Red Rabbit

planted two hundred years before, a carriage house, and stables in the distance. It was something he might have imagined as worthy of Peter the Great, the things of books and museums, and he was in it as an honored guest?

“Nice house, isn’t it?” Ryan asked, finishing off the Eggs Benny.

“Is amazing,” Zaitzev responded, wide eyes sweeping around.

“Belonged to a ducal family, bought by a textiles manufacturer a hundred years ago, but his business fell on hard times, and the government bought it last year. We use it for conferences and as a safe house. The heating system is a little primitive,” Kingshot reported. “But that is not a problem at the moment. We’ve had a very pleasant summer, and the fall looks promising as well.”

“At home, there’d be a golf course around this place,” Jack said, looking out the windows. “A big one.”

“Yes,” Alan agreed. “It would be splendid for that.”

“When I go America?” the Rabbit asked.

“Oh, three or four days,” Kingshot answered. “We would like to talk with you a little, if you don’t mind.”

“When do we start?”

“After breakfast. Take your time, Mr. Zaitzev. You are no longer in the Soviet Union. We shall not pressure you at all,” Alan promised.

My ass, Ryan thought. Buddy, they’re going to suck your brain out of your head and strain it for your thoughts one molecule at a time. But the Rabbit had just gotten a free ride out of Mother Russia, with the prospect of a comfortable life for him and his family in the West, and everything in life had its price.

He loved his tea. Then the rest of the family came out and, over the next twenty minutes, Mrs. Thompson nearly ran out of Hollandaise sauce, while the arriving Russians ensured steady employment for the local egg farmers.

Irina left the breakfast room to tour the house and was greatly excited to see a concert grand Bosendorfer piano, turning like a kid at Christmas to ask if she might tickle the keys. She was years out of practice, but the look on her face was like a return of childhood as she struggled through “On the Bridge at Avignon,” which had been her favorite exercise tune many years before—and which she still remembered.

“A friend of mine plays professionally,” Jack said, with a smile. It was hard not to appreciate her joy of the moment.

“Who? Where?” Oleg asked.

“Sissy—actually, Cecilia Jackson. Her husband and I are friends. He’s a fighter pilot for the U.S. Navy. She is number-two piano soloist at the Washington Symphony. My wife plays, too, but Sissy is really good.”

“You are good to us,” Oleg Ivan’ch said.

“We try to take decent care of our guests,” Kingshot told him. “Shall we talk in the library?” He pointed the way.

The chairs were comfortable. The library was another stellar example of nineteenth-century woodwork, with thousands of books and three rolling ladders—it isn’t a proper English library without a ladder. The chairs were plush. Mrs. Thompson brought in a tray of ice water and glasses, and business began.

“So, Mr. Zaitzev, can you begin to tell us about yourself?” Kingshot asked. He was rewarded by name, ancestry, place of birth, and education.

“No military service?” Ryan asked.

Zaitzev shook his head. “No, KGB spot me and they protect me from army time.”

“And that was in university?” Kingshot asked for clarity. A total of three tape recorders were turning.

“Yes, that is correct. My first year they speak to me for first time.”

“And when did you join KGB?”

“Immediately I leave Moscow State University. They take me into communications department.”

“And how long there?”

“Since, well, for nine and half years in total, set aside my time in academy and other training.”

“And where do you work now?” Kingshot led him on.

“I work in Central Communications in basement of Moscow Centre.”

“And what exactly did you do there?” Alan finally asked.

“During my watch, all dispatches come in from field to my desk. My job is to maintain security, to be sure proper procedures followed, and then I forward to action officers upstairs. Or to United States—Canada Institute sometimes,” Oleg said, gesturing to Ryan.

Jack did his best not to let his mouth fall open. This guy really was an escapee from the Soviet counterpart to CIA’s MERCURY. This guy saw it all. Everything, or damned near. He’d just helped a gold mine escape from behind the wire. Son of a bitch!

Kingshot did a somewhat better job of concealing his feelings, but he let his eyes slip over to Ryan’s, and that expression said it all.

Bloody hell.

“So, do you know the names of your field officers and their agents?” Kingshot asked.

“KGB officer names—I know many names. Agents, the names I know very few, but I know code names. In Britain, our best agent is code-named MINISTER. He give us high-value diplomatic and political intelligence for many years—twenty years, I think, perhaps more.”

“You said KGB has compromised our communications,” Ryan observed.

“Yes, somewhat. That is agent NEPTUNE. How much he give, I am not sure, but I know KGB read much of American naval communications.”

“What about other communications?” Jack asked immediately.

“Naval communications, that I am sure. Others, I am not sure, but you use same cipher machines for all, yes?”

“Actually not,” Alan told him. “So, you say British communications are secure?”

“If broken, I do not know it,” Zaitzev replied. “Most American diplomatic and intelligence information we get come from Agent CASSIUS. He is aide to senior politician in Washington. He give us good information on what CIA do and what CIA learn from us.”

“But you said he’s not part of CIA?” Ryan asked.

“No, I think he is politician aide, helper, member of staff—like that,” Zaitzev said rather positively.

“Good.” Ryan lit up a smoke and offered one to Zaitzev, who took it at once.

“I run out of my Krasnopresnenskiye,” he explained.

“I should give you all of mine. My wife wants me to quit. She’s a doctor,” Jack explained.

“Bah,” the Rabbit responded.

“So, why did you decide to leave?” Kingshot asked, taking a sip of tea. The reply nearly made him drop the cup.

“KGB want to kill Pope.”

“You’re serious?” It was the more experienced man who asked that question, not Ryan.

“Serious? I risk my life, my wife life, my daughter life. Da, I am serious,” Oleg Ivanovich assured his interlocutors with an edge on his voice.

“Fuck,” Ryan breathed. “Oleg, we need to know about this.”

“It start in August. Fifteen August it start,” Zaitzev told them, spinning out his tale without interruption for five or six minutes.

“No name for the operation?” Jack asked when he stopped.

“No name, just dispatch number fifteen-eight-eighty-two-six-six-six. That is date of first message from Andropov to rezidentura Rome, and number of message, yes? Yuriy Vladimirovich ask how get close to Pope. Rome say bad idea. Then Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy—he is main assistant to chairman, yes?—he send signal to rezidentura Sofia. Operation go from Sofia. So, operation -six- six-six probably run for KGB by Dirzhavna Sugurnost. I think officer name is Strokov, Boris Andreyevich.”

Kingshot had a thought and rose, leaving the room. He came back with Nick Thompson, a former detective superintendent of the Metropolitan Police.

“Nick, does the name Boris Andreyevich Strokov mean anything to you?”