Red Rabbit

Mama Rabbit was watching the concert with rapt attention. Papa Rabbit was being politely attentive. Maybe they should call ahead to London and get Irina a Walkman, Jack thought, along with some Christopher Hogwood tapes… Cathy seemed to like him a lot, along with Nevile Marriner.

In any case, after about twenty minutes, they finished the Menuetto, the orchestra went quiet, and when Conductor Rozsa turned to face the audience…

The concert hall went berserk with cheering and shouts of “Bravo!” Jack didn’t know what he’d done differently, but evidently the Hungarians did. Rozsa bowed deeply to the audience and waited for the noise to subside before turning back and commanding quiet again as he raised his little white stick to start Brandenberg #2.

This one started with a brass and strings, and Ryan found himself entranced by the individual musicians more than whatever the conductor had done with them. How long do you have to study to get that good? he wondered. Cathy played two or three times a week at home in Maryland—their Chatham house wasn’t big enough for a proper grand piano, rather to her disappointment. He’d offered to get an upright, but she’d declined, saying that it just wasn’t the same. Sissy Jackson said that she played three hours or more every single day. But Sissy did it for a living, while Cathy had another and somewhat more immediate passion in her professional life.

The second Brandenberg concerto was shorter than the first, ending in about twelve minutes, and the third followed at once. Bach must have loved the violins more than any other instrument, and the local string section was pretty good. In any other setting Jack might have given himself over to the moment and just drunk in the music, but he did have something more important planned for this evening. Every few seconds, his eyes drifted left to see the Rabbit family…

* * *

Brandenberg #3 ended roughly an hour after #1 had begun. The house-lights came on, and it was time for the intermission. Ryan watched Papa Rabbit and Mrs. Rabbit leave their seats. The reason was plain. The Bunny needed a trip to the little girls’ room, and probably Papa would avail himself of the local plumbing as well. Hudson saw that and leapt to his feet, back out of the box, into the private corridor, closely followed by Tom Trent, and down the steps to the lobby and into the men’s room, while Ryan stayed in the box and tried to relax. The mission was now fully under way.

* * *

Not fifty yards away, Oleg Ivan’ch was standing in the line to use the men’s room. Hudson managed to get right behind him. The lobby was filled with the usual buzz of small talk. Some people went to the portable bar for more drinks. Others were puffing on cigarettes, while twenty men or so were waiting to relieve their bladders. The line moved fairly rapidly—men are more efficient at this than women are—and soon they were in the tiled room.

The urinals were as elegant as everything else, seemingly carved from Carerra marble for this noble purpose. Hudson stood like everyone else, hoping that his clothing did not mark him as a foreigner. Just inside the wood- and-glass door, he took a breath and, leaning forward, called on his Russian.

“Good evening, Oleg Ivanovich,” Hudson said quietly. “Do not turn around.”

“Who are you?” Zaitzev whispered back.

“I am your travel agent. I understand you wish to take a little trip.”

“Where might that be?”

“Oh, in a westerly direction. You are concerned for the safety of someone, are you not?”

“You are CIA?” Zaitzev could not utter the acronym in anything but a hiss.

“I am in an unusual line of work,” Hudson confirmed. No sense confusing the chap at the moment.

“So, what will you do with me?”

“This night you will sleep in another country, my friend,” Hudson told him, adding, “along with your wife and your lovely little daughter.” Hudson watched his shoulders slump—with relief or fear, the British spook wondered. Probably both.

Zaitzev cleared his throat before whispering again. “What must I do?”

“First, you must tell me that you wish to go forward with your plan.”

Only the briefest hesitation before: “Da. We will proceed.”

“In that case, just do your business in here—” they were approaching the head of the line “—and then enjoy the rest of the concert, and return to your hotel. We shall speak again there at one-thirty or so. Can you do that?”

Just a curt nod and a gasping single syllable: “Da” Oleg Ivan’ch really needed to use the urinal now.

“Be at ease, my friend. All is planned. All will go well,” Hudson said to him. The man would need assurance and confidence now. This had to be the most frightening moment of his life.

There was no further reply. Zaitzev took the next three steps to the marble urinal, unzipped, and relieved himself in more than one way. He turned to leave without seeing Hudson’s face.

But Trent saw his, as he stood there and sipped a glass of white wine. If he’d made any signal to a fellow KGB spook in the room, the British officer hadn’t seen it. No rubbing the nose or adjusting his tie, no physical sign at all. He just walked back through the swinging door and back to his seat. BEATRIX was looking better and better.

* * *

The audience was back in its seats. Ryan was doing his best to look like just one more classical music fan. Then Hudson and Trent reentered the box.

“Well?” Ryan rasped.

“Bloody good music, isn’t it?” Hudson replied casually. “This Rozsa chap is first-rate. Amazing that a communist country can turn out anything better than a reprise of the Internationale. Oh, after it’s over,” Hudson added, “how about a drink with some new friends?”

Jack let out a very long breath. “Yeah, Andy, I’d like that.” Son of a bitch, Ryan thought. It’s really going to happen. He had lots of doubts, but they’d just subsided half a step or so. It wasn’t really very much, but it was a damned sight better than it could have been.

* * *

The second half of the concert started with more Bach, the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Instead of strings, this one was a celebration of brass, and the lead cornet here might have taught Louis Armstrong himself something about the higher notes. This was as much Bach as Ryan had ever heard at one time, and that old German composer had really had his shit wired, the former Marine thought, for the first time relaxing enough to enjoy it somewhat. Hungary was a country that respected its music, or so it seemed. If there was anything wrong with this orchestra, he didn’t notice it, and the conductor looked as though he were in bed with the love of his life, so transfixed he was by the joy of the moment. Jack wondered idly if Hungarian women were any good at that. There was an earthy look to them, but not much smiling… Maybe that was the communist government. Russians were not known for smiling, either.

* * *

“So, any news?” Judge Moore asked.

Mike Bostock handed over the brief dispatch from London. “Basil says his COS Budapest is going to make his move tonight. Oh, you’ll love this part. The Rabbit is staying in a hotel right across the street from the KGB rezidentura.”

Moore’s eyes flared a bit. “You have to be kidding.”

“Judge, do you think I’d say that for the fun of it?”

“When does Ritter get back?”

“Later today, flying back on Pan Am. From what he sent to us from Seoul, everything went pretty well with the KCIA meetings.”

“He’ll have a heart attack when he finds out about BEATRIX,” the DCI predicted.

“It will get his eyes opened,” the Deputy DDO agreed.

“Especially when he finds out that this Ryan boy is in on it?”

“On that, sir, you can bet the ranch, the cattle, and the big house.”

Judge Moore had himself a good chuckle at that one. “Well, I guess the Agency is bigger than any one