Rockets' Red Glare (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

While Andrew was checking in at the Hassler, Kovlek’s Fiat pulled up to the gates of the Soviet Embassy. A sergeant in the Red Army Guard stepped smartly to the car and bent to the window.

“Nomyer sveedam namorye?”
he challenged.

“Nyet, skandeetsianyeram,”
Kovlek replied, matter-of-factly, supplying his half of the day’s password.

The guard nodded and rolled back the gates, allowing the Fiat onto the grounds.

Kovlek led the way to the Embassy’s
rezidentura.

Gorodin obtained a copy of the Rome yellow pages; then commandeered Kovlek’s secretary, Ludmilla, a robust woman who spoke fluent Italian, and conducted a telephone survey of Rome’s luxury hotels. She placed the calls alphabetically, asking each hotel if Mr. Andrew Churcher had checked in yet. The Ambasciatori, Cavalieri, Eden, Excelsior, and Grand proved negative.

Andrew was in Suite 610, staring in chilled silence at the one-line message in the typewriter, when Ludmilla called the Hassler.

“Yes, yes, I believe he has,” the operator said.

The phone rang once.

Ludmilla tapped the line button with the receiver in a lively gesture that disconnected the call.

“The Hassler,” she said triumphantly.

“The Hassler,” Gorodin echoed, glancing to Kovlek. “Shall we resume surveillance, comrade?”

The intercom buzzed before Kovlek could respond.

“Da? Deptezche rezident,”
Ludmilla answered. She nodded several times, and hung up. “Comrade
rezident
wishes to see you both,” she said. “Right away.”

A surveillance specialist was leaving Zeitzev’s office as Gorodin and Kovlek approached. She climbed a staircase to the electronics-packed room beneath the Embassy’s roof. Here, as in Glen Cove, GRU conducted extensive COMINT operations: Listening devices planted throughout the city were monitored; communications of the Italian government, other embassies, and domestic and multinational corporations were intercepted.

All data was recorded.

When the recorder that the specialist had been monitoring clicked off, she transferred the data to cassette, and brought it to the
resident’
s office. She and Zeitzev listened to it several times on a sound system built into a modular storage wall that also housed a television and videotape recorder, shelves of albums and cassettes, reading matter, and the refrigerator filled with cheeses. Zeitzev spent long days in the heavily furnished room. The wall was his escape.

The office smelled somewhat rank as Gorodin and Kovlek entered. The big florid-faced
rezident
turned to them and broke into a broad smile. His suit looked like he’d slept in it, which he hadn’t.

x Welcome to Rome, comrade,” he said, extending a hand to Gorodin. “We’re looking forward to assisting you in whatever way we can.”

You lying slob
, Gorodin thought as he locked onto Zeitzev’s beefy fist and shook it. “This is a fairly straightforward task. I can manage alone if you’re shorthanded,” he replied, reaching for his cigarettes.

“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Zeitzev said.

Gorodin nodded, and forced a smile. GRU ran the COMINT operation; but field personnel were in short supply in Rome, and he’d be forced to work with KGB backup. He would have been delighted if Zeitzev had taken the out, but he didn’t really expect he would.

Zeitzev’s ebullient mood caused Kovlek to assume events had gone well in Sicily that morning. And nothing would please him more than to be praised in front of Gorodin. “Comiso?” he asked solicitously.

Zeitzev’s eyes tightened in a cold stare. “It was a mess down there. Horrible,” he said, explaining about the bulldozer incident. “Dominica was devastated when she called, and quite obsessed with avenging the
boy’s death.” He paused in reflection, and smiled. “I was quite intrigued by how she proposed to achieve it.” Then, in order to prevent Kovlek from pursing the matter in front of their GRU rival, the
rezident
turned immediately to Gorodin. “Now, to other business.
Your
business,” he said, crossing toward the storage wall. “Recorded less than fifteen minutes ago,” he added, intending to impress him. “Listen.”

