Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [202]
So the only smart thing for him to do would be to look in on his escape procedures, and even to do that circumspectly, and otherwise wait for this Ryan chap to arrive from London to look over his shoulder… Ryan, he thought, CIA. The same one who—no chance of that. Just a coincidence. Had to be. That Ryan was a bootneck—an American bootneck. Just too much of a coincidence, the COS Budapest decided.
* * *
RYAN HAD REMEMBERED his croissants, and this time he'd taken them with him in the cab from Victoria to Century House, along with the coffee. He arrived to see Simon's coat on the tree, but no Simon. Probably off with Sir Basil, he decided, and sat down at his desk, looking at the pile of overnights to go through. The croissants—he'd pigged out and bought three of them, plus butter and grape-jelly packets—were sufficiently flaky that he risked ending up wearing them instead of eating them, and this morning's coffee wasn't half bad. He made a mental note to write to Starbucks and suggest that they open some outlets in London. The Brits needed good coffee to get them off their damned tea, and this new Seattle company might just pull it off, assuming they could train people to brew it up right. He looked up when the door opened.
"Morning, Jack."
"Hey, Simon. How's Sir Basil this morning?"
"He's feeling very clever indeed with this Operation BEATRIX. It's under way, in a manner of speaking."
"Can you fill me in on what's happening?"
Simon Harding thought for a moment, then explained briefly.
"Is somebody out of his fucking mind?" Ryan demanded at the conclusion of the minibrief.
"Jack, yes, it is creative," Harding agreed. "But there should be little in the way of operational difficulties."
"Unless I barf," Jack responded darkly.
"So take a plastic bag," Harding suggested. "Take one from the airplane with you."
"Funny, Simon." Ryan paused. "What is this, some sort of initiation ceremony for me?"
"No, we don't do that sort of thing. The operational concept comes from your people, and the request for cooperation comes from Judge Moore himself."
"Fuck!" Jack observed. "And they dump me in the shitter, eh?"
"Jack, the objective here is not merely to get the Rabbit out, but to do so in such a way as to make Ivan believe he's dead, not defected, along with his wife and daughter."
Actually, the part that bothered Ryan was the corpses. What could be more distasteful than that? And he doesn't even know the nasty part yet, Simon Harding thought, glad that he'd edited that part out.
* * *
ZAITZEV WALKED INTO the administrative office on The Centre's second floor. He showed his ID to the girl and waited a few minutes before going into the supervisor's office.
"Yes?" the bureaucrat said, only half looking up.
"I wish to take my vacation days. I want to take my wife to Budapest. There's a conductor there she wants to hear—and I wish to travel there by train instead of by air."
"When?"
"In the next few days. As soon as possible, in fact."
"I see." The KGB's travel office did many things, most of them totally mundane. The travel agent—what else could Zaitzev call him?—still didn't look up. "I must check the availability of space on the train."
"I want to travel International Class, compartments, beds for three—I have a child, you see."
"That may not be easy," the bureaucrat noted.
"Comrade, if there are any difficulties, please contact Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy," he said mildly.
That name caused him to look up, Zaitzev saw. The only question was whether or not he'd make the call. The average desk-sitter did not go out of his way to become known to a senior