Jack Ryan 3 - Red Rabbit (76 page)

By 4:00 local time, Jack could be sure that somebody would be at work at Langley. He asked one more question of the Rabbit.

“Oleg Ivan'ch, do you know if KGB can crack our secure phone systems?”

“I think not. I am not sure, but I know that we have an agent in Washington—code name CRICKET—whom we have asked to get information on your STU telephones for us. As yet he has not been able to provide what our communications people wish. We are afraid that you can read our telephone traffic, however, and so we mainly avoid using telephones for important traffic.”

“Thanks.” And Ryan went back to the STU in the next room. The next number was another he had memorized.

“This is James Greer.”

“Admiral, this is Jack.”

“I am told the Rabbit is in his new hutch,” the DDI said by way of a greeting.

“That is correct, sir, and the good news is that he believes our comms are secure, including this one. The earlier fears appear to have been exaggerated or misinterpreted.”

“Is there bad news?” the DDI asked warily.

“Yes, sir. Yuriy Andropov wants to kill the Pope.”

“How reliable is that assertion?” James Greer asked at once.

“Sir, that's the reason he skipped. I'll have chapter and verse to you in a day or two at most, but it's official, there is a no-shit KGB operation to assassinate the Bishop of Rome.We even have the operation designator. You will want to let the Judge in on that, and probably NCA will want to know as well.”

“I see,” Vice Admiral Greer said from thirty-four hundred miles away. “That's going to be a problem.”

“Damned straight it is.” Ryan took a breath. “What can we do about it?”

“That's the problem, my boy,” the DDI said next. “First, can we do anything about it? Second, do we want to do anything about it?”

“Admiral, why would we not want to do something about it?” Ryan asked, trying to keep his voice short of insubordinate. He respected Greer as a boss and as a man.

“Back up, son. Think it all the way through. First, our mission in life is to protect the United States of America, and no one else—well, allies, too, of course,” Greer added for the tape recorders that had to be on this line. “But our primary duty is to our flag, not to any religious figure. We will try to help him if we can, but if we cannot, then we cannot.”

“Very well,” Ryan responded through gritted teeth. What about right and wrong ? He wanted to ask, but that would have to wait a few moments.

“We do not ordinarily give away classified information, and you can imagine how tightly held this defection is going to be,” Greer went on.

“Yes, sir.” But at least it wasn't going to be NoForn—not for distribution to foreigners. The Brits were foreigners, and they already knew all about BEATRIX and the Rabbit, but the Brits weren't big on sharing, except, sometimes, with America, and usually with a big quid pro quo tacked onto it. It was just how things worked. Similarly, Ryan wasn't allowed to discuss a single thing about some operations he was cleared into. TALENT KEYHOLE was the code name: the reconnaissance satellites, though CIA and the Pentagon had fallen all over themselves giving the raw data to the British during the Falklands War, plus every intercept the National Security Agency had from South America. Blood was still thicker than water. “Admiral, how will it look in the papers if it becomes known that the Central Intelligence Agency had data on the threat to the Pope and we just sat on our hands?”

“Is that a—”

“Threat? No, sir, not from me. I play by the rules, sir, and you know it. But somebody there will leak the information just because he's pissed about it, and you know that, and when that happens, there'll be hell to pay.”

“Point taken,” Greer agreed. “Are you proposing anything?”

“That's above my pay grade, sir, but we have to think hard about possible action of some sort.”

“What else are we getting from our new friend?”

“We have the code names of three major leaks. One is MINISTER, sounds like a political and foreign policy leak in Whitehall. Two for our side of the ocean: NEPTUNE sounds naval, and that's the source of our communications insecurity. Somebody in Redland is reading the Navy's mail, sir. And there's one in D.C. called CASSIUS. Sounds like a leaker on The Hill, top-drawer political intelligence, plus stuff about our operations.”

“Our—you mean CIA?” the DDI asked, with sudden concern in his voice. No matter how old a player you were, no matter how much experience you had, the idea that your parent agency might be compromised scared the living hell out of you.

