Red Rabbit

IMMEDIATE AND URGENT

FROM: OFFICE OF CHAIRMAN, Moscow CENTRE

TO: REZIDENT SOFIA

REFERENCE: OPERATIONAL DESIGNATOR 15-8-82-666

OPERATION APPROVED. NEXT STEP INTERMEDIATE APPROVAL BULGARIAN POLITBURO. EXPECT FULL APPROVAL TEN DAYS OR LESS. CONTINUE PLANNING FOR OPERATION.

Zaitzev saw it telexed off, then handed the copy to a messenger to be hand-delivered to the top floor. Then he took his leave, walking a little more swiftly than usual. Out on the street, he fished out his cigarette pack to get himself another Trud before going down the escalator to the metro platform. There, he checked the ceiling clock. He’d actually walked too quickly, he saw, and so let the train go without him, fumbling with his cigarette pack as an excuse if anyone was watching him—but then again, if anyone were watching him now, he was already a dead man. The thought made his hands shake, but it was too late for that. The next train came out of the tunnel exactly on time, and he boarded the proper carriage, shuffling in with fifteen or so other workers…

And there he was. Reading a newspaper, wearing an unbuttoned raincoat, his right hand on the chrome overhead bar.

Zaitzev wandered that way. In his right hand was the second note that he’d just fished out of his cigarette pack. Yes, he saw belatedly, the man was wearing a bright green tie, held in place by a gold-colored tie bar. A brown suit, a clean white shirt that looked expensive, and his face was occupied with the paper. The man did not look around. Zaitzev slid closer.

* * *

One of the things Ed Foley had studied at The Farm was how to perfect his peripheral vision. With training and practice, your eyes could actually see a wider field than the unschooled realized. At CIA camp, he’d learned by walking down the street and reading house numbers without turning his head. Best of all, it was like riding a bicycle. Once learned, it was always there if you just concentrated when you needed to. And so he noticed that someone was moving slowly toward him—white male, about five-nine, medium build, brown eyes and hair, drab clothes, needed a haircut. He didn’t see the face clearly enough to remember it or to pick it out of a lineup. A Slavic face, that was all. Expressionless, and the eyes were definitely in his direction. Foley didn’t allow his breathing to change, though his heart might have increased its frequency by a few extra beats.

Come on, Ivan. I’m wearing the fucking tie, just like you said. He’d gotten on at the right stop. KGB headquarters was just a block from the escalator. So, yeah, this guy was probably a spook. And not a false-flag. If this was some Second Chief Directorate guy, they would have staged it differently. This was too obvious, too amateurish, not the way KGB would do things. They would have done it at a different subway stop.

This guy’s fuckin’ real, Foley told himself. He forced himself to be patient, which wasn’t easy, even for this experienced field officer, but he took an imperceptible deep breath and waited, telling the nerve endings in his skin to report the least shift in the weight of his topcoat on his shoulders…

* * *

Zaitzev looked around the car as casually as he could. There were no eyes on him, none even looking in this general direction. So his right hand slid into the open pocket, quickly but not too quickly. Then he withdrew.

* * *

Bingo. Foley thought, as his heart skipped two or three beats. Okay, Ivan, what’s the message this time?

Again, he had to be patient. No sense getting this guy killed. If he was really a guy from the Russian MERCURY, then there was no telling how important this might be. Like the first nibble on a deep-sea fishing boat. Was this a marlin, a shark, or a lost boot? If a nice blue marlin, how big? But he couldn’t even pull back on the fishing rod to set the hook yet. No, that would come later, if it came at all. The recruitment phase of field operations—taking some innocent Soviet citizen and making him an agent, an information-procuring asset of the CIA, a spy—that was harder than going to a CYO dance and getting laid. The real trick was not getting the girl pregnant—or the agent killed. No, the way the game was played, you had the first fast dance, then the first slow dance, then the first kiss, then the first grope, and then, if you got lucky, unbuttoning the blouse… and then…

The reverie stopped when the train did. Foley removed his hand from the overhead rail and looked around…

And there he was, actually looking at him, and the face went into the mental photo album.

Bad tradecraft, buddy. That can get your ass killed. Never look right at your case officer in a public place, Foley thought, his eyes passing right over him, no expression at all on his own face as he walked past the guy, deliberately taking the long way to the door.

* * *

Zaitzev was impressed by the American. He’d actually looked at his new Russian contact, but his eyes had revealed nothing, had not even looked at him directly, but past him to the end of the carriage. And, just that quickly, the American had walked away. Be what I hope you are, Oleg Ivan’ch’s mind thought, just as loudly as it could.

* * *

Fifty meters up on the open street, Foley refused even to let his hand go into the coat. He was certain that a hand had been there. He’d felt it, all right. And Ivan Whoever hadn’t done it looking for change.

Foley walked past the gate guard, into the building, and went up in the elevator. His key went into the lock, and the door opened. Only when it was closed behind him did he reach into the pocket.

Mary Pat was there, watching his face, and she saw the unguarded flash of recognition and discovery.

Ed took the note out. It was the same blank message form and, as before, it had writing on it. Foley read it once, then again, and a third time before handing it over to his wife.

Mary Pat’s eyes flared, too.

It was a fish, Foley thought. Maybe a big one. And he was asking for something substantive. Whoever he was, he wasn’t stupid. It would not be easy to arrange what he wanted, but he’d be able to pull it off. It just meant making the gunnery sergeant angry, and more important, visibly angry, because the embassy was always under surveillance. Something like this could not appear routine, or deliberate, but it didn’t have to be an Oscar-class bit of acting either. He was sure the Marines could bring it off. Then he felt Mary Pat’s hand in his.

“Hey, honey,” he said, for the microphones.

“Hi, Ed.” Her hand entered his.

This guy’s re[al], her hand said. He answered with a nod.

Tomor[row] mor[ning], she asked, and got another nod.

“Honey, I have to run back to the embassy. I left something in my desk, damn it.” Her answer was a thumbs-up.

“Well, don’t take too long. I have dinner on. Got a nice roast from the Finnish store. Baked potatoes and frozen corn on the cob.”

“Sounds good,” he agreed. “Half an hour, max.”

“Well, don’t be late.”

“Where are the car keys?”

“In the kitchen.” And they both walked that way.

“Do I have to leave without a kiss?” he asked in his best pussy-whipped voice.

“I guess not,” was the playful reply. “Anything interesting at work today?”

“Just that Prince guy from the Times.”

“He’s a jerk.”

“Tell me about it. Later, honey.” Foley headed for the door, still wearing his topcoat.

He waved to the gate guard on the way back out, a frustrated grimace on his face for theatrical effect. The guards would probably write down his passage—maybe even call it in somewhere—and, with luck, his drive to the embassy would be matched against the tapes from the apartment, and the Second Chief Directorate pukes would tick off whatever box they had on their surveillance forms and decide that Ed Foley had fucked up and indeed left something at the office. He’d have to remember to drive back with a manila envelope on the front seat of the