tc.redrabbit-第60部分

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cted　to　think；　and　a　stockbroker　with　clients　was　entrusted　by　them　to　safeguard　their　money　as　though　it　were　his　own。　Mostly；　he'd　succeeded。　After　putting　his　own　funds　into　Chicago　and　North　Western　Railroad；　he'd　been　hammered　by　his　supervisors；　but　he'd　stood　his　ground；　and　those　clients　who'd　listened　to　him　had　cashed　in　rather　nicely…which　had　earned　him　a　crowd　of　new　clients。　So　Ryan　had　learned　to　listen　to　his　instincts；　to　scratch　the　itches　he　couldn't　quite　see　and　could　barely　feel。　This　was　one　of　those；　and　〃this〃　was　the　Pope。　The　information　he　had　did　not　form　a　plete　picture；　but　he　was　used　to　that。　In　the　stock…trading　business；　he'd　learned　how　and　when　to　bet　his　money　on　inplete　pictures；　and　nine　times　out　of　ten　he'd　been　right。
　　　He　had　nothing　to　bet　on　this　one　but　his　itch；　however。　Something　was　happening。　He　just　didn't　know　what。　All　he'd　seen　was　a　copy　of　a　warning　letter　sent　to　Warsaw；　and　certainly　forwarded　to　Moscow；　where　a　bunch　of　old　men　would　look　upon　it　as　a　threat。
　　　That　wasn't　much　to　go　on；　was　it？　Ryan　asked　himself。　He　found　himself　wishing　for　a　cigarette。　Such　things　helped　his　thinking　process　sometimes；　but　there'd　be　hell　to　pay　if　Cathy　smelled　smoke　in　their　house。　But　chewing　gum；　even　bubble　gum；　just　didn't　cut　it　at　times　like　this。
　　　He　needed　Jim　Greer。　The　Admiral　often　treated　him　like　a　surrogate　son…his　own　son　had　been　killed　as　a　Marine　lieutenant　in　Vietnam；　Ryan　had　learned　along　the　way…giving　him　the　occasional　chance　to　talk　through　a　problem。　But　he　wasn't　that　close　to　Sir　Basil　Charleston；　and　Simon　was　too　near　to　him　in　age；　if　not　quite　in　experience。　And　this　was　not　a　problem　to　be　kicked　around　alone。　He　wished　he　could　discuss　it　with　his　wife…doctors；　he　knew；　were　pretty　smart…but　that　wasn't　allowed；　and；　anyway；　Cathy　didn't　really　know　the　situation　well　enough　to　understand　the　threats。　No；　she'd　grown　up　in　a　more　privileged　environment；　daughter　of　a　millionaire　stock…and…bonds　trader；　living　in　a　large　Park　Avenue　apartment；　all　the　best　schools；　her　own　new　car　for　her　sixteenth　birthday；　and　all　the　hazards　of　life　held　off　well　beyond　arm's　length。　Not　Jack。　His　dad　had　been　a　cop；　mostly　a　homicide　investigator；　and；　while　his　father　hadn't　brought　work　home；　Jack　had　asked　enough　questions　to　understand　that　the　real　world　could　be　a　place　of　unpredictable　danger　and　that　some　people　just　didn't　think　like　real　people。　They　were　called　Bad　Guys…and　they　could　be　pretty　goddamned　bad。　He'd　never　lived　without　a　conscience。　Whether　he'd　picked　that　up　in　distant　childhood　or　Catholic　schools；　or　it　had　been　part　of　his　genetic　makeup；　Jack　didn't　know。　He　did　know　that　breaking　the　rules　was　rarely　a　good　thing；　but　he　also　knew　that　the　rules　were　a　product　of　reason；　and　reason　was　paramount；　and　so　the　rules　could　be　broken　if　you　had　a　good…a　very　goddamned　good…reason　for　doing　so。　That　was　called　judgment；　and　the　Marines；　oddly　enough；　had　nurtured　that　particular　flower。　You　made　an　estimate　of　the　situation　and　thought　through　the　options；　and　then　you　acted。　Sometimes　you　had　to　do　it　in　a　very　big　hurry…and　that　was　why　officers　were　paid　more　than　sergeants；　though　you　were　always　well　advised　to　listen　to　your　gunny　if　you　had　the　time。
