Tom Clancy - Red Rabbit

“I see,” Vice Admiral Greer said from thirty-four hundred miles away. “That’s going to be a problem.”

“Damned straight it is.” Ryan took a breath. “What can we do about it?”

“That’s the problem, my boy,” the DDI said next. “First, can we do anything about it? Second, do we want to do anything about it?”

“Admiral, why would we not want to do something about it?” Ryan asked, trying to keep his voice short of insubordinate. He respected Greer as a boss and as a man.

“Back up, son. Think it all the way through. First, our mission in life is to protect the United States of America, and no one else-well, allies, too, of course,” Greer added for the tape recorders that had to be on this line. “But our primary duty is to our flag, not to any religious figure. We will try to help him if we can, but if we cannot, then we cannot.”

“Very well,” Ryan responded through gritted teeth. What about right and wrong? He wanted to ask, but that would have to wait a few moments.

“We do not ordinarily give away classified information, and you can imagine how tightly held this defection is going to be,” Greer went on.

“Yes, sir.” But at least it wasn’t going to be NOFORN-not for distribution to foreigners. The Brits were foreigners, and they already knew all about BEATRIX and the Rabbit, but the Brits weren’t big on sharing, except, sometimes, with America, and usually with a big quid pro quo tacked onto it. It was just how things worked. Similarly, Ryan wasn’t allowed to discuss a single thing about some operations he was cleared into. TALENT KEYHOLE was the code name: the reconnaissance satellites, though CIA and the Pentagon had fallen all over themselves giving the raw data to the British during the Falklands War, plus every intercept the National Security Agency had from South America. Blood was still thicker than water. “Admiral, how will it look in the papers if it becomes known that the Central Intelligence Agency had data on the threat to the Pope and we just sat on our hands?”

“Is that a-”

“Threat? No, sir, not from me. I play by the rules, sir, and you know it. But somebody there will leak the information just because he’s pissed about it, and you know that, and when that happens, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Point taken,” Greer agreed. “Are you proposing anything?”

“That’s above my pay grade, sir, but we have to think hard about possible action of some sort.”

“What else are we getting from our new friend?”

“We have the code names of three major leaks. One is MINISTER, sounds like a political and foreign policy leak in Whitehall. Two for our side of the ocean: NEPTUNE sounds naval, and that’s the source of our communications insecurity. Somebody in Redland is reading the Navy’s mail, sir. And there’s one in D.C. called CASSIUS. Sounds like a leaker on The Hill, top-drawer political intelligence, plus stuff about our operations.”

“Our-you mean CIA?” the DDI asked, with sudden concern in his voice. No matter how old a player you were, no matter how much experience you had, the idea that your parent agency might be compromised scared the living hell out of you.

“Correct,” Ryan answered. He didn’t need to press that button very hard. Nobody at Langley was entirely comfortable with all the information that went to the “select” intelligence committees in the House and Senate. Politicians talked for a living, after all. Hell, there were few things harder than making a political figure keep his mouth shut. “Sir, this guy is a fantastically valuable source. We’ll get him cut loose from over here in three days or so. I think the debriefing process will take months. I’ve met his wife and daughter. They seem nice enough-the little girl is Sally’s age. I think this guy’s the real deal, sir, and there’s gold in them thar hills.”

“How comfortable is he?”

“Well, they’re all probably in sensory overload at the moment. I’d think hard about getting a pshrink assigned to them to help with the transition. Maybe more than one. We want to keep him settled down-we want him confident in his new life. That might not be easy, but it’ll damned sure pay off for us.”

“We have a couple of guys for that. They know how to talk them through the transition part. Is the Rabbit a flight risk?”

“Sir, I see nothing to suggest that, but we have to remember that he’s made one hell of a broad jump, and the stuff he landed in isn’t exactly what he’s used to.”

“Noted. Good call, Jack. What else?”

“That’s all for the moment. We’ve only been talking to the guy about five and a half hours, just preliminary stuff so far, but the waters look pretty deep.”

“Okay. Arthur is on the phone with Basil right now. I’m going to head over that way and give him your read. Oh, Bob Ritter just got back from Korea-jet-lagged all to hell and gone. We’re going to tell him about your adventure in the field. If he tries to bite your head off, it’s our fault, mine and the Judge’s.”

Ryan took a long look down at the carpet. He didn’t quite understand why Ritter disliked him, but they didn’t swap Christmas cards, and that was a fact. “Gee, thanks, sir.”

“Don’t sweat it. From what I understand, it sounds like you acquitted yourself pretty well.”

“Thanks, Admiral. I didn’t trip over my own feet. That’s all I’m going to claim, if that’s okay with you.”

“Fair enough, my boy. Get your write-up completed and fax it to me PDQ.”

IN MOSCOW, the secure fax went into the office of Mike Russell. Oddly, it was a graphic, the first-edition cover of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter. The address on the cover sheet told him who was supposed to get it. And on the page was a handwritten message: “Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail have moved to a new hutch.”

So, Russell thought, they did have a Rabbit case, and it had been successfully run. Nothing he could claim to know for certain, but he knew the language spoken in the community. He walked down to Ed Foley’s office and knocked on the door.

“Come,” Foley’s voice called.

“This just came in from Washington, Ed.” Russell handed the fax across.

“Well, that’s good news,” the COS observed. He folded the signal into his jacket pocket for Mary Pat. “There’s an additional message in this fax, Mike,” Foley said.

“What’s that?”

“Our comms are secure, pal. Otherwise it would not have come in this way.”

“Well, thank the Good Lord for that,” Russell said.

RYAN? HE DID WHAT ?”Bob Ritter growled.

“Bob, you want to settle down? It’s nothing to get your tits in a flutter about,” James Greer said, half soothingly and half an indirect challenge in the CIA’s in-house power playground. Judge Moore looked on in amusement. “Jack went into the field to observe an operation for which we had no available field officer. He didn’t step on his crank with the golf shoes, and the defector is in a safe house in the English Midlands right now, and from what I hear, he’s singing like a canary.”

“Well, what’s he telling us?”

“For starters,” Judge Moore answered, “it seems that our friend Andropov wants to assassinate the Pope.”

Ritter’s head snapped around. “How solid is that?”

“It’s what made the Rabbit decide to take a walk,” the DCI said. “He’s a conscience defector, and that set him off.”