Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (678 page)

The first done would be the adult male. Technicians took blood samples from all three bodies for analysis in the adjacent laboratory.

“This is the body of a male Caucasian, approximately thirty-five years of age, length approximately one hundred seventy-five centimeters, weight approximately seventy-six kilograms. Color of hair cannot be determined due to extensive charring from a domestic fire. Initial impression is death by fire—more probably from carbon monoxide intoxication, as the body shows no evidence of death throes.” Then the dissection began with the classical Y incision to open the body cavity for viewing of the internal organs.

He was examining the heart—unremarkable—when the lab reports came in.

“Professor Bíró, carbon monoxide in all three blood samples are well into lethal range,” the voice on the speaker said, giving the exact numbers.

Bíró looked over at his Russian colleague. “Anything else you need? I can do a full postmortem on all three victims here, but the cause of death is determined. This man was not shot. We will do fuller blood-chemistry checks, of course, but it’s unlikely that they were poisoned, and there is clearly no bullet wound or other penetrating trauma in this man. They were all killed by fire. I will send you the full laboratory report this afternoon.” Bíró let out a long breath.
“A kurva életbe!”
he concluded with a popular Magyar epithet.

“Such a pretty little girl,” the Russian internist observed. Zaitzev’s wallet had somehow survived the fire, along with its family photos. The picture of Svetlana had been particularly engaging.

“Death is never sentimental, my friend,” Bíró told him. As a pathologist, he knew that fact all too well.

“Very well. Thank you, Comrade Professor.” And the Russian took his leave, already thinking through his official report to Moscow.

CHAPTER 29

REVELATION

THE SAFE HOUSE WAS
palatial, the country home of somebody with both money and taste, built in the previous century by the look of it, with stucco and the sort of heavy oaken timbers used to build ships like HMS
Victory
once upon a time. But landlocked, it was about as far from blue water as one could get on this island kingdom.

Evidently, Alan Kingshot knew it well enough, since he drove them there and then got them settled inside. The two-person staff that ran the place looked like cops to Ryan, probably married and retired from the Police Force of the Metropolis, as the London Constabulary was officially known. They kindly escorted their new guests to a rather nice suite of rooms. Irina Zaitzev’s eyes were agog at the accommodations, which were impressive even by Ryan’s standards. All Oleg Ivanovich did was set his shaving kit in the bathroom, strip off his clothes, and collapse onto the bed, where alcohol-aided sleep proved to be less than five minutes away.

WORD GOT TO Judge Moore just before midnight that the package was safely ensconced in a very secure location, and with that information he also went to bed. All that remained was to tell the Air Force to get a KC-135 or a similar aircraft ready to fly the package home, and that would take a mere telephone call to an officer in the Pentagon. He wondered what the Rabbit would say, but he could wait for that. Patience, once the dangerous stuff was behind, was not all that difficult for the Director of Central Intelligence. It was like Christmas Eve, and while he wasn’t exactly sure what would be under the tree, he could be confident that it wouldn’t be anything bad.

FOR SIR BASIL Charleston at his Belgravia house, the news came before breakfast, when a messenger from Century House arrived with the word.
An altogether pleasant way to start a working day,
he thought, certainly better than some others he’d had. He left home for the office just before seven A.M., ready for his morning brief to outline the success of Operation BEATRIX.

RYAN WAS AWAKENED by traffic noise. Whoever had built this magnificent country home hadn’t anticipated the construction of a motorway just three hundred yards away, but somehow Ryan had avoided a hangover from all the drinks on the flight in, and the lingering excitement of the moment had gotten him fully awake after a mere six and a half hours of slumber. He washed up and made his way to the pleasant not-so-little breakfast room. Alan Kingshot was there, working on his morning tea.

“Probably coffee for you, eh?”

“If you have any.”

“Only instant,” Kingshot warned.

Jack stifled his disappointment. “Better than no coffee at all.”

“Eggs Benedict?” the retired woman cop asked.

“Ma’am, for that I will forgive the absence of Starbucks,” Jack replied, with a smile. Then he saw the morning papers, and he thought that reality and normality had finally returned to his life. Well, almost.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thompson run this house for us,” Kingshot explained. “Nick was a homicide detective with the Yard, and Emma was in administration.”

“That’s what my dad used to do,” Ryan observed. “How did you guys get working for SIS?”

“Nick worked on the Markov case,” Mrs. Thompson answered.

“And did a damned good job of it, too,” Kingshot told Ryan. “He would have been a fine field officer for us.”

“ ‘Bond, James Bond’?” Nick Thompson said, walking into the kitchen. “I think not. Our guests are moving about. It sounds as though the little girl got them up.”

“Yeah,” Jack observed. “Kids will do that. So, we do the debrief here or somewhere else?”

“We were planning to do it in Somerset, but I decided last night not to drive them around too much. Why stress them out?” Kingshot asked rhetorically. “We just took title to this house last year, and it’s as comfortable a place as any. The one in Somerset—near Taunton—is a touch more isolated, but these people ought not to bolt, you think?”

“If he goes home, he’s one dead Rabbit,” Ryan thought out loud. “He has to know that. On the plane, he was worried that we were KGB and this was all an elaborate
maskirovka
setup, I think. His wife did a lot of shopping in Budapest. Maybe we have somebody take her shopping around here?” the American wondered. “Then we can talk to him in comfort. His English seems okay. Do we have anybody here with good Russian?”

“My job,” Kingshot told Ryan.

“First thing we want to know, why the hell did he decide to skip town?”

“Obviously, but then, what’s all this lot about compromised communications?”

“Yeah.” Ryan took a deep breath. “I imagine people are jumping out windows about that one.”

“Too bloody right,” Kingshot confirmed.

“So, Al, you’ve worked Moscow?”

