“You’re Gatewood?”
“Yes, sir. You’re…?”
“I’m Randy Silvestri. You have a package for me,” the COS London announced.
“Yes, sir.” Gatewood opened the zipper on his bag and pulled out the large manila envelope. He handed it over.
“Interested in what’s in it?” Silvestri asked, eyeing the youngster.
“If it concerns me, I expect you’ll tell me, sir.”
The Station Chief nodded his approval. “Very good. Annie will take you downstairs for breakfast if you want, or you can catch a cab for your hotel. Got some Brit money?”
“A hundred pounds, sir, in tens and twenties.”
“Okay, that’ll handle your needs. Thanks, Gatewood.”
“Yes, sir.” And Gatewood left the office.
Silvestri ripped open the package after determining that the closure hadn’t been disturbed beforehand. The flat ring binder had what looked like forty or fifty printed sheets of paper—all space-and-a-half random letters. So, a one-time-cipher pad—for Station Moscow, the cover note said. He’d have that couriered to Moscow on the noon British Airways flight. And two letters, one for Sir Basil, with hand delivery indicated. He’d have a car drive him to Century House after calling ahead. The other one was for that Ryan kid that Jim Greer liked so much, also for hand delivery via Basil’s office. He wondered what was up. It had to be nontrivial for this sort of handling. He picked up his phone and hit speed-dial #5.
“This is Basil Charleston.”
“Basil, it’s Randy. Something just came in for you. Can I bring it over?”
A sound of shuffling papers. Basil would know this was important. “Say, ten o’clock, Randy?”
“Right. See you then.” Silvestri sipped his coffee and estimated the time required. He could sit here for about an hour before heading over. Next he punched his intercom button.
“Yes, sir?”
“Annie, I have a package to be couriered to Moscow. We got a bagman on deck?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, could you take this down to him?”
“Yes, sir.” CIA secretaries are not paid to be verbose.
“Good. Thanks.” Silvestri hung up.
JACK AND CATHY were on the train, passing through Elephant and Castle—and he’d still not learned how the damned place had gotten that name, Jack reminded himself. The weather looked threatening. England wasn’t broad enough for a storm system to linger, Ryan thought. Maybe there was just a series of rain clouds coming across the Atlantic? In any case, between yesterday and today, his personal record of fair weather over here seemed to be ending. Too bad.
“Just glasses this week, babe?” he asked his wife, her head buried as usual in a medical journal.
“All week,” she confirmed. Then she looked up. “It’s not as exciting as surgery, but it’s still important, you know.”
“Cath, if you do it, it must be important.”
“And you can’t say what you’ll be doing?”
“Not until I get to my desk.” And probably not then, either. Whatever it was, it had doubtless been transmitted via secure printer or fax line overnight… unless it was something really important, and had been sent via courier. The time difference actually made that fairly convenient. The early 747 from Dulles usually got in between six and seven in the morning, and then it was forty minutes more to his desk. The government could work more efficiently than Federal Express when it wanted to. Another fifteen minutes of his Daily Telegraph and her NEJM and they parted company at Victoria. Cathy perversely took the tube. Ryan opted for a cab. It hustled past the Palace of Westminster, then hopped across the Thames. Ryan paid the four pounds fifty and added a healthy tip. Ten seconds later, he was inside.
“Good morning, Sir John,” Bert Canderton called in greeting.
“Howdy, Sar-Major,” Ryan said in reply, sliding his pass through the gate, then to the elevator and up to his floor.
Simon was already in his seat, going over message traffic. His eyes came up when Jack entered. “Morning, Jack.”
“Hey, Simon. How was the weekend?”
“Didn’t get any gardening done. Bloody rain.”
“Anything interesting this morning?” He poured himself a cup of coffee. Simon’s English Breakfast Tea wasn’t bad for tea, but tea just didn’t make it for Jack, at least not in the morning. They didn’t have bear claws here, either, and Jack had neglected to get his croissant on the way in.
“Not yet, but something’s coming in from America.”
