The Astoria Hotel was only four minutes from the station. It seemed to be an impressive structure, looking almost like a grand hotel of another age. The lobby was modest in size, though not in appointments, and much carved oak was in evidence. The desk clerk expected them, and greeted them with a smile. Soon after giving Zaitzev the room key, he pointed across the street to the Soviet-Hungarian Culture and Friendship Center, which was so obviously a KGB operation that it might as well have had a statue of Iron Feliks in front. The bellman led them to the tiny elevator and then to the third floor, turning right for Room 307, a corner room that would be their home for the next ten days, or so everyone but Oleg thought. He also got a ruble for his trouble and withdrew, leaving the family in a room little larger than the combined space of their train accommodations, and with only a single bathroom, albeit one with a bath/shower, which all three of them needed. Oleg let his wife and daughter go first.
As shabby as the room was by Western standards, however, by Soviet ones it was almost palatial. There was a chair by the window, and Zaitzev sat down and surveyed the streets for a CIA officer. That, he knew, was a fool’s errand, but he could hardly resist the temptation.
THE MEN HE was looking for were not Americans at all, but rather Tom Trent and Chris Morton, both of whom worked for Andy Hudson. Both had dark hair and hadn’t washed that day so that they could appear to be working-class Hungarians. Trent had staked out the train station and spotted them coming in, while Morton had camped out in the hotel. With good photographic prints provided by the Times photographer in Moscow, identifying the Zaitzev family had been simplicity itself. As a final check, Morton, who spoke flawless Russian, walked to the reception desk and verified his “old friend’s” room number at the desk, in return for a twenty-florint banknote and a wink. Then he wandered down to the bar, while surveying the hotel’s ground floor for future reference. So far, they decided on the subway ride back to the embassy, things were going remarkably well. The train had arrived late, but their information on the hotel had been bang-on for once.
ANDY HUDSON WAS a man of average height and appearance, except his sandy hair marked him as a foreigner in a land where everyone looked pretty much alike. Certainly at the airport they all did, Ryan thought.
“Can we talk?” Ryan asked on the way away from the airport.
“Yes, the car is clean.” Like all such vehicles, it was regularly swept and parked in a secure location.
“How sure are you of that?”
“The opposition doesn’t break the rules of diplomatic conduct. Strange, but true. And besides, the car has a very sophisticated alarm. Not sure I could fiddle it myself, as a matter of fact. In any case, welcome to Budapest, Sir John.” He pronounced the city’s name as Byudapesht, as opposed to the way Ryan thought it was spoken.
“So, you know who I am?”
“Yes, I was home in London last March. I was in town when you performed your heroics—bloody fool, you ought to have gotten yourself killed, except for the stupid bloody Irish.”
“I’ve said that to myself many times, Mr. Hud—”
“Andy,” Hudson suggested at once.
“Fine. My name is Jack.”
“Good flight?”
“Any flight you walk off of is a good one, Andy. So, tell me about the mission and how you’re going to go about it.”
“Entirely routine. We observe the Rabbit and his family—we’ll keep them under intermittent surveillance—and when the time is right, we’ll whisk them out of the city and into Yugoslavia.”
“How?”
“Car or truck, haven’t decided yet,” Hudson answered. “Hungary is the only possible problem. The Yugoslavs care sod-all about people crossing their border—they have a million citizens working overseas in various capacities. And our relations with the border guards is very cordial indeed,” Andy assured him.
“Payoffs?”
Hudson nodded as he took a turn around a modest-sized park. “It’s a good way for them to outfit their families with fashionable items. I know people who smuggle hard drugs in—I make no use of them, of course. Drugs are one thing the locals at least pretend to care about, but some border guards are more open to negotiation than others—hell, they probably all are, or damned nearly all. It’s remarkable what you can get for some hard currency or a pair of Reebok running shoes. The black market here is a lively one, and since it often brings hard currency into the country, the political leadership will look the other way so long as it doesn’t get too out of hand, you see.”
“Then how did the CIA station get clobbered?”
“Bad bloody luck.” Hudson went on to explain for a minute or two. “Like being run over by a lorry on an empty road.”
“Damn, does that sort of thing really happen?”
“Not often, rather like winning a state lottery.”
“You gotta play to win,” Ryan murmured. It was the motto for the Maryland State Lottery, which was just one more form of tax for those dumb enough to partake, just one that was a little more cynical than the other kinds.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s a chance we all take.”
“And how does that apply to getting the Rabbit and his family out?”
“One in ten thousand.”
To Ryan, those sounded like betting odds, but there was one other hang-up to worry about. “Have they told you his wife and kid don’t know how extended his vacation is?”
That made Hudson’s head turn. “You’re bloody joking.”
“Nope. That’s what he told our people in Moscow. Complication?”
His hands flexed on the wheel. “Only if she’s noisy. I suppose we can handle that if we must.” But it was plain on his face that it was something to worry about.
“European women, they tell me, are less assertive than American ones.”
“They are, as a matter of fact,” Hudson agreed. “Particularly true of the Russians, I believe. Well, we shall see.”
One last turn onto Harm Utca, and they were at the British Embassy. Hudson parked the car and got out.
“That building there is the Budapesti Rendõrfõkápitanság, the police head quarters. Good to be in a secure location—they are little threat to us. The local police are not very highly regarded. The local language is bloody impossible. Indo-Altaic, philologists call it. Origin is somewhere in Mongolia, if you can believe it. Unrelated to any language you’ve ever heard about. Not too many people here speak English, but some German, because Austria is the next country over. Not to worry, you’ll have one of us with you at all times. I’ll take you on a walkabout tomorrow morning. Don’t know about you, but traveling always tires me out.”
“Yeah,” Ryan agreed at once. “I call it travel shock.”
“So, we’ll get you settled in your quarters upstairs. The embassy canteen is quite adequate, and your quarters will be comfortable if not elaborate. Let me get your bag.”
You couldn’t knock the hospitality, Jack thought ten minutes later. A bed, private bath, a TV, and a VCR with a dozen or so tapes. He decided on The Cruel Sea with Jack Hawkins, and he made it to the end before fading off to sleep.
CHAPTER 26:
TOURISTS
ALL OF THEM WOKE UP about the same time. Little zaichik was first, quickly followed by her mother and finally her father. The Hotel Astoria even had room service, an unheard-of luxury for Soviet citizens. Their room had a telephone, and Irina, after taking down the orders, called it in to the right extension, then was told that their food would arrive in about thirty minutes.
“I could fix it faster,” Irina observed, with a hint of sourness. But even she had to admit that not having to fix it wasn’t a bad deal for her at all. And so they all took turns in the bathroom in anticipation of their morning meal.
RYAN GOT HIMSELF showered and found his way to the embassy canteen about a quarter to eight. Evidently, the Brits liked their luxuries as much as American foreign service officers. He got himself a pile of scrambled eggs and bacon—Ryan loved English bacon, though their most popular sausages seemed to him to use sawdust as a filler—and four slices of white toast, figuring that he’d need a big breakfast to make it through this day.
The coffee wasn’t all that bad. On asking, he found out that it was Austrian in origin, which explained the quality.
“The Ambassador insisted on that,” Hudson said, sitting down across the table from his American guest. “Dickie loves his coffee.”
“Who?” Jack asked.
“Richard Dover. He’s the Ambassador—back in London at the moment, just left day before yesterday. Too bad. He’d enjoy meeting you. Good boss, he is. So, sleep well?”