Free Jack Ryan 3 - Red Rabbit by Tom Clancy

beforehand?”
    Charleston had been waiting for Ryan to turn the tables on him. “One can hope so, but it's impossible to be sure.”
    “In the year I've been at Langley, the impression I get is that our knowledge of the target is deep but narrow in some areas, shallow and broad in others. I've yet to meet somebody who feels comfortable analyzing them—well, that's not exactly true. Some are comfortable, but their analyses are often—to me at least—unreliable. Like the stuff we get on their economy—”
    “James lets you into that?” Basil was surprised.
    “The Admiral sent me all around the barn the first couple of months. My first degree was economics from Boston College. I passed my CPA exam before I went away with the Marine Corps—certified public accountant. You call it something different over here. Then, after I left the Corps, I did okay in the stock-and-bond business before I finished up my doctorate and went into teaching.”
    “Exactly how much did you make on Wall Street?”
    “While I was at Merrill Lynch? Oh, between six and seven million. A lot of that was the Chicago and North Western Railroad. My uncle Mario—my mom's brother—told me that the employees were going to buy out the stock and try to get the railroad profitable again. I took a look at it and liked what I saw. It paid off a net of twenty-three to one on my investment. I ought to have dropped more into it, but they taught me to be conservative at Merrill Lynch. Never worked in New York, by the way. I was in the Baltimore office. Anyway, the money's still in stocks, and the market looks pretty healthy at the moment. I still dabble in it. You never know when you're going to stumble across a winner, and it's still an interesting hobby.”
    “Indeed. If you see anything promising, do let me know.”
    “No fees—but no guarantees, either,” Ryan joked.
    “I'm not accustomed to those, Jack, not in this bloody business. I'm going to assign you to our Russian working group with Simon Harding. Oxford graduate, doctorate in Russian literature. You'll see just about everything he sees—everything but source information—” Ryan stopped him with two raised hands.
    “Sir Basil, I do not want to know that stuff. I don't need it, and knowing it would keep me awake at night. Just so I see the raw. I prefer to do my own analysis. This Harding guy is smart?” Ryan asked with deliberate artlessness.
    “Very much so. You've probably seen his product before. He did the personal evaluation on Yuriy Andropov we turned out two years ago.”
    “I did read that. Yeah, that was good work. I figured he was a pshrink.”
    “He's read psychology, but not quite enough for a degree. Simon's a clever lad. Wife is an artist, painter, lovely lady.”
    “Right now?”
    “Why not? I must get back to my work. Come, I'll walk you down.”
    It wasn't far. Ryan immediately learned that he'd be sharing an office right here on the top floor. This came as a surprise. Getting to the Seventh Floor at Langley took years, and often meant climbing over bloody bodies. Somebody, Jack speculated, must have thought he was smart.
    Simon Harding's office was not overly impressive. The two windows overlooked the upriver side of the building, mainly two- and three-story brick structures of indeterminate occupancy. Harding himself was crowding forty, pale and fair-haired with china-blue eyes. He wore an unbuttoned vest—waistcoat locally—and a drab tie. His desk was covered with folders trimmed in striped tape, the universal coding for secret material.
    “You must be Sir John,” Harding said, setting down his briar pipe.
    “The name's Jack,” Ryan corrected him. “I'm really not allowed to pretend I'm a knight. Besides, I don't own a horse or a steel shirt. ” Jack shook hands with his workmate. Harding had small, bony hands, but those blue eyes looked smart.
    “Take good care of him, Simon.” Sir Basil immediately took his leave.
    There was already a swivel chair