Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (651 page)

“Basil will help. We can trust him,” Admiral Greer opined.

“Agreed. Whatever problems he had are a thing of the past, and he’ll compartmentalize it as tight as the Queen’s jewel box. But we’ll want one of our people involved at his end.”

“Who, do you suppose?”

“Not the COS London. Everybody knows who he is, even the cabdrivers.” There was no disputing that. The London Station Chief had been in the spook business for a very long time, and was more an administrator now than an active field officer. The same could be said of most of his people, for whom London was a sinecure job, and mainly a sunset posting for people looking forward to retirement. They were good men all, of course, just ready to hang up the spikes. “Whoever it is, he’ll have to go to Budapest, and he’ll have to be invisible.”

“So, somebody they don’t know.”

“Yep.” Moore nodded as he took a bite of his sandwich and reached for some chips. “He won’t have to do very much, just let the Brits know he’s there. Keep ’em honest, like.”

“Basil’s going to want to interview this guy.”

“No avoiding that,” Moore agreed. “And he’s entitled to dip his beak, too.” That was a line he had picked up as a judge on a rare organized-crime appeals case. He and his fellow jurists in Austin, Texas, had laughed about it for weeks, after rejecting the appeal, 5-0.

“We’ll want one of our people in for that, too.”

“Bet your bippy, James,” Moore agreed again.

“And better that our guy is based over there. Timing might get a little tough.”

“You bet.”

“How about Ryan?” Greer asked. “He’s way the hell under the radar. Nobody knows who he is—he’s one of mine, right? He doesn’t even look like a field officer.”

“His face has been in the papers,” Moore objected.

“You think KGB reads the society page? At most they might have noticed him as a rich wannabe writer, and if he has a file, it’s in some sub-basement at The Centre. That ought not to be a problem.”

“You think so?” Moore wondered. For sure, this would give Bob Ritter a bellyache. But that wasn’t entirely a bad thing. Bob had visions of taking over all CIA operations, and, good man that he was, he would never be DCI, for any number of reasons, not the least of which was that Congress didn’t much like spooks with Napoleonic complexes. “Is he up to it?”

“The boy’s an ex-Marine and he knows how to think on his feet, remember?”

“He
has
paid his dues, James. He doesn’t take a leak sitting down,” the DCI conceded.

“And all he has to do is keep an eye on our friends, not play spook on enemy soil.”

“Bob will have a conniption fit.”

“It won’t hurt our purposes to keep Bob in his place, Arthur.”
Especially,
he didn’t add,
if this works out.
And work out it should. Once out of Moscow, it ought to be a fairly routine operation. Tense, of course, but routine.

“What if he screws things up?”

“Arthur, Jimmy Szell dropped the ball in Budapest, and he’s an experienced field officer. I know, probably not even his fault, probably just bad luck, but it proves the point. A lot of this racket is just luck. The Brits will be doing all the real work, and I’m sure Basil will pick a good team.”

Moore weighed the thought quietly. Ryan was very new at CIA, but he was a rising star. What helped was his adventure, not yet a year old, where twice he’d faced loaded guns and gotten it done anyway. One nice thing about the Marine Corps, they didn’t turn out many pussies. Ryan
could
think and act on his feet, and that was a nice thing to have in your pocket. Better yet, the Brits liked him. He’d seen the comments from Sir Basil Charleston on Ryan’s tenure at Century House—he was taking quite a liking to the young American analyst. So this was a chance to bring a new talent along, and though he wasn’t a graduate of The Farm, that didn’t mean he was a babe in the woods. Ryan had been through the woods, and he’d killed himself a couple of wolves along the way, hadn’t he?

“James, it’s a little outside the box, but I won’t say no for that reason. Okay, cut him loose. I hope your boy doesn’t wet his pants.”

“What did Foley call this operation?”

“BEATRIX, he said. You know, like
Peter Rabbit.”

“Foley, that boy is going places, Arthur, and his wife, Mary Patricia, she is a real piece of work.”