The Brit nodded. “Twice. Good sport it was, but rather tense the whole time I was there.”

“Where else?”

“Warsaw and Bucharest. I speak all the languages. Tell me, how was Andy Hudson?”

“He’s a star, Al. Very smooth and confident all the way—knows his turf, good contacts. He took pretty good care of me.”

“Here’s your coffee, Sir John,” Mrs. Thompson said, bringing his cup of Taster’s Choice. The Brits were good people, and their food, Ryan thought, was wrongly maligned, but they didn’t know beans about coffee, and that was that. But it was still better than tea.

The Eggs Benedict arrived shortly thereafter, and at that dish, Mrs. Thompson could have given lessons. Ryan opened his paper—it was the
Times
—and relaxed to get reacquainted with the world. He’d call Cathy in about an hour when he was at work. With luck, he might even see her in a couple days. In a perfect world, he’d have a copy of an American paper, or maybe the
International Tribune
, but the world was not yet perfect. There was no sense asking how the World Series was going. It was going to start tomorrow, wasn’t it? How good were the Phillies this year? Well, as usual, you played the games to find out.

“So, how was the trip, Jack?” Kingshot asked.

“Alan, those field officers earn every nickel they make. How you deal with the constant tension, I do not understand.”

“Like everything else, Jack, you get used to it. Your wife is a surgeon. The idea of cutting people open with a knife is not at all appealing to me.”

Jack barked a short laugh. “Yeah, me too, pal. And she does eyeballs. Nothing important, right?”

Kingshot shuddered visibly at the thought, and Ryan reminded himself that working in Moscow, running agents—and probably arranging rescue missions like they’d done for the Rabbit—could not have been much more fun than a heart transplant.

“Ah, Mr. Somerset,” Ryan heard Mrs. Thompson say. “Good morning, and welcome.”

“
Spasiba
,” Oleg Ivan’ch replied in a sleepy voice. Kids could get you up at the goddamnedest hours, with their smiling faces and lovely dispositions. “That is my new name?”

“We’ll figure something more permanent later,” Ryan told him. “Again, welcome.”

“This is England?” the Rabbit asked.

“We’re eight miles from Manchester,” the British intelligence officer replied. “Good morning. In case you don’t remember, my name is Alan Kingshot. This is Mrs. Emma Thompson, and Nick will be back in a few minutes.” Handshakes were exchanged.

“My wife be here soon. She see to
zaichik
,” he explained.

“How are you feeling, Vanya?” Kingshot asked.

“Much travel, much fear, but I am safe now, yes?”

“Yes, you are entirely safe,” Kingshot assured him.

“And what would you like for breakfast?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

“Try this,” Jack suggested, pointing at his plate. “It’s great.”

“Yes, I will—what is called?”

“Eggs Benedict,” Jack told him. “Mrs. Thompson, this hollandaise sauce is just perfect. My wife needs your recipe, if I may impose.” And maybe Cathy could teach her about proper coffee.
That would be an equitable trade,
Ryan thought.

“Why, certainly, Sir John,” she replied with a beaming smile. No woman in all the world objects to praise for her cooking.

“For me also, then,” Zaitzev decided.

“Tea or coffee?” she asked her guest.

“You have English Breakfast tea?” the Rabbit asked.

“Of course,” she answered.

“Please for me, then.”

“Certainly.” And she disappeared back into the kitchen.

It was still a lot for Zaitzev to take. Here he was, in the breakfast room of a manor house fit for a member of the old nobility, surrounded by a green lawn such as one might see at Augusta National, with monstrous oak trees planted two hundred years before, a carriage house, and stables in the distance. It was something he might have imagined as worthy of Peter the Great, the things of books and museums, and he was in it as an honored guest?

“Nice house, isn’t it?” Ryan asked, finishing off the Eggs Benny.

“Is amazing,” Zaitzev responded, wide eyes sweeping around.

“Belonged to a ducal family, bought by a textiles manufacturer a hundred years ago, but his business fell on hard times, and the government bought it last year. We use it for conferences and as a safe house. The heating system is a little primitive,” Kingshot reported. “But that is not a problem at the moment. We’ve had a very pleasant summer, and the fall looks promising as well.”

“At home, there’d be a golf course around this place,” Jack said, looking out the windows. “A big one.”

“Yes,” Alan agreed. “It would be splendid for that.”

“When I go America?” the Rabbit asked.

“Oh, three or four days,” Kingshot answered. “We would like to talk with you a little, if you don’t mind.”

“When do we start?”

“After breakfast. Take your time, Mr. Zaitzev. You are no longer in the Soviet Union. We shall not pressure you at all,” Alan promised.

My ass
, Ryan thought.
Buddy, they’re going to suck your brain out of your head and strain it for your thoughts one molecule at a time
. But the Rabbit had just gotten a free ride out of Mother Russia, with the prospect of a comfortable life for him and his family in the West, and everything in life had its price.

He loved his tea. Then the rest of the family came out and, over the next twenty minutes, Mrs. Thompson nearly ran out of Hollandaise sauce, while the arriving Russians ensured steady employment for the local egg farmers.

Irina left the breakfast room to tour the house and was greatly excited to see a concert grand Bösendorfer piano, turning like a kid at Christmas to ask if she might tickle the keys. She was years out of practice, but the look on her face was like a return of childhood as she struggled through “On the Bridge at Avignon,” which had been her favorite exercise tune many years before—and which she still remembered.

“A friend of mine plays professionally,” Jack said, with a smile. It was hard not to appreciate her joy of the moment.

“Who? Where?” Oleg asked.

“Sissy—actually, Cecilia Jackson. Her husband and I are friends. He’s a fighter pilot for the U.S. Navy. She is number-two piano soloist at the Washington Symphony. My wife plays, too, but Sissy is really good.”