“Thanks, babe. I’ll probably be able to tell you more when I get home. Hug the kids for me, okay?”
“You sound tired,” she said.
“I am tired, babe. It’s been a busy couple of days.” And it wasn’t going to get any quieter. “Bye for now.”
“I love you, Jack,” she reminded him.
“I love you, too, babe. Thanks for saying that.”
Ryan waited more than an hour for the Zaitzev family. So the offer of a helicopter would have just enabled him to wait here longer—fairly typical of the U.S. military. Ryan sat on a comfortable couch and drifted off to sleep for perhaps half an hour.
The Rabbits arrived by car. A USAF sergeant shook Jack awake and pointed him to the waiting KC-135. It was essentially a windowless Boeing 707, also equipped to refuel other aircraft. The lack of windows didn’t help his attitude very much, but orders were orders, and he climbed up the steps and found a plush leather seat just forward of the wing box. The aircraft had hardly lifted off the ground when Oleg fell into the seat beside his own.
“What happened?” Zaitzev demanded.
“We caught Strokov. I got him myself, and he had a gun in his hand,” Ryan reported. “But there was another shooter.”
“Strokov? You arrested him?”
“Not exactly an arrest, but he decided to come with me to the British Embassy. SIS has him now.”
“I hope they kill the zvoloch,” Zaitzev snarled.
Ryan didn’t reply, wondering if that might actually happen. Did the Brits play that rough? He had committed rather a nasty murder on their soil—hell, within sight of Century House.
“The Pope, will he live?” the Rabbit asked. Ryan was surprised to see his degree of interest. Maybe the guy was a real conscience defector after all.
“I don’t know, Oleg. I called my wife—she’s a surgeon. She says that it’s better than a fifty-fifty chance that he will survive.”
“That is something,” Zaitzev thought out loud.
“WELL?” Andropov asked.
Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy stood a little more erect. “Comrade Chairman, we know little at this point. Strokov’s man took the shot, as you know, and he hit his target in a deadly area. Strokov was unable to eliminate him as planned, for reasons unknown. Our Rome rezidentura is working carefully to discover what happened. Colonel Goderenko is taking personal charge. We will know more when Colonel Strokov flies back to Sofia. He is scheduled to be on the regular flight at nineteen hours. So, to this point it appears we have had a partial success.”
“There is no such thing as a partial success, Colonel!” Andropov pointed out heatedly.
“Comrade Chairman, I told you weeks ago that this was a possibility. You will recall that. And even if this priest survives, he will not be going back to Poland anytime soon, will he?”
“I suppose not,” Yuriy Vladimirovich grumbled.
“And that was the real mission, wasn’t it?”
“Da,” the Chairman admitted.
“No signals as yet?”
“No, Comrade Chairman. We’ve had to break in a new watch officer in Communications, and—”
“What is that?”
“Major Zaitzev, Oleg Ivanovich, he and his family died in a hotel fire in Budapest. He had been our communicator for mission six-six-six.”
“Why was I not informed of this?”
“Comrade Chairman,” Rozhdestvenskiy soothed, “it was fully investigated. The bodies have been returned to Moscow and were duly buried. They all died of smoke inhalation. The autopsy procedures were viewed in person by a Soviet physician.”
“You are sure of this, Colonel?”
“I can get the official report to you if you wish,” Rozhdestvenskiy said with confidence. “I have read it myself.”
Andropov shook it off. “Very well. Keep me informed on whatever comes in. And I want to be notified at once of the condition of this troublesome Pole.”
“By your order, Comrade Chairman.” Rozhdestvenskiy made his way out while the Chairman went back to other business. Brezhnev’s health had taken a definite downturn. Very soon Andropov would have to step away from KGB in order to protect his ascension to the head seat at the table, and that was the main item on his plate at the moment. And, besides, Rozhdestvenskiy was right. This Polish priest would not be a problem for months, even if he survived, and that was sufficient to the moment.
“WELL, ARTHUR?” Ritter asked.
“He’s calmed down a little bit. I told him about Operation BEATRIX. I told him that we and the Brits had people right there. He wants to meet the Rabbit we just got out, personally. So, he’s still pretty pissed, but at least it’s not at us,” Moore reported on his arrival back from the White House.
