"Dan, it's Jack."
The Legal Attache spoke without preamble. "He has a busy week ahead, the embassy in Rome tells me, but the Pope is always in the open on Wednesday afternoons. He parades around in his white jeep in St. Peter's Square, right in front of the cathedral, for the people to see him and take his blessing. It's an open car, and, if you want to pop a cap, that sounds to me like a good time to try-unless they have a shooter infiltrated all the way inside. Maybe a cleaning man, plumber, electrician, hard to say, but you have to assume that the inside staff is pretty loyal, and that people keep an eye on them."
Sure, Jack thought, but those are the guys best suited to do something like this. Only the people you trust can really fuck you. Damn. The best people to look into this were with the Secret Service, but he didn't know anybody in there, and even if he did, getting them into the Vatican bureaucracy-the world's oldest-would require divine intervention.
"Thanks, pal. I owe you one."
"Semper fi, bud. Will you be able to tell me more? This sounds like a major case you're working on."
"Probably not, but it's not for me to say, Dan. Gotta run. Later, man." Ryan hung up and reentered the library.
The sun was over the yardarm, and a wine bottle had just appeared, a French white from the Loire Valley, probably a nice old one. There was dust on the bottle. It had been there for a while, and the cellar downstairs would not be stocked with Thunderbird and Wild Irish Rose.
"Zaitzev here has all manner of good information on this MINISTER chap." Just a matter of dredging it up, Kingshot didn't add. But tomorrow they'd have skilled psychologists sitting in, using their pshrink skills to massage his memories-maybe even hypnosis. Ryan didn't know if that actually worked or not; though some police forces believed in the technique, a lot of defense lawyers foamed at the mouth over it, and Jack didn't know who was right on that issue. On the whole, it was a shame that the Rabbit wasn't able to come out with photos taken of KGB files, but it would have been asking a lot to request that the guy place his neck not so much on the block as inside the guillotine head-holder and shout for the operator to come over. And so far, Zaitzev had impressed Ryan with his memory.
Might he be a plant, a false defector sent West to give the Agency and others false information? It was possible, but the proof of that pudding would lie in the quality of the agents he identified to the Western counter-intelligence services. If MINISTER was really giving out good information, the quality of it would tell the Security Service if he were that valuable an agent. The Russians were never the least bit loyal to their agents-they'd never, not once, tried to bargain for an American or British traitor rotting away in prison, as America had often done, sometimes successfully. No, the Russians considered them expendable assets, and such assets were… expended, with little more than a covert decoration that would never be worn by its "honored" recipient. It struck Ryan as very strange. The KGB was the most professional of services in so many ways-didn't they know that showing loyalty to an agent would help make other agents willing to take greater chances? Perhaps it was a case of national philosophy overruling common sense. A lot of that went on in the USSR.
By 4:00 local time, Jack could be sure that somebody would be at work at Langley. He asked one more question of the Rabbit.
"Oleg Ivan'ch, do you know if KGB can crack our secure phone systems?"
"I think not. I am not sure, but I know that we have an agent in Washington-code name CRICKET-whom we have asked to get information on your STU telephones for us. As yet he has not been able to provide what our communications people wish. We are afraid that you can read our telephone traffic, however, and so we mainly avoid using telephones for important traffic."
"Thanks." And Ryan went back to the STU in the next room. The next number was another he had memorized.
"This is James Greer."
"Admiral, this is Jack."
"I am told the Rabbit is in his new hutch," the DDI said by way of a greeting.
"That is correct, sir, and the good news is that he believes our comms are secure, including this one. The earlier fears appear to have been exaggerated or misinterpreted."
"Is there bad news?" the DDI asked warily.
"Yes, sir. Yuriy Andropov wants to kill the Pope."
"How reliable is that assertion?" James Greer asked at once.
"Sir, that's the reason he skipped. I'll have chapter and verse to you in a day or two at most, but it's official, there is a no-shit KGB operation to assassinate the Bishop of Rome.We even have the operation designator. You will want to let the Judge in on that, and probably NCA will want to know as well."
"I see," Vice Admiral Greer said from thirty-four hundred miles away. "That's going to be a problem."
"Damned straight it is." Ryan took a breath. "What can we do about it?"
"That's the problem, my boy," the DDI said next. "First, can we do anything about it? Second, do we want to do anything about it?"
"Admiral, why would we not want to do something about it?" Ryan asked, trying to keep his voice short of insubordinate. He respected Greer as a boss and as a man.
"Back up, son. Think it all the way through. First, our mission in life is to protect the United States of America, and no one else-well, allies, too, of course," Greer added for the tape recorders that had to be on this line. "But our primary duty is to our flag, not to any religious figure. We will try to help him if we can, but if we cannot, then we cannot."
"Very well," Ryan responded through gritted teeth. What about right and wrong? He wanted to ask, but that would have to wait a few moments.
"We do not ordinarily give away classified information, and you can imagine how tightly held this defection is going to be," Greer went on.
"Yes, sir." But at least it wasn't going to be NoForn-not for distribution to foreigners. The Brits were foreigners, and they already knew all about BEATRIX and the Rabbit, but the Brits weren't big on sharing, except, sometimes, with America, and usually with a big quid pro quo tacked onto it. It was just how things worked. Similarly, Ryan wasn't allowed to discuss a single thing about some operations he was cleared into. TALENT KEYHOLE was the code name: the reconnaissance satellites, though CIA and the Pentagon had fallen all over themselves giving the raw data to the British during the Falklands War, plus every intercept the National Security Agency had from South America. Blood was still thicker than water. "Admiral, how will it look in the papers if it becomes known that the Central Intelligence Agency had data on the threat to the Pope and we just sat on our hands?"
"Is that a-"
"Threat? No, sir, not from me. I play by the rules, sir, and you know it. But somebody there will leak the information just because he's pissed about it, and you know that, and when that happens, there'll be hell to pay."
"Point taken," Greer agreed. "Are you proposing anything?"
"That's above my pay grade, sir, but we have to think hard about possible action of some sort."
"What else are we getting from our new friend?"
"We have the code names of three major leaks. One is MINISTER, sounds like a political and foreign policy leak in Whitehall. Two for our side of the ocean: NEPTUNE sounds naval, and that's the source of our communications insecurity. Somebody in Redland is reading the Navy's mail, sir. And there's one in D.C. called CASSIUS. Sounds like a leaker on The Hill, top-drawer political intelligence, plus stuff about our operations."