Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [180]
"This is Basil Charleston."
"Basil, it's Randy. Something just came in for you. Can I bring it over?"
A sound of shuffling papers. Basil would know this was important. "Say, ten o'clock, Randy?"
"Right. See you then." Silvestri sipped his coffee and estimated the time required. He could sit here for about an hour before heading over. Next he punched his intercom button.
"Yes, sir?"
"Annie, I have a package to be couriered to Moscow. We got a bagman on deck?"
"Yes, sir."
"Okay, could you take this down to him?"
"Yes, sir." CIA secretaries are not paid to be verbose.
"Good. Thanks." Silvestri hung up.
* * *
JACK AND CATHY were on the train, passing through Elephant and Castle—and he'd still not learned how the damned place had gotten that name, Jack reminded himself. The weather looked threatening. England wasn't broad enough for a storm system to linger, Ryan thought. Maybe there was just a series of rain clouds coming across the Atlantic? In any case, between yesterday and today, his personal record of fair weather over here seemed to be ending. Too bad.
"Just glasses this week, babe?" he asked his wife, her head buried as usual in a medical journal.
"All week," she confirmed. Then she looked up. "It's not as exciting as surgery, but it's still important, you know."
"Cath, if you do it, it must be important."
"And you can't say what you'll be doing?"
"Not until I get to my desk." And probably not then, either. Whatever it was, it had doubtless been transmitted via secure printer or fax line overnight… unless it was something really important, and had been sent via courier. The time difference actually made that fairly convenient. The early 747 from Dulles usually got in between six and seven in the morning, and then it was forty minutes more to his desk. The government could work more efficiently than Federal Express when it wanted to. Another fifteen minutes of his Daily Telegraph and her NEJM and they parted company at Victoria. Cathy perversely took the tube. Ryan opted for a cab. It hustled past the Palace of Westminster, then hopped across the Thames. Ryan paid the four pounds fifty and added a healthy tip. Ten seconds later, he was inside.
"Good morning, Sir John," Bert Canderton called in greeting.
"Howdy, Sar-Major," Ryan said in reply, sliding his pass through the gate, then to the elevator and up to his floor.
Simon was already in his seat, going over message traffic. His eyes came up when Jack entered. "Morning, Jack."
"Hey, Simon. How was the weekend?"
"Didn't get any gardening done. Bloody rain."
"Anything interesting this morning?" He poured himself a cup of coffee. Simon's English Breakfast Tea wasn't bad for tea, but tea just didn't make it for Jack, at least not in the morning. They didn't have bear claws here, either, and Jack had neglected to get his croissant on the way in.
"Not yet, but something's coming in from America."
"What is it?"
"Basil didn't say, but when something comes in by hand on a Monday morning, it's usually interesting. Must be Soviet-related. He's told me to stand by for it."
"Well, might as well start the week with something interesting." Ryan sipped his coffee. It wasn't quite up to what Cathy made, but better than tea. "When's it coming in?"
"About ten. Your Station Chief, Silvestri, is driving it over."
Ryan had only met him once. He'd seemed competent enough, but you expected that of a COS, even one in a sunset posting.
"Nothing new from Moscow?"
"Just some new rumors about Brezhnev's health. It seems that stopping smoking did him precious little good," Harding said, lighting his pipe. "Nasty old bugger," the Brit analyst added.
"What about this stuff from Afghanistan?"
"Ivan's getting cleverer. Those Mi-24 helicopters seem