Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (646 page)

What followed was, well, nothing, for more than an hour. Andreas ordered some strudel—every bit as tasty here as it was in Vienna, three hundred kilometers away, and this despite the Marxist government in the country, because the Hungarians loved their food, and Hungary was a productive agricultural country, despite the command economy imposed on the farmers to the east. Andreas lit up a string of cigarettes, read his newspaper, and just waited for something to happen.

Presently, it did. A man dressed a little too well to be a Hungarian citizen took his seat at the table next to his, lit a cigarette of his own, and read
his
newspaper.

Here it worked for Andreas that he was badly nearsighted. His glasses were so thick that it took a few seconds for anyone to see where his eyes were pointed, and he remembered his training enough not to allow his eyes to linger on any one spot more than a few brief seconds. Mainly he appeared to be reading his paper, like half a dozen others in this elegant little shop, which had somehow survived the Second World War. He watched the American—Andreas had it fixed in his mind that this one had to be an American—sip his own coffee and read his own paper, until he set his coffee cup down in the saucer, then reached into his hip pocket for a handkerchief, which he used to wipe his nose, and then replaced in the pocket. . . .

But first he retrieved the tobacco tin from under the table. It was a move so skillfully done that only a trained counterintelligence officer could have spotted it, but, Andreas told himself, that was exactly what he was. And it was his pride that generated his first and most costly mistake of the day.

The American finished his coffee and took his leave, with Andreas in close pursuit. The foreigner walked toward the underground station a block away and nearly made it. But not quite. He turned in surprise when he felt a hand on his upper arm.

“Could I see the tobacco tin that you took from the table?” Andreas said, politely, because this foreigner was probably, technically speaking, a diplomat.

“Excuse me?” the foreigner said, and his accent made him either British or American.

“The one in your pants pocket,” Andreas clarified.

“I do not know what you are talking about, and I have business to do.” The man started to walk away.

He didn’t get far. Andreas pulled out his pistol. It was a Czech Agrozet Model 50 and it effectively ended the conversation. But not quite.

“What is this? Who are you?”

“Papers.” Andreas held out his hand, keeping his pistol in close. “We already have your contact. You are,” he added, “under arrest.”

In the movies, the American would have drawn his own side arm and tried to make his escape down the twenty-eight steps into the ancient metro. But the American’s fear was that this guy had seen too many movies himself, and it might make him nervous enough to pull the trigger on his Czech piece-of-shit handgun. So he reached into his coat pocket, very slowly and deliberately, lest he scare the idiot, and withdrew his passport. It was a black one, the sort issued to diplomats, and instantly recognizable to lucky asses like this stupid, fucking Hunky. The American’s name was James Szell, and he was by ancestry Hungarian, one of the many minorities welcomed to the America of the previous century.

“I am an American diplomat, properly accredited to your government. You will take me to my embassy immediately.” Inwardly, Szell was seething. His face didn’t show it, of course, but his five years in the field had just come to a screeching halt. All this over a rookie second-rate agent furnishing second-rate information about a third-rate communist air force.
Goddamn it!

“First you will come with me,” Andreas told him. He motioned with his pistol. “This way.”

THE PAN AM 747 LANDED at Kennedy half an hour early due to favorable winds. Cox put his books back in his carry-on and stood, managing to be the first passenger off, with a little help from the stewardess. From there, it was a quick walk through customs—his canvas bag told everyone who and what he was—and from there to the next shuttle to Washington National. A total of ninety minutes later, he was in the back of a cab to the State Department at Foggy Bottom. Inside that capacious building, he opened the Diplomatic Bag and parceled out the various contents. The envelope from Foley was handed to a courier, who drove up the George Washington Parkway to Langley, where things also move fairly fast.

The message was hand-carried to MERCURY, the CIA’s message center, and, once decrypted and printed up, hand-delivered to the Seventh Floor. The original was put in the burn bag, and no hard copies were kept, though an electronic one was transferred to a VHS cassette, which ended up in a slot in Sneezy.

Mike Bostock was in his office, and when he saw the envelope from Moscow, he decided that everything else could wait. It surely could, he saw at once, but when he checked his watch he knew that Bob Ritter was over eastern Ohio and heading west on an All Nippon Airlines 747. So he called Judge Moore at home, and requested that he come in to the office. Grumbling, the DCI agreed to do so, at once, also telling Bostock to call Jim Greer as well. Both lived agreeably close to CIA headquarters, and they came out of the executive elevator just eight minutes apart.

“What is it, Mike?” Moore asked on his arrival.

“From Foley. Looks like he has something interesting.” Cowboy or not, Bostock was one to understate things.

“Damn,” the DCI breathed. “And Bob’s already gone?”

“Yes, sir, just an hour ago.”

“What is it, Arthur?” Admiral Greer asked, wearing a cheap golf shirt.

“We got us a Rabbit.” Moore handed the message over.

Greer took his time going over it. “This could be very interesting,” he thought, after a moment’s reflection.

“Yes, it could.” Moore turned to the deputy of the Operations Directorate. “Mike, talk to me.”

“Foley thinks it’s hot. Ed’s as good a field officer as anybody we have, and so’s his wife. He wants to exfiltrate this guy and his family soonest. We pretty much have to go with his instincts on this one, Judge.”

“Problems?”

