograms. Color of hair cannot be determined due to extensive charring from a domestic fire. Initial impression is death by fire—more probably from carbon monoxide intoxication, as the body shows no evidence of death throes.” Then the dissection began with the classical Y incision to open the body cavity for viewing of the internal organs.

He was examining the heart—unremarkable—when the lab reports came in.

“Professor Biro, carbon monoxide in all three blood samples are well into lethal range,” the voice on the speaker said, giving the exact numbers.

Biro looked over at his Russian colleague. “Anything else you need? I can do a full postmortem on all three victims here, but the cause of death is determined. This man was not shot. We will do fuller blood-chemistry checks, of course, but it's unlikely that they were poisoned, and there is clearly no bullet wound or other penetrating trauma in this man. They were all killed by fire. I will send you the full laboratory report this afternoon.” Biro let out a long breath. “A kurva életbe!” he concluded with a popular Magyar epithet.

“Such a pretty little girl,” the Russian internist observed. Zaitzev's wallet had somehow survived the fire, along with its family photos. The picture of Svetlana had been particularly engaging.

“Death is never sentimental, my friend,” Biro told him. As a pathologist, he knew that fact all too well.

“Very well. Thank you, Comrade Professor.” And the Russian took his leave, already thinking through his official report to Moscow.

REVELATION

THE SAFE HOUSE WAS palatial, the country home of somebody with both money and taste, built in the previous century by the look of it, with stucco and the sort of heavy oaken timbers used to build ships like HMS

 Victory
once upon a time. But landlocked, it was about as far from blue water as one could get on this island kingdom.

Evidently, Alan Kingshot knew it well enough, since he drove them there and then got them settled inside. The two-person staff that ran the place looked like cops to Ryan, probably married and retired from the Police Force of the Metropolis, as the London Constabulary was officially known. They kindly escorted their new guests to a rather nice suite of rooms. Irina Zaitzev's eyes were agog at the accommodations, which were impressive even by Ryan's standards. All Oleg Ivanovich did was set his shaving kit in the bathroom, strip off his clothes, and collapse onto the bed, where alcohol-aided sleep proved to be less than five minutes away.

WORD GOT TO Judge Moore just before midnight that the package was safely ensconced in a very secure location, and with that information he also went to bed. All that remained was to tell the Air Force to get a KC-135 or a similar aircraft ready to fly the package home, and that would take a mere telephone call to an officer in the Pentagon. He wondered what the Rabbit would say, but he could wait for that. Patience, once the dangerous stuff was behind, was not all that difficult for the Director of Central Intelligence. It was like Christmas Eve, and while he wasn't exactly sure what would be under the tree, he could be confident that it wouldn't be anything bad.

FOR SIR BASIL Charleston at his Belgravia house, the news came before breakfast, when a messenger from Century House arrived with the word. An altogether pleasant way to start a working day, he thought, certainly better than some others he'd had. He left home for the office just before seven A.M., ready for his morning brief to outline the success of Operation BEATRIX.

RYAN WAS AWAKENED by traffic noise. Whoever had built this magnificent country home hadn't anticipated the construction of a motorway just three hundred yards away, but somehow Ryan had avoided a hangover from all the drinks on the flight in, and the lingering excitement of the moment had gotten him fully awake after a mere six and a half hours of slumber. He washed up and made his way to the pleasant not-so-little breakfast room. Alan Kingshot was there, working on his morning tea.

“Probably coffee for you, eh?”

“If you have any.”

“Only instant,” Kingshot warned.

Jack stifled his disappointment. “Better than no coffee at all.”

“Eggs Benedict?” the retired woman cop asked.

“Ma'am, for that I will forgive the absence of Starbucks,” Jack replied, with a smile. Then he saw the morning papers, and he thought that reality and normality had finally returned to his life. Well, almost.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thompson run this house for us,” Kingshot explained. “Nick was a homicide detective with the Yard, and Emma was in administration.”

“That's what my dad used to do,” Ryan observed. “How did you guys get working for SIS?”