by Tom Clancy
“You can’t invoke a D-notice?”
“Theoretically, yes, but they can be difficult to enforce. Fleet Street has its own rules, you see.”
“So does The Washington Post, as Nixon found out. So I ought not to kill anyone.”
“I would try to avoid it,” Simon agreed, munching on his turkey sandwich.
BELGRADE—BEOGRAD TO its natives—also had a fine station. In the previous century, evidently, architects had worked hard to outdo each other, like the pious ones who’d built cathedrals in the Middle Ages. The train was several hours late, he saw with surprise. He couldn’t see why. The train hadn’t stopped for any length of time anywhere. Perhaps it wasn’t traveling as fast as it was supposed to. Leaving Belgrade, it snaked up some modest hills, and none too quickly at that. He imagined this country would be pretty in winter. Wasn’t there an upcoming Olympiad hereabouts? The winter probably came here about the same time it did in Moscow. It was a little late this year, but that usually meant it would be unusually harsh when it arrived. He wondered what winter would be like in America. . . .
“READY, JACK?” Charleston asked in his office.
“I suppose.” Jack looked at his new passport. Since it was a diplomatic one, it was a little more ornate than the usual, and bound in red leather, with the Royal Coat of Arms on the front cover. He paged through it to see the stamps of all the places he had not visited. Thailand, the People’s Republic of China. Damn, Jack thought, I really do get around. “Why this visa?” he asked. The U.K. didn’t require them for anybody.
“Hungary controls movement in and out rather sternly. They require an entry and exit visa. You’ll not be needing the latter, I expect,” C observed. “Hudson will probably be taking you out in a southerly direction. He has good relations with the local smugglers.”
“Walking over any mountains?” Ryan asked.
Basil shook his head. “No, we don’t often do that. Car or truck, I should think. Ought not to be any problem at all, my boy.” He looked up. “It really is quite routine, Jack.”
“You say so, sir.” It damned sure isn’t for me.
Charleston stood. “Good luck, Jack. See you back in a few days.”
Ryan took his hand. “Roger that, Sir Basil.” Semper fi, pal.
There was a car waiting on the street. Jack hopped in the left-front seat, and the driver headed east. The ride took about fifty minutes with the light afternoon traffic, almost as fast as the train would have been.
On getting to Chatham, Ryan found his daughter napping, Little Jack playing with his feet—fascinating things they were—in the playpen, and Miss Margaret sitting with a magazine in the living room.
“Dr. Ryan, I didn’t expect—”
“That’s okay, I have to take a business trip.” He walked to the wall phone in the kitchen and tried calling Cathy, only to learn that she was giving her damned lecture on her laser toy. It was the one she used for welding blood vessels back shut, he thought. Something like that. Frowning, he went upstairs for his bag. He’d try to call her from the airport. But, just in case, he scribbled a note.
OFF TO BONN. TRIED TO CALL. WILL TRY AGAIN. LOVE, JACK. This one found its way to the refrigerator door. Ryan bent down to give Sally a kiss and then reached down to lift his son for a hug, a sloppy one, as it turned out. The little guy dribbled the way a car engine dripped oil. That necessitated a paper towel on the way out.
“Have a good trip, Dr. Ryan,” the nanny called.
“Thanks, Margaret. See ya.” As soon as the car pulled off, she called Century House to let people know Sir John was on the way to Heathrow. Then she went back to her magazine, this month’s Tattler.
THE TRAIN CAME to an unexpected halt in a yard right at the Hungarian frontier, near the town of Zombor. Zaitzev hadn’t known about this, and the surprise was soon compounded. There were cranes on their side of the train, and no sooner had the train stopped than a crowd of coveralled workmen appeared.