“There we surely agree, James. She’d make a great rodeo rider, and he’d be a pretty good town marshal west of the Pecos,” the DCI said. He liked to see some of the young talent the Agency was producing. Where they all came from—well, they came from a lot of different places, but they all seemed to have the same fire in the belly that he’d had thirty years before, working with Hans Tofte. They weren’t terribly different from the Texas Rangers he’d learned to admire as a little boy—the smart, tough people who did what had to be done.

“How do we get the word to Basil?”

“I called Chip Bennett last night, told him to have his people gin up some one-timers. Ought to be at Langley this evening. We’ll fly them to London on the 747 tonight, and shoot some on from there to Moscow. So we’ll be able to communicate securely, if not conveniently.”

THAT, IN FACT, was just about done. A computer system used for taking down the dot-dash signals of International Morse Code was connected to a highly sensitive radio tuned to a frequency used by no human agency, transforming the garbage noise into Roman letters. One of the technicians at Fort Meade remarked along the way that the intergalactic noise they were copying down was the residual static produced by the Big Bang, for which Penzias and Miller had collected a Nobel Prize a few years before, and that was as random as things got—unless you could decode it to learn what God thought, which was beyond the skills even of NSA’s Z-division. A dot-matrix printer put the letters to carbon-paper sets—three copies of each, the original to the originators, and a copy each for CIA and NSA. They all contained enough letters to transcribe the first third of the Bible, and each page and each line were alphanumerically identified to make decryption possible. Three people separated the pages, made sure that the sets were properly arranged, and then slipped them into ring binders for some semblance of ease of use. Then two were handed off to an Air Force NCO, who drove the CIA copies off to Langley. The lead technician wondered what was so goddamned important to require such massive one-time pads, which NSA had long before gotten past with its institutional worship of electronic technology, but his was not—ever—to reason why, was it? Not at Fort Meade, Maryland, it wasn’t.

RYAN WAS WATCHING TV, trying to get used to the British sitcoms. He’d grown to like British humor—they’d invented Benny Hill, after all. That guy had to be mentally disabled to do some of the things he did—but the regular series TV took a little getting used to. The signals were just different, and though he spoke English as well as any American, the nuances here—exaggerated, of course, on TV—had a subtle dimension that occasionally slipped by him. But not his wife, Jack observed. His wife was laughing hard enough to gag, and at things he barely comprehended. Then came the trilling note of his STU in his upstairs den. He trotted upstairs to get it. It wouldn’t be a wrong number. Whoever had set his number up—British Telecom, a semiprivate corporation that did exactly what the government told it to do—would have chosen a number so far off the numerical trail that only an infant could dial his secure phone by mistake.

“Ryan,” he said, after his phone mated up with the one at the other end.

“Jack, Greer here. How’s Sunday evening in Jolly Old England?”

“It rained today. I didn’t get to cut the grass,” Ryan reported. He didn’t mind much. He
hated
cutting grass, having learned as a child that however much you sliced it down, the goddamned stuff just grew back in a few days to look scraggly again.

“Well, here the Orioles are leading the White Sox five-two after six innings. I think your team looks good for the pennant.”

“Who in the National League?”

“If I had to bet, I’d say the Phillies all the way, my boy.”

“I got a buck says you’re wrong, sir. My O’s look good from here.”
Which isn’t
there,
damn it.
Since losing the Colts, he’d transferred his loyalty to baseball. The game was more interesting, tactically speaking, though lacking the manly combat of NFL football. “So, what’s happening in Washington on a Sunday afternoon, sir?”

“Just wanted to give you a heads-up. There’s a signal on its way to London that’s going to involve you. New tasking. It’ll take maybe three or four days.”

“Okay.” It perked his interest, but he’d have to see what it was before he got overly excited about it. Probably some new analysis that they wanted him for. Those were usually economics, because the Admiral liked his way of working through the numbers games. “Important?”

“Well, we’re interested in what you can do with it” was all the DDI wanted to say.

This guy must teach foxes how to outsmart dogs and horses. Good thing he wasn’t a Brit. The local aristocracy would shoot him for ruining their steeplechases,
Ryan told himself. “Okay, sir, I’ll be looking for it. I don’t suppose you can give me a play-by-play?” he asked with a little hope in his voice.