Zeitzev depressed the start button on the cassette player, and the ring of a telephone came from the big speakers. Once, twice, then—

“Hello?”

“Mr. Churcher?”

“Speaking.”

“This is the housekeeper. The writing equipment you requested is in the desk.”

Zeitzev clicked off the tape deck. “The man, of course, is Andrew Churcher,” he said. “But who’s the woman? We know she isn’t who she says she is because the housekeeper at the Hassler is named Vin-cente.”

The color drained from Kovlek’s face. He couldn’t believe what the existence of the tape implied. He felt like a fool.

Gorodin burned the stunned deputy with a look. He couldn’t believe it either; but, on second thought, he could. It was a classic example of KGB paranoia run rampant—Zeitzev had found out where Andrew Churcher was staying; had technicians bug the hotel room; but hadn’t informed Kovlek.

“Well?” Zeitzev said, like a prodding schoolmaster.

“The accent,” Gorodin said. “It’s slight but—”

“Everyone in Italy has an accent when they speak English,” Kovlek interrupted scornfully.

“Not an Estonian inflection,” Gorodin said, weary of his denseness. He was referring to the Scandinavian lilt of the Russian spoken in the Baltic Republics.

Zeitzev heard the certainty in Gorodin’s voice, and nodded, “My assessment, too,” he said in an outright lie. He’d detected the accent, but couldn’t place it. “The Baltic Republics definitely.” He lifted the phone and buzzed his secretary. “Bring me The List,” he said.

Since the Revolution, secrecy and control had been the mechanisms of the Soviet state. Ideas, art, music, and literature were censored; computers, copiers, printing presses, and typewriters were controlled; the movement of citizens strictly regulated.

Guaranteed the right to rest in Article 41 of their Constitution, Soviets vacation at government-operated resorts. Few travel outside the Iron
Curtain. Those who do are on The List. The names in the green leather binder, found in Soviet embassies the world over, are updated daily. Travel itineraries and extensive biographical data are noted next to each.

Zeitzev’s gangly secretary entered with the binder, and leaned across the desk to whisper to him.

“He’ll have to come back,” Zeitzev replied, a mild irritation in his voice.

“I
told
him you were busy, comrade,” she said defensively. “He said he has something important, and insisted on waiting.”

Zeitzev’s expression softened. “All right,” he said, reconsidering.

The secretary nodded and left.

Zeitzev opened the binder, and began running a finger down the columns of names. “Eight from Baltic Republics,” he announced. “Three cleared to Italy. One woman. Birthplace: Tallinn, Estonia. Residence: Moscow.”

“Estoninans,” Kovlek said with disgust. “They do nothing but complain of religious persecution, and watch Western television programs from Helsinki. Unpatriotic swine each and every one.”

“Well, this swine has
blat
,” Zeitzev said, using Russian slang for clout. “Winner of three Olympic medals in equestrian events. Father, chairman of the Arabian Breeders League. Reason for travel, International Horse Show, Rome. All things considered, I’d say the chances that Comrade Raina Maiskaya was Churcher’s caller are rather high, Gorodin, wouldn’t you?”

Gorodin nodded cautiously, pushed another cigarette between his lips, and lit it.

“But if she’s here to horse-trade with Churcher,” Kovlek said, “why impersonate the housekeeper?”

“Precisely,” Zeitzev said, mulling it.

Kovlek moved around the desk to look at The List. “She’s staying at the Eden,” he announced. “I’ll pick her up, and question her.”

“No, comrade. I’d prefer you
observe
her for a while,” Zeitzev said, and shifting his eyes to Gorodin, ordered, “
Maintain
surveillance of Churcher.” He used the emphasis to remind him that he hadn’t, adding, “I’ll be happy to define the concept if you wish.”

Gorodin took the reprimand stoically. He had no need to retaliate. The Churcher “account” was his. He recognized the name Raina Maiskaya. It had been mentioned on and off during the years that he’d forwarded artwork from Deschin in Moscow to Churcher’s helicopter at sea. Gorodin knew she was Churcher’s Soviet lover. But he decided
neither of his KGB rivals had a need to know. They worked for him, not vice versa.
His
sanction came from Moscow. He was GRU.