“The question is: How do we accomplish the mission? Ordinarily, we leave that to the people in the field, unless they try to pull something crazy, but Ed and Mary are too smart for that.” Bostock took a breath and looked out the floor-length windows to the Potomac Valley, out beyond the VIP parking lot. “Judge, Ed seems to think this guy has some very hot information. We can’t question him on that. The obvious supposition is that the Rabbit’s pretty far inside, and he wants to get the hell out of Dodge City. Adding the wife and daughter to the package is a serious complication. Again, we pretty much have to go with the instincts of our field personnel. It would be nice if we could run the guy as an agent, have him deliver information on a continuing basis, but for some reason either that isn’t feasible, or Ed thinks he has what we need and want already.”

“Why couldn’t he tell us more?” Greer observed, still holding the dispatch.

“Well, it’s possible that he was time-limited on getting this to the bagman, or he didn’t trust the courier system with stuff that could ID the guy to the opposition. Whatever this guy has, Ed didn’t want to trust normal communications channels, and that, gentlemen, is a message in and of itself.”

“So, you say approve the request?” Moore asked.

“Not a hell of a lot else we can do,” Bostock pointed out rather obviously.

“Okay—approved,” the DCI said officially. “Get it off to him, right now.”

“Yes, sir.” And Bostock left the room.

Greer had himself a chuckle. “Bob’s going to be pissed.”

“What can be so important that Foley would want to short-circuit procedures this abruptly?” Moore wondered aloud.

“We’re just going to have to wait to find out.”

“I suppose, but you know, patience has never been my long suit.”

“Well, think of this as a chance to acquire a virtue, Arthur.”

“Great.” Moore stood. He could go home now and grumble all day, like a kid on Christmas Eve, wondering what was going to be under the tree—if Christmas was really going to happen this year.

CHAPTER 18

CLASSICAL MUSIC

THE BOUNCE-BACK SIGNAL
arrived after midnight in Moscow, where it was printed up and walked to Mike Russell’s desk by the night communications officer and promptly forgotten. Due to the eight-hour time difference from Washington, this was often the busiest time for inbound signals, and that one was just another piece of paper with gibberish on it, one which he was not allowed to decrypt.

AS MARY PAT
had expected, Ed hadn’t gotten any sleep to speak of, but had done his best not to roll around too much, lest he disturb his wife. Doubts were also part of the espionage game. Was Oleg Ivan’ch a false-flag, some random attempt from the KGB on which he’d bitten down a little too fast and a little too hard? Had the Soviets just gone fishing at random and landed a big blue marlin on the first try? Did KGB play such games? Not according to his lengthy mission briefing at Langley. They’d played similar games in the past, but those had been targeted deliberately toward people whom they knew to be players, from whom they could get a line on other agents just by following them around to check out drop sites. . . .

But you didn’t play it this way. You didn’t ask for a ticket out on the first go-round unless you really wanted something specific, like the neutralization of a particular target—and that couldn’t be it. He and Mary Pat hadn’t
done
much of anything yet. Hell, only a handful of people at the embassy knew who and what he was. He hadn’t recruited new agents yet, nor worked any existing ones. That wasn’t, strictly speaking, his job. The Chief of Station wasn’t supposed to work the field. He was supposed to direct and supervise those who did, like Dom Corso and Mary Pat and the rest of his small but expert crew.

And if Ivan knew who he was, why tip its hand so quickly—it would only tell CIA more than it knew now, or could easily learn. You didn’t play the spy game that way.

Okay, what if the Rabbit was a throwaway, whose job it was to ID Foley and then give over useless or false information—what if the whole job had as its objective nothing more than to ID the COS Moscow? But they couldn’t have targeted him without knowing who he was, could they? Even KGB didn’t have the assets to shotgun such a mission and ping on every embassy staffer—it was way too clumsy and was certain to alert embassy personnel to something very strange under way.

No, KGB was too professional for that.

So they couldn’t target him without knowing, and if they knew, they’d want to hide that information, lest they alert CIA to a source or method that they’d be far better advised to conceal.

So Oleg Ivanovich couldn’t be a false-flag, and that was that.

So, he
had to be
the real thing. Didn’t he?

For all his intelligence and experience, Foley could not come up with a construct that made the Rabbit anything but the genuine item. The problem was that it made little sense.

But what in espionage ever made sense?

What
did
make sense was the necessity of getting this guy out. They had a Rabbit, and the Rabbit needed to run away from the Bear.

“YOU CAN’T SAY what’s bothering you?” Cathy asked.

“Nope.”

“But it’s important?”

“Yep.” He nodded. “Yeah, it sure is, but the problem is that we don’t know how serious.”

“Something for me to worry about?”

“Well, no. It’s not World War Three or anything like that. But I really can’t talk about it.”

“Why?”

“You know why—it’s classified. You don’t tell me about your patients, do you? That’s because you have rules of ethics, and I have rules of classification.” Smart as Cathy was, she still hadn’t fully grasped that one yet.

“Isn’t there any way I can help?”

“Cathy, if you were cleared for this, maybe you could offer insights. But maybe not. You’re not a pshrink, and that’s the medical field that applies to this—how people respond to threats, what their motivations are, how they perceive reality, and how those perceptions determine their actions. I’ve been trying to get inside the heads of people I haven’t met to figure out what they’re going to do about something. I’ve been studying how they think for quite a while, even before I joined the Agency, but you know—”

“Yeah, it’s hard to look inside somebody’s brain. And you know what?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s harder with the sane ones than the crazy ones. People can think rationally and still do crazy things.”

“Because of their perceptions?”

She nodded. “Partially that, but partially because they’ve chosen to believe totally false things—for entirely rational reasons, but the things they believe in are still false.”

This struck Ryan as worth pursuing. “Okay. Tell me about . . . Josef Stalin, for instance. He killed a lot of people. Why?”