Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [182]
"Damned straight, Basil. If that's a hole, we have to plug it up fast."
"This guy's in their MERCURY? Jesus Christ," Ryan breathed.
"You got that one right, sonny," Silvestri agreed.
"But what the hell am I going into the field for?" Jack demanded next. "I'm not a field officer."
"We need one of ours to keep an eye on things."
"I quite understand, Randy," Charleston observed, his head still down in his briefing papers. "And you want someone whom the opposition doesn't know?"
"So it seems."
"But why me?" Ryan persisted.
"Jack," Sir Basil soothed, "your only job will be to watch what happens. It's just pro forma."
"But what about my cover?"
"We'll give you a new diplomatic passport," C answered. "You will be quite safe. The Vienna Convention, you know."
"But… but… it'll be fake."
"They won't know that, dear boy."
"What about my akzint?" It was painfully obvious that his accent was an American's, not a Brit's.
"In Hungary?" Silvestri asked with a smile.
"Jack, with their bloody language, I seriously doubt they will notice the difference, and in any case, with your new documents, your person is quite inviolable."
"Relax, kid. It's better than your little girl's teddy bear. Trust me on that one, okay?" Silvestri assured him.
"And you'll have a security officer with you at all times," Charleston added.
Ryan had to sit back and take a breath. He couldn't allow himself to appear to be a wuss, not in front of these guys and not before Admiral Greer. "Okay, excuse me. It's just that I've never been in the field before. It's all kinda new to me." He hoped that was adequate backpedaling. "What exactly will I be doing, and how do I go about it?"
"We'll fly you into Budapest out of Heathrow. Our chaps will pick you up at the airport and take you to the embassy. You will sit it out there—a couple of days, I expect—and then watch how Andy gets your Rabbit out of Redland. Randy, how long would you expect?"
"To get this moving? End of the week, maybe a day or two longer," Silvestri thought. "The Rabbit will fly or take the train to Budapest, and your man will figure how to get him the hell out of Dodge City."
"Two or three days for that," Sir Basil estimated. "Mustn't be too quick."
"Okay, that keeps me away from home for four days. What's my cover story?"
"For your wife?" Charleston asked. "Tell her that you have to go to—oh, to Bonn, shall we say, on NATO business. Be vague on the time factor," he advised. He was inwardly amused to have to explain this to the Innocent American Abroad.
"Okay," Ryan conceded the point. Not like I have a hell of a lot of choice in the matter, is there?
* * *
UPON GETTING BACK to the embassy, Foley walked to Mike Barnes's office. Barnes was the Cultural Attaché, the official expert on artsy-fartsy stuff. That was a major assignment in Moscow. The USSR had a fairly rich cultural life. The fact that the best part of it dated back to the czars didn't seem to matter to the current regime, probably, Foley thought, because all Great Russians wanted to appear kulturniy, and superior to Westerners, especially Americans, whose "culture" was far newer and far crasser than the country of Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov. Barnes was a graduate of the Juilliard School and Cornell, and especially appreciated Russian music.
"Hey, Mike," Foley said in greeting.
"How's keeping the newsies happy?" Barnes asked.
"The usual. Hey, got a question for you."
"Shoot."
"Mary Pat and I are thinking about traveling some, maybe to Eastern Europe. Prague and like that. Any good music to be heard that way?"
"The Prague symphony hasn't opened up yet. But Jozsef Rozsa is in Berlin right now, and then he's going to Budapest."
"Who's he? I don't know the name," Foley said, as his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.
"Hungarian