Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [226]
"I haven't gotten my passport and visa yet," Ryan told C.
"You'll have it after lunch. Your overt cover is as an auditor from the Foreign Office. As I recall, you had an accountant's charter once upon a time. Perhaps you can look over the books while you're there." This was funny, Charleston thought.
Ryan tried to return the favor. "Probably more interesting than the local stock market. Anyone going with me?"
"No, but you'll be met at the airport by Andy Hudson. He's our Station Chief in Budapest. Good man," Sir Basil promised. "Stop in to see me before you head off."
"Will do, sir." And Basil's head vanished back into the corridor. "Simon, how about a pint and a sandwich?" Ryan said to his workmate.
"Fine idea." Harding stood and got his coat. They walked off to the Duke of Clarence.
* * *
LUNCH ON THE TRAIN was pleasant: borscht, noodles, black bread, and a proper dessert—strawberries from some farm or other. The only problem was that Svetlana didn't care for borscht, which was odd for a Russian native, even a child. She picked at the sour cream topping, then later attacked the noodles with gusto and positively devoured the late-season strawberries. They'd just climbed through the low Transylvanian mountains on the Bulgarian border. The train would pass through Sofia, then turn northwest for Belgrade, Yugoslavia, and finally Hungary.
The Zaitzevs lingered over lunch, Svetlana peering out the windows as the train approached Sofia.
Oleg Ivanovich did the same, puffing on his cigarette. Passing through Sofia, he found himself wondering which building housed the Dirzhavna Sugurnost. Was Colonel Bubovoy there, working on his plot, probably with that Colonel Strokov? How far along might they be? Was the Pope's life in immediate danger? How would he feel if the Polish priest was murdered before he could get his warning out? Could he or should he have moved faster? These damned questions, and no one in whom he could confide them! You are doing your best, Oleg Ivan'ch, he told himself, and no man can do more than that!
The Sofia station looked like a cathedral, an impressive stone building with an almost religious purpose. Somehow he wasn't worried now about a KGB arrest team boarding the train. His only thoughts were to press on, get to Budapest, and see what the CIA did there… and hope they were competent. KGB could do a job like this with consummate professionalism, almost like stage magicians. Was CIA also that good? On Russian TV, they were frequently portrayed as evil but bumbling adversaries—but that wasn't what they said at The Centre. No, at #2 Dzerzhinskiy Square, they were thought to be evil spirits, always on the prowl, clever as the devil himself, the most deadly of enemies. So, which was true? Certainly he'd find out quickly enough—one way or another. Zaitzev stubbed out his cigarette and led his family back to their compartments.
* * *
"LOOKING FORWARD TO the mission, Jack?" Harding asked.
"Yeah, like the dentist. And don't tell me how easy it'll be. You've never gone out in the field either."
"Your own people suggested this, you know."
"So, when I get home—if I get home—I'll slug Admiral Greer," Ryan responded, half—but only half—joking. "I'm not trained for this, Simon, remember?"
"How many people are trained to deal with a direct physical attack? You've done that," Simon reminded him.
"Okay, I was a marine lieutenant once, for—what was it?—eleven months or so, before the helicopter crunched on Crete and I got my back broke. Shit, I don't even like roller-coasters. My mom and dad loved the goddamned things; they were always taking me up in them at Gwynn Oak Amusement Park when I was a little kid. Expected me to like the damned things, too. Dad," Ryan explained, "was a paratrooper in the One hundred first Airborne, back forty years ago. Falling out of the sky didn't worry him too much." That was followed by a snort. One nice thing about the Marine Corps, they didn't