“Works for us, Jack. Only a fool would take the shot from in there, unless he plans to have Scotty beam him up to the starship Enterprise. No escape possible from that place.”
“True,” Jack agreed. “What about inside somewhere, get the Pope on the way to the car?”
“Possible,” Mick agreed. “But that would mean that somehow Strokov or someone under his control is already inside the Papal administration—household, whatever one calls it—and is thus free to make his killing whenever he wishes. Somehow I think that infiltrating that organization would be difficult. It would mean maintaining a difficult psychological disguise for an extended period of time. No.” He shook his head. “I would discount that possibility.”
“Hope you’re right, man.”
“So do I, Jack.”
They all left at about four, each catching a separate cab to within a few blocks of the Brit Embassy and walking the rest of the way.
Dinner was quiet that night. Each of them had his own worries, and everyone hoped that whatever the hell Colonel Strokov of the DS had in mind, it wasn’t for this week, and that they could all fly back to London the following evening none the worse off for the experience. One thing Ryan had learned: Experienced field spooks that they were, they were no more comfortable with this mission than he was. It was good not to be alone in his anxiety. Or was that just schadenfreude? What the hell, was this how it felt the night before D-Day? No, there was no German Army waiting for them. Their job was to prevent a possible murder, and the danger was not even to themselves. It was to someone else who either didn’t know or didn’t care about the danger to himself, and so they had assumed responsibility for his life. Mick King had gotten it right from his first impression the day before. It was a pig of a mission.
“MORE STUFF FROM the Rabbit,” Moore reported at the usual evening get-together.
“What’s that?”
“Basil says there’s a deep-penetration agent in their Foreign Office, and the Rabbit gave them enough information to narrow him down to four potential individuals. ‘Five’ is already looking at them. And he gave them some more on this CASSIUS guy over here. He’s been working for them just over ten years. Definitely a senior aide to a senator on the Intelligence Committee—sounds like a political adviser. So it’s probably somebody who’s been briefed in and has a clearance. That cuts it down to eighteen people for the Bureau to check out.”
“What’s he giving them, Arthur?” Greer asked.
“Sounds like whatever we tell The Hill about KGB operations gets back to Dzerzhinskiy Square in less than a week.”
“I want that son of a bitch,” Ritter announced. “If that’s true, then we’ve lost agents because of him.” And Bob Ritter, whatever his faults, looked after his agents like a mama grizzly bear with her cubs.
“Well, he’s been doing this long enough that he’s probably pretty comfortable in his fieldcraft.”
“He told us about a Navy guy—NEPTUNE, wasn’t it?” Greer remembered.
“Nothing new there, but we’ll be sure to ask him about it. That could be anybody. How careful is the Navy with their crypto gear?”
Greer shrugged. “Every single ship has communications people, petty officers, and a commissioned communications officer. They’re supposed to destroy the setting sheets and circuit boards on a daily basis, and toss them over the side—and not just one. Two people have to see it, supposedly. And they’re all cleared—”
“But only people with clearances can fuck us in the ass,” Ritter reminded them.
“Only the people you trust with your money can steal from you,” Judge Moore observed. He’d seen enough criminal cases along that score. “That’s the problem. Imagine how Ivan’s going to feel if he finds out about the Rabbit.”
“That,” Ritter said, “is different.”
“Very good, Bob,” the DCI reacted with a laugh. “My wife says that to me all the time. It must be the war cry of women all over the world—that’s different. The other side thinks they’re the forces of Truth and Beauty, too, remember.”
“Yeah, Judge, but we’re going to whip ’em.”
It was good to see such confidence, especially in a guy like Bob Ritter, Moore thought.
“Still thinking about THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH, Robert?”
“Putting some ideas together. Give me a few weeks.”
“Fair enough.”
IT WAS JUST one in the morning in Washington when Ryan awoke on Italian time. The shower helped get him alert, and the shave got his face smooth. By seven-thirty, he was heading down for breakfast. Mrs. Sharp fixed coffee in the Italian style, which surprisingly tasted as though someone had emptied an ashtray into the pot. Jack wrote that off to differing national tastes. The eggs and (English) bacon were just fine, as was the buttered toast. Someone had decided that men going into action needed full bellies. A pity the Brits didn’t know about hash brown potatoes, the most filling of unhealthy breakfast foods.
“All ready?” Sharp asked, coming in.
“I guess we all have to be. What about the rest of the crew?”
“We rendezvous at the front of the basilica in thirty-five minutes.” And it was only a five-minute drive from there. “Here’s a friend for you to take along.” He handed over a pistol.
Jack took it and slid the slide back. It was, fortunately, empty.
“You may need this, too.” Sharp handed over two loaded magazines. Sure enough, they were hardball—full-metal-jacketed—cartridges, which would go right through the target, making only a nine-millimeter hole in and out. But Europeans thought you could drop an elephant with them. Yeah, sure, Jack thought, wishing for a .45 Colt M1911A1, which was much better suited for putting a man on the ground and leaving him there until the ambulance crew arrived. But he’d never mastered the big Colt, though he had, barely, qualified with it. It was with a rifle that Ryan could really shoot, but nearly anyone could shoot a rifle. Sharp didn’t provide a holster. The Browning Hi-Power would have to go in his belt, and he’d have to keep his jacket buttoned to conceal it. The bad thing about carrying a pistol was that they were heavy damned things to port around with you, and without a proper holster he’d have to keep adjusting it in his belt to make sure it didn’t fall out or slide down his pants. That just wouldn’t do. It would also make sitting down a pain in the gut, but there wouldn’t be much of that today. The spare magazine went into his coat pocket. He pulled the slide back, locked it in place, and slid the loaded one into the butt, then dropped the locking lever to release the slide. The weapon was now loaded and “in battery,” meaning ready to fire. On reflection, Ryan carefully dropped the hammer. A safety might have sufficed, but Ryan had been trained not to trust safeties. To fire the weapon, he’d have to remember to cock the hammer, something he’d fortunately forgotten to do with Sean Miller. But this time, if the worst happened, he would not.
“Time to boogie?” Jack asked Sharp.
“Does that mean go?” the Chief of Station Rome asked. “I meant to ask the other time you said that.”
“Yeah, like, boogie on down the road. It’s an Americanism. ‘Boogie’ used to be a kind of dance, I think.”
“And your radio.” Sharp pointed. “It clips on the belt over your wallet pocket. On/off switch”—he demonstrated—”earpiece fastens to your collar, and the microphone onto your collar. Clever bit of kit, this.”
“Okay.” Ryan got everything arranged properly, but left the radio off. The spare batteries went into his left-side coat pocket. He didn’t expect to need them, but safe was always better than sorry. He reached behind to find the on/off switch and flipped it off and on. “What’s the range on the radios?”
“Three miles—five kilometers—the manual says. More than we need. Ready?”
“Yeah.” Jack stood, set his pistol snugly on the left side of his belt, and followed Sharp out to the car.
Traffic was agreeably light this morning. Italian drivers were not, from what he’d seen so far, the raving maniacs he’d heard them to be. But the people out now would be people heading soberly to work, whether it was selling real estate or working in a warehouse. One of the difficult things for a tourist to remember was that a city was just another city, not a theme park set in place for his personal amusement.
And damned sure this morning Rome wasn’t here for anything approaching that, was it? Jack asked himself coldly.
Sharp parked his official Bentley about where they expected Strokov to park. There were other cars there, people who worked in the handful of shops, or perhaps early shoppers hoping to get their buying done before Wednesday’s regularly scheduled chaos.