Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [296]
"But only people with clearances can fuck us in the ass," Ritter reminded them.
"Only the people you trust with your money can steal from you," Judge Moore observed. He'd seen enough criminal cases along that score. "That's the problem. Imagine how Ivan's going to feel if he finds out about the Rabbit."
"That," Ritter said, "is different."
"Very good, Bob," the DCI reacted with a laugh. "My wife says that to me all the time. It must be the war cry of women all over the world—that's different. The other side thinks they're the forces of Truth and Beauty, too, remember."
"Yeah, Judge, but we're going to whip 'em."
It was good to see such confidence, especially in a guy like Bob Ritter, Moore thought.
"Still thinking about THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH, Robert?"
"Putting some ideas together. Give me a few weeks."
"Fair enough."
* * *
IT WAS JUST one in the morning in Washington when Ryan awoke on Italian time. The shower helped get him alert, and the shave got his face smooth. By seven-thirty, he was heading down for breakfast. Mrs. Sharp fixed coffee in the Italian style, which surprisingly tasted as though someone had emptied an ashtray into the pot. Jack wrote that off to differing national tastes. The eggs and (English) bacon were just fine, as was the buttered toast. Someone had decided that men going into action needed full bellies. A pity the Brits didn't know about hash brown potatoes, the most filling of unhealthy breakfast foods.
"All ready?" Sharp asked, coming in.
"I guess we all have to be. What about the rest of the crew?"
"We rendezvous at the front of the basilica in thirty-five minutes." And it was only a five-minute drive from there. "Here's a friend for you to take along." He handed over a pistol.
Jack took it and slid the slide back. It was, fortunately, empty.
"You may need this, too." Sharp handed over two loaded magazines. Sure enough, they were hardball—full-metal-jacketed—cartridges, which would go right through the target, making only a nine-millimeter hole in and out. But Europeans thought you could drop an elephant with them. Yeah, sure, Jack thought, wishing for a .45 Colt M1911A1, which was much better suited for putting a man on the ground and leaving him there until the ambulance crew arrived. But he'd never mastered the big Colt, though he had, barely, qualified with it. It was with a rifle that Ryan could really shoot, but nearly anyone could shoot a rifle. Sharp didn't provide a holster. The Browning Hi-Power would have to go in his belt, and he'd have to keep his jacket buttoned to conceal it. The bad thing about carrying a pistol was that they were heavy damned things to port around with you, and without a proper holster he'd have to keep adjusting it in his belt to make sure it didn't fall out or slide down his pants. That just wouldn't do. It would also make sitting down a pain in the gut, but there wouldn't be much of that today. The spare magazine went into his coat pocket. He pulled the slide back, locked it in place, and slid the loaded one into the butt, then dropped the locking lever to release the slide. The weapon was now loaded and "in battery," meaning ready to fire. On reflection, Ryan carefully dropped the hammer. A safety might have sufficed, but Ryan had been trained not to trust safeties. To fire the weapon, he'd have to remember to cock the hammer, something he'd fortunately forgotten to do with Sean Miller. But this time, if the worst happened, he would not.
"Time to boogie?" Jack asked Sharp.
"Does that mean go?" the Chief of Station Rome asked. "I meant to ask the other time you said that."
"Yeah, like, boogie on down the road. It's an Americanism. 'Boogie' used to be a kind of dance, I think."
"And your radio." Sharp pointed. "It clips on the belt over your wallet pocket. On/off switch"—he demonstrated—"earpiece fastens to your collar, and the microphone onto your collar. Clever bit of kit, this."
"Okay." Ryan got everything arranged properly, but left the radio off. The spare batteries went