Tom Clancy - Red Rabbit

“How long, Andy?”

“A little over an hour to Csurgo. Traffic ought not to be a problem,” Hudson answered.

And it wasn’t. In minutes, they were outside the boundaries of Hungary’s capital, and then the lights of houses and businesses just stopped as though someone had flipped the master switch for electricity to the region. The road was two-lane blacktop, and none too wide at that. Telephone poles, no guardrails. And this is a major commercial highway? Ryan wondered. They might as well have been driving across central Nevada. Perhaps one or two lights every kilometer, farmhouses where people liked to have one on to help find their way to the bathroom. Even the road signs looked decrepit and not very helpful-not the mint-green highway signs of home or the friendly blue ones of England. It didn’t help that the words on them were in Martian. Otherwise they were the European sort, showing the speed limit in black numbers on a white disc within a red circle.

Hudson was a competent driver, puffing away on his cigars and driving as though he were on his way to Covent Garden in London. Ryan thanked God that he’d made a trip to the head before walking to the hotel-otherwise he might lose control of his bladder. Well, probably his face didn’t show how nervous he was, Jack hoped. He kept telling himself that his own life wasn’t on the line, but those of the people in the back were, and they were now his responsibility, and something in him, probably something learned from his policeman father, made that a matter of supreme importance.

“What is your full name?” Oleg asked him, breaking the silence unexpectedly.

“Ryan, Jack Ryan.”

“What sort of name is Ryan?” the Rabbit pressed on.

“My ancestry is Irish. John corresponds to Ivan, I think, but people call me Jack, like Vanya, maybe.”

“And you are in CIA?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What is your job in CIA?”

“I am an analyst. Mostly I sit at a desk and write reports.”

“I also sit at desk in Centre.”

“You are a communications officer?”

A nod. “ Da , that is my job in Centre.” Then Zaitzev remembered that his important information was not for the back of a car, and he shut back up.

Ryan saw that. He had things to say, but not here, and that was fair enough for the moment.

The trip went smoothly. Four cigars for Hudson, and six cigarettes for Ryan, until they approached the town of Csurgo.

Ryan had expected something more than this. Csurgo was barely a wide place in the road, with not even a gas station in evidence, and surely not an all-night 7-Eleven. Hudson turned off the main road onto a dirt track, and three minutes later there was the shape of a commercial truck. It was a big Volvo, he saw in a moment, with a black canvas cover on the back and two men standing next to it, both smoking. Hudson pulled around it, finding concealment behind some nondescript sort of shed a few yards from it, and stopped the Jaguar. He hopped out, and motioned to the rest to do the same.

Ryan followed the Brit spook to the two men. Hudson walked right up to the older of the two and shook his hand.

“Hello, Istvan. Good of you to wait for us.”

“Hello, Andy. It is a dull night. Who are your friends?”

“This is Mr. Ryan. These are the Somerset family. We’re going across the border,” Hudson explained.

“Okay,” Kovacs agreed. “This is Jani. He’s my driver for tonight. Andy, you can ride in front with us. The rest will be in the back. Come,” he said, leading the way.

The truck’s tailgate had ladder steps built in. Ryan climbed up first, and bent down to lift the little girl-Svetlana, he remembered, was her name-and watched her mother and father climb up. In the cargo area, he saw, were some large cardboard boxes, perhaps containers for the tape machine Hungarians made. Kovacs climbed up also.

“You all speak English?” he asked, and got nods. “It is a short way to the border, just five kilometer. You will hide in boxes here. Please make no noise. Is important. You understand? Make no noise.” He got more nods, noting that the man-definitely not an Englishman, he could see-translated to his wife. The man took the child, Kovacs saw also. With his cargo hidden away, he closed the tailgate and walked forward.

“Five thousand d-mark for this, eh?” Istvan asked.

“That is correct,” Hudson agreed.

“I should ask more, but I am not a greedy man.”

“You are a trusted comrade, my friend,” Hudson assured him, briefly wishing that he had a pistol in his belt.

The Volvo’s big diesel lit up with a rumbling roar and the truck jerked off, back to the main road, with Jani at the large, almost flat steering wheel.

It didn’t take long.

And that was a good thing for Ryan, crouching in the cardboard box in the back. He could only guess how the Russians felt, like unborn babies in a horrible womb, one with loaded guns outside it.

Ryan was afraid even to smoke a final cigarette, fearing someone might smell the smoke over the pungent diesel exhaust, which was altogether unlikely.

“So, Istvan,” Hudson asked in the cab, “what is the routine?”

“Watch. We usually travel at night. Is more-dramatic, you say? I know the Határ-rség here many years now. Captain Budai Laszlo is good man to do business with. He has wife and little daughter, always want present for daughter Zsóka. I have,” Kovacs promised, holding up a paper bag.

The border post was sufficiently well lighted that they could see it three kilometers off, and blessedly there was little traffic this time of night. Jani drove up normally, slowing and stopping there when the private of the border guards, the Határ-rség, waved for them to halt.

“Is Captain Budai here?” Kovacs asked at once. “I have something for him.” The private headed into the guardhouse and returned instantly with a more senior man.

“Laszlo! How are you this cold night?” Kovacs called in Magyar, then jumped down from the cab with the paper shopping bag.

“Istvan, what can I say, it is dull night,” the youngish captain replied.

“And your little Zsóka, she is well?”

“Her birthday is next week. She will be five.”

“Excellent!” the smuggler observed. He handed over the bag. “Give her these.”

“These” were a pair of candy-apple-red Reebok sneakers with Velcro closures.

“Lovely,” Captain Budai observed, with genuine pleasure. He took them out to look at them in the light. Any female child in the world loved the things, and Laszlo was as happy as his daughter would be in four days. “You are a good friend, Istvan. So, what do you transport tonight?”

“Nothing of value. I’m making a pickup this morning in Beograd, though. Anything you need?”

“My wife would love some tapes for the Walkman you got her last month.” The amazing thing about Budai was that he was not an overly greedy man. That was one of the reasons Kovacs liked to travel across the border on his watch.

“What groups?”

“The Bee Gees, I think she called them. For me, some show tunes, if you don’t mind.”

“Anything in particular? The music from American movies, like Star Wars, perhaps.”

“I have that one, but not the new one, the Empire Attacks Back, perhaps?”

“Done.” They shook hands. “How about some Western coffee?”

“What kind?”

“Austrian or American, maybe? There’s a place in Beograd that has American Folgers coffee. It is very tasty,” Kovacs assured him.

“I have never tried that.”

“I’ll get you some and you can try it-no charge.”

“You are a good man,” Budai observed. “Have a good night. Pass,” he concluded, waving to his corporal.