“Yes, of course, comrade. If you need anything, please call for me. Supper is at eighteen hours, and the dining car is the next one forward.” He pointed the way.
“How is the food?” Irina decided to ask. Surely, being the wife of a KGB officer had its advantages…
“It is not bad, comrade,” the conductor answered politely. “I eat there myself,” he added, which said something, Oleg and Irina both thought.
“Thank you, comrade.”
“Enjoy your trip with us,” he said, and he took his leave.
Oleg and Irina both took out books. Svetlana pressed her nose to the window to watch the world passing by, and so the trip began, with only one of them knowing the final destination. Western Russia is mostly a region of rolling plains and distant horizons, not unlike Kansas or eastern Colorado. It was boring to everyone but their zaichik, for whom everything was new and exciting, especially the cattle that were mainly munching on grass. Cows, she thought, are pretty cool.
BACK IN MOSCOW, Nigel Haydock thanked the bureaucrat from the Transport Ministry for his splendid help, along with Paul Matthews, and then they made their way off to the British Embassy. The embassy had a photo lab, and the photographer went that way, while Matthews followed Nigel to his office.
“So, Paul, is there a useful story in that?”
“I suppose there might be. Is it important that there should be?”
“Well, it’s valuable to me that the Sovs should think I can bring attention to the glory of their country,” Haydock explained with a chuckle.
You are a -6 chap, aren’t you? Matthews thought without voicing his suspicion. “I suppose I can generate something. God knows British Rail needs a boost. Maybe this will encourage the exchequer to send some more money their way.”
“Not a bad idea at all,” Nigel agreed. It was clear that his guest had his suspicions but had the good grace to keep them quiet, perhaps until a later day, when Nigel was back at a desk in Century House, and they were at a Fleet Street pub.
“You want to see our photos?”
“Would you mind?”
“Not at all. We throw most of them away, as you know.”
“Excellent,” Haydock announced. Then he reached into the credenza behind his desk. “Drink, Paul?”
“Thank you, Nigel. Yes, a sherry would be nice.”
Two sherries later, the photographer came in with a folder full of prints. Haydock took it and leafed through them. “You do excellent work. You know, when I use my Nikon, I never quite get the light right…” he said. There, a nice family shot of the Rabbit—and, most important, Mrs. Rabbit. There were three, each one better than the last. He slid them into his drawer and handed the folder back. Matthews took his cue.
“Well, must get back to my office and write this story up. Thanks for the lead, Nigel.”
“My pleasure, Paul. See your own way out?”
“Not a problem, old man.” And Matthews and his photographer disappeared into the corridor. Haydock returned his attention to the photos. Mrs. Rabbit was typically Russian, with her round, Slavic face—she could have had a million identical sisters throughout the Soviet Union. She needed to lose a few pounds and get a makeover in the West. .. if they make it that far, he cautioned himself. Height, about five feet four or so; weight, about a hundred forty pounds, not at all unpleasant. The child, he saw, was darling with her lively blue eyes and happy expression—too young to learn to hide her feelings behind a blank mask, as nearly all the adults here did. No, children were the same everywhere in their innocence and insatiable curiosity. But, most important, they now had high-quality photos of the Rabbit family.
The courier was on the top floor, near the office of the Ambassador, Sir John Kenny. Haydock passed him a manila envelope sealed by metal clasp, glue, and wax over the flap. The address on the front designated the Foreign Office box that went straight to Century House across the Thames from Whitehall. The courier’s bag was an expensive leather attaché case with the coat of arms of the Royal House of Windsor embossed on both sides. There was also a pair of handcuffs for him to secure it to his wrist, despite the stern rules of the Vienna Convention. The Queen’s Messenger had a car waiting to take him to Sheremetyevo International Airport for the British Airways 737 afternoon return flight to Heathrow. The photos would be in Sir Basil’s hand before he went home for the evening, and surely some Century House experts would be staying late that night to go over them. That would be the last official check to see if the Rabbit was genuine. His face would be compared with those of known KGB field and security officers—and if there was a hit, then Ed and Mary Foley were in for a bad time. But Haydock didn’t expect that to happen. He agreed with his CIA counterparts. This one looked and felt real. But then, so did good Directorate Two people, didn’t they? His last stop was at Communications to get a quick message off to SIS Headquarters that an important message was en route via courier on Operation BEATRIX. That would perk up everyone’s eyeballs, and an SIS man would be waiting at the mailroom in Whitehall for this particular envelope. As laggardly as a government bureaucracy could be, Haydock thought, when you had something important to do, it usually got done quickly, at least in the SIS.
THE FLIGHT TOOK two hours and twenty minutes—a little late due to adverse winds—before arriving at Heathrow’s Terminal Three. There, a Foreign Office representative whisked the courier off to downtown London in a black Jaguar saloon car, and the Queen’s Messenger made his delivery and went off to his own office. Before he even got there, an SIS officer had taken the package and hustled down to Westminster Bridge and across the Thames.
“You have it?” Sir Basil asked.
“Here, sir.” The messenger passed over the envelope. Charleston checked the closures and, satisfied that it had not been tampered with, slit it open with his paper knife. Then, for the first time, he saw what the
Rabbit looked like. Three minutes later, Alan Kingshot walked in. C handed over the color prints.
Kingshot took the top photo and gave it a long look. “So, this is our Rabbit, is it?”
“Correct, Alan,” Sir Basil confirmed.
“He looks ordinary enough. His wife, as well. The little girl is rather cute,” the senior field spook thought out loud. “On the way to Budapest now, are they?”
“Left Kiev Station five and a half hours ago.”
“Fast work from Nigel.” Kingshot gave the faces a closer look, wondering what information lay in the brain behind the man’s face, and whether or not they’d get to use it. “So, BEATRIX goes forward. Do we have the bodies?”
“The male from York is close enough. We’ll need to burn his face off, I’m afraid,” C observed distastefully.
“No surprise there, sir,” Kingshot agreed. “What about the other two?”
“Two candidates from America. Mother and daughter killed in a house fire in Boston, I believe. The FBI is working on that as we speak. We need to get this photo to them at once to make sure the bodies match up properly.”
“I’ll take care of that now if you wish, sir.”
“Yes, Alan, please do that.”
The machine downstairs was a color-photo transmitter like the one used by newspapers—relatively new and, its operator told Kingshot, very easy to use. He gave the photo only a cursory look. Transmission to an identical machine made by Xerox and located at Langley took less than two minutes. Kingshot took the photo back and returned to C’s office.
“Done, sir.” Sir Basil waved him to a seat.
Charleston checked his watch, giving it five minutes because CIA headquarters was a large building, and the communications people were in the basement. Then he called Judge Arthur Moore on the secure, dedicated line.
“Afternoon, Basil,” Moore’s voice said over the digitized circuit.
“Hello, Arthur. You have the photo?”
“Just got here. Looks like a nice little family,” the DCI observed. “This is from the train station?”
“Yes, Arthur, they are en route as we speak. They will arrive in Budapest in about twenty—no, nineteen hours.”
“Okay. Ready at your end, Basil?”
“We soon will be. There is the matter of those unfortunate people from Boston, however. We have the male body. It appears on first inspection that it will serve our needs quite well.”
“Okay, I’ll have the FBI expedite things here,” Moore replied. He’d have to get this photo to the Hoover Building ASAP. Might as well share this grisly business with Emil, he thought.
“Very good, Arthur. I shall keep you posted.”
“Great, Bas. See you.”
“Excellent.” Charleston hung up his phone, then looked over at Kingshot. “Have our people prepare the body for transport to Budapest.”