Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (653 page)

“Wish I was, man. But that’s how it’s going down.”

“Ah. Well, what’s life without a few complications? Any preferences how to get your Rabbit out?” He asked, not quite letting Foley know what he was thinking.

“That’s for your guy Hudson in Budapest, I suppose. It’s not my turf, not my place to tell him how to run his operation.”

Haydock just nodded. It was one of those things that went without saying but had to be said anyway. “When?” he asked.

“Soon, as soon as possible. Langley’s almost as hot for this as I am.” And, he didn’t add, it was sure as hell a way for him to make an early mark as Chief of Station Moscow.

“Rome, you’re thinking? Sir Basil has been rattling my windows about that.”

“Your Prime Minister interested?”

“About as much as your President, I should imagine. That play might well muddy the waters rather thoroughly.”

“Big-time,” Foley agreed. “Anyway, I wanted to give you a heads-up. Sir Basil will probably have a signal for you later today.”

“Understood, Edward. When that arrives, I’ll be able to begin taking action.” He checked his watch—too soon to offer his guest a beer in the embassy pub. Pity.

“When you get authorization, give me a call. Okay?”

“Certainly. We shall get things sorted out for you, Ed. Andy Hudson’s a good officer, and he runs a tight operation in Budapest.”

“Great.” Foley stood.

“How about a dinner soon?” Haydock asked.

“I guess we’d better do it soon. Penny looks about due. When will you be flying her home?”

“A couple of weeks. The little bugger is rolling about and kicking all the time now.”

“Always a good sign, man.”

“And we have a good physician right here in the embassy, should he be a little early.” Just that the embassy doc didn’t really want to deliver a baby. They never did.

“Well, if it’s a boy, Eddie will lend you his
Transformers
tapes,” Ed promised.

“
Transformers
? What’s that?”

“If it’s a boy, you’ll find out,” Foley assured him.

CHAPTER 20

STAGING

THE JUNIOR FIELD OFFICER
arrived in London’s Heathrow Terminal Four just before seven in the morning. He breezed through immigration and customs and headed out, where he saw his driver holding the usual sign card, this one in a false name, of course, since CIA spooks only used their real names when they had to. The driver’s name was Leonard Watts. Watts drove an embassy Jaguar, and, since he had a diplomatic passport and tags on the car, he wasn’t all that concerned with speed limits.

“How was the flight?”

“Fine. Slept most of the way.”

“Well, welcome to the world of field operations,” Watts told him. “The more sleep you get, the better.”

“I suppose.” It was his first overseas assignment, and not a very demanding one. “Here’s the package.” And his cover wasn’t enhanced by the fact that he was traveling with only the courier package and a small bag that had spent the trip in the overhead bin, with a clean shirt, clean underwear, and shaving kit.

“Name’s Len, by the way.”

“Okay, I’m Pete Gatewood.”

“First time in London?”

“Yeah,” Gatewood answered, trying to get used to sitting in the left front seat without a steering wheel to protect him, and being driven by a NASCAR reject. “How long to get to the embassy?”

“Half hour.” Watts concentrated on his driving. “What are you carrying?”

“Something for the COS, is all I know.”

“Well, it isn’t routine. They woke me up for it,” Watts groused.

“Where have you worked?” Gatewood asked, hoping to get this maniac to slow down some.

“Oh, around. Bonn, Berlin, Prague. Getting ready to retire, back to Indiana. We got a football team to watch now.”

“Yeah, and all the corn, too,” Gatewood observed. He’d never been to Indiana, and had no particular wish to tour the farming state, which did, he reminded himself, turn out some fairly good basketball players.

Soon enough, or nearly so, they were passing a large green park on the left, and a few blocks after that, the green rectangle of Grosvenor Square. Watts stopped the car to let Gatewood out. He dodged around the “flower pots” designed to keep car bombers from getting too close to the concrete that surrounded the surpassingly ugly building, and walked it. The Marines inside checked his ID and made a call. Presently, a middle-aged woman came into the entrance foyer and led him to an elevator that took him to the third floor, just next door to the technical group that worked closely with the British GCHQ at Cheltenham. Gatewood walked into the proper corner office and saw a middle-aged man sitting at an oaken desk.

“You’re Gatewood?”

“Yes, sir. You’re . . . ?”

“I’m Randy Silvestri. You have a package for me,” the COS London announced.

“Yes, sir.” Gatewood opened the zipper on his bag and pulled out the large manila envelope. He handed it over.

“Interested in what’s in it?” Silvestri asked, eyeing the youngster.

“If it concerns me, I expect you’ll tell me, sir.”

The Station Chief nodded his approval. “Very good. Annie will take you downstairs for breakfast if you want, or you can catch a cab for your hotel. Got some Brit money?”

“A hundred pounds, sir, in tens and twenties.”

“Okay, that’ll handle your needs. Thanks, Gatewood.”

“Yes, sir.” And Gatewood left the office.

Silvestri ripped open the package after determining that the closure hadn’t been disturbed beforehand. The flat ring binder had what looked like forty or fifty printed sheets of paper—all space-and-a-half random letters. So, a one-time-cipher pad—for Station Moscow, the cover note said. He’d have that couriered to Moscow on the noon British Airways flight. And two letters, one for Sir Basil, with hand delivery indicated. He’d have a car drive him to Century House after calling ahead. The other one was for that Ryan kid that Jim Greer liked so much, also for hand delivery via Basil’s office. He wondered what was up. It had to be nontrivial for this sort of handling. He picked up his phone and hit speed-dial #5.

“This is Basil Charleston.”

“Basil, it’s Randy. Something just came in for you. Can I bring it over?”

A sound of shuffling papers. Basil would know this was important. “Say, ten o’clock, Randy?”