　　　But　Ryan　had　none　of　those　things　now；　and　that　was　the　bad　news。　There　was　no　immediately　identifiable　threat　in　view；　and　that　was　the　good　news。　But　now　he　was　in　an　environment　in　which　the　threats　were　not　always　readily　visible；　and　it　was　his　job　to　find　them　out　by　piecing　the　available　information　together。　But　there　wasn't　much　of　that　now　either。　Just　a　possibility；　which　he　had　to　apply　to　the　minds　of　people　he　didn't　know　and　would　never　meet；　except　as　paper　documents　written　up　by　other　people　he　didn't　know。　It　was　like　being　the　navigator　on　a　ship　in　Christopher　Columbus's　little　fleet；　thinking　land　might　be　out　there；　but　not　knowing　where　or　when　he　might　e　upon　it…and　hoping　to　God　it　wouldn't　be　at　night；　in　a　storm；　and　that　the　land　would　not　appear　as　a　barrier　reef　to　rip　the　bottom　of　his　ship　out。　His　own　life　was　not　in　danger；　but；　as　he'd　been　pelled　by　professional　obligation　to　treat　the　money　of　his　clients　as　his　own；　so　he　had　to　regard　the　life　of　a　man　in　potential　danger　as　having　the　importance　of　the　life　of　his　own　child。
　　　And　that　was　where　the　itch　came　from。　He　could　call　Admiral　Greer；　Ryan　thought；　but　it　wasn't　even　seven　in　the　morning　in　Washington　yet；　and　he'd　be　doing　his　boss　no　favor　by　waking　him　up　to　the　trilling　sound　of　his　home　STU。　Especially　as　he　had　nothing　to　tell；　just　a　few　things　to　ask。　So　he　leaned　back　in　his　chair　and　stared　at　the　green　screen　of　his　Apple　monitor；　looking　for　something　that　just　wasn't　there。
　　　
　　　CHAPTER　17　…　FLASH　TRAFFIC
　　　Ed　foley　wrote　in　his　office：
　　　
　　　PRIORITY：　FLASH　
　　　TO：　DDO/CIA　
　　　CC：　DCI；　DDI　
　　　FROM：　COS　MOSCOW　
　　　SUBJECT：　RABBIT　
　　　TEXT　FOLLOWS：
WE　HAVE　A　RABBIT；　A　HIGHLY　PLACED　WALK…IN；　CLAIMS　TO　BE　MO　OFFICER　IN　KGB　CENTRE；　WITH　INFORMATION　OF　INTEREST　TO　USG。　ESTIMATION：　HE　IS　TRUTHFUL。　5/5。　URGENTLY　REQUEST　AUTHORIZATION　FOR　IMMEDIATE　EXFILTRATION　FROM　REDLAND。　PACKAGE　INCLUDES　RABBIT　WIFE　AND　DAUGHTER　（3）。　5/5　PRIORITY　REQUESTED。　ENDS
　　　
　　　There；　Foley　thought；　that's　concise　enough。　The　shorter　the　better　with　messages　like　this　one…it　provided　less　opportunity　for　the　opposition　to　work　on　the　text　and　crack　the　cipher；　in　the　event　they　got　their　hands　on　it。
　　　But　the　only　hands　that　would　touch　this　one　were　CIA。　He　was　betting　a　lot　on　this　op…dispatch。　5/5　meant　that　the　estimated　importance　of　the　information　available；　as　well　as　its　presumed　accuracy　and　the　priority　for　his　proposed　action；　was　class…5；　the　highest。　He　gave　an　identical　evaluation　for　the　accuracy　of　the　subject。　Four　aces…not　the　sort　of　dispatch　you　sent　out　every　day。　It　was　the　classification　he'd　give　to　a　message　from　Oleg　Penkovskiy；　or　from　Agent　CARDINAL　himself；　and　that　was　about　as　hot　a　potato　as　they　came。　He　thought　for　a　moment；　wondering　if　he　was　guessing　correctly；　but；　over　his　career；　Ed　Foley　had　learned　to　go　with　his　instincts。　He'd　also　measured　his　own　thoughts　against　those　of　his　wife；　and　her　instincts　were　just　as　finely　tuned。　Their　Rabbit…the　CIA　term　of　art　for　a　person　wanting　a　fast　ticket　out　of　whatever　bad　place　he　found　himself　in…claimed　a　lot；　but　he　gave　every　sign　of　being　what　he　claimed：　the　possessor　of　some　very　hot　information。　That　made　him　a　conscience　defector；　and　thus　pretty　reliable。　If　he　were　a　plant；　a　false…flag；　he　would　have　asked　for　money；　because　that's　how　KGB　thought　defectors　thought…and　CIA　had　never　done　anything　to　disabuse　them　of　that　notion。
