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rs had proclaimed him to be。 Spruance the intellectual would not have befriended a knuckle…dragger。 But their staffs had snarled at each other like tomcats fighting over a tabby in heat； probably the military equivalent of 〃my daddy can whip your daddy；〃 engaged in by children up to the age of seven or so…and no more intellectually respectable。
He had Halsey's own words on the illness； though what he'd really said must have been muted by his editor and co…writer； since Bill Halsey really had spoken like a Chief Bosun's Mate with a few drinks under his belt…probably one of the reasons reporters had liked him so much。 He'd made such good copy。
His notes and some source documents were piled next to his Apple He puter。 Jack used WordStar as his word…processing program。 It was fairly plicated； but a damned sight better than using a typewriter。 He wondered which publisher would be right for the book。 The Naval Institute Press was after him again； but he found himself wondering whether to switch over to a big…league publisher。 But he had to finish the damned book first； didn't he？ And so； back into Halsey's plex brain。
But he was hesitating today。 That was unusual。 His typing…three fingers and a thumb （two thumbs on a good day）…was the same； but his brain wasn't concentrating properly； as though it wanted to look at something else。 This was an occasional curse of his CIA analysis work。 Some problems just wouldn't go away； forcing his mind to go over the same material time and again until he stumbled upon the answer to a question that often enough made little sense in and of itself。 The same thing had occasionally happened during his time at Merrill Lynch； when he'd investigated stock issues； looking for hidden worth or danger in the operations and finances of some publicly traded pany。 That had occasionally put him at odds with the big boys up in the New York office； but Ryan had never been one to do something just because a superior told him to。 Even in the Marine Corps； an officer； however junior； was expected to think； and a stockbroker with clients was entrusted by them to safeguard their money as though it were his own。 Mostly； he'd succeeded。 After putting his own funds into Chicago and North Western Railroad； he'd been hammered by his supervisors； but he'd stood his ground； and those clients who'd listened to him had cashed in rather nicely…which had earned him a crowd of new clients。 So Ryan had learned to listen to his instincts； to scratch the itches he couldn't quite see and could barely feel。 This was one of those； and 〃this〃 was the Pope。 The information he had did not form a plete picture； but he was used to that。 In the stock…trading business； he'd learned how and when to bet his money on inplete pictures； and nine times out of ten he'd been right。
He had nothing to bet on this one but his itch； however。 Something was happening。 He just didn't know what。 All he'd seen was a copy of a warning letter sent to Warsaw； and certainly forwarded to Moscow； where a bunch of old men would look upon it as a threat。
That wasn't much to go on； was it？ Ryan asked himself。 He found himself wishing for a cigarette。 Such things helped his thinking process sometimes； but there'd be hell to pay if Cathy smelled smoke in their house。 But chewing gum； even bubble gum； just didn't cut it at times like this。
He needed Jim Greer。 The Admiral often treated him like a surrogate son…his own son had been killed as a Marine lieutenant in Vietnam； Ryan had learned along the way…giving him the occasional chance to talk through a problem。 But he wasn't that close to Sir Basil Charleston； and Simon was too near to him in age； if not quite in experience。 And this was not a problem to be kicked around alone。 He wished he could discuss it with his wife…doctors； he knew； were pretty smart…but that wasn't allowed； and； anyway； Cathy didn't really know the situation well enough to understand the threats。 No； she'd grown up in a more privileged environment； daughter of a millionaire stock…and…bonds trader； living in a large Park Avenue apartment； all the best schools； her own new car for her sixteenth birthday； and all the hazards of life held off well beyond arm's length。 Not Jack。 His dad had been a cop； mostly a homicide investigator； and； while his father hadn't brought work home； Jack had asked enough questions to understand that the real world could be a place of unpredictable danger and that some people just didn't think like real people。 They were called Bad Guys…and they could be pretty goddamned bad。 He'd never lived without a conscience。 Whether he'd picked that up in distant childhood or Catholic schools； or it had been part of his genetic makeup； Jack didn't know。 He did know that breaking the rules was rarely a good thing； but he also knew that the rules were a product of reason； and reason was paramount； and so the rules could be broken if you had a good…a very goddamned good…reason for doing so。 That was called judgment； and the Marines； oddly enough； had nurtured that particular flower。 You made an estimate of the situation and thought through the options； and then you acted。 Sometimes you had to do it in a very big hurry…and that was why officers were paid more than sergeants； though you were always well advised to listen to your gunny if you had the time。
But Ryan had none of those things now； and that was the bad news。 There was no immediately identifiable threat in view； and that was the good news。 But now he was in an environment in which the threats were not always readily visible； and it was his job to find them out by piecing the available information together。 But there wasn't much of that now either。 Just a possibility； which he had to apply to the minds of people he didn't know and would never meet； except as paper documents written up by other people he didn't know。 It was like being the navigator on a ship in Christopher Columbus's little fleet； thinking land might be out there； but not knowing where or when he might e upon it…and hoping to God it wouldn't be at night； in a storm； and that the land would not appear as a barrier reef to rip the bottom of his ship out。 His own life was not in danger； but； as he'd been pelled by professional obligation to treat the money of his clients as his own； so he had to regard the life of a man in potential danger as having the importance of the life of his own child。