Zeitzev nodded, indicating the two operatives were dismissed, and buzzed his secretary on the intercom.

“Send him in,” he said, referring to the man who had been waiting in the outer office.

Gorodin and Kovlek were approaching the door when it opened, and Marco Profetta floated into the office.

“This will cost you,” he announced in prissy Italian that went with his walk. “Lady’s looking for your minister of culture. You know, your boss?” He slipped a file card from a shirt pocket, and held it up to Zeitzev. It was the Official Information Request Card Melanie Winslow had filled out, and had a Polaroid snapshot of her affixed.

Gorodin’s Italian was fluent. He stopped on a dime, stepped back into the office, and closed the door, shutting out Kovlek who had already exited.

“I’d better hear this,” he said to Zeitzev.

Zeitzev considered confronting Gorodin over the presumption, but decided against it. He held out a hand to Marco for the file card.

“Five hundred thousand lire” the wirey student said, fixing his price.

Zeitzev scowled, snatched the card from his hand, and studied it as Marco told the story of Melanie’s appearance in the Records Office, and how she strode boldly into the glass enclosure to confront the supervisor.

“But what does she want?” Zeitzev interrupted.

“I couldn’t hear what they were saying,” Marco replied in a perplexed whine. “But I can find out.”

Gorodin swung a skeptical look to Zeitzev.

“It’s the truth,” Marco said, seeing it. “What reason would I have to make it up?”

“I can think of at least five hundred thousand,” Gorodin said. He grasped one of Marco’s arms, and pushed up the sleeve. The veins ran in pale gray streaks. He shrugged at the absence of needle marks.

“Maybe, this Miss Winslow is the prevaricator,” the
rezident
ventured.

“Are you suggesting she’s a professional?”

“It’s possible.”

Gorodin shook his head. “It doesn’t sound like the Company’s way of doing business. Besides, what could Boulton find out about Comrade Deschin that he doesn’t already know?”

Zeitzev’s eyes speculated.

Gorodin nodded grudgingly at the implication.

“The usual hundred thousand lire,” Zeitzev said, dismissing Marco. “My secretary will take care of it.”

Marco sighed and left the office, closing the door after him.

Zeitzev crossed to the half-fridge and opened it. The rank odor in the office intensified. He removed a wedge of cheese, and unwrapped it. “We’ll have to find out what this Miss Winslow’s up to,” he said, then clarifying, added, “But she’s my problem. You deal with Churcher.”

“My orders are to refrain from interfering with Churcher as long as he sticks to business,” Gorodin replied, deciding he’d better establish his authority. “Moscow doesn’t want to raise suspicion that the services were involved in his father’s death.”

“Yes, my briefing included that task, but not why it was necessary,” Zetizev replied solicitously.

“With good reason,” Gorodin said sharply. “Its classification prohibits it. I
can
tell you, comrade, that the Politburo wants the flow of hard currency from the Arabians to continue. They’re counting on Andrew Churcher to peddle them. And we have no proof he’s doing otherwise.”

The
rezident
nodded, accepting the sudden turn in their positions reluctantly.

“Who will you use on the woman,” Gorodin asked, purposely maintaining the reversal.

“Marco.”

“The
schpick?
”

“He’s the best student on my roster,” Zeitzev said. “And he’s already in position.”

Gorodin let out a weary breath, and shrugged.

* * * * * *

Chapter Twenty-six

After filling out the official requisition forms, Melanie Winslow followed the supervisor through a thick wooden door that led to the rooms directly below the university’s Records Building. They went down an old staircase that twisted back on itself. Bare light bulbs threw angled shadows across the walls. Cobwebs hung like drapery from darkened corners. The eerie descent brought them into a damp stone room, where they walked between rows of wooden tables that held cloth-bound ledgers.

