Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [264]
"Ah, Mr. Somerset," Ryan heard Mrs. Thompson say. "Good morning, and welcome."
"Spasiba" Oleg Ivan'ch replied in a sleepy voice. Kids could get you up at the goddamnedest hours, with their smiling faces and lovely dispositions. "That is my new name?"
"We'll figure something more permanent later," Ryan told him. "Again, welcome."
"This is England?" the Rabbit asked.
"We're eight miles from Manchester," the British intelligence officer replied. "Good morning. In case you don't remember, my name is Alan Kingshot. This is Mrs. Emma Thompson, and Nick will be back in a few minutes." Handshakes were exchanged.
"My wife be here soon. She see to zaichik" he explained.
"How are you feeling, Vanya?" Kingshot asked.
"Much travel, much fear, but I am safe now, yes?"
"Yes, you are entirely safe," Kingshot assured him.
"And what would you like for breakfast?" Mrs. Thompson asked.
"Try this," Jack suggested, pointing at his plate. "It's great."
"Yes, I will—what is called?"
"Eggs Benedict," Jack told him. "Mrs. Thompson, this hollandaise sauce is just perfect. My wife needs your recipe, if I may impose." And maybe Cathy could teach her about proper coffee. That would be an equitable trade, Ryan thought.
"Why, certainly, Sir John," she replied with a beaming smile. No woman in all the world objects to praise for her cooking.
"For me also, then," Zaitzev decided.
"Tea or coffee?" she asked her guest.
"You have English Breakfast tea?" the Rabbit asked.
"Of course," she answered.
"Please for me, then."
"Certainly." And she disappeared back into the kitchen.
It was still a lot for Zaitzev to take. Here he was, in the breakfast room of a manor house fit for a member of the old nobility, surrounded by a green lawn such as one might see at Augusta National, with monstrous oak trees planted two hundred years before, a carriage house, and stables in the distance. It was something he might have imagined as worthy of Peter the Great, the things of books and museums, and he was in it as an honored guest?
"Nice house, isn't it?" Ryan asked, finishing off the Eggs Benny.
"Is amazing," Zaitzev responded, wide eyes sweeping around.
"Belonged to a ducal family, bought by a textiles manufacturer a hundred years ago, but his business fell on hard times, and the government bought it last year. We use it for conferences and as a safe house. The heating system is a little primitive," Kingshot reported. "But that is not a problem at the moment. We've had a very pleasant summer, and the fall looks promising as well."
"At home, there'd be a golf course around this place," Jack said, looking out the windows. "A big one."
"Yes," Alan agreed. "It would be splendid for that."
"When I go America?" the Rabbit asked.
"Oh, three or four days," Kingshot answered. "We would like to talk with you a little, if you don't mind."
"When do we start?"
"After breakfast. Take your time, Mr. Zaitzev. You are no longer in the Soviet Union. We shall not pressure you at all," Alan promised.
My ass, Ryan thought. Buddy, they're going to suck your brain out of your head and strain it for your thoughts one molecule at a time. But the Rabbit had just gotten a free ride out of Mother Russia, with the prospect of a comfortable life for him and his family in the West, and everything in life had its price.
He loved his tea. Then the rest of the family came out and, over the next twenty minutes, Mrs. Thompson nearly ran out of Hollandaise sauce, while the arriving Russians ensured steady employment for the local egg farmers.
Irina left the breakfast room to tour the house and was greatly excited to see a concert grand Bosendorfer piano, turning like a kid at Christmas to ask if she might tickle the keys. She was years out of practice, but the look on her face was like a return of childhood as she struggled through "On the Bridge at Avignon," which had been her favorite exercise tune many years before—and which she still remembered.
"A friend of mine plays