by Tom Clancy
“You had that guy jump out from a crowd and fire off a starter pistol at the Queen—on the way to Parliament, wasn’t it?” Ryan remembered. “There was a cavalry officer on a horse right there. I was surprised he didn’t cut the asshole in half with his sabre—that would have been my instinct—but he didn’t.”
“Parade sword, just for ceremonial occasions. You probably couldn’t cut cold butter with it,” Sparrow said. “Nearly trampled the bastard with his horse, though.”
“The Secret Service would have dropped him on the spot. Sure, the gun was loaded with blanks,” Ryan said, “but it damned sure looked and sounded like the real thing. Her Majesty kept her head screwed on pretty tight. I would have shit myself.”
“I’m sure Her Majesty availed herself of the proper facilities at Westminster Palace. She has her own loo there, you know,” King told the American.
“In the event, he was some disturbed fellow, doubtless cutting out paper dolls in a mental hospital now,” Sharp said, but, like every other British subject, his heart had stopped cold watching the incident on TV, and he, too, had been surprised that the lunatic had survived the event. Had one of the Yeomen of the Tower been there with his ceremonial fighting spear—called a partisan—he surely would have been pinned to the pavement like a butterfly in a collection box. Perhaps God did look after fools, drunks, and little children after all. “So, if Strokov does show up, and does take his shot, you suppose the local Italians will do for him?”
“One can hope,” King said.
Wouldn’t that be just great? Jack thought. The professionals can’t protect the Pope, but local waiters and clothing salesmen beat the fucker to death. That’ll look great on NBC Nightly News.
BACK IN MANCHESTER, the Rabbit and his family finished yet another superb dinner from Mrs. Thompson.
“What does an ordinary English worker eat?” Zaitzev asked.
“Not quite this well,” Kingshot admitted. He sure as hell didn’t. “But we try to take decent care of our guests, Oleg.”
“Have I told you enough about MINISTER?” he asked next. “Is all I know.” The Security Service had picked his brain pretty thoroughly on the subject that afternoon, going over every single fact at least five times.
“You’ve been most helpful, Oleg Ivan’ch. Thank you.” In fact, he’d given the Security Service quite a lot. Most often, the way you caught such penetration agents was by identifying the information he’d transferred. Only a limited number of people would have access to all of it, and the “Five” people would observe all of them until one did something difficult to explain. Then they would see who arrived at the dead-drop site to retrieve the package, and from that they’d get the bonus of identifying his KGB control officer, and get two breaks for the price of one—or perhaps even more, because the case officer would be working more than one agent, and the discoveries could branch out like the limbs of a tree. Then you tried to arrest a peripheral agent before going after the main target, because then the KGB could not know how their main penetration agent had been exposed, and that would protect the primary source, Oleg Zaitzev, from discovery. The counterintelligence business was as baroque as medieval-court intrigue and was both loved and hated by the players for its intricacy, but that just made the apprehension of a real Bad Guy that much more rewarding.
“And what of the Pope?”
“As I said the other day, we have a team in Rome right now to look into the matter,” Kingshot answered. “Not much we can say—in fact, not much we can really do, but we are taking action based on your information, Oleg.”
“That is good,” the defector thought out loud, hoping it hadn’t all been for nothing. He’d not really looked forward to exposing Soviet agents throughout the West. He’d do that, to safeguard his own position in his new home, of course, and for the money he’d get for turning traitor to his Motherland, but his highest concern was in saving that one life.
TUESDAY MORNING, Ryan slept later than usual, arising just after eight, figuring he’d need to bankroll his rest for the following day. He’d sure as hell need it then.
Sharp and the rest of the team were already up.
“Anything new?” Jack asked, coming into the dining room.
“We have the radios,” Sharp reported. There was, indeed, one at every place at the table. “They’re excellent—the very same sort your Secret Service use—same manufacturer, Motorola. Brand new, and they are encrypted. Lapel microphones and earpieces.”
Ryan looked at his. The earpiece was clear plastic, curled up like a phone cord, and nearly invisible. That was good news. “Batteries?”
“Brand new, and two sets of replacements for each. Good to know that Her Majesty is well looked after.”
