tc.redrabbit-第114章

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ies。　One　other　thing　about　being　KGB　was　that　you　knew　better　than　to　believe　what　was　in　the　papers。　Izvestia　at　least　had　stories　about　real　people；　some　of　which　were　even　true；　he　thought。　But　a　Soviet　train　would；　of　course；　carry　only　the　most　politically　correct　newspapers；　and　〃Truth〃　was　it；　Zaitzev　snorted。
　　　Ryan　maintained　two　plete　sets　of　shaving　and　grooming　things　for　the　occasional　exigencies　of　travel。　His　Bean　bag　was　hanging　by　its　large　brass　hook　in　his　closet；　ready　for　whenever　Sir　Basil　dispatched　him　to　Budapest。　He　looked　at　it　while　knotting　his　tie；　wondering　when　he'd　be　going。　Then　Cathy　reentered　the　bedroom　and　got　herself　dressed。　Her　white　lab　coat　doubtless　hung　on　a　hook　on　her　office　door…both　of　them；　probably；　Hammersmith　and　Moorefields；　with　the　appropriate　name　tags。
　　　〃Cath？〃
　　　〃Yeah？〃
　　　〃Your　office　coat…did　you　keep　your　Hopkins　name　tag；　or　did　you　get　new　ones？〃　He'd　never　bothered　to　ask。
　　　〃Local　ones。　Too　hard　to　explain　it　to　every　new　patient　who　might　notice。〃　But　some　asked　about　her　accent　anyway；　or　would　ask　why　the　name　tag　proclaimed　her　to　be　Lady　Caroline　Ryan；　M。D。；　FACS。　The　〃Lady〃　part　appealed　to　her　woman's　vanity。　Jack　watched　her　brush　her　hair　out；　something　that　always　gave　him　pleasure。　She　would　have　been　an　absolute　knockout　with　somewhat　longer　hair；　but　she　never　let　it　grow；　saying　that　the　surgical　caps　ruined　whatever　set　she　might　have　gotten。　That　would　change　the　next　time　they　got　invited　to　a　formal　dinner。　They　were　due　for　one。　The　Queen　liked　both　of　them；　and　so　did　the　Prince　of　Wales；　and　they　were　on　the　local　version　of　the　A…list。　You　had　to　accept　such　invitations；　though　Cathy　had　an　excuse　if　she　was　doing　surgery　the　next　day。　Spooks；　on　the　other　hand；　were　expected　to　be　delighted　at　the　honor；　even　if　it　meant　three　short　hours　of　sleep　before　the　next　day　at　work。
　　　〃What's　on　the　agenda　for　today？〃
　　　〃Giving　a　lecture　on　the　xenon…arc　laser。　They're　going　to　be　buying　one　soon；　and　I'm　the　only　person　in　London　who　knows　how　to　use　it　right。〃
　　　〃My　wife；　the　laser　jockey。〃
　　　〃Well；　at　least　I　can　talk　about　what　I　do；〃　she　responded；　〃secret…agent　man。〃
　　　〃Yes；　dear；〃　Ryan　sighed。　Maybe　I　should　pack　my　Browning　today　just　to　piss　her　off。　But　if　anyone　on　the　train　noticed；　he'd　at　best　be　regarded　as　unclean；　and　at　worst　would　be　asked　by　a　police　constable　what　he　was　doing　with　such　a　thing　on　his　person。　And　even　his　diplomatic　status　would　not　entirely　protect　him　from　the　resulting　hassle。
　　　Fifteen　minutes　later；　Jack　and　Cathy　were　in　their　partment；　heading　northwest　to　London；　she　again　reading　her　medical　journals；　and　he　going　through　the　Telegraph。　John　Keegan　had　a　column　on　the　inside　and　he　was　a　historian　for　whom　Ryan　had　considerable　respect　as　an　analyst　of　plex　information。　Why　Basil　hadn't　recruited　him　for　Century　House　was　a　mystery　to　Jack。　Maybe　Keegan　was　just　doing　too　well　as　an　historian；　able　to　spread　his　ideas　to　the　masses…well；　at　least　the　smart　civilians　out　there。　That　made　sense。　Nobody　ever　got　rich　as　a　British　civil　servant；　and　the　anonymity…well；　it　was　nice　once　in　a　while　to　get　a　Pat　on　the　head　for　doing　something　especially　well。　Bureaucrats　were　denied　that　all　over　the　world。
　　　About　the　time　their　express　train　passed　by　the　Elephant　and　Castle　station；　Flight　214　rolled　to　an　early　stop　at　Heathrow's　Terminal　Four。　It　didn't　e　to　a　jetway。　Instead　it　came　to　a　halt　where　the　shuttle　buses　waited　to　take　people　to　Immigration　and　Customs。　No　sooner　had　the　wheels　been　chocked　than　the　cargo　hatch　came　open。　The　last　two　items　loaded　at　Logan　had　been　the　two　coffins；　and　they　became　the　first　items　of　baggage　to　be　manhandled　off。　The　tags　on　one　corner　of　each　told　the　handlers　where　to　send　them；　and　two　anonymous　men　from　Century　House　were　there　to　watch　the　process　anyway。　Placed　on　a　four…wheel　cart…called　a　trolley　in　England…they　were　pulled　off　to　an　area　for　parked　cars　and　small　trucks；　where　the　boxes　were　quickly　loaded　on　a　small　four…wheeled　truck　with　no　marking　on　its　sides　at　all。　The　two　men　from　SIS　hopped　aboard　and　drove　off；　easterly　for　London；　entirely　without　a　clue　what　this　job　was　all　about。　It　was　often　that　way。
