Jack Ryan 3 - Red Rabbit (82 page)

“Yes, I do. If there were, from an operational standpoint, they would well have executed the mission already, and the Pope would already be chatting directly with God. According to what I've heard from London, this mission has been in planning for more than six weeks. So, clearly he's taking his time. I'll be very surprised if it happens day after tomorrow, but we must act as though it will.”

“I wish I had your confidence, man.”

“Sir John, field officers think and act like field officers, whatever their nationality,” Sharp said with confidence. “Our mission is a difficult one, yes, but we speak his language, as it were. If this were a balls-out mission, it would have been done already. Agreed, gentlemen?” he asked, and got nods from around the table, except from the American.

“What if we're missing something?” Ryan wondered.

“That is a possibility,” Sharp admitted, “but it's a possibility we have to both live with and discount. We have only the information we have, and we must design our plan around that.”

“Not much choice for us, is it, Sir John?” Sparrow asked. “We have only what we have.”

“True,” Ryan admitted, rather miserably. There had come the sudden thought that other things might be happening as well. What if there were a diversion? What if somebody tossed firecrackers—to draw eyes toward the noise and away from the real action? That, he suddenly thought, was a real possibility.

Damn.

“WHAT'S THIS ABOUT RYAN?” Ritter asked, storming into Judge Moore's office.

“Basil thought that since BEATRIX was a CIA operation from the get-go, why not send one of our officers down there to take a look at things? I don't see that it can hurt anything,” Moore told his DDO.

“Who the hell does Ryan think he's working for?”

“Bob, why don't you just settle down? What the hell can he do to hurt things?”

“Damn it, Arthur—”

“Settle down, Robert,” Moore shot back in the voice of a judge used to having his own way on everything from the weather on down.

“Arthur,” Ritter said, calming down a whisker, “it's not a place for him.”

“I see no reason to object, Bob. None of us think anything's going to happen anyway, do we?”

“Well… no, I suppose not,” the DDO admitted.

“So he's just broadening his horizons, and from what he learns, he'll be a better analyst, won't he?”

“Maybe so, but I don't like having some desk-sitter playing field spook. He isn't trained for this.”

“Bob, he used to be a Marine,” Moore reminded him. And the U.S. Marine Corps had its own cachet, independent of the CIA. “He's not going to wet his pants on us, is he?”

“I suppose not.”

“And all he's going to do is look around at nothing happening, and the exposure to some field officers will not do his education any harm, will it?”

“They're Brits, not our guys,” Ritter objected weakly.

“The same guys who brought the Rabbit out for us.”

“Okay, Arthur, I'll give you this one.”

“Bob, you throw a hell of a conniption fit, but why not use them for something important?”

“Yes, Judge, but the DO is my shop to run. You want me to get Rick Nolfi into this?”

“You think it's necessary?”

Ritter shook his head. “No, I expect not.”

“Then we let the Brits run this mini-op and keep it cool here at Langley until we can interview the Rabbit and quantify the threat to the Pope, all right?”

“Yes, Arthur.” And the Deputy Director (Operations) of the Central Intelligence Agency headed back to his office.

DINNER WENT WELL. The Brits made good company, especially when the talk turned to non-mission-related things. All were married. Three had kids, with one expecting his first shortly.

“You have two, as I recall?” Mick King asked Jack.

“Yeah, and number two arrived on a busy night.”

“Too bloody right!” Ray Stones, one of the new arrivals, agreed with a laugh. “How did the missus take it?”

“Not too bad after Little Jack arrived, but the rest of the evening was subpar.”

“I believe it,” King observed.

“So, who told us that the Bulgarians want to kill the Pope?” Sparrow asked.

“It's KGB that wants his ass,” Jack replied. “We just got a defector out. He's in a safe house, and he's singing like the girl in Aida . This is the most important thing so far. ”

“Reliable information?” King inquired.

“We think it's gold-plated and copper-bottomed, yeah. Sir Basil has bought into it. That's why he flew you guys down,” Jack let them know, in case they hadn't already figured that one out. “I've met the Rabbit myself, and I think he's the real deal.”

“CIA operation?” This was Sharp.