“Correct,” Ryan answered. He didn't need to press that button very hard. Nobody at Langley was entirely comfortable with all the information that went to the “select” intelligence committees in the House and Senate. Politicians talked for a living, after all. Hell, there were few things harder than making a political figure keep his mouth shut. “Sir, this guy is a fantastically valuable source. We'll get him cut loose from over here in three days or so. I think the debriefing process will take months. I've met his wife and daughter. They seem nice enough—the little girl is Sally's age. I think this guy's the real deal, sir, and there's gold in them thar hills.”

“How comfortable is he?”

“Well, they're all probably in sensory overload at the moment. I'd think hard about getting a pshrink assigned to them to help with the transition. Maybe more than one. We want to keep him settled down—we want him confident in his new life. That might not be easy, but it'll damned sure pay off for us.”

“We have a couple of guys for that. They know how to talk them through the transition part. Is the Rabbit a flight risk?”

“Sir, I see nothing to suggest that, but we have to remember that he's made one hell of a broad jump, and the stuff he landed in isn't exactly what he's used to.”

“Noted. Good call, Jack. What else?”

“That's all for the moment. We've only been talking to the guy about five and a half hours, just preliminary stuff so far, but the waters look pretty deep.”

“Okay. Arthur is on the phone with Basil right now. I'm going to head over that way and give him your read. Oh, Bob Ritter just got back from Korea—jet-lagged all to hell and gone. We're going to tell him about your adventure in the field. If he tries to bite your head off, it's our fault, mine and the Judge's.”

Ryan took a long look down at the carpet. He didn't quite understand why Ritter disliked him, but they didn't swap Christmas cards, and that was a fact. “Gee, thanks, sir.”

“Don't sweat it. From what I understand, it sounds like you acquitted yourself pretty well.”

“Thanks, Admiral. I didn't trip over my own feet. That's all I'm going to claim, if that's okay with you.”

“Fair enough, my boy. Get your write-up completed and fax it to me PDQ.”

IN MOSCOW, the secure fax went into the office of Mike Russell. Oddly, it was a graphic, the first-edition cover of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter. The address on the cover sheet told him who was supposed to get it. And on the page was a handwritten message: “Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail have moved to a new hutch.”

 So,
Russell thought, they did have a Rabbit case, and it had been successfully run. Nothing he could claim to know for certain, but he knew the language spoken in the community. He walked down to Ed Foley's office and knocked on the door.

“Come,” Foley's voice called.

“This just came in from Washington, Ed.” Russell handed the fax across.

“Well, that's good news,” the COS observed. He folded the signal into his jacket pocket for Mary Pat. “There's an additional message in this fax, Mike,” Foley said.

“What's that?”

“Our comms are secure, pal. Otherwise it would not have come in this way.”

“Well, thank the Good Lord for that,” Russell said.

FLAVIAN AMPHITHEATER

“RYAN? HE DID WHAT ?” Bob Ritter growled.

“Bob, you want to settle down? It's nothing to get your tits in a flutter about,” James Greer said, half soothingly and half an indirect challenge in the CIA's in-house power playground. Judge Moore looked on in amusement. “Jack went into the field to observe an operation for which we had no available field officer. He didn't step on his crank with the golf shoes, and the defector is in a safe house in the English Midlands right now, and from what I hear, he's singing like a canary.”

“Well, what's he telling us?”

“For starters,” Judge Moore answered, “it seems that our friend Andropov wants to assassinate the Pope.”

Ritter's head snapped around. “How solid is that?”

“It's what made the Rabbit decide to take a walk,” the DCI said. “He's a conscience defector, and that set him off.”

“Okay, good. What does he know?” the DDO asked.

“Bob, it seems that this defector—his name is Oleg Ivanovich Zaitzev, by the way—was a senior watch officer in The Centre's communications, their version of our MERCURY.”

“ Shit ,” Ritter observed an instant later. “This is for real?”

“You know, sometimes a guy puts a quarter in the slot and pulls the handle and he really does get the jackpot,” Moore told his subordinate.

“Well, damn.”

“I didn't think you'd object. And the good part,” the DCI went on, “is that Ivan doesn't know he's gone.”

“How the hell did we do that?”

“It was Ed and Mary Pat who twigged to that possibility.” Then Judge Moore explained how it had been carried out. “They both deserve a nice pat on the head, Bob.”

“And all while I was out of town,” Ritter breathed. “Well, I'll be damned.”

