“When do we leave?”
“We'll give the highway boys a couple of hours to scrape the roads. You take the car — it has front-wheel drive and you won't have any problem driving. I'll take the van. There's no hurry, right? We don't want to take chances?”
“That is right.”
“Let's go inside 'ore we both freeze.”
“They really gotta clean up the air in this place,” Clark said, when he finished coughing.
“It is pretty bad,” Chavez agreed.
They'd rented a small place near the airport. Everything they needed was tucked away in closets. They'd made their contacts on the ground. The usual service team would be sick when the 747 came in. It would be a fiscal illness, of course. It turned out that getting the two CIA officers aboard wasn't all that hard. The Mexicans did not especially like the Japanese, at least not the government kind, whom they regarded as more arrogant than Americans — which, to a Mexican citizen, was remarkable. Clark checked his watch. Nine more hours until it swooped in through the pollution. Just a brief courtesy visit to see the Mexican president, supposedly, then off to Washington to see Fowler. Well, that made things easy for Clark and Chavez.
They started off for Denver just at midnight. The Colorado state-roads teams had done their usual professional job. What could not be scraped was salted and sanded, and the usual one-hour drive took merely an additional fifteen minutes. Marvin handled the check-in, paying for three nights with cash, and making a show of getting a receipt for his expense account. The desk clerk noted the ABC logo on the truck, and was disappointed that the rooms he'd given them were around back. Had they parked in front, maybe he could get more business. As soon as he left, the clerk went back to dozing in front of the TV. The Minnesota fans would be arriving the next day, and they promised to be a raucous, troublesome crowd.
The meet with Lyalin proved easier to arrange than expected. Cabot's brief get-acquainted session with the new head of the Korean CIA had gone even more smoothly than he'd dared to hope — the Koreans were quite professional — allowing him to fly off to Japan twelve hours early. The Chief of Station Tokyo had a favorite spot, a hostess house located in one of the innumerable meandering backstreets within a mile of the embassy, and also a place very easy to secure and surveil.
“Here is my latest report,” Agent M USHASHI said, handing over the envelope.
“Our President is most impressed with the quality of your information,” Cabot replied.
“As I am impressed with the salary.”
“So, what can I do for you?”
“I wanted to be sure that you are taking me seriously,” Lyalin said.
“We do that,” Marcus assured him. Does this fellow think we pay in the millions for the fun of it? he wondered. It was Cabot's first face-to-face with an agent. Though he'd been briefed to expect a conversation just like this one, it still came as a surprise.
“I plan to defect in a year, with my family. What exactly will you do for me?”
“Well, we will debrief you at length, then assist you in finding a comfortable place to live and work.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere you wish, within reason.” Cabot managed to conceal his exasperation. This was work for a junior case officer.
“What do you mean, 'within reason'?”
“We won't let you live right across the street from the Russian Embassy. What exactly do you have in mind?”
“I don't know yet.”
Then why did you bring this up? “What sort of climate do you like?”
“Warm, I think.”
“Well, there's Florida, lots of sun.”
“I will think about that.” The man paused. “You do not lie to me?”
“Mr. Lyalin, we take good care of our guests.”
“Okay. I will continue to send you information.” And with that, the man simply got up and left.
Marcus Cabot managed not to swear, but the look he gave to the station chief ignited a laugh.
“First time you've done a touchy-feely, right?”
“You mean, that's all?” Cabot could scarcely believe it.
“Director, this is a funny business. Crazy as it sounds, what you just did was very important,” Sam Yamata said. “Now he knows that we really care about him. Bringing up the President was a good move, by the way.”
“You say so.” Cabot opened the envelope and started reading. “Good Lord!”
“More on the Prime Minister's trip?”
“Yes, the details we didn't get before. Which bank, payoffs to other officials. We may not even need to bug the airplane…”
“Bug an airplane?” Yamata asked.
“You never heard me say that.”
The station chief nodded. “How could I? You were never here.”
“I need to get this off to Washington fast.”
Yamata checked his watch. “We'll never catch the direct flight in time.”
“Then we'll fax it secure.”
“We're not set up for that. Not on the Agency side, I mean.”
“How about the NSA guys?”
“They have it, Director, but we've been warned about the security of their systems.”
“The President needs this. It has to go out. Do it, my authority.”
“Yes, sir.”
33
PASSAGES
It was nice to wake up at a decent hour— eight o'clock — at home on a Saturday. Without a headache. That was something he hadn't done in months. He fully planned to spend the day at home doing precisely nothing more than shave, and he planned that only because he'd be going to Mass that evening. Ryan soon learned that on Saturday mornings his children were glued to the TV set, watching various cartoons, including something concerning turtles that he'd heard about but never seen. On reflection, he decided to pass on it this morning also.
“How are you this morning?” he asked Cathy, on his way into the kitchen.
“Not bad at all. I — oh, damn!”
The noise she heard was the distinctive trilling of the secure phone. Jack ran into the library to catch it.
“Yeah?”
“Dr. Ryan, this is the ops room. Swordsman,” the watch officer said.
“Okay.” Jack hung up. “Damn.”
“What's the matter?” Cathy asked from the doorway.
“I have to go in. By the way, I have to be in tomorrow, too.”
“Jack, come on—”
“Look, babe, there are a couple of things I have to do before I leave. One's happening right about now — and you can forget that, okay? — and I have to be in on it.”
“Where do you have to go this time?”
“Just into the office. I don't have any overseas stuff planned at all, as a matter of fact.”
“Supposed to snow tonight, maybe a big one.”
“Great. Well, I can always stay over.”
“I'm going to be so happy when you leave that goddamned place for good.”
“Can you stick with me just a couple of months more?”
“'Couple of months'?”
“April first, I'm out of there. Deal?”
“Jack, it's not that I don't like what you do, just that—”
“Yeah, the hours. Me, too. I'm used to the idea of leaving now, turning into a normal person again. I gotta change.”
Cathy bowed to the inevitable and went back to the kitchen. Jack dressed casually. On weekends you didn't have to wear a suit. He decided that he could even dispense with a tie, and also that he'd drive himself. Thirty minutes later, he was on the road.
It was a gloriously clear afternoon over the Straits of Gibraltar. Europe to the north, Africa to the south. The narrow passage had once been a mountain range, the geologists said, and the Mediterranean a dry basin until the Atlantic had broken in. This would have been the perfect place to watch from, too, thirty thousand feet up.