Red Rabbit

in Budapest. Do everything that a Soviet citizen does. We will handle the rest,” she assured him.

“All of us,” Zaitzev reminded her. “All of us come out?”

“Of course, Oleg. Your little zaichik will see many wonders in America, and the winters are not so fierce as they are here,” MP added.

“We Russians enjoy our winters,” he pointed out, with a little amour propre.

“In that case, you will be able to live in an area as cold as Moscow. And if you desire warm weather in February, you can drive or fly to Florida and relax on a sunny beach.”

“You are tourist agent, Mary?” the Rabbit asked.

“For you, Oleg, I am just that. Are you comfortable passing information to my husband on the metro?”

“Yes.”

You shouldn’t be, Mary Pat thought. “What is your best necktie?”

“A blue one with red stripes.”

“Very well, wear that one two days before you take the train to Budapest. Bump into him and apologize, and we will know. Two days before you leave Moscow, wear your blue-striped tie and bump into him on the metro,” she repeated. You had to be careful doing this. People could make the goddamnedest mistakes in the simplest of matters, even when—no, especially when—their lives were on the line. That was why she was making it as easy as possible. Only one thing to remember. Only one thing to do.

“Da, I can do that easily.”

Optimistic bastard, aren’t you? “Excellent. Please be very careful, Oleg Ivan’ch.” And with that, she went on her way. But then she stopped five or six meters away and turned. In her purse was a Minox camera. She shot five frames, and then walked away.

* * *

“Well, didn’t you see anything worth getting?” her husband asked, out in their used Mercedes 280.

“No, nothing really worthwhile. Maybe we should try a trip up to Helsinki to get some winter stuff,” she suggested. “You know, take the train, like. Ought to be fun to do it that way. Eddie should like it.”

The Station Chief’s eyebrow went up. Probably better to take the train, he thought. Doesn’t look rushed or forced. Carry lots of suitcases, half of them empty to bring back all the shit you’ll buy there with your Comecon rubles, Ed Foley thought. Except you don’t come back… and if Langley and London get their shit together, maybe we can make it a real home-run ball…

“Home, honey?” Foley asked. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if KGB didn’t have their home and car bugged, and they were doing all this secret-agent crap for no reason at all? he thought idly. Well, at worst, it was good practice, wasn’t it?

“Yeah, we’ve done enough for one day.”

* * *

“Bloody hell,” Basil Charleston breathed. He lifted his phone and punched three buttons.

“Yes, sir?” Kingshot asked, coming into the room.

“This.” C handed the dispatch across.

“Shit,” Kingshot breathed.

Sir Basil managed a smile. “It’s always the obvious, simple things, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Even so, does make one feel rather thick,” he admitted. “A house fire. Works better than what we originally thought.”

“Well, something to remember. How many house fires do we have in London, Alan?”

“Sir Basil, I have not a clue,” the most senior field spook in the SIS admitted. “But find out I shall.”

“Get this to your friend Nolan as well.”

“Tomorrow morning, sir,” Kingshot promised. “At least it improves our chances. Are CIA working on this as well?”

“Yes.”

* * *

As was the FBI. Director Emil Jacobs had heard his share of oddball requests from the folks on “the other side of the river,” as CIA was sometimes called in official Washington. But this was positively gruesome. He lifted his phone and punched his direct line to the DCI.

“There’s a good reason for this, I presume, Arthur?” he asked without preamble.

“Not over the phone, Emil, but yes.”

“Three Caucasians, one male in his early thirties, one female same age, and a little girl age three or four,” Jacobs said, reading it off the hand-delivered note from Langley. “My field agents will think the Director’s slipped a major gear, Arthur. We’d probably be better off asking local police forces for assistance—”

“But—”

“Yes, I know, it would leak too quickly. Okay, I can send a message to all my SACs and have them check their morning papers, but it won’t be easy to keep something like this from leaking out. “

“Emil, I understand that. We’re trying to get help from the Brits on this as well. Not the sort of thing you can just whistle up, I know. All I can say is that it’s very important, Emil.”

“You due on The Hill anytime soon?”

“House Intelligence Committee tomorrow at ten. Budget stuff,” Moore explained. Congress was always going after that information, and Moore always had to defend his agency from people on The Hill, who would just as soon cut CIA off at the ankles—so that they could complain about “intelligence failures” later on, of course.

“Okay, can you stop off here on the way? I gotta hear this cock-and-bull story,” Jacobs announced.

“Eight-forty or so?”

“Works for me, Arthur.”

“See you then,” Moore promised.

Director Jacobs replaced his phone, wondering what could be so goddamned important as to request the Federal Bureau of Investigation to play grave robber.

* * *

On the metro home, after buying his little zaichik a white parka with red and green flowers on it, Zaitzev thought over his strategy. When would he tell Irina about their impromptu vacation? If he sprang it on her as a surprise, there would be one sort of problem—Irina would worry about her accounting job at GUM, but the office was, by her account, so loosely run that they’d hardly notice a missing body. But if he did give her too much warning, there would be another problem—she’d try to micromanage everything, like every wife in the known world, since, in her mind, he was unfitted to figure out anything. That was rather musing, Oleg Ivan’ch thought, given the current circumstances.

So, then, no, he would not tell her ahead of time, but instead spring this trip on her as a surprise, and use this Hungarian conductor as the excuse. Then the big surprise would come in Budapest. He wondered how she’d react to that piece of news. Perhaps not well, but she was a Russian wife, trained and educated to accept the orders of her man, which, all Russian men thought, was as it should be.

Svetlana loved riding the metro. That was the thing with little children, Oleg had learned. To them everything was an adventure to take in with their wide children’s eyes, even something as routine as riding the underground train. She didn’t walk or run. She pranced, like a puppy—or like a bunny, her father thought, smiling down at her. Would his little zaichik find better adventures in the West?

Probably so … if I get her there alive, Zaitzev reminded himself. There was danger involved, but somehow his fear was not for himself, but for his daughter. How odd that was. Or was it? He didn’t know anymore. He knew that he had a mission of sorts, and that was all that he actually saw before him. The rest of it was just a collection of intermediate steps, but at the end of the steps was a bright, shining light, and that was all he could really see. It was very strange how the light had grown brighter and brighter since his first doubts about Operation -666 until now, when it occupied all his mental eyes could see. Like a moth drawn to a light, he kept circling in closer and closer, and all he could really hope was that the light was not a flame that would kill him.

“Here, Papa!” Svetlana said, recognizing their stop, taking his hand, and dragging him forward to the sliding doors. A minute later, she jumped on the moving steps of the escalator, excited by that ride as well. His child was like an American adult—or how Russians supposed them to be, always seeing opportunities and possibilities and the fun to be had, instead of the dangers and threats that careful, sober Soviet citizens saw everywhere. But if