Executive orders - Tom Clancy [551]
Some things had changed in the intervening years. Some had not. There was still a suspicion of foreigners here at the customs post. The clerk was backed up by armed men, and their job was to prevent the entry of people like him. For the new UIR, as for the previous country, every new face was a potential spy.
Klerk, he said, handing over his passport, Ivan Sergeyevich. What the hell, the Russian cover identity had worked before, and he already had it memorized. Better yet, his Russian was letter-perfect. He'd passed as a Soviet citizen before a uniformed official more than once.
Chekov, Yevgeniy Pavlovich, Chavez told the next clerk over.
They were, again, news correspondents. Rules prohibited CIA officers from covering themselves as American reporters, but that didn't apply to the foreign media.
The purpose of your visit? the first clerk asked.
To learn about your new country, Ivan Sergeyevich replied. It must be very exciting for everyone. For their work in Japan, they'd brought camera gear, and a useful little gadget that looked like, and indeed was, a bright light. Not this time.
He and I are together, Yevgeniy Pavlovich told his clerk.
The passports were brand-new, though one could not have told it from casual inspection. It was one of the few things Clark and Chavez didn't have to worry about. RVS tradecraft was every bit as good as the former KGB's had been. They made some of the best fake documents in the world. The pages were covered with stamps, many overlapping, and were creased and dog-eared from years of apparent use. An inspector grabbed their bags and opened them. He found clothing, clearly much used, two books, which he flipped through to see if they were pornographic, two cameras of medium quality, their black enamel well-chipped but the lenses new. Each had a carry-on bag with note pads and mini-tape recorders. The inspectors took their time, even after the clerks had done their work, finally passing their country's visitors through with a palpable reluctance.
Spasiba, John said pleasantly, getting his bags and moving off. Over the years, he'd learned not to conceal his relief completely. Normal travelers were intimidated. He had to be, too, lest he stand apart from them. The two CIA officers went outside to catch a cab, standing together in line silently as the rank of taxis ate up the new arrivals. When they were two back, Chavez dropped his travel bag, and the contents spilled out. He and Clark let two people jump ahead of them in line while he repacked the bag. That almost certainly guaranteed a random cab, unless they were all being driven by spooks.
The trick was to look normal in all respects. Not too stupid. Never too smart. To get disoriented and ask for directions, but not too often. To stay in cheap hotels. And in their particular case, to pray that none of the people who'd seen them during their brief visit to this city crossed their path. The mission was supposed to be a simple one. That was usually the idea. You rarely sent intelligence officers out on complex missions-they'd have the good sense to refuse. The simple ones were hairy enough once you got out there.
IT'S CALLED TASK Group COMEDY, Robby told him. They got their doorbell rung this morning. The J-3 explained on for a few minutes.
Playing rough? the President asked.
Evidently, they gave the P-3 a real air show. I've done that myself a few times, back in my young-and-foolish days. They want us to know they're there, and they're not intimidated. The group commander is Greg Kemper. I don't know him, but his rep's pretty good. CINCLANT likes him. He's asking for a ROE change.
Not yet. Later today.
Okay. I would not expect a night attack, but remember dawn there is midnight here, sir.
Arnie, what's the book on the P.M.?
She and Ambassador Williams don't exchange Christmas presents,