Tom Clancy - Red Rabbit

So, it was true-the Russians really were more inefficient than the American government. Amazing that it was possible, but seeing was believing, she told herself, clutching the brown-paper bag and finding her husband, whom she quickly walked outside.

“So, what did you buy me?”

“Something you’ll like,” she promised, holding up the bag, but her sparkling blue eyes said it all. Then she checked her watch. It was just 3:00 A.M. in Washington and, if they phoned this one in, it was too early. This wasn’t something for the night crew, even the trusted people in MERCURY. She’d just learned that one the hard way. No, this one would get written up, encrypted, and put in the diplomatic bag. Then it was just a matter of getting approval from Langley.

THEIR CAR HAD just been swept by an embassy mechanic the previous day-everybody in the embassy did it routinely, so this didn’t finger them as spooks, and the telltales on door and hood hadn’t been disturbed the previous night. The Mercedes 280 also had a fairly sophisticated alarm. So Ed Foley just turned up the sound on the radio-tape player. In the slot was a Bee Gees tape sure to offend anyone listening to a bug, and easily loud enough to overpower it. In her passenger seat, Mary Pat danced to the music, like a good California girl.

“Our friend needs a ride,” she said, just loudly enough to be heard by her husband. “Him, wife, and daughter, age three and a half.”

“When?” Ed wanted to know.

“Soon.”

“How?”

“Up to us.”

“He’s serious?” Ed asked his wife, meaning, Worth our time?

“Think so.”

You couldn’t be sure, but MP had a good eye for reading people, and he was willing to wager on those cards. He nodded. “Okay.”

“Any company?” she asked next.

Foley’s eyes were about equally divided between the street and the mirrors. If they were being followed, it was by the Invisible Man. “Nope.”

“Good.” She turned the sound down some. “You know, I like it, too, Ed, but easy on the ears.”

“Fine, honey. I have to go back to the office this afternoon.”

“What for?” she asked in the semiangry voice every husband in the world knows.

“Well, I have some paperwork from yesterday-”

“And you want to check the baseball scores,” she huffed. “Ed, why can’t we get satellite TV in our apartment block?”

“They’re working on getting it for us, but the Russians are making a little trouble. They’re afraid it might be a spy tool,” he added in a disgusted voice.

“Yeah,” she observed. “Sure. Give me a break.” Just in case KGB had a very clever black-bag guy who prowled the parking lot at night. Maybe the FBI could pull that one off but, though they had to guard against the possibility, she doubted that the Russians had anybody that clever. Their radios were just too bulky. Even so, yes. They were paranoid, but were they paranoid enough?

CATHY TOOK SALLY and Little Jack outside. There was a park just a block and a half away, off Fristow Way, where there were a few swings that Sally liked and grass for the little guy to pull at and try to eat. He’d just figured out how to use his hands, badly and awkwardly, but whatever found its way into his little fist immediately thereafter found its way to his mouth, a fact known by every parent in the world. Still and all, it was a chance to get the kids some sun-the winter nights would be long and dark here-and it got the house quiet for Jack to get some work done on his Halsey book.

He’d already taken out one of Cathy’s medical textbooks, Principles of Internal Medicine, to read up on shingles, the skin disease that had tormented the American admiral at a very inconvenient time. Just from reading the subchapter on the ailment-related to chicken pox, it turned out-it must have been like medieval torture to the then elderly naval aviator. Even more so that his beloved carrier battle group, Enterprise and Yorktown, would have to sail into a major engagement without him. But he’d taken it like a man-the only way William Frederick Halsey, Jr., had ever taken anything-and recommended his friend Raymond Spruance to take his place. The two men could scarcely have been more different. Halsey the profane, hard-drinking, chain-smoking former football player. Spruance, the nonsmoking, teetotaling intellectual reputed never to have raised his voice in anger. But they’d become the closest of friends, and would later in the war switch off command of the Pacific Fleet, renaming it from Third Fleet to Fifth Fleet and back again when command was exchanged. That, Ryan thought, was the most obvious clue that Halsey had been the intellectual, too, and not the blustering hell-for-leather aggressor that the contemporary newspapers had proclaimed him to be. Spruance the intellectual would not have befriended a knuckle-dragger. But their staffs had snarled at each other like tomcats fighting over a tabby in heat, probably the military equivalent of “my daddy can whip your daddy,” engaged in by children up to the age of seven or so-and no more intellectually respectable.

He had Halsey’s own words on the illness, though what he’d really said must have been muted by his editor and cowriter, since Bill Halsey really had spoken like a Chief Bosun’s Mate with a few drinks under his belt-probably one of the reasons reporters had liked him so much. He’d made such good copy.

His notes and some source documents were piled next to his Apple IIe computer. Jack used WordStar as his word-processing program. It was fairly complicated, but a damned sight better than using a typewriter. He wondered which publisher would be right for the book. The Naval Institute Press was after him again, but he found himself wondering whether to switch over to a big-league publisher. But he had to finish the damned book first, didn’t he? And so, back into Halsey’s complex brain.

But he was hesitating today. That was unusual. His typing-three fingers and a thumb (two thumbs on a good day)-was the same, but his brain wasn’t concentrating properly, as though it wanted to look at something else. This was an occasional curse of his CIA analysis work. Some problems just wouldn’t go away, forcing his mind to go over the same material time and again until he stumbled upon the answer to a question that often enough made little sense in and of itself. The same thing had occasionally happened during his time at Merrill Lynch, when he’d investigated stock issues, looking for hidden worth or danger in the operations and finances of some publicly traded company. That had occasionally put him at odds with the big boys up in the New York office, but Ryan had never been one to do something just because a superior told him to. Even in the Marine Corps, an officer, however junior, was expected to think, and a stockbroker with clients was entrusted by them to safeguard their money as though it were his own. Mostly, he’d succeeded. After putting his own funds into Chicago and North Western Railroad, he’d been hammered by his supervisors, but he’d stood his ground, and those clients who’d listened to him had cashed in rather nicely-which had earned him a crowd of new clients. So Ryan had learned to listen to his instincts, to scratch the itches he couldn’t quite see and could barely feel. This was one of those, and “this” was the Pope. The information he had did not form a complete picture, but he was used to that. In the stock-trading business, he’d learned how and when to bet his money on incomplete pictures, and nine times out of ten he’d been right.

He had nothing to bet on this one but his itch, however. Something was happening. He just didn’t know what. All he’d seen was a copy of a warning letter sent to Warsaw, and certainly forwarded to Moscow, where a bunch of old men would look upon it as a threat.