Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (662 page)

LATER THAT NIGHT and three thousand miles away, in Boston, Massachusetts, there was a gas explosion on the second floor of a two-story frame dwelling overlooking the harbor. Three people were there when it happened. The two adults were not married, but both were drunk, and the woman’s four-year-old daughter—not related to the male resident—was already in bed. The fire spread quickly, too quickly for the two adults to respond to it through their intoxication. The three deaths didn’t take long, all of them from smoke inhalation rather than incineration. The Boston Fire Department responded within ten minutes, and their search-and-rescue ladder men battled their way through the flames under cover of two hose streams, found the bodies, and dragged them out, but they knew that they’d been too late again. The captain of the responding company could tell almost instantly what had gone wrong. There had been a gas leak in the kitchen from the old stove that the landlord hadn’t wanted to replace, and so three people had died of his parsimony. (He’d gladly collect the insurance check, of course, and say how sorry he was about the tragic incident.) This was not the first such case. It wouldn’t be the last, either, and so he and his men would have some nightmares about the three bodies, especially the little girl’s. But that just went with the job.

The story was early enough to make the eleven o’clock news on the rule that “If it bleeds, it leads.” The Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Boston field division was up and watching, actually waiting for coverage of the baseball playoffs—he’d been at an official dinner and missed the live broadcast on NBC—and saw the story and instantly remembered the lunatic telex he’d gotten earlier in the day. That caused a curse to be muttered and a phone to be lifted.

“FBI,” said the young agent guarding the phones when he picked up.

“Get Johnny up,” the SAC ordered. “A family got burned up in a fire on Hester Street. He’ll know what to do. Have him call me at home if he has to.”

“Yes, sir.” And that was that, except for Assistant Special Agent in Charge John Tyler, who’d been reading a book in his bed—a native of South Carolina, he preferred college football to professional baseball—when the phone rang. He managed to grumble on the way to the bathroom, then collected his side arm and car keys for the ride south. He’d seen the telex from Washington, too, and wondered what sort of drugs Emil Jacobs was taking, but his was not to reason why.

NOT TOO LONG after that, but five time zones to the east, Jack Ryan rolled out of bed, got his paper, and switched on the TV. CNN also carried the fire story from Boston—it was a slow news night at home—and he breathed a quiet prayer for the victims of the fire, followed by speculation about the gas pipe connection in his own stove. His house, though, was a lot newer than the standing lumberyard that defined a house in south Boston. When they went, they went big, and they went fast. Too fast for those people to get out, evidently. He remembered his father often saying how much he respected firemen, people who ran
into
burning buildings instead of away from them. The worst part of the job had to be what they found unmoving on the inside. He shook his head as he opened his morning paper and reached for his coffee, while his physician wife saw the tail end of the fire story and thought her own thoughts. She remembered treating burn victims in her third year of medical school and the horrid screams that went with debriding burned tissue off the underlying wounds, and there wasn’t a damned thing you could do about it. But those people in Boston were dead now, and that was that. She didn’t like it, but she’d seen a lot of death, because sometimes the Bad Guy won, and that was just how things worked. It was not a pleasant thought for a parent, especially since the little girl in Boston had been Sally’s age and now would never get older. She sighed. At least she’d be doing some surgery that morning, something that really made a difference with somebody’s health.

SIR BASIL CHARLESTON lived in an expensive townhouse in London’s posh Belgravia district south of Knightsbridge. A widower whose grown children had long since moved away, he was accustomed to living alone, though he had a discreet security detail in attendance at all times. He also had a maid service which came in three times a week to straighten up, though he didn’t bother with a cook, preferring to dine out or even fix small meals for himself. He had, of course, the usual accoutrements of a king spook: three different sorts of secure phones, a secure telex, and a new secure fax machine. There was no live-in secretary, but when the office was busy and he wasn’t there, a courier service kept him apprised of the printed material circulating in Century House. Indeed, since he had to assume that the “opposition” kept an eye on his home, he deemed it smarter to remain at home in time of crisis, the better to project the image of calmness. It really didn’t matter. He was firmly tied to the SIS by an electronic umbilical cord.

