Red Rabbit

people right there. He wants to meet the Rabbit we just got out, personally. So, he’s still pretty pissed, but at least it’s not at us,” Moore reported on his arrival back from the White House.

“The Brits have this Strokov guy in custody,” Greer let the DCI know. Word had just come in from London. “Would you believe Ryan’s the guy who put the bag on him? The Brits have him now at their Rome embassy. Basil’s trying to decide what to do with him. Best bet, Strokov ran the operation and enlisted this Turkish thug to do the shooting. The Brits say they caught him with a silenced pistol in his hand. The thinking is that his job was to take the shooter out, like that Mafia hit in New York a while back, to put big-league deniability on the assassination attempt.”

“Your boy captured him?” the DCI asked in some surprise.

“He was there with a team of experienced British field spooks, and maybe his Marine training helped,” Ritter allowed. “So, James, your fair-haired boy gets another attaboy.”

Don’t bite your tongue off when you sign the Letter of Commendation, Robert, Greer managed not to say. “Where are they all now?”

“Halfway home, probably. The Air Force is flying them over,” Ritter told them. “ETA at Andrews is about eleven-forty, they told me.”

* * *

There were windows in the front office, Ryan found out, and the flight crew was friendly enough. He was even able to talk a little about baseball. The Orioles had just one more game to win to finish the Phillies off, he was pleased and surprised to learn. The flight crew didn’t even hint at asking why they were driving him back to America. They’d done it too many times and, besides, they never got good answers anyway. Aft, the Rabbit Family was sound asleep, a feat Ryan had not yet managed to accomplish.

“How long?” he asked the pilot.

“Well, that’s Labrador there.” He pointed. “Call it three hours more, and we’ll be feet-dry almost all the way. Why don’t you get some sleep, sir?”

“I don’t sleep in the air,” Jack admitted.

“Don’t feel too bad, sir. Neither do we,” the copilot told him. And that was good news, on reflection, Jack thought.

* * *

Sir Basil Charleston was having his own meeting with his Chief of Government at the moment. Neither in America nor in the U.K. did reporters write stories about when and why the chiefs of the various intelligence services met with their political masters.

“So, tell me about this Strokov fellow,” she ordered.

“Not a very pleasant chap,” C replied. “We reckon he was there to kill the actual shooter. He had a suppressed weapon to eliminate the noise. So, it would appear that the idea was to kill His Holiness and leave a dead assassin behind. Dead men still tell no tales, you see, Prime Minister. But perhaps this one will, after all. The Italian police must be chatting with him right now, I would imagine. He is a Turkish national, and I’ll wager he had a criminal record, and/or experience in smuggling things into Bulgaria.”

“So, it was the Russians who were behind this?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. That seems virtually certain. Tom Sharp is talking to Strokov in Rome. We’ll see how loyal he is to his masters.”

“What will we do with him?” the PM asked. The answer was in the form of another question that she would have to answer. She did.

* * *

It did not occur to Strokov that when Sharp invoked the names of Aleksey Nikolay’ch Rozhdestvenskiy and Ilya Fedorovich Bubovoy, his own fate was sealed. He was merely dumbfounded that the British Secret Intelligence Service had the KGB so thoroughly penetrated. Sharp saw no reason to disabuse him of that notion. Shocked beyond his capacity to react intelligently, Strokov forgot all of his training and started singing. His duet with Sharp lasted two and a half hours, all of it on tape.

* * *

Ryan was more on autopilot than the Boeing was before it touched down at Runway Zero-One Right at Andrews Air Force Base. He’d been on the go for what? Twenty-two hours? Something like that. Something more easily done as a Marine second lieutenant (age twenty-two) than as a married father of two (age thirty -two) who’d had a fairly stressful day. He was also feeling his liquor somewhat.

There were two cars waiting at the bottom of the steps—Andrews had yet to install a jetway. He and Zaitzev took the first. Mrs. Rabbit and the Bunny took the second. Two minutes after that, they were on Suitland Parkway, heading into D.C. Ryan drew the task of explaining what they were passing along the way. Unlike his arrival in England, Zaitzev was not under the impression that this might be a maskirovka. And the detour past the Capitol Building ended whatever lingering suspicions he might have had. George Lucas on his best day could not have faked this scenery. The cars crossed the Potomac and went north of the George Washington Parkway, finally taking the marked exit to Langley.

“So, this is the home of the Main Enemy,” the Rabbit said.

“I just think of it as the place I used to work.”

“Used to?”

“Didn’t you know? I’m stationed back in England now,” Jack told him.

The whole debriefing team was under the canopy by the main entrance. Ryan knew only one of them, Mark Radner, a Russian scholar from Dartmouth who got called down for some special work—one of the people who liked working for CIA, but not full-time. Ryan was now able to understand that. When the car stopped, he got out first and went to James Greer.

“You’ve had a busy couple of days, my boy.”

“Tell me about it, Admiral.”

“How was it in Rome?”

“First, tell me about the Pope,” Jack shot back.

“He came through surgery okay. He’s critical, but we asked Charlie Weathers up at Harvard about that, and he said not to worry. People that age who come through surgery are always classified as being in critical condition —probably just a way to drive the bill up. Unless something unusual crops up, he’ll probably be fine. Charlie says they grow good cutters in Rome. His Holiness ought to be home in three to four weeks, Charlie says. They won’t rush it with a guy his age.”

“Thank God. Sir, when I had that Strokov bastard I thought we’d done it, y’know? Then when I heard the shots—Jesus, what a moment that was, Admiral.”

Greer nodded. “I can imagine. But the good guys won this one. Oh, your Orioles took the series from Philly. Game just ended twenty minutes ago. That new shortstop you have, Ripken, looks to me like he’s going places.”

“Ryan.” Judge Moore came over next. “Well done, son.” Another handshake.

“Thank you, Director.”

“Nice going, Ryan,” Ritter said next. “Sure you wouldn’t like to try our training course at the Farm?” The handshake was surprisingly cordial. Ritter must have had a drink or two in the office, Jack surmised.

“Sir, right now, I’d be just as happy to go back to teaching history.”

“It’s more fun to make it, boy. Remember that.”

The party moved inside, past the memorial on the right-side wall to the dead officers, many of whose names were still secret, then left to the executive elevator. The Rabbit family went its own way. There were hotel-like accommodations for VIP visitors and back-from-overseas field officers on the sixth floor, and evidently the CIA was bedding them down there. Jack followed the senior executives to the Judge’s office.

“How good is our new Rabbit?” Moore asked.

“Well, sure as hell he gave us good information on the Pope, Judge,” Ryan answered in considerable surprise. “And the Brits sound pretty happy with what he’s told them about that Agent MINISTER. I’m kinda curious who this CASSIUS guy is.”

“And NEPTUNE,” Greer added. The Navy needed secure communications to survive in the modern world, and James Greer still had blue suits in his closet.