“That new shortstop—Ripken, is it?—just doubled down the left-field line, drove in run number six, one out, bottom of the seventh.”

“Thank you for that, sir. It beats
Fawlty Towers
.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s what they call a comedy over here, Admiral. It’s funny if you can understand it.”

“Brief me in next time I come over,” the DDI suggested.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Family okay?”

“We’re all just fine, sir, thank you for asking.”

“Okay. Have a good one. See ya.”

“What was that?” Cathy asked in the living room.

“The boss. He’s sending me something to work on.”

“What exactly?” She never stopped trying.

“He didn’t say, just a heads-up that I have something new to play with.”

“And he didn’t tell you what it was?”

“The Admiral likes his surprises.”

“Hmph” was her response.

THE COURIER SETTLED into his first-class seat. The package in his carry-on bag was tucked under the seat in front, and he had a collection of magazines to read. Since he was covert, not an official diplomatic courier, he could pretend to be a real person, a disguise that he’d shed at Heathrow’s Terminal Four immigration desk, there to catch an embassy car for the ride into Grosvenor Square. Mainly he looked forward to a nice pub and some Brit beer before he flew back home in a day and a half. It was a waste of talent and training for the newly hatched field officer, but everyone had to pay his dues, and this, for a guy fresh out of The Farm, was just that. He consoled himself with the thought that whatever it was, it had to be a little bit important. Sure, Wilbur. If it were all that important, he’d be on the Concorde.

ED FOLEY WAS sleeping the sleep of the just. The next day, he’d find an excuse to head over to the British Embassy and have a sit-down with Nigel and plan the operation. If that went well, he’d wear his reddest tie and take the message from Oleg Ivan’ch, set up the next face-to-face and go forward with the operation.
Who is it
, he wondered,
who the KGB is trying to kill? The Pope?
Bob Ritter had his knickers in a twist over that.
Or somebody else?
The KGB had a very direct way of dealing with people it didn’t like. CIA did not. They hadn’t actually killed anyone since the fifties, when President Eisenhower had used CIA—actually quite skillfully—as an alternative to employing uniformed troops in an overt fashion. But that skill hadn’t been conveyed to the Kennedy Administration, which had screwed up nearly everything it touched. Too many James Bond books, probably. Everything in fiction was simpler than the real world, even fiction written by a former field spook. In the real world, zipping your zipper could be hard.

But he was planning a fairly complex operation and telling himself that it wasn’t all
that
complex. Was he making a mistake? Foley’s mind wandered while the rest of his consciousness slept. Even asleep, he kept going over and over things. In his dreams, he saw rabbits running around a green field while foxes and bears watched. The predators didn’t move on them, perhaps because they were too fast and/or too close to their rabbit holes for them to waste a chase. But what happened when the rabbits got too far away from their holes? Then the foxes could catch them, and the bears could move in to swallow them whole. . . . And his job was to protect the little bunnies, wasn’t it?

Even so, in his dream the foxes and bears just watched while he, the eagle, circled high and looked down. He, the eagle, had sworn off rabbits, though a fox might be a nice morsel to rip apart, if his talons got it properly, just behind the head to snap the neck, and leave him for the bear to eat, because bears didn’t really care whom they ate. No, Mr. Bear didn’t care one little bit. He was just a big old bear, and his belly was always empty. He’d even eat an eagle if he got the chance, but the eagle was too swift and too smart, wasn’t he? Only so long as he kept his eyes open, the noble eagle told himself; he had great abilities and fine sight, but even he had to be careful. And so the eagle soared aloft, riding the thermals and watching. He couldn’t enter the fray, exactly. At most, he could swoop down and warn the cute little bunnies that there was danger about, but the bunnies were proverbially dumb bunnies, munching their grass and not looking around as much as they ought to. That was his job, the noble eagle told himself, to use his superb eyesight to make sure he knew everything he needed to know. The bunny’s job was to run when he needed to run, and with help from the eagle, to run to a different field, one without foxes and bears around it, so that he could be free to raise more cute little bunnies and live happily ever after, like Beatrix Potter’s little Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail.