Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [188]
"What are you thinking?"
Kingshot explained his nascent operational concept. It was really the only way to make something like this happen. And, as Sir Basil had observed earlier in the day, it was as grisly as an autopsy.
"How likely is such a thing to happen?" Basil asked.
"I need to talk with the police to answer that one."
"Who's your contact there?"
"Chief Superintendent Patrick Nolan. You've met him."
Charleston closed his eyes for a moment. "The huge chap, arrests rugby forwards for light exercise?"
"That's Nolan. They call him 'Tiny' on the force. I think he eats barbells with his porridge. Am I free to discuss this Operation BEATRIX with him?"
"Just in terms of our needs, Alan."
"Very good, sir," Kingshot agreed, and left the room.
* * *
"YOU WANT WHAT?" Nolan asked over a pint in a pub a block from New Scotland Yard, just after four in the afternoon.
"You heard me, Tiny," Kingshot said. He lit a cigarette to fit in with the rest of the bar's patrons.
"Well, I must say I've heard a lot of strange things in my time with the Yard, but never that." Nolan was a good six-four and two hundred thirty pounds, very little of it fat. He spent at least an hour, three times a week, in the Yard's exercise room. He rarely carried a handgun on duty. He'd never needed one to help a felon see the futility of resistance. "Can you say what this is for?" he asked.
"Sorry, not allowed to. All I can say is that's it's a matter of some importance."
A long pull on his beer. "Well, you know that we do not keep such things in cold storage, even in the Black Museum."
"I was thinking a traffic smash. They happen all the time, don't they?"
"Yes, they do, Alan, but not to a family of three."
"Well, how often do such things happen?" Kingshot asked.
"Perhaps twenty such incidents in an average year, and their occurrence is wholly irregular. You cannot depend on it in any given week."
"Well, we'll just have to hope for good luck, and if it doesn't happen, then it simply does not happen." That would be an inconvenience. Perhaps it would be better to enlist the help of the Americans. They killed at least fifty thousand people per year on their highways. He'd suggest that to Sir Basil in the morning, Kingshot decided.
"Good luck? Not sure I'd call it that, Alan," Nolan pointed out.
"You know what I mean, Tiny. All I can say is that it's bloody important."
"And if it happens out on the M4, then what?"
"We collect the bodies—"
"And the survivors of the deceased?" Nolan asked.
"We substitute weighted bags for the bodies. The condition of the corpses will preclude an open-casket ceremony, won't it?"
"Yes, there is that. Then what?"
"We'll have our people deal with the bodies. You really do not need to know the details." The SIS had a close and cordial relationship with the Metropolitan Police, but it went only so far.
Nolan finished his pint. "Yes, I'll leave the nightmares to you, Alan." He managed not to shiver. "I should start keeping my eyes open at once, is it?"
"Immediately."
"And we should consider taking the leavings from more than one such incident?"
"Obviously." Kingshot nodded. "Another round?"
"Good idea, Alan," Nolan agreed. And his host waved to the barman. "You know, someday I'd love to know what you are using me for."
"Someday after we're both retired, Patrick. You'll be pleased to know what you are helping with. That I can promise you, old man."
"If you say so, Alan." Nolan conceded the point. For now.
* * *
"WHAT THE HELL?" Judge Moore observed, reading the latest dispatch from Moscow. He handed the fresh copy over to Greer, who scanned it and passed it along to Mike Bostock.
"Mike, your boy Foley has a lively imagination," the Admiral commented.
"This sounds more like Mary Pat. She's the cowboy—well, cowgirl, I suppose you'd say. It is original, guys."
"Original isn't the word," the DCI said, rolling his eyes somewhat. "Okay, Mike, is it doable?"
"Theoretically, yes—and I like the operational concept. To get a defector and keep Ivan ignorant of the fact. That's