　　　So；　it　just　felt　right；　though　〃feels　right〃　isn't　something　you　send　by　Diplomatic　Courier　to　the　Seventh　Floor。　They'd　have　to　play　along　with　this。　They　had　to　trust　him。　He　was　Chief　of　Station　in　Moscow；　the　CIA's　top　field　posting；　and　with　that　came　a　truckload　of　credibility。　They'd　have　to　weigh　it　against　whatever　misgivings　they　were　feeling。　If　a　summit　meeting　were　scheduled；　then　that　might　queer　the　deal；　but　the　President　had　no　such　plans；　nor　did　SecState。　So　there　was　nothing　in　the　way　of　Langley　approving　some　form　of　action…if　they　thought　he　was　right。。。
　　　Foley　didn't　even　know　why　he　was　questioning　himself。　He　was　The　Man　in　Moscow；　and　that；　by　God；　was　that。　He　lifted　the　phone　and　punched　three　buttons。
　　　〃Russell；〃　a　voice　said。
　　　〃Mike；　this　is　Ed。　I　need　you　here。〃
　　　〃Right。〃
　　　It　took　a　minute　and　a　half。　The　door　opened。
　　　〃Yeah；　Ed？〃
　　　〃Something　for　the　bag。〃
　　　Russell　checked　his　watch。　〃Not　much　margin；　guy。〃
　　　〃It's　short。　I'll　have　to　e　down　with　you　on　this　one。〃
　　　〃Well；　let's　get　it　on；　then；　bro。〃　Russell　walked　out　the　door；　with　Foley　in　pursuit。　Fortunately；　the　corridor　was　empty；　and　his　office　was　not　far。
　　　Russell　sat　down　in　his　swivel　chair　and　lit　up　his　cipher　machine。　Foley　handed　the　sheet　over。　Russell　clipped　it　to　a　fixture　right　over　the　keyboard。　〃Short　enough；〃　he　said　approvingly；　and　started　typing。　He　was　nearly　as　skillful　as　the　Ambassador's　own　secretary；　and　he　finished　the　job　in　a　minute；　including　some　padding…sixteen　surnames　taken　at　random　from　the　Prague　telephone　book。　When　the　new　page　came　out　of　the　machine；　Foley　took　it；　folded　it；　tucked　it　in　a　manila　envelope；　and　sealed　it。　Wax　was　dripped　over　the　closure；　and　Foley　handed　the　envelope　back　to　Russell。
　　　〃Back　in　five；　Ed；〃　the　munications　officer　said　on　his　way　out　the　door。　He　took　the　elevator　down　to　the　first　floor。　The　diplomatic　courier　was　there。　His　name　was　Tommy　Cox；　a　former　Army　warrant　officer/helicopter　pilot　who'd　been　shot　down　four　times　in　the　Central　Highlands　as　part　of　the　First　Cavalry　Division；　and　a　man　who　had　only　the　most　negative　feelings　for　his　country's　adversaries。　The　Diplomatic　Bag　was　a　canvas　carry…on…type　bag　that　would　be　handcuffed　to　his　wrist　during　transit。　He　was　already　booked　on　a　Pan　Am　747　direct　flight　to　New　York's　Kennedy　International；　a　flight　of　eleven　hours；　during　which　he　would　neither　drink　nor　sleep；　though　he　did　have　three　paperback　mysteries　to　read　along　the　way。　He'd　be　leaving　the　embassy　in　an　official　car　in　ten　minutes；　and　his　diplomatic　credentials　meant　he　wouldn't　be　troubled　with　security　or　immigration　procedures。　The　Russians　were　actually　fairly　cordial　about　that；　though　they　probably　drooled　over　the　chance　of　seeing　what　was　inside　the　canvas　bag。　For　sure；　it　wasn't　Russian　perfume　or　pantyhose　for　a　friend　in　New　York　or　Washington。
　　　〃Good　flight；　Tommy。〃
　　　Cox　nodded。　〃Roger　that；　Mike。〃
　　　Russell　headed　back　to　Foley's　office　topside。　〃Okay；　it's　in　the　bag。　Flight　leaves　in　an　hour　and　ten　minutes；　man。〃
　　　〃Good。〃
　　　〃Is　a　Rabbit　what　I　think　it　is？〃
　　　〃Can't　say；　Mike；〃　Foley　pointed　out。
　　　〃Yeah；　I　know；　Ed。　Excuse　my　question。〃　Russell　wasn't　one　to　break　the　rules；　though　he　had　as　much　curiosity　as　the　next　man。　And　he　knew　what　a　Rabbit　was；　of　course。　He'd　spent　his　entire　life　inside　the　black　world　in　one　capacity　or　another；　and　the　jargon　wasn't　all　that　hard　to　pick　up。　But　the　black