Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (650 page)

“Yes, sir, and probably Mr. Bostock also.”

That made it interesting. “Okay, call them and then come on out.” Ridley could almost hear the
God damn it, don’t I
ever
get a day off!
at the other end before the line went dead. It took another few minutes to call the two other senior Agency officials, and then Ridley went down to his car for the drive out, pausing only to make three Xerox copies.

IT WAS LUNCHTIME in Great Falls. Mrs. Moore, ever the perfect hostess, had lunch meats and soft drinks set out for her unexpected guests before retiring to her sitting room upstairs.

“What is it, Tommy?” Moore asked. He liked the newly appointed NIO. A graduate of Marquette University, he was a Russian expert and had been one of Greer’s star analysts before fleeting up to his present post. Soon he’d be one of the guys who always accompanied the President on Air Force One.

“This came in late this morning via Fort Meade,” Ridley said, handing out the copies.

Mike Bostock was the fastest reader of the group: “Oh, Lord.”

“This will make Chip Bennett happy,” James Greer predicted.

“Yeah, like a trip to the dentist,” Moore observed last of all. “Okay, people, what does this tell us?”

Bostock took it first. “It means we want this Rabbit in our hutch in one big hurry, gentlemen.”

“Through Budapest?” Moore asked, remembering his morning brief.

“Uh-oh,” Bostock observed.

“Okay.” Moore leaned forward. “Let’s get our thinking organized. First, how important is this information?”

James Greer took it. “He says KGB’s going to kill somebody who doesn’t deserve it. That kinda suggests the Pope, doesn’t it?”

“More importantly, he says our communications systems might be compromised,” Bostock pointed out. “That’s the hottest thing I see in this signal, James.”

“Okay, in either case, we want this guy on our side of the wire, correct?”

“Judge, you can bet your bench on that,” the Deputy DDO shot back. “As quickly as we can make it happen.”

“Can we use our own assets to accomplish it?” Moore asked next.

“It won’t be easy. Budapest has been burned down.”

“Does that change the importance of getting his cute little cottontail out of Redland?” the DCI asked.

“Nope.” Bostock shook his head.

“Okay, if we can’t do it ourselves, do we call in a marker?”

“The Brits, you mean?” Greer asked.

“We’ve used them before. We have good relations with them, and Basil does like to generate debts with us,” Moore reminded them. “Mike, can you live with that?” he asked Bostock.

A decisive nod. “Yes, sir. But it might be nice to have one of our people around to keep an eye on things. Basil can’t object to that.”

“Okay, we need to decide which of our assets we can send. Next,” Moore went on, “how fast?”

“How does tonight grab you, Arthur?” Greer observed to general amusement. “The way I read this, Foley’s willing to run the operation out of his own office, and he’s pretty hot to trot, too. Foley’s a good boy. I think we let him run with it. Budapest is probably a good exit point for our Rabbit.”

“Concur,” Mike Bostock agreed. “It’s a place a KGB officer can get to, like on vacation, and just disappear.”

“They’ll know he’s gone pretty fast,” Moore thought out loud.

“They knew when Arkady Shevchenko skipped, too. So what? He still gave us good information, didn’t he?” Bostock pointed out. He’d helped oversee that operation, which had really been ramrodded by the FBI in New York City.

“Okay. What do we send back to Foley?” Moore asked.

“One word: ‘Approved.’ ” Bostock
always
backed his field officers.

Moore looked around the room. “Objections? Anybody?” Heads just shook.

“Okay, Tommy. Back to Langley. Send that to Foley.”

“Yes, sir.” The NIO stood and walked out. One nice thing about Judge Moore. When you needed a decision, you might not like what you got, but you always got it.

CHAPTER 19

CLEAR SIGNAL

THE TIME DIFFERENCE
was the biggest handicap in working his station, Foley knew. If he waited around the embassy for a reply, he might have to wait for hours, and there was no percentage in that. So, right after the signal went out, he’d collected his family and gone home, with Eddie conspicuously eating another hot dog on the way out to the car, and a facsimile copy of the New York
Daily News
in his hand. It was the best sports page of the New York papers, he’d long thought, if a little lurid in its headlines. Mike Lupica knew his baseball better than the rest of the wannabe ballplayers, and Ed Foley had always respected his analysis. He might have made a good spook if he’d chosen a useful line of work. So now he could see why the Yankees had fallen on their asses this season. It looked as though the goddamned Orioles were going to take the pennant, and that, to his New York sensibilities, was a crime worse than how the Rangers looked this year.

“So, Eddie, you looking forward to skating?” he asked his son, belted in the back seat.

“Yeah!” the little guy answered at once. Eddie Junior was his son, all right, and maybe here he’d really learn how to play ice hockey the right way. Waiting in his father’s closet was the best pair of junior hockey skates that money could buy, and another pair for when his feet got bigger. Mary Pat had already checked out the local junior leagues, and those, her husband thought, were about the best this side of Canada, and maybe better.

On the whole, it was a shame he couldn’t have an STU in his house, but the Rabbit had told him that they might not be entirely secure, and besides, it would have told the Russians that he wasn’t just the embassy officer who baby-sat the local reporters.

Weekends were the dullest time for the Foley family. Neither minded the time with the little guy, of course, but they could have done that at their now-rented Virginia home. They were in Moscow for their work, which was a passion for both of them, and something their son, they hoped, would understand someday. So for now his father read some books with him. The little guy was picking up on the alphabet, and seemed to read words, though as calligraphic symbols rather than letter constructs. It was enough for his father to be pleased about, though Mary Pat had a few minor doubts. After thirty minutes of that, Little Eddie talked his dad through a half hour of
Transformers
tapes, to the great satisfaction of the former and the bemusement of the latter.

