Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [256]
Hudson was a competent driver, puffing away on his cigars and driving as though he were on his way to Covent Garden in London. Ryan thanked God that he'd made a trip to the head before walking to the hotel—otherwise he might lose control of his bladder. Well, probably his face didn't show how nervous he was, Jack hoped. He kept telling himself that his own life wasn't on the line, but those of the people in the back were, and they were now his responsibility, and something in him, probably something learned from his policeman father, made that a matter of supreme importance.
"What is your full name?" Oleg asked him, breaking the silence unexpectedly.
"Ryan, Jack Ryan."
"What sort of name is Ryan?" the Rabbit pressed on.
"My ancestry is Irish. John corresponds to Ivan, I think, but people call me Jack, like Vanya, maybe."
"And you are in CIA?"
"Yes, I am."
"What is your job in CIA?"
"I am an analyst. Mostly I sit at a desk and write reports."
"I also sit at desk in Centre."
"You are a communications officer?"
A nod. "Da, that is my job in Centre." Then Zaitzev remembered that his important information was not for the back of a car, and he shut back up.
Ryan saw that. He had things to say, but not here, and that was fair enough for the moment.
The trip went smoothly. Four cigars for Hudson, and six cigarettes for Ryan, until they approached the town of Csurgo.
Ryan had expected something more than this. Csurgo was barely a wide place in the road, with not even a gas station in evidence, and surely not an all-night 7-Eleven. Hudson turned off the main road onto a dirt track, and three minutes later there was the shape of a commercial truck. It was a big Volvo, he saw in a moment, with a black canvas cover on the back and two men standing next to it, both smoking. Hudson pulled around it, finding concealment behind some nondescript sort of shed a few yards from it, and stopped the Jaguar. He hopped out, and motioned to the rest to do the same.
Ryan followed the Brit spook to the two men. Hudson walked right up to the older of the two and shook his hand.
"Hello, Istvan. Good of you to wait for us."
"Hello, Andy. It is a dull night. Who are your friends?"
"This is Mr. Ryan. These are the Somerset family. We're going across the border," Hudson explained.
"Okay," Kovacs agreed. "This is Jani. He's my driver for tonight. Andy, you can ride in front with us. The rest will be in the back. Come," he said, leading the way.
The truck's tailgate had ladder steps built in. Ryan climbed up first, and bent down to lift the little girl—Svetlana, he remembered, was her name—and watched her mother and father climb up. In the cargo area, he saw, were some large cardboard boxes, perhaps containers for the tape machine Hungarians made. Kovacs climbed up also.
"You all speak English?" he asked, and got nods. "It is a short way to the border, just five kilometer. You will hide in boxes here. Please make no noise. Is important. You understand? Make no noise." He got more nods, noting that the man—definitely not an Englishman, he could see—translated to his wife. The man took the child, Kovacs saw also. With his cargo hidden away, he closed the tailgate and walked forward.
"Five thousand d-mark for this, eh?" Istvan asked.
"That is correct," Hudson agreed.
"I should ask more, but I am not a greedy man."
"You are a trusted comrade, my friend," Hudson assured him, briefly wishing that he had a pistol in his belt.
The Volvo's big diesel lit up with a rumbling roar and the truck jerked off, back to the main road, with Jani at the large, almost flat steering wheel.
It didn't take long.
And that was a good thing for Ryan, crouching in the cardboard box in the back. He could only guess how the Russians felt, like unborn babies in a horrible womb, one with loaded guns outside it.
Ryan was afraid even to smoke a final cigarette, fearing someone might smell the smoke over the pungent diesel exhaust, which was altogether unlikely.
"So, Istvan," Hudson