“Right. See you then.” Silvestri sipped his coffee and estimated the time required. He could sit here for about an hour before heading over. Next he punched his intercom button.

“Yes, sir?”

“Annie, I have a package to be couriered to Moscow. We got a bagman on deck?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, could you take this down to him?”

“Yes, sir.” CIA secretaries are not paid to be verbose.

“Good. Thanks.” Silvestri hung up.

JACK AND CATHY were on the train, passing through Elephant and Castle—and he’d still not learned how the damned place had gotten
that
name, Jack reminded himself. The weather looked threatening.
England wasn’t broad enough for a storm system to linger
, Ryan thought. Maybe there was just a series of rain clouds coming across the Atlantic? In any case, between yesterday and today, his personal record of fair weather over here seemed to be ending. Too bad.

“Just glasses this week, babe?” he asked his wife, her head buried as usual in a medical journal.

“All week,” she confirmed. Then she looked up. “It’s not as exciting as surgery, but it’s still important, you know.”

“Cath, if you do it, it must be important.”

“And you can’t say what you’ll be doing?”

“Not until I get to my desk.” And probably not then, either. Whatever it was, it had doubtless been transmitted via secure printer or fax line overnight . . . unless it was something really important, and had been sent via courier. The time difference actually made that fairly convenient. The early 747 from Dulles usually got in between six and seven in the morning, and then it was forty minutes more to his desk. The government could work more efficiently than Federal Express when it wanted to. Another fifteen minutes of his
Daily Telegraph
and her
NEJM
and they parted company at Victoria. Cathy perversely took the tube. Ryan opted for a cab. It hustled past the Palace of Westminster, then hopped across the Thames. Ryan paid the four pounds fifty and added a healthy tip. Ten seconds later, he was inside.

“Good morning, Sir John,” Bert Canderton called in greeting.

“Howdy, Sar-Major,” Ryan said in reply, sliding his pass through the gate, then to the elevator and up to his floor.

Simon was already in his seat, going over message traffic. His eyes came up when Jack entered. “Morning, Jack.”

“Hey, Simon. How was the weekend?”

“Didn’t get any gardening done. Bloody rain.”

“Anything interesting this morning?” He poured himself a cup of coffee. Simon’s English Breakfast Tea wasn’t bad for tea, but tea just didn’t make it for Jack, at least not in the morning. They didn’t have bear claws here, either, and Jack had neglected to get his croissant on the way in.

“Not yet, but something’s coming in from America.”

“What is it?”

“Basil didn’t say, but when something comes in by hand on a Monday morning, it’s usually interesting. Must be Soviet-related. He’s told me to stand by for it.”

“Well, might as well start the week with something interesting.” Ryan sipped his coffee. It wasn’t quite up to what Cathy made, but better than tea. “When’s it coming in?”

“About ten. Your Station Chief, Silvestri, is driving it over.”

Ryan had only met him once. He’d seemed competent enough, but you expected that of a COS, even one in a sunset posting.

“Nothing new from Moscow?”

“Just some new rumors about Brezhnev’s health. It seems that stopping smoking did him precious little good,” Harding said, lighting his pipe. “Nasty old bugger,” the Brit analyst added.

“What about this stuff from Afghanistan?”

“Ivan’s getting cleverer. Those Mi-24 helicopters seem to be rather effective. Bad news for the Afghans.”

“How do you think that’s going to play out?”

Harding shrugged. “It’s a question of how many casualties Ivan is willing to take. They have the firepower they need to win, and so it’s a matter of political will. Unfortunately for the Mujahideen, the leadership in Moscow doesn’t trouble itself very much with casualties.”

“Unless something changes the equation,” Ryan thought out loud.

“Like what?”

“Like an effective surface-to-air missile to neutralize their helos. We have the Stinger. Never used it myself, but the write-up’s pretty good.”

“But can a mob of illiterate savages use a missile properly?” Harding asked dubiously. “A modern rifle, certainly. A machine gun, sure. But a missile?”

“The idea is to make a new weapon soldier-proof, Simon. You know, simple enough that you don’t have to think while you’re dodging bullets. There’s not much time to think then, and you make the steps as short as you can. Like I said, I’ve never used that one, but I’ve played with anti-tank weapons, and they’re pretty simple.”

“Well, your government will have to decide to give them the SAMs, and they haven’t yet. Hard for me to get overly excited about it. Yes, they are killing Russians, and I reckon that’s good, but they are bloody savages.”

And they killed a lot of Brits once,
Ryan reminded himself,
and Brit memories are as long as anyone else’s.
There was also the issue of having Stingers fall into Russian hands, which would not make the United States Air Force terribly happy. But that was well above his pay grade. There were some rumbles in Congress about it, though.

Jack settled into his seat, sipped his coffee, and read his message traffic. After that he’d get back to his real job of analyzing the Soviet economy. That would be like drafting a road map of a plateful of spaghetti.

SILVESTRI’S JOB in London was not a secret. He’d been in the spook business too long, and while he hadn’t been burned per se, the East Bloc had pretty much guessed which government agency he worked for by the end of his stay in Warsaw, where he’d run a very tight shop and winkled out a lot of good political intelligence. This was to be his final tour of duty—the same was true of most of his officers—and since he was respected by various allied services, he’d drawn the London posting, where his main job was interfacing with the British Secret Intelligence Service. So he had an embassy Daimler drive him over across the river.

He didn’t even need a pass to get through security. Sir Basil himself was waiting for him at the entrance, where hands were cordially shaken before the trip upstairs.

“What’s the news, Randy?”

“Well, I have a package for you, and one for that Ryan guy,” Silvestri announced.

“Indeed. Should I call him in?”

The London COS had read the cover sheet and knew what was in the packages. “Sure, Bas, no problem. Harding, too, if you want.”