The Hungarian State Railway operated on standard gauge, the tracks 1,435 milimeters—4 feet, 8½ inches—apart, which was the world’s standard, and which incongruously dated back to the two-horse chariots used by the Romans. But the Russian train gauge was five feet, or 1,524 millimeters—for some reason no one remembered. The solution to that here was to lift the train bodies off the Russian tracks—the wheel sets—and lower them onto a different set. That took about an hour, but it was efficiently done, for all that. It utterly fascinated Svetlana, and it even impressed her father that the task was performed so routinely. An hour and twenty minutes later, they were moving almost due north on narrower tracks behind a new electric locomotive, crossing the rich agricultural soil of Hungary. Almost at once, Svetlana chirped at the sight of men in local dress riding horses, which struck both parents and child as quite exotic.
THE AIRCRAFT WAS a fairly new Boeing 737 and, for this trip, Ryan decided to take a friend. He bought a pack of cigarettes at the airport and lit one up at once on the concourse.
The good news was that he’d been given a first-class window seat, 1-A. The scenery up in the sky was the only good part of flying, with the additional bonus that nobody could see the fear in your face, except maybe the stewardess, because like doctors they could probably also smell fear. But up front the booze was free, and so Ryan tried to order whiskey, only to find that the selection was Scotch (which he didn’t like), vodka (which he didn’t like), or gin (which he could not stand in his presence). It was the wrong airline for Jack Daniel’s, but the wine list was okay, and, climbing to cruise altitude, the no-smoking light dinged off, and Ryan lit up another smoke. Not as good as a nice bourbon, but better than nothing at all. At least it enabled him to lean back and pretend to relax behind closed eyes, occasionally looking out to see if the stuff under the aircraft was green or blue. The flight was agreeably smooth, with only a few bumps to make him grab for the armrests, and three glasses of a decent French white helped smooth his anxiety out. About halfway there, over Belgium, he got back to thinking. How many people hated flying? Maybe a third, maybe half? How many of them detested it as much as he did? Half of those? So, probably, he wasn’t alone. Fearful people tried to hide it, and a look around showed faces much the same as his probably was. So at least he probably wasn’t the only wimp on the airplane. And the wine was nice and fruity. And if the ULA hadn’t been able to punch his ticket with Uzis right in his home on the Chesapeake Bay, then random chance was probably on his side as well. So he might as well relax and enjoy the ride—he was stuck here one way or another, after all, and the Boeing cruised along at 500 knots or so.
There were a few bumps in the descent, but for Ryan this was the one part of the flight during which he felt safe—when the aircraft was returning to earth. Intellectually, he knew that this was actually the most dangerous part, but somehow his gut didn’t see it that way. He heard the whine of various servos, and then the whooshing sound that announced the open landing-gear doors, and then felt safe enough to see the ground rushing toward him. The landing was bumpy, but Jack welcomed it. He was back on the ground, where you could stand up and ambulate all by yourself at a reasonably safe speed. Good.
THEY WERE IN another train yard, packed with boxcars and cattle cars, and their train car jostled back and forth through switches and turns. Once more, zaichik had her nose against the glass, and finally they passed under a glass roof and the train jerked to a stop in Eastern Station. Semi-uniformed and rather scruffy-looking porters drew up by the baggage car. Zaichik practically leaped off the car to look around, almost outracing her mother, who fumbled after her with their carry-on bags. Oleg walked to the baggage car and oversaw the transfer of his bags to the two-wheel hand truck. They walked away from the train, through the old and rather seedy ticket room, and from there outside to the cabstand. There were a lot of cabs, all of them Russian-made Ladas—the Soviet version of an old Fiat—and all the same color, which might have been beige under the dirt. Zaitzev tipped the porter one Comecon ruble and supervised
the loading of their bags into the car. The trunk of the diminutive taxicab was far too small. Three bags went to the front seat, and Svetlana would have to sit in her mother’s lap for the ride to the hotel. The cab pulled away, made a swift and legally dubious U-turn, and then raced at breakneck speed down what appeared to be a major shopping street.
