Red Rabbit

location, and with that information he also went to bed. All that remained was to tell the Air Force to get a KC-135 or a similar aircraft ready to fly the package home, and that would take a mere telephone call to an officer in the Pentagon. He wondered what the Rabbit would say, but he could wait for that. Patience, once the dangerous stuff was behind, was not all that difficult for the Director of Central Intelligence. It was like Christmas Eve, and while he wasn’t exactly sure what would be under the tree, he could be confident that it wouldn’t be anything bad.

* * *

For Sir Basil Charleston at his Belgravia house, the news came before breakfast, when a messenger from Century House arrived with the word. An altogether pleasant way to start a working day, he thought, certainly better than some others he’d had. He left home for the office just before seven A.M., ready for his morning brief to outline the success of Operation BEATRIX.

* * *

Ryan was awakened by traffic noise. Whoever had built this magnificent country home hadn’t anticipated the construction of a motorway just three hundred yards away, but somehow Ryan had avoided a hangover from all the drinks on the flight in, and the lingering excitement of the moment had gotten him fully awake after a mere six and a half hours of slumber. He washed up and made his way to the pleasant not-so-little breakfast room. Alan Kingshot was there, working on his morning tea.

“Probably coffee for you, eh?”

“If you have any.”

“Only instant,” Kingshot warned.

Jack stifled his disappointment. “Better than no coffee at all.”

“Eggs Benedict?” the retired woman cop asked.

“Ma’am, for that I will forgive the absence of Starbucks,” Jack replied, with a smile. Then he saw the morning papers, and he thought that reality and normality had finally returned to his life. Well, almost.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thompson run this house for us,” Kingshot explained. “Nick was a homicide detective with the Yard, and Emma was in administration.”

“That’s what my dad used to do,” Ryan observed. “How did you guys get working for SIS?”

“Nick worked on the Markov case,” Mrs. Thompson answered.

“And did a damned good job of it, too,” Kingshot told Ryan. “He would have been a fine field officer for us.”

“Bond, James Bond?” Nick Thompson said, walking into the kitchen. “I think not. Our guests are moving about. It sounds as though the little girl got them up.”

“Yeah,” Jack observed. “Kids will do that. So, we do the debrief here or somewhere else?”

“We were planning to do it in Somerset, but I decided last night not to drive them around too much. Why stress them out?” Kingshot asked rhetorically. “We just took title to this house last year, and it’s as comfortable a place as any. The one in Somerset—near Taunton—is a touch more isolated, but these people ought not to bolt, you think?”

“If he goes home, he’s one dead Rabbit,” Ryan thought out loud. “He has to know that. On the plane, he was worried that we were KGB and this was all an elaborate maskirovka setup, I think. His wife did a lot of shopping in Budapest. Maybe we have somebody take her shopping around here?” the American wondered. “Then we can talk to him in comfort. His English seems okay. Do we have anybody here with good Russian?”

“My job,” Kingshot told Ryan.

“First thing we want to know, why the hell did he decide to skip town?”

“Obviously, but then, what’s all this lot about compromised communications?”

“Yeah.” Ryan took a deep breath. “I imagine people are jumping out windows about that one.”

“Too bloody right,” Kingshot confirmed.

“So, Al, you’ve worked Moscow?”

The Brit nodded. “Twice. Good sport it was, but rather tense the whole time I was there.”

“Where else?”

“Warsaw and Bucharest. I speak all the languages. Tell me, how was Andy Hudson?”

“He’s a star, Al. Very smooth and confident all the way—knows his turf, good contacts. He took pretty good care of me.”

“Here’s your coffee, Sir John,” Mrs. Thompson said, bringing his cup of Taster’s Choice. The Brits were good people, and their food, Ryan thought, was wrongly maligned, but they didn’t know beans about coffee, and that was that. But it was still better than tea.

The Eggs Benedict arrived shortly thereafter, and at that dish, Mrs. Thompson could have given lessons. Ryan opened his paper—it was the Times—and relaxed to get reacquainted with the world. He’d call Cathy in about an hour when he was at work. With luck, he might even see her in a couple days. In a perfect world, he’d have a copy of an American paper, or maybe the International Tribune, but the world was not yet perfect. There was no sense asking how the World Series was going. It was going to start tomorrow, wasn’t it? How good were the Phillies this year? Well, as usual, you played the games to find out.

“So, how was the trip, Jack?” Kingshot asked.

“Alan, those field officers earn every nickel they make. How you deal with the constant tension, I do not understand.”

“Like everything else, Jack, you get used to it. Your wife is a surgeon. The idea of cutting people open with a knife is not at all appealing to me.”

Jack barked a short laugh. “Yeah, me too, pal. And she does eyeballs. Nothing important, right?”

Kingshot shuddered visibly at the thought, and Ryan reminded himself that working in Moscow, running agents—and probably arranging rescue missions like they’d done for the Rabbit—could not have been much more fun than a heart transplant.

“Ah, Mr. Somerset,” Ryan heard Mrs. Thompson say. “Good morning, and welcome.”

“Spasiba” Oleg Ivan’ch replied in a sleepy voice. Kids could get you up at the goddamnedest hours, with their smiling faces and lovely dispositions. “That is my new name?”

“We’ll figure something more permanent later,” Ryan told him. “Again, welcome.”

“This is England?” the Rabbit asked.

“We’re eight miles from Manchester,” the British intelligence officer replied. “Good morning. In case you don’t remember, my name is Alan Kingshot. This is Mrs. Emma Thompson, and Nick will be back in a few minutes.” Handshakes were exchanged.

“My wife be here soon. She see to zaichik” he explained.

“How are you feeling, Vanya?” Kingshot asked.

“Much travel, much fear, but I am safe now, yes?”

“Yes, you are entirely safe,” Kingshot assured him.

“And what would you like for breakfast?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

“Try this,” Jack suggested, pointing at his plate. “It’s great.”

“Yes, I will—what is called?”

“Eggs Benedict,” Jack told him. “Mrs. Thompson, this hollandaise sauce is just perfect. My wife needs your recipe, if I may impose.” And maybe Cathy could teach her about proper coffee. That would be an equitable trade, Ryan thought.

“Why, certainly, Sir John,” she replied with a beaming smile. No woman in all the world objects to praise for her cooking.

“For me also, then,” Zaitzev decided.

“Tea or coffee?” she asked her guest.

“You have English Breakfast tea?” the Rabbit asked.

“Of course,” she answered.

“Please for me, then.”

“Certainly.” And she disappeared back into the kitchen.

It was still a lot for Zaitzev to take. Here he was, in the breakfast room of a manor house fit for a member of the old nobility, surrounded by a green lawn such as one might see at Augusta National, with monstrous oak trees