Jack nodded. “Correct. We had an operational problem, and you guys were kind enough to help us out. I'm not cleared to say much more, sorry.”

They all understood. They didn't want their asses exposed by loose talk about a black operation.

“This must go to Andropov himself—the Pope's giving them trouble in Poland, is it?”

“It would seem so. Maybe he has command of more divisions than they appreciate.”

“Even so, this seems a little extreme—how will the world see the assassination of His Holiness?” King wondered aloud.

“Evidently, they fear that less than a total political collapse in Poland, Mick,” Stones thought out loud. “And they're afraid that he might be able to bring that about. The sword and the spirit, as Napoleon said, Mick. The spirit always wins in the end.”

“Yes, I reckon so, and here we are at the epicenter of the world of the spirit.”

“My first time here,” Stones said. “It is bloody impressive. I must bring the family down here sometime.”

“They do know their food and wine,” Sparrow observed, going through his veal. “What about the local police?”

“Rather good, actually,” Sharp told him. “Pity we can't enlist their assistance. They know the territory—it is their patch, after all.”

 But these guys are the pros from Dover,
Ryan thought, with some degree of hope. Just that there weren't enough of them. “Tom, you talk to London about the radios?”

“Ah, yes, Jack. They're sending us ten. Earpieces and lapel microphones to speak into. Sideband, rather like what the army use. I don't know if they're encrypted, but fairly secure in any case, and we'll use proper radio discipline. So at least we'll be able to communicate clearly. We'll practice with them tomorrow afternoon.”

“And Wednesday?”

“We'll arrive about nine in the morning, pick our individual surveillance areas, and mill about while the crowd arrives.”

“This isn't what they trained me for in the Corps,” Ryan thought aloud.

“Sir John,” Mick King responded, “this isn't what they trained any of us for. Yes, we are all experienced intelligence officers, but this really is a job for someone in the protective services, like the police constables who guard Her Majesty and the PM or your Secret Service chaps. Hell of a way to earn a living, this is.”

“Yes, Mick, I expect we'll all appreciate them a little more after this lot,” Ray Stones observed, to general agreement around the table.

“John.” Ryan turned to Sparrow. “You've got the most important job, spotting this motherfucker for the rest of us.”

“Lovely,” Sparrow replied. “All I have to do is examine five-thousand-plus faces for the one that might or might not be there. Lovely,” the spook repeated.

“What will you be using?”

“I have three Nikon cameras and a good assortment of lenses. I think tomorrow I might buy some seven-by-fifty binoculars also. I just hope I can find a good perch to scan from. The height of the parapet worries me. There's a dead space extending out from the base of the columns about thirty yards or so that I can't see at all. That limits what I can do, lads.”

“Not much choice,” Jack thought out loud. “You can't see shit from ground level.”

“That is the problem we have,” Sparrow agreed. “Our best choice would be two men, one—actually, more than one—on each side with good spotting glasses. But we lack the manpower, and we'd have to get permission from the Pope's own security people, which is, I gather, quite out of the question.”

“Getting them involved would be useful, but—”

“But we can't let the whole world know about the Rabbit. Yeah, I know. The Pope's life is secondary to that consideration. Isn't that just great?” Ryan growled.

“What is the security of your country worth, Sir John, and ours also?” King asked rhetorically.

“More than his life,” Ryan answered. “Yeah, I know, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.”

“Has any Pope ever been murdered?” Sharp asked. Nobody knew the answer.

“Somebody tried once. The Swiss Guards fought a stonewall action to protect his retreat. Most of them went down hard, but the Pope escaped alive,” Ryan said, remembering something from a comic book he'd read at St. Matthew's in the—what was it? Fourth grade or so?

“I wonder how good they are, those Swiss chaps?” Stones asked.

“They're pretty enough in the striped uniforms. Probably well motivated. Question of training, really,” Sharp observed. “That's the difference between a civilian and a soldier—training. The chaps in plainclothes are probably well briefed, but if they carry pistols, are they allowed to use them? They work for a church, after all. Probably not trained to shoot people outright.”