The Astoria Hotel was only four minutes from the station. It seemed to be an impressive structure, looking almost like a grand hotel of another age. The lobby was modest in size, though not in appointments, and much carved oak was in evidence. The desk clerk expected them, and greeted them with a smile. Soon after giving Zaitzev the room key, he pointed across the street to the Soviet-Hungarian Culture and Friendship Center, which was so obviously a KGB operation that it might as well have had a statue of Iron Feliks in front. The bellman led them to the tiny elevator and then to the third floor, turning right for Room 307, a corner room that would be their home for the next ten days, or so everyone but Oleg thought. He also got a ruble for his trouble and withdrew, leaving the family in a room little larger than the combined space of their train accommodations, and with only a single bathroom, albeit one with a bath/shower, which all three of them needed. Oleg let his wife and daughter go first.
As shabby as the room was by Western standards, however, by Soviet ones it was almost palatial. There was a chair by the window, and Zaitzev sat down and surveyed the streets for a CIA officer. That, he knew, was a fool’s errand, but he could hardly resist the temptation.
THE MEN HE was looking for were not Americans at all, but rather Tom Trent and Chris Morton, both of whom worked for Andy Hudson. Both had dark hair and hadn’t washed that day so that they could appear to be working-class Hungarians. Trent had staked out the train station and spotted them coming in, while Morton had camped out in the hotel. With good photographic prints provided by the Times photographer in Moscow, identifying the Zaitzev family had been simplicity itself. As a final check, Morton, who spoke flawless Russian, walked to the reception desk and verified his “old friend’s” room number at the desk, in return for a twenty-florint banknote and a wink. Then he wandered down to the bar, while surveying the hotel’s ground floor for future reference. So far, they decided on the subway ride back to the embassy, things were going remarkably well. The train had arrived late, but their information on the hotel had been bang-on for once.
ANDY HUDSON WAS a man of average height and appearance, except his sandy hair marked him as a foreigner in a land where everyone looked pretty much alike. Certainly at the airport they all did, Ryan thought.
“Can we talk?” Ryan asked on the way away from the airport.
“Yes, the car is clean.” Like all such vehicles, it was regularly swept and parked in a secure location.
“How sure are you of that?”
“The opposition doesn’t break the rules of diplomatic conduct. Strange, but true. And besides, the car has a very sophisticated alarm. Not sure I could fiddle it myself, as a matter of fact. In any case, welcome to Budapest, Sir John.” He pronounced the city’s name as Byudapesht, as opposed to the way Ryan thought it was spoken.
“So, you know who I am?”
“Yes, I was home in London last March. I was in town when you performed your heroics—bloody fool, you ought to have gotten yourself killed, except for the stupid bloody Irish.”
“I’ve said that to myself many times, Mr. Hud—”
“Andy,” Hudson suggested at once.
“Fine. My name is Jack.”
“Good flight?”
“Any flight you walk off of is a good one, Andy. So, tell me about the mission and how you’re going to go about it.”
“Entirely routine. We observe the Rabbit and his family—we’ll keep them under intermittent surveillance—and when the time is right, we’ll whisk them out of the city and into Yugoslavia.”
“How?”
“Car or truck, haven’t decided yet,” Hudson answered. “Hungary is the only possible problem. The Yugoslavs care sod-all about people crossing their border—they have a million citizens working overseas in various capacities. And our relations with the border guards is very cordial indeed,” Andy assured him.
“Payoffs?”
Hudson nodded as he took a turn around a modest-sized park. “It’s a good way for them to outfit their families with fashionable items. I know people who smuggle hard drugs in—I make no use of them, of course. Drugs are one thing the locals at least pretend to care about, but some border guards are more open to negotiation than others—hell, they probably all are, or damned nearly all. It’s remarkable what you can get for some hard currency or a pair of Reebok running shoes. The black market here is a lively one, and since it often brings hard currency into the country, the political leadership will look the other way so long as it doesn’t get too out of hand, you see.”
“Then how did the CIA station get clobbered?”
“Bad bloody luck.” Hudson went on to explain for a minute or two. “Like being run over by a lorry on an empty road.”
“Damn, does that sort of thing really happen?”