And so it was this morning. Someone at Century House had decided to let him know that SIS had an adult male body to use in Operation BEATRIX: just the sort of thing he needed with breakfast, Basil noted, with a twisted expression. They needed three, though, one of them a female child, which was
really
not something to contemplate with his morning tea and Scottish oatmeal.

However, it was hard not to get excited about this BEATRIX operation. If their Rabbit was speaking the truth—not all of them did—this chap would have all manner of useful information in his head. The most useful of all, of course, would be if he could identify Soviet agents within Her Majesty’s government. That was properly the job of the Security Service—erroneously called MI-5—but the two agencies cooperated closely, more closely than CIA and FBI did in America, or so it appeared to Charleston. Sir Basil and his people had long suspected a high-level leak somewhere in the Foreign Office, but they’d been unable to close in on him or her. So, if they got their Rabbit out—it wasn’t done until it was done, he reminded himself—that was certainly one question his people would be asking in the safe house they used outside of Taunton in the rolling hills of Somerset.

“NOT GOING TO work today?” Irina asked her husband. He ought to have left for the office by now, surely.

“No, and I have a surprise for you,” Oleg announced.

“What is that?”

“We’re going to Budapest tomorrow.”

That snapped her head around. “What?”

“I decided to take my vacation days, and there’s a new conductor in Budapest now, Jozsef Rozsa. I knew you liked classical music, and I decided to take you and
zaichik
there, dear.”

“Oh,” was all she had to say. “But what about my job at GUM?”

“Can’t you get free of that?”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” Irina admitted. “But why Budapest?”

“Well, the music, and we can buy some things there. I have a list of items to get for people at The Centre,” he told her.

“Ah, yes . . . we can get some nice things for Svetlana,” she thought out loud on reflection. Working at GUM, she knew what was available in Hungary that she’d never get in Moscow, even in the “closed” stores. “Who is this Rozsa, anyway?”

“He’s a young Hungarian conductor touring Eastern Europe. He has a fine reputation, darling. The program is supposed to be Brahms and Bach, I think—one of the Hungarian state orchestras and,” he added, “a lot of good shopping.” There wasn’t a woman in all the world who wouldn’t respond favorably to that opportunity, Oleg judged. He waited patiently for the next objection:

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“My dear, that is why we’re going to Budapest. You will be able to buy anything you need there.”

“Well . . .”

“And remember to pack everything you need in one bag. We’ll take empty bags for all the things we’re buying for ourselves and our friends.”

“But—”

“Irina, think of Budapest as one big consumer-goods store. Hungarian VCRs, Western jeans and pantyhose, real perfume. You will be the envy of your office at GUM,” he promised her.

“Well . . .”

“I thought so. My darling, we are going on vacation!” he told her, a little manly force in his voice.

“If you say so,” she responded, with the hint of an avaricious smile. “I will call in to the office later and let them know. I suppose they won’t miss me too badly.”

“The only people they miss in Moscow are the Politburo members, and they only miss them for the day and a half it takes to replace them,” he announced.

And so that was settled. They were taking the train to Hungary. Irina started thinking about what to pack. Oleg would leave that to her.
Inside a week or ten days, we will all have much better clothes,
the KGB communications officer told himself. And maybe in a month or two, they would go to that Disney Planet place in the American province of Florida. . . .

He wondered if CIA knew how much trust he was putting in them, and he prayed—an unusual activity for a KGB officer—that they would perform as well as he hoped.

“GOOD MORNING, JACK.”

“Hey, Simon. What’s new in the world?” Jack set his coffee down before taking his coat off.

“Suslov died last night,” Harding announced. “It will be in their afternoon papers.”

