Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [110]
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"DADDY!" SALLY EXCLAIMED, waking up with her usual smile. He guided her to the bathroom and then downstairs, where her oatmeal was waiting. Sally still wore her bunny-rabbit sleepers, with feet and a long zipper. This one was yellow. And it was the largest size, and her feet were stretching it. She'd have to change to some other sleepwear soon, but that was Cathy's department.
The routine was set. Cathy fed Little Jack and, halfway through, her husband set down his paper and headed upstairs to shave. By the time he was dressed, she was finished with her duty, and went off to get cleaned up and dressed while Jack burped the little guy and got him into his socks to keep his feet warm, and also to give him something to pull off so that he could see if the feet tasted the same as they had the previous day, which was a newly acquired skill.
Soon the doorbell rang, and it was Margaret van der Beek, soon followed by Ed Beaverton, which allowed the parents to escape off to work. At Victoria Station, Cathy kissed her husband good-bye and headed for the tube station for the ride to Moorefields, while Jack took a different train to Century House, and the day was about to start for real.
"Good morning, Sir John."
"Hey, Bert." Ryan paused. Bert Canderton had "army" written all over him, and it was time to ask. "What regiment were you?"
"I was Regimental Sergeant Major of the Royal Green Jackets, sir."
"Infantry?"
"Correct, sir."
"I thought you guys wore red coats," Ryan observed.
"Well, that's your fault—you Yanks, that is. In your revolutionary war, my regiment took so many casualties from your riflemen that the colonel of the regiment decided a green tunic might be safer. It's been that way ever since."
"How did you end up here?"
"I'm waiting for an opening at the Tower to be a Yeoman Warder, sir. Should have a new red coat in a month or so, they tell me."
Canderton's rent-a-cop blouse had some service ribbons on it, probably not for brushing and flossing his teeth, and a regimental sergeant major in the British army was somebody, like a master gunnery sergeant in the Marine Corps.
"I've been there, been to the club they have," said Ryan. "Good bunch of troops."
"Indeed. I have a friend there, Mick Truelove. He was in the Queen's Regiment."
"Well, sar-major, keep the bad guys out," Ryan said, as he worked his card into the electronic slot that controlled the entry gate.
"I will do that, sir," Canderton promised.
Harding was at his desk when Ryan came in. Jack hung his jacket on the tree.
"Come in early, Simon?"
"Your Judge Moore sent a fax to Bas last night—just after midnight, as a matter of fact. Here." He handed it across.
Ryan scanned it. "The Pope, eh?"
"Your President is interested, and so is the PM, as it happens," Harding said, relighting his pipe. "Basil called us in early to go over what data we have."
"Okay, what do we have?"
"Not much," Harding admitted. "I can't talk to you about our sources—"
"Simon, I'm not dumb. You have somebody in close, either a confidante of a Politburo member or someone in the Party Secretariat. He's not telling you anything?" Ryan had seen some very interesting "take" in here, and it had to have come from somebody inside the big red tent.
"I can't confirm your suspicion," Harding cautioned, "but no, none of our sources have given us anything, not even that the Warsaw Letter has arrived in Moscow, though we know it must have."
"So, we don't know jack shit?"
Simon nodded soberly. "Correct."
"Amazing how often that happens."
"It's just a part of the job, Jack."
"And the PM has her panties in a wad?"
Harding hadn't heard that Americanism before, and it caused him to blink twice. "So it would seem."
"So, what are we supposed to tell her? She damned sure doesn't want