Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [179]
"A couple of weeks. The little bugger is rolling about and kicking all the time now."
"Always a good sign, man."
"And we have a good physician right here in the embassy, should he be a little early." Just that the embassy doc didn't really want to deliver a baby. They never did.
"Well, if it's a boy, Eddie will lend you his Transformers tapes," Ed promised.
"Transformers? What's that?"
"If it's a boy, you'll find out," Foley assured him.
CHAPTER 20
STAGING
THE JUNIOR FIELD OFFICER arrived in London's Heathrow Terminal Four just before seven in the morning. He breezed through immigration and customs and headed out, where he saw his driver holding the usual sign card, this one in a false name, of course, since CIA spooks only used their real names when they had to. The driver's name was Leonard Watts. Watts drove an embassy Jaguar, and, since he had a diplomatic passport and tags on the car, he wasn't all that concerned with speed limits.
"How was the flight?"
"Fine. Slept most of the way."
"Well, welcome to the world of field operations," Watts told him. "The more sleep you get, the better."
"I suppose." It was his first overseas assignment, and not a very demanding one. "Here's the package." And his cover wasn't enhanced by the fact that he was traveling with only the courier package and a small bag that had spent the trip in the overhead bin, with a clean shirt, clean underwear, and shaving kit.
"Name's Len, by the way."
"Okay, I'm Pete Gatewood."
"First time in London?"
"Yeah," Gatewood answered, trying to get used to sitting in the left front seat without a steering wheel to protect him, and being driven by a NASCAR reject. "How long to get to the embassy?"
"Half hour." Watts concentrated on his driving. "What are you carrying?"
"Something for the COS, is all I know."
"Well, it isn't routine. They woke me up for it," Watts groused.
"Where have you worked?" Gatewood asked, hoping to get this maniac to slow down some.
"Oh, around. Bonn, Berlin, Prague. Getting ready to retire, back to Indiana. We got a football team to watch now."
"Yeah, and all the corn, too," Gatewood observed. He'd never been to Indiana, and had no particular wish to tour the farming state, which did, he reminded himself, turn out some fairly good basketball players.
Soon enough, or nearly so, they were passing a large green park on the left, and a few blocks after that, the green rectangle of Grosvenor Square. Watts stopped the car to let Gatewood out. He dodged around the "flower pots" designed to keep car bombers from getting too close to the concrete that surrounded the surpassingly ugly building, and walked in. The Marines inside checked his ID and made a call. Presently, a middle-aged woman came into the entrance foyer and led him to an elevator that took him to the third floor, just next door to the technical group that worked closely with the British GCHQ at Cheltenham. Gatewood walked into the proper corner office and saw a middle-aged man sitting at an oaken desk.
"You're Gatewood?"
"Yes, sir. You're…?"
"I'm Randy Silvestri. You have a package for me," the COS London announced.
"Yes, sir." Gatewood opened the zipper on his bag and pulled out the large manila envelope. He handed it over.
"Interested in what's in it?" Silvestri asked, eyeing the youngster.
"If it concerns me, I expect you'll tell me, sir."
The Station Chief nodded his approval. "Very good. Annie will take you downstairs for breakfast if you want, or you can catch a cab for your hotel. Got some Brit money?"
"A hundred pounds, sir, in tens and twenties."
"Okay, that'll handle your needs. Thanks, Gatewood."
"Yes, sir." And Gatewood left the office.
Silvestri ripped open the package after determining that the closure hadn't been disturbed beforehand. The flat ring binder had what looked like forty or fifty printed sheets of paper—all space-and-a-half random letters. So, a one-time-cipher pad—for Station Moscow, the cover note said. He'd have that couriered to Moscow on the noon British Airways flight. And two letters, one for Sir Basil,