The Cardinal of the Kremlin - Tom Clancy [172]
The KGB's Washington station was larger than that of CIA in Moscow, though not large enough to suit Platonov, since the number of people in the mission had been reduced to numerical equivalence with the American Embassy staff in the Soviet Union, something the Americans had taken years to do. He usually summoned his section chiefs at 7:30 for their morning conference, but today he called one of his officers early.
"Good morning, Comrade Colonel," the man said correctly. The KGB is not known for its pleasantries.
"I need you to get some information from Cassius on this Ryan business. It is imperative that we confirm his current legal difficulties as quickly as possible. That means today if you can manage it."
"Today?" the man asked in some discomfort as he took the written instructions. "There is risk in moving so rapidly."
"The Chairman is aware of that," Platonov observed dryly.
"Today," the man nodded.
The rezident smiled inwardly as his man left. That was as much emotion as he'd shown in a month. This one had a real future.
"There's Butch," an FBI agent observed as the man came out of the embassy compound. They knew his real name, of course, but the first agent who'd shadowed him had noted that he looked like a Butch, and the name had stuck, His normal morning routine was ostensibly to unlock a few embassy offices, then to run errands before the senior diplomatic personnel appeared at nine. That involved catching breakfast at a nearby coffee shop, buying several newspapers and magazines and frequently leaving a mark or two in one of several places. As with most counterintelligence operations, the really hard part was getting the first break. After that it was straight police work. They'd gotten the first break on Butch eighteen months before.
He walked the four blocks to the shop, well dressed for the cold-he probably found Washington winters pretty mild, they all agreed-and turned into the place right on schedule. As with most coffee shops, this one had a regular trade. Three of them were FBI agents. One was dressed like a businesswoman, always reading her Wall Street Journal by herself in a corner booth. Two wore the tool belts of carpenters, and swaggered to the counter either before or after Butch entered. Today they were waiting for him. They were not always there, of course. The woman, Special Agent Hazel Loomis, coordinated her schedule with a real business, careful to miss work holidays. It was a risk, but a close surveillance, no matter how carefully planned, could not be too regular. Similarly, they appeared at the cafe' on days when they knew Butch was away, never altering their routine to show that their interest was in their subject.
Agent Loomis noted his arrival time on the margin of an article-she was always scribbling on the paper-and the carpenters watched him in the mirrored wall behind the counter as they savaged their way through their hash-browns and traded a few boisterous jokes. As usual, Butch had gotten four different papers from a newsstand right outside the coffee shop. The magazines he got all hit the stands on Tuesdays. The waitress poured his coffee without being asked. Butch lit his customary cigarette-an American Marlboro, the favorite of the Russians-and drank his first cup of coffee as he scanned the first page of the Washington Post, which was his usual paper.
Refills were free here, and his arrived on schedule. He took a scant six minutes, which was about right,