　　　The　truck　arrived　at　100　Westminster　Bridge　Road　forty　minutes　later。　There　the　boxes　were　removed　and　placed　on　another　trolley　for　a　ride　to　the　freight　elevator　and　a　trip　down　to　the　second…level　basement。
　　　Two　more　men　were　waiting　there。　The　boxes　were　duly　opened；　and　both　men　thanked　fate　that　there　was　a　goodly　supply　of　dry　ice　inside　and　the　bodies　were　not　yet　venting　the　particularly　foul　smell　of　dead　and　mortifying　human　tissue。　Wearing　rubber　gloves；　they　lifted　the　bodies…neither　was　especially　heavy…and　transferred　them　to　stainless…steel　tables。　Neither　body　was　clothed　and；　in　the　case　of　the　little　girl；　their　job　was　particularly　sad。
　　　It　would　get　more　so。　paring　the　bodies　with　the　Times…generated　photograph；　it　was　determined；　unsurprisingly；　that　the　child's　face　didn't　match　the　picture。　The　same　was　true　of　the　grown　woman；　though　her　body　mass　and　configuration　were　about　right。　Her　face　was　virtually　untouched　by　the　fire；　the　toxic　gasses　of　which　had　ended　her　life。　And　so　both　of　them　would　have　to　be　grossly　disfigured　to　be　usable　for　Operation　BEATRIX。　This　was　done　with　propane　blowtorches。　First；　the　senior　of　the　two　turned　on　the　powerful　exhaust　fan　in　the　ceiling。　Both　then　donned　fire…protective　coveralls　and　lit　their　torches。　These　were　heartlessly　applied　to　both　faces。　Hair　color　was　wrong　in　both　cases；　and　so　that　was　burned　off　first　of　all。　Then　the　torches　were　applied　at　close　range　to　both　faces。　It　went　quickly；　but　not　quickly　enough　for　the　two　SIS　employees。　The　one　doing　the　little　girl　breathed　a　series　of　prayers　for　her　child's　soul；　knowing　that　she　was　wherever　innocent　children　went。　That　which　remained　was　just　cold　meat；　of　no　value　to　its　previous　owner；　but　of　some　value　to　the　United　Kingdom…and　doubtless　the　United　States　of　America　as　well；　else　they　would　not　be　doing　such　ghoulish　work　as　this。　It　was　when　the　little　girl's　left　eye　exploded　from　internal　pressure　that　her　tormentor　had　to　turn　away　and　vomit。　But　it　had　to　be　done。　Her　eyes　were　the　wrong　color。
　　　Hands　and　feet　had　to　be　well…charred；　and　both　bodies　were　examined　for　tattoos；　scars；　or　other　distinguishing　characteristics；　but　none　were　found；　not　even　an　appendectomy　scar。
　　　All　in　all；　it　took　ninety　minutes　before　they　were　satisfied　with　their　work。　Then　the　bodies　had　to　be　dressed。　Clothing　of　Soviet　origin　was　maneuvered　onto　the　bodies；　and　then　that　had　to　be　burned　so　that　the　fibers　would　be　enmeshed　with　the　surface　burns。　With　all　this　grisly　work　done；　the　bodies　were　reloaded　into　their　transport　boxes；　and　more　dry　ice　was　added　to　keep　them　cool　enough　to　retard　decay。　The　boxes　were　set　near　a　third　identical　such　box　in　the　corner　of　the　room。　By　then　it　was　lunchtime；　but　neither　of　them　cared　much　for　food　at　the　moment。　A　few　shots　of　whiskey　were　more　what　they　needed；　and　there　were　plenty　of　pubs　within　walking　distance。
　　　〃Jack？〃　Sir　Basil　stuck　his　head　through　the　door　to　find　Ryan　going　over　his　documents；　like　a　good　analyst。
　　　〃Yes；　sir；〃　Ryan　responded；　looking　up。
　　　〃Are　you　packed？〃
　　　〃My　stuff　is　at　home；　but　yes；　sir。〃
　　　〃Good。　You're　on　the　BA　flight　from　Heathrow　Terminal　Three　at　eight　this　evening。　We'll　have　a　car　to　run　you　home　to　pick　up　your　things…say；　about　three…thirty？〃
　　　〃I　haven't　gotten　my　passport　and　visa　yet；〃　Ryan　told　C。
　　　〃You'll　have　it　after　lunch。　Your　overt　cover　is　as　an　auditor　from　the　Foreign　Office。　As　I　recall；　you　had　an　accountant's　charter　once　upon　a　time。　Perhaps　you　can　look　over　the　books　while　you're　there。〃　This　was　funny；　Charleston　thought。
　　　Ryan　tried　to　return　the　favor。　〃Probably　more　interesting　than　the　local　stock　market。　Anyone　going　with　me？〃
　　　〃No；　but　you'll　be　met　at　the　airport　by　Andy　Hudson。　He's　our　Station　Chief　in　Budapest。　Good　man；〃　Sir　Basil　promised。　〃Stop　in　to　see　me　before　you　head　off。〃
　　　〃Will　do；　sir。〃　And　Basil's　head　vanished　back　into　t