Tom Clancy - Red Rabbit

“You coming, Ed?” she asked after breakfast.

“No, honey. I’ll clean up the kitchen and get into this new book I got last week.”

“The truck driver did it,” she offered. “I’ve read that guy before.”

“Thanks a bunch,” her husband grumbled.

And with that, she checked her watch and headed out. The park was just three of the long blocks to the east. She waved to the gate guard-definitely KGB, she thought-and headed to the left, holding little Eddie’s hand. The traffic on the street was minimal by American standards, and it was definitely getting cooler out. She was glad she’d dressed her son in a long-sleeve shirt. A turn to look down at him revealed no obvious tail. There could, of course, be binoculars in the apartments across the street, but somehow she thought not. She’d pretty well established herself as a dumb American blonde, and just about everyone bought it. Even Ed’s press contacts thought her dumber than him-and they thought him to be an ass-which could not have suited her any better. Those chattering blackbirds repeated everything she and Ed said to one another, until the word was as uniformly spread as the icing on one of her cakes. It all got back to KGB as quickly as any rumor could go-damned near the speed of light in that community, because reporters did intellectual incest as a way of life-and the Russians listened to them and put everything in their voluminous dossiers until it became something that “everybody knows.” A good field officer always used others to build his or her cover. Such a cover was random-sounding-just as real life always was-and that made it plausible, even to a professional spook.

The park was about as bleak as everything else in Moscow. A few trees, some badly trodden grass. Almost as though KGB had had all the parks trimmed to make them bad contact points. That it would also limit places for young Muscovites to rendezvous and trade some kisses probably would not have troubled the consciences at The Centre, which were probably about the Pontius Pilate level on a reflective day.

And there was the Rabbit, a hundred meters or so away, nicely located, near some play items that would appeal to a three-year-old-or a four-year-old. Walking closer, she saw again that Russians doted on their little ones, and, in this case, maybe a little more-the Rabbit was KGB, and so he had access to better consumer goods than the average Russian, which, like a good parent in any land, he lavished on his little girl. That was a good sign for his character, Mary Pat decided. Maybe she could even like this guy, an unexpected gift for a field officer. So many agents were screwed up as badly as a South Bronx street mugger. He didn’t observe her approach any more than to turn and scan the area in boredom, as men walking their children did. The two Americans headed the right way in what would surely appear to be a random act.

“Eddie, there’s a little girl you can say hello to. Try out your Russian on her,” his mommy suggested.

“Okay!” and he raced off in the manner of toddlers. Little Eddie ran right up to her and said “Hello.”

“Hello.”

“My name is Eddie.”

“My name is Svetlana Olegovna. Where do you live?”

“That way.” Eddie pointed back to the foreigners’ ghetto.

“That is your son?” the Rabbit asked.

“Yes, Eddie Junior. Edward Edwardovich to you.”

“So,” Oleg Ivan’ch said next, without amusement, “is he also CIA?”

“Not exactly.” Almost theatrically, she extended her hand to him. She had to protect him, just in case cameras were about. “I am Mary Patricia Foley.”

“I see. Does your husband like his shapka ?”

“Actually, he does. You have good taste in furs.”

“Many Russians do.” Then he switched gears. It was time to go back to business. “Have you decided that you can help me or not?”

“Yes, Oleg Ivan’ch, we can. Your daughter is darling. Her name is Svetlana?”

The communications officer nodded. “Yes, that is my little zaichik .”

The irony of that was positively eerie. Their Rabbit called his little girl his bunny. It generated a brilliant smile. “So, Oleg, how do we get you to America?”

“You ask me this?” he asked with no small degree of incredulity.

“Well, we need some information. Your hobbies and interests, for example, and your wife’s.”

“I play chess. More than anything else, I read books on old chess matches. My wife is more classically educated than I. She loves music-classical music, not the trash you make in America.”

“Any particular composer?”

He shook his head. “Any of the classical composers, Bach, Mozart, Brahms-I do not know all of the names. It is Irina’s passion. She studied piano as a child, but wasn’t quite good enough to get official state training. That is her greatest regret, and we do not have a piano for her to practice on,” he added, knowing that he had to give her this kind of information to assist in her efforts to save him and his family. “What else do you require?”

“Do any of you have any health problems-medications, for example?” They were speaking in Russian again, and Oleg noted her elegant language skills.

“No, we are all quite healthy. My Svetlana has been through all the usual childhood diseases, but without complications of any sort.”

“Good.” That simplifies a lot of things, Mary Pat thought. “She’s a lovely little girl. You must be very proud of her.”

“But will she like life in the West?” he worried aloud.

“Oleg Ivan’ch, no child has ever had reason to dislike life in America.”

“And how does your little Edward like things in the Soviet Union?”

“He misses his friends, of course, but right before we came over, we took him to Disney World. He still talks a lot about that.”

Then came a surprise: “Disney World? What is that?”

“It is a large commercial business made for the pleasure of children-and for adults who remember their childhood. It’s in Florida,” she added.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“You will find it remarkable and most enjoyable. More so for your daughter.” She paused. “What does your wife think of your plans?”

“Irina knows nothing of this,” Zaitzev said, surprising the hell out of his American interlocutor.

“What did you say?” Are you out of your fucking mind? MP wondered at once.

“Irina is a good wife to me. She will do what I tell her to do.” Russian male chauvinism was of the aggressive variety.

“Oleg Ivan’ch, that is most dangerous for you. You must know that.”

“The danger to me is being caught by KGB. If that happens, I am a dead man, and so is someone else,” he added, thinking a further dangle was in his interest.

“Why are you leaving? What convinced you that it is necessary?” she had to ask.

“KGB is planning to kill a man who does not deserve to die.”

“Who?” And she had to ask that one, too.

“That I will tell you when I am in the West.”

“That is a fair response,” she had to say in reply. Playing a little cagey, aren’t we?

“One other thing,” he added.

“Yes?”

“Be very careful what items you transmit to your headquarters. There is reason to believe your communications are compromised. You should use one-time pads, as we do at The Centre. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

“All communications about you were first encrypted and then dispatched by Diplomatic Bag to Washington.” When she said that, the relief on his face was real, much as he tried to hide it. And the Rabbit had just told her something of very great importance. “Are we penetrated?”

“That, also, is something I will discuss only in the West.”