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.
A Rabbit, he saw. He knew the terminology. Somebody wanted a ticket out of… Moscow… and CIA was providing it, with the help of SIS because Station Budapest was currently out of business…
"Tell Arthur that we will be pleased to assist, Randy. We will, I assume, get a chance to speak with him before you fly him off to London?"
"It's only fair, Bas," Silvestri confirmed. "How hard to pull this one off, you suppose?"
"Out of Budapest?" Charleston thought for a moment. "Not all that difficult, I should think. The Hungarians have a rather nasty secret-police organization, but the country as a whole is not devoutly Marxist-oh, this Rabbit says that KGB may have compromised your communications. That is what Langley is excited about."
"Damned straight, Basil. If that's a hole, we have to plug it up fast."
"This guy's in their MERCURY? Jesus Christ," Ryan breathed.
"You got that one right, sonny," Silvestri agreed.
"But what the hell am I going into the field for?" Jack demanded next. "I'm not a field officer."
"We need one of ours to keep an eye on things."
"I quite understand, Randy," Charleston observed, his head still down in his briefing papers. "And you want someone whom the opposition doesn't know?"
"So it seems."
"But why me?" Ryan persisted.
"Jack," Sir Basil soothed, "your only job will be to watch what happens. It's just pro forma."
"But what about my cover?"
"We'll give you a new diplomatic passport," C answered. "You will be quite safe. The Vienna Convention, you know."
"But… but… it'll be fake."
"They won't know that, dear boy."
"What about my akzint?" It was painfully obvious that his accent was an American's, not a Brit's.
"In Hungary?" Silvestri asked with a smile.
"Jack, with their bloody language, I seriously doubt they will notice the difference, and in any case, with your new documents, your person is quite inviolable."
"Relax, kid. It's better than your little girl's teddy bear. Trust me on that one, okay?" Silvestri assured him.
"And you'll have a security officer with you at all times," Charleston added.
Ryan had to sit back and take a breath. He couldn't allow himself to appear to be a wuss, not in front of these guys and not before Admiral Greer. "Okay, excuse me. It's just that I've never been in the field before. It's all kinda new to me." He hoped that was adequate backpedaling. "What exactly will I be doing, and how do I go about it?"
"We'll fly you into Budapest out of Heathrow. Our chaps will pick you up at the airport and take you to the embassy. You will sit it out there-a couple of days, I expect-and then watch how Andy gets your Rabbit out of Redland. Randy, how long would you expect?"
"To get this moving? End of the week, maybe a day or two longer," Silvestri thought. "The Rabbit will fly or take the train to Budapest, and your man will figure how to get him the hell out of Dodge City."
"Two or three days for that," Sir Basil estimated. "Mustn't be too quick."
"Okay, that keeps me away from home for four days. What's my cover story?"
"For your wife?" Charleston asked. "Tell her that you have to go to-oh, to Bonn, shall we say, on NATO business. Be vague on the time factor," he advised. He was inwardly amused to have to explain this to the Innocent American Abroad.
"Okay," Ryan conceded the point. Not like I have a hell of a lot of choice in the matter, is there?
Upon getting back to the embassy, Foley walked to Mike Barnes's office. Barnes was the Cultural Attache, the official expert on artsy-fartsy stuff. That was a major assignment in Moscow. The USSR had a fairly rich cultural life. The fact that the best part of it dated back to the czars didn't seem to matter to the current regime, probably, Foley thought, because all Great Russians wanted to appear kulturniy, and superior to Westerners, especially Americans, whose "culture" was far newer and far crasser than the country of Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov. Barnes was a graduate of the Juilliard School and Cornell, and especially appreciated Russian music.
"Hey, Mike," Foley said in greeting.
"How's keeping the newsies happy?" Barnes asked.
"The usual. Hey, got a question for you."
"Shoot."
"Mary Pat and I are thinking about traveling some, maybe to Eastern Europe. Prague and like that. Any good music to be heard that way?"
"The Prague symphony hasn't opened up yet. But Jozsef Rozsa is in Berlin right now, and then he's going to Budapest."
"Who's he? I don't know the name," Foley said, as his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.
"Hungarian native, cousin of Miklos Rozsa, Hollywood composer-Ben Hur, and like that. Musical family, I guess. He's supposed to be excellent. The Hungarian State Railroad has four orchestras, believe it or not, and Jozsef is going to conduct number one. You can go there by train or fly, depends on how much time you have."
"Interesting," Foley thought aloud. Fascinating, he thought inside.
"You know, the Moscow State Orchestra opens up beginning of next month. They have a new conductor, guy named Anatoliy Sheymov. Haven't heard him yet, but he's supposed to be pretty good. I can get you tickets easy. Ivan likes to show off to us foreigners, and they really are world-class."
"Thanks, Mike, I'll think about it. Later, man." Foley took his leave.
And he smiled all the way back to his office.
"Bloody hell," Sir Basil observed, reading over the newest cable from Moscow. "What bloody genius came up with this idea?" he asked the air. Oh, he saw. The American officer, Edward Foley. How the hell will he make this come about? the Director General wondered.
He'd been about to leave for lunch at Westminster Palace across the river, and he couldn't break that one off. Well, it would be something to ruminate over with his roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.
"Lucky me," Ryan observed, back in his office.
"Jack, it will be less dangerous than crossing the street"-which could be a lively exercise in London.
"I can take care of myself, Simon," Ryan reminded his workmate. "But if I screw up, somebody else takes the fall."
"You'll not be responsible for any of that. You'll just be there to observe. I don't know Andy Hudson myself, but he has an excellent professional reputation."
"Great," Ryan commented. "Lunchtime, Simon, and I feel like a beer."
"Duke of Clarence all right?"
"Isn't that the guy who drowned in a barrel of malmsey wine?"
"Worse ways to go, Sir John," Harding observed.