Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  “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 elevato
r 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.”

  Charleston lifted his phone and made the summons. The two analysts arrived in less than two minutes. They had all met at least once. Ryan, in fact, was the least familiar with the other American. Sir Basil pointed them to seats. He’d already ripped his envelope open. Silvestri handed Ryan his own message.

  For his part, Jack was already thinking oh, shit. Something unusual was in the offing, and he’d learned not to trust new and different things at CIA.

  “This is interesting,” Charleston observed.

  “Do I open this now?” Ryan asked. Silvestri nodded, so he took out his Swiss Army Knife and sliced through the heavy manila paper. His message was only three pages, personally signed by Admiral Greer.

  A Rabbit, he saw. He knew the terminology. Somebody wanted a ticket out of . . . Moscow . . . and CIA was providing it, with the help of SIS because Station Budapest was currently out of business. . . .

  “Tell Arthur that we will be pleased to assist, Randy. We will, I assume, get a chance to speak with him before you fly him off to London?”

  “It’s only fair, Bas,” Silvestri confirmed. “How hard to pull this one off, you suppose?”

  “Out of Budapest?” Charleston thought for a moment. “Not all that difficult, I should think. The Hungarians have a rather nasty secret-police organization, but the country as a whole is not devoutly Marxist—oh, this Rabbit says that KGB may have compromised your communications. That is what Langley is excited about.”

  “Damned straight, Basil. If that’s a hole, we have to plug it up fast.”

  “This guy’s in their MERCURY? Jesus Christ,” Ryan breathed.

  “You got that one right, sonny,” Silvestri agreed.

  “But what the hell am I going into the field for?” Jack demanded next. “I’m not a field officer.”

  “We need one of ours to keep an eye on things.”

  “I quite understand, Randy,” Charleston observed, his head still down in his briefing papers. “And you want someone whom the opposition doesn’t know?”

  “So it seems.”

  “But why me?” Ryan persisted.

  “Jack,” Sir Basil soothed, “your only job will be to watch what happens. It’s just pro forma.”

  “But what about my cover?”

  “We’ll give you a new diplomatic passport,” C answered. “You will be quite safe. The Vienna Convention, you know.”

  “But . . . but . . . it’ll be fake.”

  “They won’t know that, dear boy.”

  “What about my akzint?” It was painfully obvious that his accent was an American’s, not a Brit’s.

  “In Hungary?” Silvestri asked with a smile.

  “Jack, with their bloody language, I seriously doubt they will notice the difference, and in any case, with your new documents, your person is quite inviolable.”

  “Relax, kid. It’s better than your little girl’s teddy bear. Trust me on that one, okay?” Silvestri assured him.

  “And you’ll have a security officer with you at all times,” Charleston added.

  Ryan had to sit back and take a breath. He couldn’t allow himself to appear to be a wuss, not in front of these guys and not before Admiral Greer. “Okay, excuse me. It’s just that I’ve never been in the field before. It’s all kinda new to me.” He hoped that was adequate backpedaling. “What exactly will I be doing, and how do I go about it?”

  “We’ll fly you into Budapest out of Heathrow. Our chaps will pick you up at the airport and take you to the
embassy. You will sit it out there—a couple of days, I expect—and then watch how Andy gets your Rabbit out of Redland. Randy, how long would you expect?”

  “To get this moving? End of the week, maybe a day or two longer,” Silvestri thought. “The Rabbit will fly or take the train to Budapest, and your man will figure how to get him the hell out of Dodge City.”

  “Two or three days for that,” Sir Basil estimated. “Mustn’t be too quick.”

  “Okay, that keeps me away from home for four days. What’s my cover story?”

  “For your wife?” Charleston asked. “Tell her that you have to go to—oh, to Bonn, shall we say, on NATO business. Be vague on the time factor,” he advised. He was inwardly amused to have to explain this to the Innocent American Abroad.

  “Okay,” Ryan conceded the point. Not like I have a hell of a lot of choice in the matter, is there?

  UPON GETTING BACK to the embassy, Foley walked to Mike Barnes’s office. Barnes was the Cultural Attaché, the official expert on artsy-fartsy stuff. That was a major assignment in Moscow. The USSR had a fairly rich cultural life. The fact that the best part of it dated back to the czars didn’t seem to matter to the current regime, probably, Foley thought, because all Great Russians wanted to appear kulturniy, and superior to Westerners, especially Americans, whose “culture” was far newer and far crasser than the country of Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov. Barnes was a graduate of the Juilliard School and Cornell, and especially appreciated Russian music.

  “Hey, Mike,” Foley said in greeting.

  “How’s keeping the newsies happy?” Barnes asked.

  “The usual. Hey, got a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Mary Pat and I are thinking about traveling some, maybe to Eastern Europe. Prague and like that. Any good music to be heard that way?”

  “The Prague symphony hasn’t opened up yet. But Jozsef Rozsa is in Berlin right now, and then he’s going to Budapest.”

  “Who’s he? I don’t know the name,” Foley said, as his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

  “Hungarian native, cousin of Miklos Rozsa, Hollywood composer—Ben Hur, and like that. Musical family, I guess. He’s supposed to be excellent. The Hungarian State Railroad has four orchestras, believe it or not, and Jozsef is going to conduct number one. You can go there by train or fly, depends on how much time you have.”