"Yes, Alan?" Charleston asked, looking up from his desk.
"This is a major operation, I take it?" Kingshot asked.
"Major in its objective, yes," the Director General confirmed. "As routine as possible in its operation. We only have three people in Budapest, and it would not be overly brilliant to fly in a goon squad."
"Anyone else going?"
"Jack Ryan, the American," Sir Basil said.
"He's no field officer," Kingshot objected immediately.
"It's fundamentally an American operation, Alan. They reasonably requested that one of their people go along to observe. In return, we'll have a day or two to debrief their Rabbit at a safe house of our choosing. He will doubtless have a good deal of useful information, and we'll get the first chance to speak with him."
"Well, I hope this Ryan fellow doesn't queer the pitch for us."
"Alan, he's shown himself to be fairly levelheaded in time of trouble, hasn't he?" Sir Basil asked, reasonable as ever.
"Must be his Marine training," Kingshot observed with dark generosity.
"And he's very clever, Alan. He's been giving us excellent work on his analysis project."
"If you say so, sir. To get the three bodies, I need to get some help from Special Branch, and then spend time on my knees hoping for something dreadful to happen."
"What are you thinking?"
Kingshot explained his nascent operational concept. It was really the only way to make something like this happen. And, as Sir Basil had observed earlier in the day, it was as grisly as an autopsy.
"How likely is such a thing to happen?" Basil asked.
"I need to talk with the police to answer that one."
"Who's your contact there?"
"Chief Superintendent Patrick Nolan. You've met him."
Charleston closed his eyes for a moment. "The huge chap, arrests rugby forwards for light exercise?"
"That's Nolan. They call him 'Tiny' on the force. I think he eats barbells with his porridge. Am I free to discuss this Operation BEATRIX with him?"
"Just in terms of our needs, Alan."
"Very good, sir," Kingshot agreed, and left the room.
"You want what?" Nolan asked over a pint in a pub a block from New Scotland Yard, just after four in the afternoon.
"You heard me, Tiny," Kingshot said. He lit a cigarette to fit in with the rest of the bar's patrons.
"Well, I must say I've heard a lot of strange things in my time with the Yard, but never that." Nolan was a good six-four and two hundred thirty pounds, very little of it fat. He spent at least an hour, three times a week, in the Yard's exercise room. He rarely carried a handgun on duty. He'd never needed one to help a felon see the futility of resistance. "Can you say what this is for?" he asked.
"Sorry, not allowed to. All I can say is that's it's a matter of some importance."
A long pull on his beer. "Well, you know that we do not keep such things in cold storage, even in the Black Museum."
"I was thinking a traffic smash. They happen all the time, don't they?"
"Yes, they do, Alan, but not to a family of three."
"Well, how often do such things happen?" Kingshot asked.
"Perhaps twenty such incidents in an average year, and their occurrence is wholly irregular. You cannot depend on it in any given week."
"Well, we'll just have to hope for good luck, and if it doesn't happen, then it simply does not happen." That would be an inconvenience. Perhaps it would be better to enlist the help of the Americans. They killed at least fifty thousand people per year on their highways. He'd suggest that to Sir Basil in the morning, Kingshot decided.
"Good luck? Not sure I'd call it that, Alan," Nolan pointed out.
"You know what I mean, Tiny. All I can say is that it's bloody important."
"And if it happens out on the M4, then what?"
"We collect the bodies-"
"And the survivors of the deceased?" Nolan asked.
"We substitute weighted bags for the bodies. The condition of the corpses will preclude an open-casket ceremony, won't it?"
"Yes, there is that. Then what?"
"We'll have our people deal with the bodies. You really do not need to know the details." The SIS had a close and cordial relationship with the Metropolitan Police, but it went only so far.
Nolan finished his pint. "Yes, I'll leave the nightmares to you, Alan." He managed not to shiver. "I should start keeping my eyes open at once, is it?"
"Immediately."
"And we should consider taking the leavings from more than one such incident?"
"Obviously." Kingshot nodded. "Another round?"
"Good idea, Alan," Nolan agreed. And his host waved to the barman. "You know, someday I'd love to know what you are using me for."
"Someday after we're both retired, Patrick. You'll be pleased to know what you are helping with. That I can promise you, old man."
"If you say so, Alan." Nolan conceded the point. For now.
"What the hell?" Judge Moore observed, reading the latest dispatch from Moscow. He handed the fresh copy over to Greer, who scanned it and passed it along to Mike Bostock.
"Mike, your boy Foley has a lively imagination," the Admiral commented.
"This sounds more like Mary Pat. She's the cowboy-well, cowgirl, I suppose you'd say. It is original, guys."
"Original isn't the word," the DCI said, rolling his eyes somewhat. "Okay, Mike, is it doable?"
"Theoretically, yes-and I like the operational concept. To get a defector and keep Ivan ignorant of the fact. That's style, gentlemen," Bostock said admiringly. "The ugly part is that you need three bodies, one of them a child."
The three intelligence executives managed not to shudder at the thought. It was easiest, oddly, for Judge Moore, who'd managed to get his hands wet thirty years earlier. But that had been in time of war, when the rules were a lot looser. But not loose enough for him to keep from having regrets. That was what had gotten him back into the law. He couldn't take back the things he'd done wrong, but he could make sure they wouldn't happen again. Or something like that, he told himself now. Something like that.
"Why a car crash?" Moore asked. "Why not a house fire? Doesn't that suit the tactical purposes better?"
"Good point," Bostock agreed at once. "Less physical trauma to have to explain away."
"I'll shoot that off to Basil." Even the most brilliant of people, Moore realized, could be limited in their thinking. Well, that was why he kept telling people to think outside the box. And every so often, someone managed to do that. Just not often enough.
"You know," Mike Bostock said, after a little thinking. "This will be something if we can pull it off."
"'If can be a very large word, Mike," Greer cautioned.
"Well, maybe this time the glass is half full," the Deputy DDO suggested. "Fine. The main mission is getting this guy out, but the goose can use a little sauce once in a while."
"Hmph," Greer observed dubiously.
"Well, I'll call Emil over at the Bureau and see what he has to say about this," Moore said. "More his turf than ours."
"And if some lawyer gets hold of it, then what, Arthur?"
"James, there are ways of dealing with lawyers."
A pistol is often useful, Greer didn't say. He nodded concurrence. One bridge to cross at a time was always a good rule, especially in this crazy business.
"How did things go today, honey?" Mary Pat asked.