“What is it?”
“Basil didn’t say, but when something comes in by hand on a Monday morning, it’s usually interesting. Must be Soviet-related. He’s told me to stand by for it.”
“Well, might as well start the week with something interesting.” Ryan sipped his coffee. It wasn’t quite up to what Cathy made, but better than tea. “When’s it coming in?”
“About ten. Your Station Chief, Silvestri, is driving it over.”
Ryan had only met him once. He’d seemed competent enough, but you expected that of a COS, even one in a sunset posting.
“Nothing new from Moscow?”
“Just some new rumors about Brezhnev’s health. It seems that stopping smoking did him precious little good,” Harding said, lighting his pipe. “Nasty old bugger,” the Brit analyst added.
“What about this stuff from Afghanistan?”
“Ivan’s getting cleverer. Those Mi-24 helicopters seem to be rather effective. Bad news for the Afghans.”
“How do you think that’s going to play out?”
Harding shrugged. “It’s a question of how many casualties Ivan is willing to take. They have the firepower they need to win, and so it’s a matter of political will. Unfortunately for the Mujahideen, the leadership in Moscow doesn’t trouble itself very much with casualties.”
“Unless something changes the equation,” Ryan thought out loud.
“Like what?”
“Like an effective surface-to-air missile to neutralize their helos. We have the Stinger. Never used it myself, but the write-up’s pretty good.”
“But can a mob of illiterate savages use a missile properly?” Harding asked dubiously. “A modern rifle, certainly. A machine gun, sure. But a missile?”
“The idea is to make a new weapon soldier-proof, Simon. You know, simple enough that you don’t have to think while you’re dodging bullets. There’s not much time to think then, and you make the steps as short as you can. Like I said, I’ve never used that one, but I’ve played with anti-tank weapons, and they’re pretty simple.”
“Well, your government will have to decide to give them the SAMs, and they haven’t yet. Hard for me to get overly excited about it. Yes, they are killing Russians, and I reckon that’s good, but they are bloody savages.”
And they killed a lot of Brits once, Ryan reminded himself, and Brit memories are as long as anyone else’s. There was also the issue of having Stingers fall into Russian hands, which would not make the United States Air Force terribly happy. But that was well above his pay grade. There were some rumbles in Congress about it, though.
Jack settled into his seat, sipped his coffee, and read his message traffic. After that he’d get back to his real job of analyzing the Soviet economy. That would be like drafting a road map of a plateful of spaghetti.
SILVESTRI’S JOB in London was not a secret. He’d been in the spook business too long, and while he hadn’t been burned per se, the East Bloc had pretty much guessed which government agency he worked for by the end of his stay in Warsaw, where he’d run a very tight shop and winkled out a lot of good political intelligence. This was to be his final tour of duty—the same was true of most of his officers—and since he was respected by various allied services, he’d drawn the London posting, where his main job was interfacing with the British Secret Intelligence Service. So he had an embassy Daimler drive him over across the river.
He didn’t even need a pass to get through security. Sir Basil himself was waiting for him at the entrance, where hands were cordially shaken before the trip upstairs.
“What’s the news, Randy?”
“Well, I have a package for you, and one for that Ryan guy,” Silvestri announced.
“Indeed. Should I call him in?”
The London COS had read the cover sheet and knew what was in the packages. “Sure, Bas, no problem. Harding, too, if you want.”
Charleston lifted his phone and made the summons. The two analysts arrived in less than two minutes. They had all met at least once. Ryan, in fact, was the least familiar with the other American. Sir Basil pointed them to seats. He’d already ripped his envelope open. Silvestri handed Ryan his own message.
For his part, Jack was already thinking oh, shit. Something unusual was in the offing, and he’d learned not to trust new and different things at CIA.
“This is interesting,” Charleston observed.
“Do I open this now?” Ryan asked. Silvestri nodded, so he took out his
Swiss Army Knife and sliced through the heavy manila paper. His message was only three pages, personally signed by Admiral Greer.