And that was where the itch came from。 He could call Admiral Greer； Ryan thought； but it wasn't even seven in the morning in Washington yet； and he'd be doing his boss no favor by waking him up to the trilling sound of his home STU。 Especially as he had nothing to tell； just a few things to ask。 So he leaned back in his chair and stared at the green screen of his Apple monitor； looking for something that just wasn't there。
CHAPTER 17 … FLASH TRAFFIC
Ed foley wrote in his office：
PRIORITY： FLASH
TO： DDO/CIA
CC： DCI； DDI
FROM： COS MOSCOW
SUBJECT： RABBIT
TEXT FOLLOWS：
WE HAVE A RABBIT； A HIGHLY PLACED WALK…IN； CLAIMS TO BE MO OFFICER IN KGB CENTRE； WITH INFORMATION OF INTEREST TO USG。 ESTIMATION： HE IS TRUTHFUL。 5/5。 URGENTLY REQUEST AUTHORIZATION FOR IMMEDIATE EXFILTRATION FROM REDLAND。 PACKAGE INCLUDES RABBIT WIFE AND DAUGHTER （3）。 5/5 PRIORITY REQUESTED。 ENDS
There； Foley thought； that's concise enough。 The shorter the better with messages like this one…it provided less opportunity for the opposition to work on the text and crack the cipher； in the event they got their hands on it。
But the only hands that would touch this one were CIA。 He was betting a lot on this op…dispatch。 5/5 meant that the estimated importance of the information available； as well as its presumed accuracy and the priority for his proposed action； was class…5； the highest。 He gave an identical evaluation for the accuracy of the subject。 Four aces…not the sort of dispatch you sent out every day。 It was the classification he'd give to a message from Oleg Penkovskiy； or from Agent CARDINAL himself； and that was about as hot a potato as they came。 He thought for a moment； wondering if he was guessing correctly； but； over his career； Ed Foley had learned to go with his instincts。 He'd also measured his own thoughts against those of his wife； and her instincts were just as finely tuned。 Their Rabbit…the CIA term of art for a person wanting a fast ticket out of whatever bad place he found himself in…claimed a lot； but he gave every sign of being what he claimed： the possessor of some very hot information。 That made him a conscience defector； and thus pretty reliable。 If he were a plant； a false…flag； he would have asked for money； because that's how KGB thought defectors thought…and CIA had never done anything to disabuse them of that notion。
So； it just felt right； though 〃feels right〃 isn't something you send by Diplomatic Courier to the Seventh Floor。 They'd have to play along with this。 They had to trust him。 He was Chief of Station in Moscow； the CIA's top field posting； and with that came a truckload of credibility。 They'd have to weigh it against whatever misgivings they were feeling。 If a summit meeting were scheduled； then that might queer the deal； but the President had no such plans； nor did SecState。 So there was nothing in the way of Langley approving some form of action…if they thought he was right。。。
Foley didn't even know why he was questioning himself。 He was The Man in Moscow； and that； by God； was that。 He lifted the phone and punched three buttons。
〃Russell；〃 a voice said。
〃Mike； this is Ed。 I need you here。〃
〃Right。〃
It took a minute and a half。 The door opened。
〃Yeah； Ed？〃
〃Something for the bag。〃
Russell checked his watch。 〃Not much margin； guy。〃
〃It's short。 I'll have to e down with you on this one。〃
〃Well； let's get it on； then； bro。〃 Russell walked out the door； with Foley in pursuit。 Fortunately； the corridor was empty； and his office was not far。
Russell sat down in his swivel chair and lit up his cipher machine。 Foley handed the sheet over。 Russell clipped it to a fixture right over the keyboard。 〃Short enough；〃 he said approvingly； and started typing。 He was nearly as skillful as the Ambassador's own secretary； and he finished the job in a minute； including some padding…sixteen surnames taken at random from the Prague telephone book。 When the new page came out of the machine； Foley took it； folded it； tucked it in a manila envelope； and sealed it。 Wax was dripped over the closure； and Foley handed the envelope back to Russell。
〃Back in five； Ed；〃 the munications officer said on his way out the door。 He took the elevator down to the first floor。 The diplomatic courier was there。 His name was Tommy Cox； a former Army warrant officer/helicopter pilot who'd been shot down four times in the Central Highlands as part of the First Cavalry Division； and a man who had only the most negative feelings for his country's adversaries。 The Diplomatic Bag was a canvas carry…on…type bag that would be handcuffed to his wrist during transit。 He was already booked on a Pan Am 747 direct flight to New York's Kennedy International； a flight of eleven hours； during which he would neither drink nor sleep； though he did have three paperback mysteries to read along the way。 He'd be leaving the embassy in an official car in ten minutes； and his diplomatic credentials meant he wouldn't be troubled with security or immigration procedures。 The Russians were actually fairly cordial about that； though they probably drooled over the chance of seeing what was inside the canvas bag。 For sure； it wasn't Russian perfume or pantyhose for a friend in New York or Washington。
〃Good flight； Tommy。〃
Cox nodded。 〃Roger that； Mike。〃
Russell headed back to Foley's office topside。 〃Okay； it's in the bag。 Flight leaves in an hour and ten minutes； man。〃
〃Good。〃
〃Is a Rabbit what I think it is？〃
〃Can't say； Mike；〃 Foley pointed out。
〃Yeah； I know； Ed。 Excuse my question。〃 Russell wasn't one to break the rules； though he had as much curiosity as the next man。 And he knew what a Rabbit was； of course。 He'd spent his entire life inside the black world in one capacity or another； and the jargon wasn't all that hard to pick up。 But the black