Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [162]
"You coming, Ed?" she asked after breakfast.
"No, honey. I'll clean up the kitchen and get into this new book I got last week."
"The truck driver did it," she offered. "I've read that guy before."
"Thanks a bunch," her husband grumbled.
And with that, she checked her watch and headed out. The park was just three of the long blocks to the east. She waved to the gate guard—definitely KGB, she thought—and headed to the left, holding little Eddie's hand. The traffic on the street was minimal by American standards, and it was definitely getting cooler out. She was glad she'd dressed her son in a long-sleeve shirt. A turn to look down at him revealed no obvious tail. There could, of course, be binoculars in the apartments across the street, but somehow she thought not. She'd pretty well established herself as a dumb American blonde, and just about everyone bought it. Even Ed's press contacts thought her dumber than him—and they thought him to be an ass—which could not have suited her any better. Those chattering blackbirds repeated everything she and Ed said to one another, until the word was as uniformly spread as the icing on one of her cakes. It all got back to KGB as quickly as any rumor could go—damned near the speed of light in that community, because reporters did intellectual incest as a way of life—and the Russians listened to them and put everything in their voluminous dossiers until it became something that "everybody knows." A good field officer always used others to build his or her cover. Such a cover was random-sounding—just as real life always was—and that made it plausible, even to a professional spook.
The park was about as bleak as everything else in Moscow. A few trees, some badly trodden grass. Almost as though KGB had had all the parks trimmed to make them bad contact points. That it would also limit places for young Muscovites to rendezvous and trade some kisses probably would not have troubled the consciences at The Centre, which were probably about the Pontius Pilate level on a reflective day.
And there was the Rabbit, a hundred meters or so away, nicely located, near some play items that would appeal to a three-year-old—or a four-year-old. Walking closer, she saw again that Russians doted on their little ones, and, in this case, maybe a little more—the Rabbit was KGB, and so he had access to better consumer goods than the average Russian, which, like a good parent in any land, he lavished on his little girl. That was a good sign for his character, Mary Pat decided. Maybe she could even like this guy, an unexpected gift for a field officer. So many agents were screwed up as badly as a South Bronx street mugger. He didn't observe her approach any more than to turn and scan the area in boredom, as men walking their children did. The two Americans headed the right way in what would surely appear to be a random act.
"Eddie, there's a little girl you can say hello to. Try out your Russian on her," his mommy suggested.
"Okay!" and he raced off in the manner of toddlers. Little Eddie ran right up to her and said "Hello."
"Hello."
"My name is Eddie."
"My name is Svetlana Olegovna. Where do you live?"
"That way." Eddie pointed back to the foreigners' ghetto.
"That is your son?" the Rabbit asked.
"Yes, Eddie Junior. Edward Edwardovich to you."
"So," Oleg Ivan'ch said next, without amusement, "is he also CIA?"
"Not exactly." Almost theatrically, she extended her hand to him. She had to protect him, just in case cameras were