The Cardinal of the Kremlin - Tom Clancy [199]
"South of the embassy, mate. You should have told me that you wanted to go there, we'd have hit it first." He made a legal U-turn while Ryan kept looking back. Sure enough, the Zhiguli-it looked like an old Fiat-did the same, following them like a faithful dog. They went past the American compound again on the way, past the former Greek Orthodox church known to embassy wags as Our Lady of the Microchips for all the surveillance devices it surely contained.
"What exactly are we doing?" the driver asked.
"We're just driving around. The last time I was here, all I saw was the way to and from the Foreign Ministry and the inside of a palace."
"And if our friends get any closer?"
"Well, if they want to talk with me, I suppose I might oblige," Ryan answered.
"Are you serious?" He knew Ryan was CIA.
"You bet." Jack chuckled.
"You know I have to do a written report on things like that?"
"You have your job. I have mine." They drove around for another hour, but nothing happened. That was to Ryan's disappointment, and the driver's relief.
They arrived the usual way. Though the crossing points were shuffled at random, the car-it was a Plymouth Reliant, about four years old, with Oklahoma tags-stopped at the Border Patrol control booth. There were three men inside, one of whom appeared to be asleep and had to be roused.
"Good evening," the Border Patrolman said. "Could I see some identification, please?" All three men handed over driver's licenses, and the photographs matched. "Anything to declare?"
"Some booze. Two quarts-I mean liters-for each of us." He watched with interest as a dog sniffed around the car. "You want us to pull over and pop the trunk?"
"Why were you in Mexico?"
"We represent Cummings-Oklahoma Tool and Die Pipeline and refinery equipment," the driver explained. "Mainly large-diameter control valves and like that. We're trying to sell some to Pemex. The sales stuff is in the trunk, too."
"Any luck?" the Border Patrolman asked.
"First try. It'll take a few more. They usually do."
The dog handler shook his head negatively. His Labrador wasn't interested in the car. No smell of drugs. No smell of nitrates. The men in the car didn't fit the profile. They looked fairly clean-cut, but not overly so, and had not chosen a busy time to make the crossing.
"Welcome back," the patrolman said. "Safe trip home."
"Thank you, sir." The driver nodded and dropped the car into drive. "See ya."
"I don't believe it," the man in the back said, once they were a hundred meters away from the control point. He spoke in English. "They don't have the first idea of security."
"My brother's a major in the Border Guards. I think he'd have a heart attack if he saw how easy that was," the driver observed. He didn't laugh. The hard part would be getting out, and as of now they were in enemy territory. He drove right at the posted speed limit while local drivers whizzed by him. He liked the American car. Though it lacked power, he'd never driven a car with more than four cylinders and didn't really know the difference. He'd been in the United States four times before, but never for a job like this, and never with so little preparation.
All three spoke perfect American English, with a prairie twang to coincide with their identification papers-that's how they all thought of their driver's licenses and Social Security cards, even though they could hardly be called proper "papers." The odd thing was that he liked America, especially the easy availability of inexpensive, wholesome food. He'd stop at a fast-food place on the way to Santa Fe, preferably a Burger King, where he'd indulge his love for a charcoal-cooked hamburger served with lettuce, tomatoes, and mayonnaise. That was one of the things Soviets found most amazing about America, the way anyone could get food without standing in a block-long line. And it was usually good food. How could Americans be so good at difficult tasks like food production and distribution, he wondered,