“Yeah,” Jack observed. “Kids will do that. So, we do the debrief here or somewhere else?”
“We were planning to do it in Somerset, but I decided last night not to drive them around too much. Why stress them out?” Kingshot asked rhetorically. “We just took title to this house last year, and it’s as comfortable a place as any. The one in Somerset—near Taunton—is a touch more isolated, but these people ought not to bolt, you think?”
“If he goes home, he’s one dead Rabbit,” Ryan thought out loud. “He has to know that. On the plane, he was worried that we were KGB and this was all an elaborate maskirovka setup, I think. His wife did a lot of shopping in Budapest. Maybe we have somebody take her shopping around here?” the American wondered. “Then we can talk to him in comfort. His English seems okay. Do we have anybody here with good Russian?”
“My job,” Kingshot told Ryan.
“First thing we want to know, why the hell did he decide to skip town?”
“Obviously, but then, what’s all this lot about compromised communications?”
“Yeah.” Ryan took a deep breath. “I imagine people are jumping out windows about that one.”
“Too bloody right,” Kingshot confirmed.
“So, Al, you’ve worked Moscow?”
The Brit nodded. “Twice. Good sport it was, but rather tense the whole time I was there.”
“Where else?”
“Warsaw and Bucharest. I speak all the languages. Tell me, how was Andy Hudson?”
“He’s a star, Al. Very smooth and confident all the way—knows his turf, good contacts. He took pretty good care of me.”
“Here’s your coffee, Sir John,” Mrs. Thompson said, bringing his cup of Taster’s Choice. The Brits were good people, and their food, Ryan thought, was wrongly maligned, but they didn’t know beans about coffee, and that was that. But it was still better than tea.
The Eggs Benedict arrived shortly thereafter, and at that dish, Mrs. Thompson could have given lessons. Ryan opened his paper—it was the Times—and relaxed to get reacquainted with the world. He’d call Cathy in about an hour when he was at work. With luck, he might even see her in a couple days. In a perfect world, he’d have a copy of an American paper, or maybe the International Tribune, but the world was not yet perfect. There was no sense asking how the World Series was going. It was going to start tomorrow, wasn’t it? How good were the Phillies this year? Well, as usual, you played the games to find out.
“So, how was the trip, Jack?” Kingshot asked.
“Alan, those field officers earn every nickel they make. How you deal with the constant tension, I do not understand.”
“Like everything else, Jack, you get used to it. Your wife is a surgeon. The idea of cutting people open with a knife is not at all appealing to me.”
Jack barked a short laugh. “Yeah, me too, pal. And she does eyeballs. Nothing important, right?”
Kingshot shuddered visibly at the thought, and Ryan reminded himself that working in Moscow, running agents—and probably arranging rescue missions like they’d done for the Rabbit—could not have been much more fun than a heart transplant.
“Ah, Mr. Somerset,” Ryan heard Mrs. Thompson say. “Good morning, and welcome.”
“Spasiba” Oleg Ivan’ch replied in a sleepy voice. Kids could get you up at the goddamnedest hours, with their smiling faces and lovely dispositions. “That is my new name?”
“We’ll figure something more permanent later,” Ryan told him. “Again, welcome.”
“This is England?” the Rabbit asked.
“We’re eight miles from Manchester,” the British intelligence officer replied. “Good morning. In case you don’t remember, my name is Alan Kingshot. This is Mrs. Emma Thompson, and Nick will be back in a few minutes.” Handshakes were exchanged.
“My wife be here soon. She see to zaichik” he explained.
“How are you feeling, Vanya?” Kingshot asked.
“Much travel, much fear, but I am safe now, yes?”
“Yes, you are entirely safe,” Kingshot assured him.
“And what would you like for breakfast?” Mrs. Thompson asked.
“Try this,” Jack suggested, pointing at his plate. “It’s great.”
“Yes, I will—what is called?”
“Eggs Benedict,” Jack told him. “Mrs. Thompson, this hollandaise sauce is just perfect. My wife needs your recipe, if I may impose.” And maybe Cathy could teach her about proper coffee. That would be an equitable trade, Ryan thought.
“Why, certainly, Sir John,” she replied with a beaming smile. No woman in all the world objects to praise for her cooking.
“For me also, then,” Zaitzev decided.
“Tea or coffee?” she asked her guest.
“You have English Breakfast tea?” the Rabbit asked.
“Of course,” she answered.
“Please for me, then.”
“Certainly.” And she disappeared back into the kitchen.
It was still a lot for Zaitzev to take. Here he was, in the breakfast room of a manor house fit for a member of the old nobility, surrounded by a green lawn such as one might see at Augusta National, with monstrous oak trees 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 gready 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.