Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [227]
That generated a laugh. "Only in the movies, Jack. They're bloody heavy to lug about, and they can be difficult to explain. There are no double-o people in SIS—at least not to my knowledge. The French occasionally kill people, and they are actually rather good at it. So are the Israelis, but people do make mistakes, even trained professionals, and that sort of thing can be difficult to explain to the press."
"You can't invoke a D-notice?"
"Theoretically, yes, but they can be difficult to enforce. Fleet Street has its own rules, you see."
"So does The Washington Post, as Nixon found out. So I ought not to kill anyone."
"I would try to avoid it," Simon agreed, munching on his turkey sandwich.
* * *
BELGRADE—BEOGRAD TO its natives—also had a fine station. In the previous century, evidently, architects had worked hard to outdo each other, like the pious ones who'd built cathedrals in the Middle Ages. The train was several hours late, he saw with surprise. He couldn't see why. The train hadn't stopped for any length of time anywhere. Perhaps it wasn't traveling as fast as it was supposed to. Leaving Belgrade, it snaked up some modest hills, and none too quickly at that. He imagined this country would be pretty in winter. Wasn't there an upcoming Olympiad hereabouts? The winter probably came here about the same time it did in Moscow; It was a little late this year, but that usually meant it would be unusually harsh when it arrived. He wondered what winter would be like in America…
* * *
"READY, JACK?" Charleston asked in his office.
"I suppose." Jack looked at his new passport. Since it was a diplomatic one, it was a little more ornate than the usual, and bound in red leather, with the Royal Coat of Arms on the front cover. He paged through it to see the stamps of all the places he had not visited. Thailand, the People's Republic of China. Damn, Jack thought, I really do get around. "Why this visa?" he asked. The U.K. didn't require them for anybody.
"Hungary controls movement in and out rather sternly. They require an entry and exit visa. You'll not be needing the latter, I expect," C observed. "Hudson will probably be taking you out in a southerly direction. He has good relations with the local smugglers."
"Walking over any mountains?" Ryan asked.
Basil shook his head. "No, we don't often do that. Car or truck, I should think. Ought not to be any problem at all, my boy." He looked up. "It really is quite routine, Jack."
"You say so, sir." It damned sure isn't for me,
Charleston stood. "Good luck, Jack. See you back in a few days."
Ryan took his hand. "Roger that, Sir Basil." Semper fi, pal.
There was a car waiting on the street. Jack hopped in the left-front seat, and the driver headed east. The ride took about fifty minutes with the light afternoon traffic, almost as fast as the train would have been.
On getting to Chatham, Ryan found his daughter napping, Little Jack playing with his feet—fascinating things they were—in the playpen, and Miss Margaret sitting with a magazine in the living room.
"Dr. Ryan, I didn't expect—"
"That's okay, I have to take a business trip." He walked to the wall phone in the kitchen and tried calling Cathy, only to learn that she was giving her damned lecture on her laser toy. It was the one she used for welding blood vessels back shut, he thought. Something like that. Frowning, he went upstairs for his bag. He'd try to call her from the airport. But, just in case, he scribbled a note.
OFF TO BONN. TRIED TO CALL. WILL TRY AGAIN. LOVE, JACK. This one found its way to the refrigerator door. Ryan bent down to give Sally a kiss and then reached down to lift his son for a hug, a sloppy one, as it turned out. The little guy dribbled the way a car engine dripped oil. That necessitated a paper towel on the way out.
"Have a good trip, Dr. Ryan," the nanny called.