“Day late and a dollar short, eh?”
Thompson nodded. “Quite. I would have liked to put him in the dock at the Old Bailey, but that fish got away. The French shadowed him at De Gaulle International, but he never left the international terminal, never talked with anyone. The bugger showed no remorse at all. I suppose for him it was like chopping firewood,” the former detective said.
“Yeah. In the movies you make your hit and have a martini, shaken not stirred. But it’s different when you kill a good guy.”
“All Markov ever did was broadcast over BBC World Service,” Nick said, gripping the wheel a little tightly. “I imagine the people in Sofia were somewhat put out with what he said.”
“The people on the other side of the Curtain aren’t real big on Freedom of Speech,” Ryan reminded him.
“Bloody barbarians. And now this chap is planning to kill the Pope? I am not a Catholic, but he is a man of God, and he seems rather a good chap. You know, the most vicious criminal hesitates before trifling with a man of the clergy.”
“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t do to piss God off. But they don’t believe in God, Nick.”
“Fortunate for them that I am not God.”
“Yeah, it would be nice to have the power to right all the wrongs in the world. The problem is, that’s what Strokov’s bosses think they’re doing.”
“That is why we have laws, Jack—yes, I know, they make up their own.”
“That’s the problem,” Jack agreed as they came into Chatham.
“This is a pleasant area,” Thompson said, turning up the hill on City Way.
“Not a bad neighborhood. Cathy likes it. I would have preferred closer to London, but, well, she got her way.”
“Women usually do.” Thompson chuckled, turning right onto Fristow Way and then left on Grizedale Close. And there was the house. Ryan got out and retrieved his bags.
“Daddy!” Sally screamed when he walked in the door. Ryan dropped his bags and scooped her up. Little girls, he’d long since learned, gave the best hugs, though their kisses tended to be a little sloppy.
“How’s my little Sally?”
“Fine.” It was oddly like a cat, coming out of her mouth.
“Oh, hello, Dr. Ryan,” Miss Margaret said in greeting. “I didn’t expect you.”
“Just making a low pass. Have to change cleans for dirties and head back out.”
“You going away again?” Sally asked with crushing disappointment in her voice.
“Sorry, Sally. Daddy has business.”
Sally wriggled out of his arms. “Phooey.” And she went back to the TV, putting her father firmly in his place.
Jack took the cue to go upstairs. Three—no, four—clean shirts, five sets of underwear, four new ties, and… yes, some casual wear, too. Two new jackets, two pairs of slacks. His Marine tie bar. That about did it. He left the pile of dirties on the bed and, with his bags packed, headed back down. Oops. He set his bags down and went back upstairs for his passport. No sense using the fake Brit one anymore.
“Bye, Sally.”
“Bye, Daddy.” But then she thought again and jumped to her feet to give him another hug. She wouldn’t grow up to break hearts, but to rip them out and cook them over charcoal. But that was a long way off, and for now her father had the chance to enjoy her. Little Jack was asleep on his back in the playpen, and his father decided not to disturb him.
“See ya, buddy,” Ryan said as he turned to the door.
“Where are you going?” Miss Margaret asked.
“Out of the country. Business,” Jack explained. “I’ll call Cathy from the airport.”
“Good trip, Dr. Ryan.”
“Thanks, Margaret.” And back out the door.
“How are we on time?” Ryan asked, back in the car.
“No problem,” Thompson thought out loud. If they were late, this airliner, too, would have a minor mechanical problem.
“Good.” Jack adjusted his seat to lean back and get a few winks.
He awoke just outside Heathrow Terminal Three. Thompson drove up to where a man in civilian clothes was standing. He looked like some sort of government worker.
He was. As soon as Ryan alighted from the car, the man came over with a ticket envelope.
“Sir, your flight leaves in forty minutes, Gate Twelve,” the man reported. “You’ll be met in Rome by Tom Sharp.”
“What’s he look like?” Jack asked.
“He will know you, sir.”
“Fair enough.” Ryan took the tickets and headed to the back of the car for his bags.