“Not often, rather like winning a state lottery.”
“You gotta play to win,” Ryan murmured. It was the motto for the Maryland State Lottery, which was just one more form of tax for those dumb enough to partake, just one that was a little more cynical than the other kinds.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s a chance we all take.”
“And how does that apply to getting the Rabbit and his family out?”
“One in ten thousand.”
To Ryan, those sounded like betting odds, but there was one other hang-up to worry about. “Have they told you his wife and kid don’t know how extended his vacation is?”
That made Hudson’s head turn. “You’re bloody joking.”
“Nope. That’s what he told our people in Moscow. Complication?”
His hands flexed on the wheel. “Only if she’s noisy. I suppose we can handle that if we must.” But it was plain on his face that it was something to worry about.
“European women, they tell me, are less assertive than American ones.”
“They are, as a matter of fact,” Hudson agreed. “Particularly true of the Russians, I believe. Well, we shall see.”
One last turn onto Harm Utca, and they were at the British Embassy. Hudson parked the car and got out.
“That building there is the Budapesti Rendõrfõkápitanság, the police headquarters. Good to be in a secure location—they are little threat to us. The local police are not very highly regarded. The local language is bloody impossible. Indo-Altaic, philologists call it. Origin is somewhere in Mongolia, if you can believe it. Unrelated to any language you’ve ever heard about. Not too many people here speak English, but some German, because Austria is the next country over. Not to worry, you’ll have one of us with you at all times. I’ll take you on a walkabout tomorrow morning. Don’t know about you, but traveling always tires me out.”
“Yeah,” Ryan agreed at once. “I call it travel shock.”
“So, we’ll get you settled in your quarters upstairs. The embassy canteen is quite adequate, and your quarters will be comfortable if not elaborate. Let me get your bag.”
You couldn’t knock the hospitality, Jack thought ten minutes later. A bed, private bath, a TV, and a VCR with a dozen or so tapes. He decided on The Cruel Sea with Jack Hawkins, and he made it to the end before fading off to sleep.
CHAPTER 26
TOURISTS
ALL OF THEM WOKE UP about the same time. Little zaichik was first, quickly followed by her mother and finally her father. The Hotel Astoria even had room service, an unheard-of luxury for Soviet citizens. Their room had a telephone, and Irina, after taking down the orders, called it in to the right extension, then was told that their food would arrive in about thirty minutes.
“I could fix it faster,” Irina observed, with a hint of sourness. But even she had to admit that not having to fix it wasn’t a bad deal for
her at all. And so they all took turns in the bathroom in anticipation of their morning meal.
RYAN GOT HIMSELF showered and found his way to the embassy canteen about a quarter to eight. Evidently, the Brits liked their luxuries as much as American foreign service officers. He got himself a pile of scrambled eggs and bacon—Ryan loved English bacon, though their most popular sausages seemed to him to use sawdust as a filler—and four slices of white toast, figuring that he’d need a big breakfast to make it through this day. The coffee wasn’t all that bad. On asking, he found out that it was Austrian in origin, which explained the quality.
“The Ambassador insisted on that,” Hudson said, sitting down across the table from his American guest. “Dickie loves his coffee.”
“Who?” Jack asked.
“Richard Dover. He’s the Ambassador—back in London at the moment, just left day before yesterday. Too bad. He’d enjoy meeting you. Good boss, he is. So, sleep well?”
“No complaints. What the hell, only one hour’s worth of time difference. Is there a way for me to call London? I didn’t get a chance to talk to my wife before I left yesterday. Don’t want her to worry,” Jack explained.
“Not a problem, Sir John,” Hudson told him. “You can do that from my office.”
“She thinks I’m in Bonn on NATO business.”
“Really?”
“Cathy knows I’m Agency, but she doesn’t know much about what I do—and besides, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here anyway. Analyst,” Ryan explained, “not an operations guy.”
“So the signal about you said. Bollocks,” the field officer observed tersely. “Think of this as a new experience for your collection.”