“Okay, so nobody can listen in, and we can swap information,” Ryan said. It was one more piece of good news set against a big black pile of the bad sort. “What’s the plan for the day?”
“Back to the piazza, do some more looking, and hope we see our friend Strokov.”
“And if we do?” Ryan asked.
“We follow him back to his accommodations and try to see if there’s a way to speak with the chap this evening.”
“If we get that far, just talk to him?”
“What do you suppose, Sir John?” Sharp replied with a cold look.
You really willing to go that far, Mr. Sharp? Jack didn’t ask. Well, the bastard was a multiple murderer, and as civilized as the Brits were, under all the good manners and world-class hospitality, they knew how to do business, and while Jack wasn’t entirely sure that he’d be able to go all the way, these guys probably didn’t have his inhibitions. Ryan figured he could live with that, as long as he wasn’t the trigger man himself. Besides, they’d probably give him a chance to change countries first. Better a talking defector than a silent corpse.
“Would that give anything away?”
Sharp shook his head. “No. He’s the chappie who killed Georgiy Markov, remember? We can always say it is a case of visiting Her Majesty’s justice on someone who needed to learn about it.”
“We don’t approve of murder at home, Jack,” John Sparrow advised. “It would indeed be a pleasure to have him answer for that.”
“Okay.” Ryan could live with that, too. He was certain his dad would approve.
Oh, yeah.
THE REST OF the day, they all played tourist and tested their radios. It turned out that the radios worked both inside and outside the basilica, and, better yet, inside to outside the immense stone structure. Each man would use his own name as an identifier. It made more sense than setting up numbers or code names that they’d all have to remember—one more confusing factor that they wouldn’t need if the shit hit the fan. All the while, they looked around for the face of Boris Strokov, hoping for a miracle, and reminding themselves that miracles did occasionally happen. People really did hit the lottery—they had one in Italy, too—and the football pools every week, and so it was possible, just damned unlikely, and this day, it did not happen.
Nor did they find a better or more likely place from which to take a shot at a man in a slow-moving vehicle. It seemed to them all that Ryan’s first impression of the tactical realities of the place was correct. That felt good to Jack until he realized that if he’d blown it, then it was his fault, not theirs.
“You know,” Ryan said to Mick King—Sharp was back doing Deputy-Chief-of-Mission business for the British ambassador—“more than half the crowd is going to be in the middle there.”
“Works for us, Jack. Only a fool would take the shot from in there, unless he plans to have Scotty beam him up to the starship Enterprise. No escape possible from that place.”
“True,” Jack agreed. “What about inside somewhere, get the Pope on the way to the car?”
“Possible,” Mick agreed. “But that would mean that somehow Strokov or someone under his control is already inside the Papal administration—household, whatever one calls it—and is thus free to make his killing whenever he
wishes. Somehow I think that infiltrating that organization would be difficult. It would mean maintaining a difficult psychological disguise for an extended period of time. No.” He shook his head. “I would discount that possibility.”
“Hope you’re right, man.”
“So do I, Jack.”
They all left at about four, each catching a separate cab to within a few blocks of the Brit Embassy and walking the rest of the way.
Dinner was quiet that night. Each of them had his own worries, and everyone hoped that whatever the hell Colonel Strokov of the DS had in mind, it wasn’t for this week, and that they could all fly back to London the following evening none the worse off for the experience. One thing Ryan had learned: Experienced field spooks that they were, they were no more comfortable with this mission than he was. It was good not to be alone in his anxiety. Or was that just schadenfreude? What the hell, was this how it felt the night before D-Day? No, there was no German Army waiting for them. Their job was to prevent a possible murder, and the danger was not even to themselves. It was to someone else who either didn’t know or didn’t care about the danger to himself, and so they had assumed responsibility for his life. Mick King had gotten it right from his first impression the day before. It was a pig of a mission.
“MORE STUFF FROM the Rabbit,” Moore reported at the usual evening get-together.
“What’s that?”
