Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [112]
"So, how do you like the new job, Ed?" Prince asked.
"Still settling in. Dealing with the Russian press is kind of interesting. They're predictable, but unpredictably so."
"How can people be unpredictably predictable?" the Times correspondent inquired, with a crooked smile.
"Well, Tony, you know what they're going to say, just not how they're going to ask it." And half of them are spooks or at least stringers, anyway, in case you haven't noticed.
Prince affected a laugh. He felt himself to be the intellectual superior.
Foley had failed as a general-beat reporter in New York, whereas Prince had parlayed his political savvy to one of the top jobs in American journalism. He had some good contacts in the Soviet government, and he cultivated them assiduously, frequently sympathizing with them over the boorish, nekulturniy behavior of the current regime in Washington, which he occasionally tried to explain to his Russian friends, often pointing out that he hadn't voted for this damned actor, and neither had anyone in his New York office.
"Have you met the new guy, Alexandrov, yet?"
"No, but one of my contacts knows him, says he's a reasonable sort, talks like he's in favor of peaceful coexistence. More liberal than Suslov. I hear he's pretty sick."
"I've heard that, too, but I'm not sure what's wrong with him."
"He's diabetic, didn't you hear? That's why the Baltimore docs came over to work on his eyes. Diabetic retinopathy," Prince explained, speaking the word slowly so that Foley could comprehend it.
"I'll have to ask the embassy doc what that means," Foley observed, making an obvious note on his pad. "So, this Alexandrov guy is more liberal, you think?"
"Liberal" was a word that meant "good guy" to Prince.
"Well, I haven't met him myself, but that's what my sources think. They also think that when Suslov departs from this life, Mikhail Yevgeniyevich will take his place."
"Really? I'll have to drop that on the ambassador."
"And the Station Chief?"
"You know who that is? I don't," Foley said.
An eye roll. "Ron Fielding. Hell, everybody knows that."
"No, he isn't," Ed protested as sharply as his acting talent allowed. "He's the senior consular officer, not a spook."
Prince smiled, thinking, You never could figure things out, could you? His Russian contacts had fingered Fielding to him, and he knew they wouldn't lie to him. "Well, that's just a guess, of course," the reporter went on.
And if you thought it was me, you'd blurt it right out, wouldn't you? Foley thought right back at him. You officious ass. "Well, I'm cleared for some things, as you know, but not that one."
"I know who does know," Prince offered.
"Yeah, but I'm not going to ask the Ambassador, Tony. He'd rip my face off."
"He's just a political appointment, Ed—nothing special. This ought to be a posting for somebody who knows diplomacy, but the President didn't ask me for advice."
Thank God, the Station Chief commented inwardly.
"Fielding sees him a lot, doesn't he?" Prince went on.
"A consular officer works directly with the Ambassador, Tony. You know that."
"Yeah. Convenient, isn't it? How much do you see him?"
"The boss, you mean? Once a day, usually," Foley answered.
"And Fielding?"
"More. Maybe two or three times."
"There you have it," Prince concluded grandly. "You can always tell."
"You read too many James Bond books," Foley said dismissively. "Or maybe Matt Helm."
"Get real, Ed," Prince bristled with elegant gentleness.
"If Fielding is the head spook, who are his underlings? Damned if I know."
"Well, those are always pretty covert," Prince admitted. "No, on that I don't have a clue."
"Pity. That's one of the games you play in the embassy—who are the spooks."
"Well, I can't help you."
"It's not something I need to know anyway, I guess," Foley admitted.
You never were curious enough to be a good reporter, Prince thought, with a casual, pleasant smile. "So, does this keep you busy?"
"It's not a ball-breaker. Anyway, can we