“You had that guy jump out from a crowd and fire off a starter pistol at the Queen—on the way to Parliament, wasn't it?” Ryan remembered. “There was a cavalry officer on a horse right there. I was surprised he didn't cut the asshole in half with his sabre—that would have been my instinct—but he didn't.”

“Parade sword, just for ceremonial occasions. You probably couldn't cut cold butter with it,” Sparrow said. “Nearly trampled the bastard with his horse, though.”

“The Secret Service would have dropped him on the spot. Sure, the gun was loaded with blanks,” Ryan said, “but it damned sure looked and sounded like the real thing. Her Majesty kept her head screwed on pretty tight. I would have shit myself.”

“I'm sure Her Majesty availed herself of the proper facilities at Westminster Palace. She has her own loo there, you know,” King told the American.

“In the event, he was some disturbed fellow, doubtless cutting out paper dolls in a mental hospital now,” Sharp said, but, like every other British subject, his heart had stopped cold watching the incident on TV, and he, too, had been surprised that the lunatic had survived the event. Had one of the Yeomen of the Tower been there with his ceremonial fighting spear—called a partisan—he surely would have been pinned to the pavement like a butterfly in a collection box. Perhaps God did look after fools, drunks, and little children after all. “So, if Strokov does show up, and does take his shot, you suppose the local Italians will do for him?”

“One can hope,” King said.

 Wouldn't that be just great?
Jack thought. The professionals can't protect the Pope, but local waiters and clothing salesmen beat the fucker to death. That'll look great on NBC Nightly News.

BACK IN MANCHESTER, the Rabbit and his family finished yet another superb dinner from Mrs. Thompson.

“What does an ordinary English worker eat?” Zaitzev asked.

“Not quite this well,” Kingshot admitted. He sure as hell didn't. “But we try to take decent care of our guests, Oleg.”

“Have I told you enough about MINISTER?” he asked next. “Is all I know.” The Security Service had picked his brain pretty thoroughly on the subject that afternoon, going over every single fact at least five times.

“You've been most helpful, Oleg Ivan'ch. Thank you.” In fact, he'd given the Security Service quite a lot. Most often, the way you caught such penetration agents was by identifying the information he'd transferred. Only a limited number of people would have access to all of it, and the “Five” people would observe all of them until one did something difficult to explain. Then they would see who arrived at the dead-drop site to retrieve the package, and from that they'd get the bonus of identifying his KGB control officer, and get two breaks for the price of one—or perhaps even more, because the case officer would be working more than one agent, and the discoveries could branch out like the limbs of a tree. Then you tried to arrest a peripheral agent before going after the main target, because then the KGB could not know how their main penetration agent had been exposed, and that would protect the primary source, Oleg Zaitzev, from discovery. The counterintelligence business was as baroque as medieval-court intrigue and was both loved and hated by the players for its intricacy, but that just made the apprehension of a real Bad Guy that much more rewarding.

“And what of the Pope?”

“As I said the other day, we have a team in Rome right now to look into the matter,” Kingshot answered. “Not much we can say—in fact, not much we can really do, but we are taking action based on your information, Oleg.”

“That is good,” the defector thought out loud, hoping it hadn't all been for nothing. He'd not really looked forward to exposing Soviet agents throughout the West. He'd do that, to safeguard his own position in his new home, of course, and for the money he'd get for turning traitor to his Motherland, but his highest concern was in saving that one life.

TUESDAY MORNING, Ryan slept later than usual, arising just after eight, figuring he'd need to bankroll his rest for the following day. He'd sure as hell need it then.

Sharp and the rest of the team were already up.

“Anything new?” Jack asked, coming into the dining room.

“We have the radios,” Sharp reported. There was, indeed, one at every place at the table. “They're excellent—the very same sort your Secret Service use—same manufacturer, Motorola. Brand new, and they are encrypted. Lapel microphones and earpieces.”

Ryan looked at his. The earpiece was clear plastic, curled up like a phone cord, and nearly invisible. That was good news. “Batteries?”

“Brand new, and two sets of replacements for each. Good to know that Her Majesty is well looked after.”

“Okay, so nobody can listen in, and we can swap information,” Ryan said. It was one more piece of good news set against a big black pile of the bad sort. “What's the plan for the day?”