“The Brits have this Strokov guy in custody,” Greer let the DCI know. Word had just come in from London. “Would you believe Ryan’s the guy who put the bag on him? The Brits have him now at their Rome embassy. Basil’s trying to decide what to do with him. Best bet, Strokov ran the operation and enlisted this Turkish thug to do the shooting. The Brits say they caught him with a silenced pistol in his hand. The thinking is that his job was to take the shooter out, like that Mafia hit in New York a while back, to put big-league deniability on the assassination attempt.”
“Your boy captured him?” the DCI asked in some surprise.
“He was there with a team of experienced British field spooks, and maybe his Marine training helped,” Ritter allowed. “So, James, your fair-haired boy gets another attaboy.”
Don’t bite your tongue off when you sign the Letter of Commendation, Robert, Greer managed not to say. “Where are they all now?”
“Halfway home, probably. The Air Force is flying them over,” Ritter told them. “ETA at Andrews is about eleven-forty, they told me.”
THERE WERE WINDOWS in the front office, Ryan found out, and the flight crew was friendly enough. He was even able to talk a little about baseball. The Orioles had just one more game to win to finish the Phillies off, he was pleased and surprised to learn. The flight crew didn’t even hint at asking why they were driving him back to America. They’d done it too many times and, besides, they never got good answers anyway. Aft, the Rabbit Family was sound asleep, a feat Ryan had not yet managed to accomplish.
“How long?” he asked the pilot.
“Well, that’s Labrador there.” He pointed. “Call it three hours more, and we’ll be feet-dry almost all the way. Why don’t you get some sleep, sir?”
“I don’t sleep in the air,” Jack admitted.
“Don’t feel too bad, sir. Neither do we,” the copilot told him. And that was good news, on reflection, Jack thought.
SIR BASIL CHARLESTON was having his own meeting with his Chief of Government at the moment. Neither in America nor in the U.K. did reporters write stories about when and why the chiefs of the various intelligence services met with their political masters.
“So, tell me about this Strokov fellow,” she ordered.
“Not a very pleasant chap,” C replied. “We reckon he was there to kill the actual shooter. He had a suppressed weapon to eliminate the noise. So, it would appear that the idea was to kill His Holiness and leave a dead assassin behind. Dead men still tell no tales, you see, Prime Minister. But perhaps this one will, after all. The Italian police must be chatting with him right now, I would imagine. He is a Turkish national, and I’ll wager he had a criminal record, and/or experience in smuggling things into Bulgaria.”
“So, it was the Russians who were behind this?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. That seems virtually certain. Tom Sharp is talking to Strokov in Rome. We’ll see how loyal he is to his masters.”
“What will we do with him?” the PM asked. The answer was in the form of another question that she would have to answer. She did.
IT DID NOT occur to Strokov that when Sharp invoked the names of Aleksey Nikolay’ch Rozhdestvenskiy and Ilya Fedorovich Bubovoy, his own fate was sealed. He was merely dumbfounded that the British Secret Intelligence Service had the KGB so thoroughly penetrated. Sharp saw no reason to disabuse him of that notion. Shocked beyond his capacity to react intelligently, Strokov forgot all of his training and started singing. His duet with Sharp lasted two and a half hours, all of it on tape.
RYAN WAS MORE on autopilot than the Boeing was before it touched down at Runway Zero-One Right at Andrews Air Force Base. He’d been on the go for what? Twenty-two hours? Something like that. Something more easily done as a Marine second lieutenant (age twenty-two) than as a married father of two (age thirty -two) who’d had a fairly stressful day. He was also feeling his liquor somewhat.
There were two cars waiting at the bottom of the steps—Andrews had yet to install a jetway. He and Zaitzev took the first. Mrs. Rabbit and the Bunny took the second. Two minutes after that, they were on Suitland Parkway, heading into D.C. Ryan drew the task of explaining what they were passing along the way. Unlike his arrival in England, Zaitzev was not under the impression that this might be a maskirovka. And the detour past the Capitol Building ended whatever lingering suspicions he might have had. George Lucas on his best day could not have faked this scenery. The cars crossed the Potomac and went north of the George Washington Parkway, finally taking the marked exit to Langley.