“Basil says there’s a deep-penetration agent in their Foreign Office, and the Rabbit gave them enough information to narrow him down to four potential individuals. ‘Five’ is already looking at them. And he gave them some more on this CASSIUS guy over here. He’s been working for them just over ten years. Definitely a senior aide to a senator on the Intelligence Committee—sounds like a political adviser. So it’s probably somebody who’s been briefed in and has a clearance. That cuts it down to eighteen people for the Bureau to check out.”
“What’s he giving them, Arthur?” Greer asked.
“Sounds like whatever we tell The Hill about KGB operations gets back to Dzerzhinskiy Square in less than a week.”
“I want that son of a bitch,” Ritter announced. “If that’s true, then we’ve lost agents because of him.” And Bob Ritter, whatever his faults, looked after his agents like a mama grizzly bear with her cubs.
“Well, he’s been doing this long enough that he’s probably pretty comfortable in his fieldcraft.”
“He told us about a Navy guy—NEPTUNE, wasn’t it?” Greer remembered.
“Nothing new there, but we’ll be sure to ask him about it. That could be anybody. How careful is the Navy with their crypto gear?”
Greer shrugged. “Every single ship has communications people, petty officers, and a commissioned communications officer. They’re supposed to destroy the setting sheets and circuit boards on a daily basis, and toss them over the side—and not just one. Two people have to see it, supposedly. And they’re all cleared—”
“But only people with clearances can fuck us in the ass,” Ritter reminded them.
“Only the people you trust with your money can steal from you,” Judge Moore observed. He’d seen enough criminal cases along that score. “That’s the problem. Imagine how Ivan’s going to feel if he finds out about the Rabbit.”
“That,” Ritter said, “is different.”
“Very good, Bob,” the DCI reacted with a laugh. “My wife says that to me all the time. It must be the war cry of women all over the world—that’s different. The other side thinks they’re the forces of Truth and Beauty, too, remember.”
“Yeah, Judge, but we’re going to whip ’em.”
It was good to see such confidence, especially in a guy like Bob Ritter, Moore thought.
“Still thinking about THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH, Robert?”
“Putting some ideas together. Give me a few weeks.”
“Fair enough.”
IT WAS JUST one in the morning in Washington when Ryan awoke on Italian time. The shower helped get him alert, and the shave got his face smooth. By seven-thirty, he was heading down for breakfast. Mrs. Sharp fixed coffee in the Italian style, which surprisingly tasted as though someone had emptied an ashtray into the pot. Jack wrote that off to differing national tastes. The eggs and (English) bacon were just fine, as was the buttered toast. Someone had decided that men going into action needed full bellies. A pity the Brits didn’t know about hash brown potatoes, the most filling of unhealthy breakfast foods.
“All ready?” Sharp asked, coming in.
“I guess we all have to be. What about the rest of the crew?”
“We rendezvous at the front of the basilica in thirty-five minutes.” And it was only a five-minute drive from there. “Here’s a friend for you to take along.” He handed over a pistol.
Jack took it and slid the slide back. It was, fortunately, empty.
“You may need this, too.” Sharp handed over two loaded magazines. Sure enough, they were hardball—full-metal-jacketed—cartridges, which would go right through the target, making only a nine-millimeter hole in and out. But Europeans thought you could drop an elephant with them. Yeah, sure, Jack thought, wishing for a .45 Colt M1911A1, which was much better suited for putting a man on the ground and leaving him there until the ambulance crew arrived. But he’d never mastered the big Colt, though he had, barely, qualified with it. It was with a rifle that Ryan could really shoot, but nearly anyone could shoot a rifle. Sharp didn’t provide a holster. The Browning Hi-Power would have to go in his belt, and he’d have to keep his jacket buttoned to conceal it. The bad thing about carrying a pistol was that they were heavy damned things to port around with you, and without a proper holster he’d have to keep adjusting it in his belt to make sure it didn’t fall out or slide down his pants. That just wouldn’t do. It would also make sitting down a pain in the gut, but there wouldn’t be much of that today. The spare magazine went into his coat pocket. He pulled the slide back, locked it in place, and slid the loaded one into the butt, then dropped the locking lever to release the slide. The weapon was now loaded and “in battery,” meaning ready to fire. On reflection, Ryan carefully dropped the hammer. A safety might have sufficed, but Ryan had been trained not to trust safeties. To fire the weapon, he’d have to remember to cock the hammer, something he’d fortunately forgotten to do with Sean Miller. But this time, if the worst happened, he would not.