Melanie was thinking of the reclusive men who had spent lifetimes in such places, painstakingly inscribing each entry by candlelight, when the supervisor stopped walking and gestured to a table beneath a bare bulb.

“You can work there,” she said.

Melanie’s head was filled with musty air, her skin was crawling with the dampness, and she was having second thoughts about her suggestion.

“Have any idea where I should start?” she asked. The anxiety had dried her throat, and her voice cracked when she spoke.

“Well, it doesn’t look like whoever brought all of this material down here was big on alphabetizing,” the supervisor replied. “But
those
might be what you’re after.”

She pointed to an alcove where boxes and file folders and ledgers
were piled on wooden tables. The stacks tottered and leaned threatening to fall, the floor littered with those that already had.

“Good luck,” she said.

“Thanks, I’ll need it.”

“You’ll be fine,” the supervisor said with a smile. “By the way, I’m Lena, Lena Catania.”

Melanie grasped the hand she offered, and shook it lightly, feeling a little more relaxed. “Where’d you learn your English?”

“California. I think I was four when we moved there. My father was working for a wine exporter at the time. Well, see you later.” Lena turned to the staircase, paused, and turned back. “We leave at five, and the door is locked. Make sure you’re out by then.”

“Thanks,” Melanie replied as she sat at the wooden table, like the monks she had imagined. She didn’t know exactly when Aleksei Deschin had attended the university, so she began with the first class of the modern era, a thick folder dated 1935. It gave off the dank odor of mildew, and the turn of each page filled the air with particles of dust that made her throat scratchy. The folder contained not only academic qualifications and evaluations but also personal histories and family backgrounds, the kind of information she sought, which heartened her.

She had been at it for several hours when she heard a creaking sound above, and cocked her head curiously. “Lena?” she called out. “That you?”

There was no response.

Melanie shifted in her chair uneasily, and looked at her watch. It was almost four thirty. A few pages remained in the folder she was examining. She decided to leave now, and take it with her. That’s when she heard footsteps on the stairs. First one, then another, like someone carefully placing each foot, to make as little noise as possible. She got up from the table and crossed to the staircase.

“Lena?” she called out again.

Again no response.

She started up the stairs. Cautiously, at first, craning to see around each turn as she approached it. Then, anxiety building, she started climbing faster.

Suddenly, there was a loud click and the lights went out, plunging the space into absolute blackness.

Melanie froze on the staircase.

“Excuse me?” she called out. “There’s someone down here! Please wait!”

Now the footsteps ascended—quickly, noisily.

She grasped the railing, and started running up the stairs in the darkness. Her shins smacked into the treads. She groped and stumbled and fell. The door hinge creaked above. She got to her feet and resumed climbing. Faster and faster, through one turn in the twisting staircase, then another. It couldn’t be much further now. It couldn’t. Oh God, it could! She shuddered at the memory of demons chasing her up a staircase that had no end; night after night as a child, she had climbed it in sweat-soaked terror until her father would hear the thrashing and hold her in his arms until she was sleeping peacefully again. She came through still another turn. The door lay dead ahead. A shaft of light came from between the frame and the thick wooden edge. It was still open! She dashed up the last few steps, and lunged for it.

On the opposite side, Marco Profetta listened as the onrushing footsteps came closer and closer. He waited until the very last moment, and then he slammed the massive door shut, and threw the deadbolt home.

Melanie’s palms slapped against the wood just as it closed with a heavy thud, and clang of the bolt.

“There’s someone in here!” she shouted. “Open the door, please! Lena! Marco! Anybody?”

Marco stepped back from the door, and snickered. A short time ago when Zeitzev called, Marco assured him he’d find a way to deal with the pushy American woman. And he derived a perverse pleasure from the method he’d chosen. He turned, and sauntered back to the rows of gray steel cabinets, and resumed filing.