“What a pity. Another bat found his way back into hell, eh?”
At least he died with good eyesight, thanks to Bernie Katz and the guys from Johns Hopkins,
Ryan thought. “Complications of diabetes?”

Harding shrugged. “Plus being old, I should imagine. Heart attack, our sources tell us. Amazing that the nasty old bugger actually had a heart. In any case, his replacement will be Mikhail Yevgeniyevich Alexandrov.”

“And he’s not exactly a day at the beach. When will they plant Suslov?”

“He’s a senior Politburo member. I would expect a full state funeral, marching band, the lot, then cremation and a slot in the Kremlin wall.”

“You know, I’ve always wondered, what does a real communist think about when he knows he’s dying? You suppose they wonder if it was all a great big fucking mistake?”

“I have no idea. But Suslov was evidently a true believer. He probably thought of all the good he’d done in his life, leading humanity to the ‘Radiant Future’ they like to talk about.”

Nobody’s that dumb,
Ryan wanted to retort, but Simon was probably right. Nothing lingered longer in a man’s mind than a bad idea, and certainly Red Mike had held his bad ideas close to whatever heart had finally cashed in. But a communist’s best-case scenario for after death corresponded with Ryan’s worst, and if the communist was wrong, then, quite literally, there was hell to pay.
Tough luck, Mishka, hope you took some sunblock with you.

“Okay, what’s up for today?”

“The PM wants to know if this will have any effect on Politburo policy.”

“Tell her no, it won’t. In political terms, Alexandrov might as well be Suslov’s twin brother. He thinks Marx is God, and Lenin is his prophet, and Stalin was mostly right, just a little too
nekulturniy
in his application of political theory. The rest of the Politburo doesn’t really believe that stuff anymore, but they have to pretend that they do. So call Alexandrov the new conductor of the ideological symphony orchestra. They don’t much like the music anymore, but they dance to it anyway, ’cause it’s the only dance they know. I don’t think he will affect their policy decisions a dot. I bet they listen when he talks, but they let it go in one ear and out the other; they pretend to respect him, but they really don’t.”

“It’s a little more complex than that, but you’ve caught the essentials,” Harding agreed. “The thing is, I have to find a way to produce ten double-spaced pages that say it.”

“Yeah, in bureaucratese.” Ryan had never quite mastered that language, which was one of the reasons Admiral Greer liked him so much.

“We have our procedures, Jack, and the PM—indeed, all of the Prime Ministers—like to have it in words they understand.”

“The Iron Lady understands the same language as a stevedore, I bet.”

“Only when she speaks those words, Sir John, not when others try to speak them to her.”

“I suppose. Okay,” Ryan had to concede the point. “What documents do we need?”

“We have an extensive dossier file on Alexandrov. I’ve already called down for it.”

So this day would be occupied with creative writing, Ryan decided. It would have been more interesting to look into their economy, but instead he’d have to help do a prospective, analytical obituary for a man whom nobody had liked, and who’d probably died intestate anyway.

THE PREPARATION WAS even easier than he’d hoped. Haydock had expected the Russians to be pleased, and, sure enough, one call to his contact in the Ministry of Transportation had done the trick. At ten the next morning, he, Paul Matthews, and a
Times
photographer would be at the Kiev station to do a story about Soviet state rail and how it compared to British Rail, which needed some help, most Englishmen thought, especially in upper management.

Matthews probably suspected that Haydock was a “six” person, but had never let on, since the spook had been so helpful feeding stories to him. It was the usual way of creating a friendly journalist—even taught at the SIS Academy—but it was officially denied to the American CIA.
The United States Congress passes the most remarkable and absurd laws to hamstring its intelligence services,
the Brit thought, though he was sure the official rules were broken on a daily basis by the people in the field. He’d violated a few of the much looser rules of his own mother service. And had never been caught, of course. Just as he had never been caught working agents on the streets of Moscow. . . .