Tom Clancy: Red Rabbit

“Two years here?” The toilet seemed to run forever. Foley was tempted to lift the tank cover to see if Haydock had replaced the plumbing hardware inside with something special. He decided he didn’t have to look to check that.

“Twenty-nine months. Seven to go. It’s a lively place to work. I’m sure they told you, everywhere you go, you’ll have a ‘friend’ handy. Don’t underestimate them, either. The Second Directorate chaps are thoroughly trained. . ” The toilet ran its course, and Haydock changed his voice. “The shower-the hot water is pretty reliable, but the spray pipe, it rattles, just like the one in our flat. . ” He turned the faucet to demonstrate. Sure enough, it rattled. Had someone worked on the wall to loosen it? Ed wondered. Probably. Probably this very handyman with him.

“Perfect.”

“Yes, you will get a lot of work done in here. Shower with a friend and save water-isn’t that what they say in California?”

Foley managed his first laugh in Moscow. “Yeah, that’s what they say, all right.” He gave his visitor a look. He was surprised that Haydock had introduced himself so early, but maybe it was just reverse-English tradecraft to be so obvious. The business of espionage had all manner of rules, and the Russians were rule-followers. So, Bob Ritter had told him, toss away part of the rulebook. Stick to your cover and be a dumbass unpredictable American every chance you get. He’d also told the Foleys that Nigel Haydock was one guy they could trust. He was the son of another intelligence officer-a man betrayed by Kim Philby himself, one of the poor bastards who’d parachuted into Albania into the waiting arms of the KGB reception committee. Nigel had been five years old then, just old enough always to remember what it was like to lose your father to the enemy. Nigel’s motivation was probably as good as Mary Pat’s, and that was pretty damned good. Better even than his own, Ed Foley might admit after a few drinks. Mary Pat hated the bastards as the Lord God Himself hated sin. Haydock wasn’t the Station Chief here, but he was the head bird-dog for the SIS’s operation in Moscow, and that made him pretty good. The CIA’s Director, Judge Moore, trusted the Brits: after Philby, he’d seen them go through SIS with a flamethrower hotter than even James Jesus Angleton’s fly rod and cauterize every possible leak. In turn, Foley trusted Judge Moore, and so did the President. That was the craziest part of the intelligence business: You couldn’t trust anybody -but you had to trust somebody.

Well, Foley thought, checking the hot water with his hand, nobody ever said the business made much sense. Like classical metaphysics. It just was.

“When’s the furniture get here?”

“The container ought to be on a truck in Leningrad right now. Will they tamper with it?”

Haydock shrugged. “Check everything,” he warned, then softened. “You can never know how thorough they are, Edward. The KGB is a great bloody bureaucracy-you don’t know the meaning of the word until you see it in operation here. For example, the bugs in your flat-how many of them actually work? They’re not British Telecom, nor are they AT amp;T. It’s the curse of this country, really, and it works for us, but that, too, is unreliable. When you’re followed, you can’t know if it’s an experienced expert or some bloody nimrod who can’t find his way to the loo. They look alike and dress alike. Just like our people, when you get down to it, but their bureaucracy is so large that there’s a greater likelihood it will protect the incompetent-or maybe not. God knows, at Century House we have our share of drones.”

Foley nodded. “At Langley, we call it the Intelligence Directorate.”

“Quite. We call ours the Palace of Westminster,” Haydock observed, with his own favorite prejudice. “I think we’ve tested the plumbing enough.”

Foley turned off the faucet and the two men returned to the living room, where Penny and Mary Pat were getting acquainted.

“Well, we have enough hot water anyway, honey.”

“Glad to hear it,” Mary Pat responded. She turned back to her guest. “Where do you shop around here?”

Penny Haydock smiled: “I can take you there. For special items, we can order from an agency in Helsinki, excellent quality: English, French, German-even American, for things like juices and preserved foods. The perishables are Finnish in origin, and they’re generally very good, especially the lamb. Don’t they have the finest lamb, Nigel?”

“Indeed it is-as good as New Zealand,” her husband agreed.

“The steaks leave something to be desired,” Mike Barnes told them, “but every week we get steaks flown in from Omaha. Tons of them-we distribute them to all our friends.”

“That is the truth,” Nigel confirmed. “Your corn-fed beef is superb. I’m afraid we’re all quite addicted to it.”

“Thank God for the U.S. Air Force,” Barnes went on. “They fly the beef into all their NATO bases, and we’re on the distribution list. They come in frozen, not quite as good as fresh at Delmonico’s, but close enough to remind you of home. I hope you guys brought a grill. We tend to take them up on the roof to cook out. We import charcoal, too. Ivan just doesn’t seem to understand about that.” The apartment had no balcony, perhaps to protect them from the diesel smell that pervaded the city.

“What about going to work?” Foley asked.

“Better to take the metro. It really is great,” Barnes told him.

“Leaving me with the car?” Mary Pat asked, with a hopeful smile. This was going exactly to plan. That was expected, but anything that went well in this business came as something of a surprise, like the right presents under the Christmas tree. You always hoped Santa got the letter, but you could never be sure.

“You might as well learn how to drive in this city,” Barnes said. “At least you have a nice car.” The previous resident in this apartment had left behind a white Mercedes 280 for them, which was indeed a nice car. Actually, a little too nice at only four years old. Not that there were all that many cars in Moscow, and the license plates surely marked it as belonging to an American diplomat, and thus easy to spot by any traffic cop, and by the KGB vehicle that would follow it most places it went. Again, it was reverse-English. Mary Pat would have to learn to drive like an Indianapolis resident on her first trip to New York. “The streets are nice and wide,” Barnes told her, “and the gas station is only three blocks that way.” He pointed. “It’s a huge one. The Russians like to build them that way.”

“Great,” she observed for Barnes’s benefit, already dropping into her cover as a pretty, ditsy blonde. Around the world, the pretty ones were supposed to be the dumb ones, and blondes most of all. It was a hell of a lot easier to play dumb than to be smart, after all, Hollywood actors notwithstanding.

“What about servicing the car?” Ed asked.

“It’s a Mercedes. They don’t break much,” Barnes assured them. “The German embassy has a guy who can fix anything that goes bad. We’re cordial with our NATO allies. You guys soccer fans?”

“Girls’ game,” Ed Foley responded immediately.

“That’s rather coarse of you,” Nigel Haydock observed.

“Give me American football any time,” Foley countered.

“Bloody foolish, uncivilized game, full of violence and committee meetings,” the Brit sniffed.

Foley grinned. “Let’s eat.”

They sat down. The interim furniture was adequate, something like you’d find in a no-tell motel in Alabama. You could sleep on the bed, and the bug spray had probably done for all the crawly things. Probably.