“Yes, there's a bunch of attaboy letters to be drawn up,” Greer said next. “Including one for Jack.”

“I suppose,” the DDO conceded. He went quiet for a moment, thinking over the possibilities of Operation BEATRIX. “Anything good so far?”

“Aside from the plot against the Pope? Two code names of penetration agents they have working: NEPTUNE—he sounds like somebody working in the Navy—and CASSIUS. He's probably on The Hill. More to come, I expect.”

“I talked to Ryan a few minutes ago. He's pretty excited about this guy, says his knowledge is encyclopedic, says there's gold in these hills, to quote the boy.”

“Ryan does know a thing or two about gold,” Moore thought out loud.

“Fine, we'll make him our portfolio manager, but he isn't a field officer,” Ritter groused.

“Bob, he succeeded. We don't punish people for that, do we?” the DCI asked. This had gone far enough. It was time for Moore to act like the appeals-court judge he had been until a couple years before: the Voice of God.

“Fine, Arthur. You want me to sign the letter of commendation?” Ritter saw the freight train coming, and there was no sense in standing in its way. What the hell, it would just go into the files anyway. CIA commendations almost never saw the light of day. The Agency even classified the names of field officers who'd died heroically thirty years before. It was like a back door into heaven, CIA style.

“Okay, gentlemen, now that we've settled the administrative issues, what about the plot to kill the Pope?” Greer asked, trying to bring order back to the meeting of supposed sober senior executives.

“How solid is the information?” Ritter wanted to know.

“I talked to Basil a few minutes ago. He thinks we need to take it seriously, but I think we need to talk to this Rabbit ourselves to quantify the danger to our Polish friend.”

“Tell the President?”

Moore shook his head. “He's tied up all day today with legislative business, and he's flying out to California late this afternoon. Sunday and Monday, he'll be giving speeches in Oregon and Colorado. I'll see him Tuesday afternoon, about four.” Moore could have asked for an urgent meeting—he could break into the President's schedule on really vital matters—but until they had the chance to speak face-to-face with the Rabbit, that was out of the question. The President might even want to speak to the guy himself. He was like that.

“What kind of shape is Station Rome in?” Greer asked Ritter.

“The Chief of Station is Rick Nolfi. Good guy, but he retires in three months. Rome's his sunset post. He asked for it. His wife, Anne, likes Italy. Six officers there, mainly working on NATO stuff—two pretty experienced, four rookies,” Ritter reported. “But before we get them alerted we need to think this threat through, and a little Presidential guidance won't hurt. The problem is, how the hell do we tell people about this in such a way as not to compromise the source? Guys,” Ritter pointed out, “if we went to all the trouble of concealing the defection, it doesn't make much sense to broadcast the information we get from him out to the four winds, y'know?”

“That is the problem,” Moore was forced to agree.

“The Pope doubtless has a protective detail,” Ritter went on. “But they can't have the same latitude that the Secret Service does, can they? And we don't know how secure they are.”

ITS THE OLD STORY, Ryan was saying at the same time in Manchester. “If we use the information too freely, we compromise the source and lose all of its utility. But if we don't use it for fear of compromising it, then we might as well not have the fucking source to begin with.” Jack finished off his wine and poured another glass. “There's a book on this, you know.”

“What's that?”

 “Double-Edged Secrets.
A guy named Jasper Holmes wrote it. He was a U.S. Navy crippie in World War Two, worked signals intelligence in FRUPAC with Joe Rochefort and his bunch. It's a pretty good book on how the intelligence business works down where the rubber meets the road.”

Kingshot made a mental note to look that book up. Zaitzev was out on the lawn—a very plush one—with his wife and daughter at the moment. Mrs. Thompson wanted to take them all shopping. They had to have their private time—their bedroom suite was thoroughly bugged, of course, complete to a white-noise filter in the bathroom—and keeping the wife and kid happy was crucial to the entire operation.

“Well, Jack, whatever the opposition has planned, it will take time for them to set it up. The bureaucracies over there are even more moribund than ours, you know.”

“KGB, too, Al?” Ryan wondered. “I think that's the one part of their system that actually works, and Yuriy Andropov isn't known for his patience, is he? Hell, he was their ambassador in Budapest in 1956, remember? The Russians worked pretty decisively back then, didn't they?”