Tom Clancy - Red Rabbit

“I like Bas, but I don’t like having him hold that many markers for us,” Judge Moore answered.

“Well, James, your protégé is over there. Have him ask the question. You get him an STU at home yet?”

“Ought to have gotten there today, yes.”

“So call your lad and have him ask, nice and casual-like.”

Greer’s eyes went to the Judge. “Arthur?”

“Approved. Lowercase this, though. Tell Ryan that it’s for his personal interest, not ours.”

The Admiral checked his watch. “Okay, I can do that before I head home.”

“Now, Bob, any progress on MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH?” the DCI asked with amusement, just to close down the afternoon meeting. It was a fun idea, but not a very serious one.

“Arthur, let’s not discount it too much, shall we? They are vulnerable to the right sort of bullet, once we load it in the gun.”

“Don’t talk that way in front of Congress. They might foul their panties,” Greer warned, with a laugh. “We’re supposed to enjoy peaceful coexistence with them.”

“That didn’t work very well with Hitler. Stalin and Chamberlain both tried to make nice with the son of a bitch. Where did it get them? They are our enemies, gentlemen, and the sad truth is that we can’t have a real peace with them, like it or not. Their ideas and ours are too out of sync for that.” He held up his hands. “Yeah, I know, we’re not supposed to think that way, but thank God the President does, and we still work for him.”

They didn’t have to comment on that. All three had voted for the current President, despite the institutional joke that the two things one never found at Langley were communists and. . Republicans. No, the new President had a little iron in his spine and a fox’s instinct for opportunity. It especially appealed to Ritter, who was the cowboy of the three, if also the most abrasive.

“Okay. I have some budget work to do for that hearing with the Senate day after tomorrow,” Moore announced, breaking up the meeting.

RYAN WAS AT his computer, thinking over the Battle of Leyte Gulf, when the phone rang. It was the first time for it, with its oddly trilling ringer. He reached in his pocket for the plastic key, slid it into the appropriate slot, then lifted the receiver.

“STAND BY,” a mechanical voice said, “SYNCHRONIZING THE LINE; STAND BY, SYNCHRONIZING THE LINE; STAND BY, SYNCHRONIZING THE LINE-LINE IS SECURE,” it said at last.

“Hello,” Ryan said, wondering who had an STU and would call him this late. It turned out to be the obvious answer.

“Hi, Jack,” a familiar voice greeted him. One nice thing about the STU: The digital technology made voices as clear as if the speaker were sitting in the room.

Ryan checked the desk clock. “Kinda late there, sir.”

“Not as late as in Jolly Old England. How’s the family?”

“Mainly asleep at the moment. Cathy is probably reading a medical journal,” which was what she did instead of watching TV, anyway. “What can I do for you, Admiral?”

“I have a little job for you.”

“Okay,” Ryan responded.

“Ask around-casual-like-about Yuriy Andropov. There are a few things about him we don’t know. Maybe Basil has the information we want.”

“What exactly, sir?” Jack asked.

“Is he married, and does he have any kids?”

“We don’t know if he’s married?” Ryan realized that he hadn’t seen that information in the dossier, but he’d assumed it was elsewhere, and had taken no particular note of it.

“That’s right. The Judge wants to see if Basil might know.”

“Okay, I can ask Simon. How important is this?”

“Like I said, casual-like, like it’s your own interest. Then call me back from there, your home, I mean.”

“Will do, sir. We know his age, birthday, education, and stuff, but not if he’s married or has any kids, eh?”

“That’s how it works sometimes.”

“Yes, sir.” And that got Jack thinking. They knew everything about Brezhnev but his dick size. They did know his daughter’s dress size-12-which someone had thought important enough to get from the Belgian milliner who’d sold the silken wedding dress to her doting father, through the ambassador. But they didn’t know if the likely next General Secretary of the Soviet Union was married. Christ, the guy was pushing sixty, and they didn’t know? What the hell? “Okay, I can ask. That ought not to be too hard.”

“Otherwise, how’s London?”

“I like it here, and so does Cathy, but she’s a little dubious about their state medical-care system.”

“Socialized medicine? I don’t blame her. I still get everything done at Bethesda, but it helps a little that I have ‘admiral’ in front of my name. It’s not quite as fast for a retired chief bosun’s mate.”

“I bet.” In Ryan’s case, it helped a whole lot that his wife was on the faculty at Johns Hopkins. He didn’t talk to anyone in a lab coat without “professor” on his nametag, and he’d learned that in the field of medicine, the really smart ones were the teachers, unlike the rest of society.

THE DREAMS CAME after midnight, though he had no way of knowing that. It was a clear Moscow summer day, and a man in white was walking across the Red Square. St. Basil’s Cathedral was behind him, and he was walking against the traffic past Lenin’s mausoleum. Some children were with him, and he was talking to them in a kindly way, as a favored uncle might. . or perhaps a parish priest. Then Oleg knew that’s what he was, a parish priest. But why in white? With gold brocade, even. The children, four or five each of boys and girls, were holding his hands and looking up at him with innocent smiles. Then Oleg turned his head. Up at the top of the tomb, where they stood for the May Day parades, were the Politburo members: Brezhnev, Suslov, Ustinov, and Andropov. Andropov was holding a rifle and pointing at the little procession. There were other people around-faceless people walking aimlessly, going about their business. Then Oleg was standing with Andropov, listening to his words. He was arguing for the right to shoot the man. Be careful of the children, Yuriy Vladimirovich, Suslov warned. Yes, be careful, Brezhnev agreed. Ustinov reached over to adjust the sights on the rifle. They all ignored Zaitzev, who moved among them, trying to get their attention.

But why? Zaitzev asked. Why are you doing this?

Who is this? Brezhnev asked Andropov.

Never mind him, Suslov snarled. Just shoot the bastard!

Very well, Andropov said. He took his aim carefully, and Zaitzev was unable to intervene, despite being right there. Then the Chairman squeezed the trigger.

Zaitzev was back on the street now. The first bullet struck a child, a boy on the priest’s right, who fell without a sound.

Not him , you idiot-the priest! Mikhail Suslov screamed like a rabid dog.

Andropov shot again, this time hitting a little blonde girl standing at the priest’s left. Her head exploded in red. Zaitzev bent down to help her, but she said it was all right, and so he left her and returned to the priest.

Look out, why don’t you?

Look out for what, my young comrade? The priest asked pleasantly, then he turned. Come, children, we’re off to see God.

Andropov fired again. This time the bullet struck the priest square in the chest. There was a splash of blood, about the size and color of a rose. The priest grimaced, but kept going, with the smiling children in tow.

Another shot, another rose on the chest, to the left of the first. But still he kept going, walking slowly.

Are you hurt? Zaitzev asked.