“I’ll take care of that for you, sir.”
This sort of traveling had its possibilities, Jack thought. He waved at Thompson and headed into the terminal, looking for Gate Twelve. That proved easy enough. Ryan took a seat close by the gate and checked his ticket—1-A again, a first-class ticket. The SIS must have had a comfortable understanding with British Airways. Now all he had to do was survive the flight.
He boarded twenty minutes later, sitting down, strapping in, and turning his watch forward one hour. He endured the usual rigmarole of useless safety briefing and instructions on how to buckle his seat belt, which, in Jack’s case, was already clicked and snugged in.
The flight took two hours, depositing Jack at Leonardo da Vinci Airport at 3:09 local time. Jack walked off the aircraft and looked for the Blue Channel to get his diplomatic passport stamped after a wait of about five seconds—one other diplomat had been ahead of him, and the bonehead had forgotten which pocket his passport was in.
With that done, he retrieved his bags off the carousel and headed out. A man with a gray and brown beard seemed to be eyeballing him.
“You’re Jack Ryan?”
“You must be Tom Sharp.”
“Correct. Let me help you with your bags.” Why people did this, Ryan didn’t know, though on reflection, he’d done it himself often enough, and the Brits were the world champions at good manners.
“And you are?” Ryan asked.
“Station Chief Rome,” Sharp replied. “C called to say you were coming in, Sir John, and that I ought to meet you personally.”
“Good of Basil,” Jack thought out loud.
Sharp’s car was, in this case, a Bentley sedan, bronze in color, with left-hand driver’s seat in deference to the fact that they were in a barbarian country.
“Nice wheels, fella.”
“My cover is Deputy Chief of Mission,” Sharp explained. “I could have had a Ferrari, but it seemed a little too ostentatious. I do little actual field work, you see, just administrative things. I actually am the DCM of the embassy. Too much diplomatic work—that can drive one mad.”
“How’s Italy?”
“Lovely place, lovely people. Not terribly well organized. They say we Brits muddle through things, but we’re bloody Prussians compared to this lot.”
“Their cops?”
“Quite good, actually. Several different police forces. Best of the lot are the Carabinieri, paramilitary police of the central government. Some of them are excellent. Down in Sicily they’re trying to get a handle on the Mafia—pig of a job that is, but, you know, eventually I think they will succeed.”
“You briefed in on why they sent me down?”
“Some people think Yuriy Vladimirovich wants to kill the Pope? That’s what my telex said.”
“Yeah. We just got a defector out who says so, and we think he’s giving us the real shit.”
“Any details?”
“‘Fraid not. I think they sent me down here to work with you until somebody figures out the right thing to do. Looks to me like an attempt might be made Wednesday.”
“The weekly appearance in the square?”
Jack nodded. “Yep.” They were on the highway from the airport to Rome. The country looked odd to Ryan, but it took a minute to figure out why. Then he got it. The pitch of the roofs was different—shallower than what he was used to. They probably didn’t get much snow here in winter. Otherwise the houses looked rather like sugar cubes, painted white to reject the heat of the Italian sun. Well, every country had its unique architecture.
“Wednesday, eh?”
“Yeah. We’re also looking for a guy named Boris Strokov, colonel in the Bulgarian DS. Sounds like a professional killer.”
Sharp concentrated on the road. “I’ve heard the name. Wasn’t he a suspect in the Georgiy Markov killing?”
“That’s the guy. They ought to be sending some photos of him.”
“Courier on your flight,” Sharp reported. “Taking a different way into the city.”
“Any ideas on what the hell to do?”
“We’ll get you settled at the embassy—my house, actually, two blocks away. It’s rather nice. Then we’ll drive down to Saint Peter’s and look around, get a feel for things. I’ve been there to see the artwork and such—the Vatican art collection is on a par with the Queen’s—but I’ve never worked there per se. Ever been to Rome?”
“Never.”
“Very well, let’s take a drive-about first instead, give you a quick feel for the place.”