The Station Chief’s mind, of course, was on the Rabbit, and now it returned to his wife’s suggestion of getting the package out without KGB’s knowing they were gone. It was during the
Transformers
tape that it came back to him. You couldn’t have a murder without a body, but with a body you damned sure had a murder. But what if the body wasn’t the right one?

The essence of magic, he’d once heard Doug Henning say, was controlling the perception of the audience. If you could determine what they saw, then you could also dictate what they thought they saw, and from that precisely what they would remember seeing, and what they would then tell others. The key to
that
was in giving them something that they expected to see, even if it was unbelievable. People—even intelligent people—believed all manner of impossible things. It was sure as hell true in Moscow, where the rulers of this vast and powerful country believed in a political philosophy as out of tune with contemporary reality as the Divine Right of Kings. More to the point, they knew it was a false philosophy, and yet they commanded themselves to believe it as though it were Holy Scripture written in gold ink by God’s own hand. So these people
could
be fooled. They worked pretty hard to fool themselves, after all.

Okay, how to fool them?
Foley asked himself. Give the other guy something he expected to see, and he’d see it, whether it was really there or not. They wanted the Sovs to believe that the Rabbit and his family had . . . not skipped town, but had . . . died?

Dead people, so Captain Kidd had supposedly said, tell no tales. And neither did the
wrong
dead people.

The Brits did this once in World War II, didn’t they?
Foley wondered. Yes, he’d read the book in high school, and even then, at Fordham Prep, the operational concept had impressed him. Operation MINCEMEAT, it had been called. That concept had been very elegant indeed, as it had involved making the opposition feel smart, and people everywhere loved to feel smart. . . .

Especially the dumb ones,
Foley reminded himself. And the German intelligence services in World War II hadn’t been worth the powder to blow them to hell. They were so inept that the Germans would have been better advised to do without them entirely—Hitler’s astrologer would have been just as good, and probably a lot cheaper in the long run.

But the Russians, on the other hand, were pretty damned smart—smart enough that you wanted to be very careful playing head games with them, but not so smart that if they found something they expected to find, they would toss it in the trash can and go looking for what they
didn’t
expect. No, that was just human nature, and even the New Soviet Man they kept trying to build was subject to human nature, much as the Soviet government tried to breed it out of him.

So, how would we go about that?
he wondered quietly, as on the television a diesel truck-tractor changed into a two-legged robot, the better to fight off the forces of evil—whoever they were. . . .

Oh. Yeah.
It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? You just had to give them what they needed to see to prove that the Rabbit and his little hutch-mates were dead, to give them what dead people always left behind.
That
would be a major complication, but not so vast of one as to be impossible to arrange. But they’d need assistance. That thought did not make Ed Foley feel secure. In his line of work, you trusted yourself more than you trusted anyone or anything else—and after that, maybe, others of your own organization, but as few of them as possible. After
that,
when it became necessary to trust people in some other organization, you really gritted your teeth. Okay, sure, on his premission brief at Langley, he’d been told that Nigel Haydock could be relied upon as a very tame—and very able—Brit, and a pretty good field spook working for a closely allied service, and, okay, sure, he liked the look of the guy, and, okay, sure, they’d hit it off fairly well. But, God damn it, he wasn’t Agency. But Ritter had told him that, in a pinch, Haydock could be relied upon for a helping hand, and the Rabbit himself had told him that Brit comms hadn’t been cracked yet, and he had to trust the Rabbit to be an honest player. Foley’s life wasn’t riding on that, but damned sure his career was.

Okay, but what—no,
how
—to work this one. Nigel was the Commercial Attaché at the Brit Embassy, right across the river from the Kremlin itself, a station that went back to the czars, and one that had supposedly pissed Stalin off royally, to see the Union Jack every morning from his office window. And the Brits had helped recruit, and had later run GRU Colonel Oleg Penkovskiy, the agent who’d prevented World War III and, along the way, recruited CARDINAL, the brightest jewel in CIA’s crown. So if he had to trust anyone, it would have to be Nigel. Necessity was the mother of many things, and if the Rabbit came to grief, well, they’d know that SIS was penetrated. Again. He realized he’d have to apologize to Nigel just for thinking this way, but this was business, not personal.

Paranoia, Eddie,
the COS told himself.
You can’t suspect everybody.

The hell I can’t!

But, probably, he knew, Nigel Haydock thought the same thing about him. That was just how the game was played.

And if they got the Rabbit out, it was proof positive that Haydock was straight. No way in hell that Ivan would let this bunny skip town alive. He just knew too much.

Did Zaitzev have any idea at all of the danger he was walking into? He
trusted
CIA to get him and his family out of Dodge City alive. . . .

But with all the information to which he had access, wasn’t he making an informed judgment?

Jesus, there were enough interlocking wheels in this to make a bicycle factory, weren’t there?

The tape ended, and Master Truck Robot—or whatever the hell his name was—transformed himself back into a truck and motored off to the sound of “Transformers, more than meets the eye . . .” It was sufficient to the moment that Eddie liked it. So, he’d arranged some quality time with his son and some good think time for himself—not a bad Sunday evening on the whole.

“SO, WHAT’S THE PLAN, Arthur?” Greer asked.

“Good question, James,” the DCI answered. They were watching TV in his den, the Orioles and the White Sox playing in Baltimore. Mike Flanagan was pitching, and looked to be on his way to another Cy Young Award, and the rookie shortstop the Orioles had just brought up was playing particularly well, and looked to have a big-league future. Both men were drinking beer and eating pretzels, as though they were real people enjoying a Sunday afternoon of America’s pastime. That was partly true.