Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [217]
"So, looking forward to the trip now, my dear?" Oleg asked his wife.
"Yes, especially the shopping." Of course.
Part of Oleg Ivan'ch was calm—in fact, the calmest he'd been in weeks. It was really happening. His treason—part of his consciousness thought of it that way—was under way. How many of his countrymen, he wondered—indeed, how many of his coworkers at The Centre—would take the chance if they had the courage to do so? You couldn't know. He lived in a country and worked at an office where everyone concealed their inner thoughts. And at KGB, even the Russian custom of sanctifying especially close friendships by speaking things that could put you in prison, trusting that a true friend would never denounce you—no, a KGB officer didn't do such things. KGB was founded on the dichotomous balance of loyalty and betrayal. Loyalty to the state and its principles, and betrayal of any who violated them. But since he didn't believe in those principles anymore, he had turned to treason to save his soul.
And now the treason was under way. If the Second Chief Directorate knew of his plans, they would have been mad to allow him on this train. He could leave it at any intermediate stop—or just jump off the train when it slowed, approaching some preplanned point—and escape to Western hands, which could be waiting anywhere for him. No, he was safe, at least as long as he was on this train. And so he could be calm for now, and he'd let the days come as they would and see what happened. He kept telling himself that he was doing the right thing, and from that knowledge came his feeling, however illusory, of personal safety. If there were a God, surely He would protect a man on the run from evil.
* * *
DINNER IN THE Ryan house was spaghetti again. Cathy had a particularly good recipe for sauce—from her mom, who didn't have a single drop of Italian blood in her veins—and her husband loved it, especially with good Italian bread, which Cathy had found at a local bakery in downtown Chatham. No surgery tomorrow, so they had wine with dinner. Time to tell her.
"Honey, I have to travel in a few days."
"The NATO thing?"
"'Fraid so, babe. Looks like three or four days—maybe a little more."
"What's it about, can you say?"
"Nope, not allowed."
"Spook business?"
"Yep." He was allowed to say that.
"What's a spook?" Sally asked.
"It's what daddy does," Cathy said, without thinking.
"Spook, like in the Wizzerdaboz?" Sally went on.
"What?" her father asked.
"The Cowardly Lion says he believes in spooks, remember?" Sally pointed out.
"Oh, you mean the Wizard of Oz", It was her favorite movie so far this year.
"That's what I said, Daddy." How could her daddy be so stupid?
"Well, no, Daddy isn't one of those," Jack told his daughter.
"Then why did Mommy say so?" Sally persisted. She has the makings of a good FBI agent, Jack thought at that moment.
It was Cathy's turn. "Sally, Mommy was just making a joke."
"Oh." Sally went back to work on her pisghetti. Jack gave his wife a look. They couldn't talk about his work in front of his daughter—not ever. Kids never kept secrets for more than five minutes, did they? So, he'd learned, never say anything in front of a kid that you didn't want on the first page of The Washington Post. Everyone on Grizedale Close thought that John Patrick Ryan worked at the U.S. Embassy and was lucky enough to be married to a surgeon. They didn't need to know that he was an officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. Too much curiosity. Too many jokes.
"Three or four days?" Cathy asked.
"That's what they tell me. Maybe a little longer, but not