“Time to boogie?” Jack asked Sharp.
“Does that mean go?” the Chief of Station Rome asked. “I meant to ask the other time you said that.”
“Yeah, like, boogie on down the road. It’s an Americanism. ‘Boogie’ used to be a kind of dance, I think.”
“And your radio.” Sharp pointed. “It clips on the belt over your wallet pocket. On/off switch”—he demonstrated—“earpiece fastens to your collar, and the microphone onto your collar. Clever bit of kit, this.”
“Okay.” Ryan got everything arranged properly, but left the radio off. The spare batteries went into his left-side coat pocket. He didn’t expect to need them, but safe was always better than sorry. He reached behind to find the on/off switch and flipped it off and on. “What’s the range on the radios?”
“Three miles—five kilometers—the manual says. More than we need. Ready?”
“Yeah.” Jack stood, set his pistol snugly on the left side of his belt, and followed Sharp out to the car.
Traffic was agreeably light this morning. Italian drivers were not, from what he’d seen so far, the raving maniacs he’d heard them to be. But the people out now would be people heading soberly to work, whether it was selling real estate or working in a warehouse. One of the difficult things for a tourist to remember was that a city was just another city, not a theme park set in place for his personal amusement.
And damned sure this morning Rome wasn’t here for anything approaching that, was it? Jack asked himself coldly.
Sharp parked his official Bentley about where they expected Strokov to park. There were other cars there,
people who worked in the handful of shops, or perhaps early shoppers hoping to get their buying done before Wednesday’s regularly scheduled chaos.
In any case, this most expensive of British motorcars had diplomatic tags, and nobody would fool with it. Getting out, he followed Sharp into the piazza and reached back with his right hand to flip his radio on without exposing his pistol.
“Okay,” he said into his lapel. “Ryan is here. Who else is on the net?”
“Sparrow in place on the colonnade,” a voice answered immediately.
“King, in place.”
“Ray Stones, in place.”
“Parker, in place,” Phil Parker, the last of the arrivals from London, reported from his spot on the side street.
“Tom Sharp here with Ryan. We’ll do a radio check every fifteen minutes. Report immediately if you see the least thing of interest. Out.” He turned to Ryan. “So, that’s done.”
“Yeah.” He checked his watch. They had hours to go before the Pope appeared. What would he be doing now? He was supposed to be a very early riser. Doubtless the first important thing he did every day was to say Mass, like every Catholic priest in the world, and it was probably the most important part of his morning routine, something to remind himself exactly what he was—a priest sworn to God’s service—a reality he’d known and probably celebrated within his own mind through Nazi and communist oppression for forty-odd years, serving his flock. But now his flock, his parish, straddled the entire world, as did his responsibility to them, didn’t it?
Jack reminded himself of his time in the Marine Corps. Crossing the Atlantic on his helicopter-landing ship—unknowingly on his way to a life-threatening helicopter crash—on Sunday they’d held church services, and at that moment the church pennant had been run up to the truck. It flew over the national ensign. It was the U.S. Navy’s way of acknowledging that there was one higher loyalty than the one a man had for his country. That loyalty was to God Himself—the one power higher than that of the United States of America, and his country acknowledged that. Jack could feel it, here and now, carrying a gun. He could feel that fact like a physical weight on his shoulders. There were people who wanted the Pope—the Vicar of Christ on earth—dead. And that, suddenly, was massively offensive to him. The worst street criminal gave a priest, minister, or rabbi a free pass, because there might really be a god up there, and it wouldn’t do to harm His personal representative among the people. How much more would God be annoyed by the murder of His #1 Representative on Planet Earth. The Pope was a man who’d probably never hurt a single human being in his life. The Catholic Church was not a perfect institution—nothing with mere people in it was or ever could be. But it was founded on faith in Almighty God, and its policies rarely, if ever, strayed from love and charity.