Though the time was barely 4:40
P.M.,
no one else was there to hear Melanie’s pleas for help. A short time earlier, Lena and the others had been quite pleased that Marco had volunteered to stay until five and cover for them. In Rome, the chance to get a headstart on rush hour traffic, especially on Friday, is not taken lightly.

Melanie stopped shouting and leaned against the door. The thought of being locked in the dank obsidian basement for the entire weekend made her shiver.

* * * * * *

The scent of perfume no longer permeated Suite 610 in the Hassler. After removing the page with the astonishing message from the typewriter, Andrew put a match to one corner, tossed it into the waste-basket, then flushed the ashes down the toilet. Traces of the acrid fumes still hung in the air.

Andrew had fallen onto the huge bed to nap; but he was restless and anxious, and every five minutes, or so it seemed, he checked his watch
to see if it was time to leave—time to meet the Russian woman whom he assumed had typed it; then called, alerting him to it.

He returned phone calls to pass the time. Most clients just wanted to be assured that he’d still be attending the auctions in the Soviet Union despite his father’s death. He’d returned Borsa’s call first. But Italy’s Defense Minister was working the weekend, and left the number of his office in the Quiranale, the Seat of Federal Government. The line had been busy for hours, and Andrew tried it a half dozen times before he finally got through.

“Minister Borsa?—Andrew Churcher.”

“Andrew,” Borsa said in a solemn voice, “I am stunned about your father. My sincere condolences.”

“Thank you, sir. I know how close you both were, and how much he respected your leadership in the equestrian community. Your help will be invaluable.”

“I’d been planning to assist you, Andrew. And, under the circumstances, I feel doubly bound to do so; but I’m afraid my time at the show will be greatly diminished this year. That’s why I called.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. What’s the problem?”

“Always the same—Americans and Russians.”

An ironic smile broke across Andrew’s face.

“I’m returning to Geneva tonight,” Borsa went on. “But I plan to be in Rome next week to host the benefit auction for World Peace, as I do every year. And I
am
in need of some breeding stock from Tersk. Would it be possible for us to meet, then?”

“Absolutely. At your convenience.”

“Good. Tuesday, around noon. Come to my private box in the amphitheater,” he said. “Perhaps I will sell
you
a horse. It is a most worthy cause.”

Andrew made a few more calls, then he started feeling light-headed and realized that he was somewhere over the Atlantic when he’d last eaten. He was reaching for the phone to call room service when he decided he couldn’t spend another minute in the suite. Earlier, he had promised Fausto that he would let him know if he was going out, but Andrew wanted to be alone; he wanted to walk, and get some fresh air, and think about the woman he’d be meeting; the woman who had made the bold claim—“He was murdered. I know why.”

Andrew grabbed his jacket, and an apple from the bowl on the credenza, and left.

Valery Gorodin was in the bar off to one side of the Hassler’s ornate lobby. A copy of
Le Monde
,
the French evening newspaper, was spread
out on the table in front of him. Indeed, it was as M. Coudray that he lifted a glass containing the dregs of a Campari and soda, and rattled the ice cubes at a passing waiter.

“
Garcon
?”
Gorodin called out.
“Garcon, en outre, s’il vous
—
”
he paused, feigning he was correcting himself, and said,
“Encora. Encora per favore.”

Hours ago, too many hours ago Gorodin thought, he had settled at this table along the glass wall from where he could monitor the bank of elevators. In his enthusiastic return to field work, he had conveniently forgotten about the waiting, the boredom, the effort to remain alert while trying to appear disinterested and casual, that are often part of it. His right calf had fallen asleep. He had reached under the table and was massaging it when he spotted Andrew coming across the lobby from the elevator.

Andrew plucked a street map from the concierge’s desk, and headed toward the doors that led to the street.

Gorodin almost cheered at the sight of him. He casually folded his paper, tossed some lire on the table, and limped out of the bar into the lobby.

Andrew came out of the hotel onto Via Sistina, studying the map; then crossed the street and started down the Spanish Steps, heading for the area of knotted streets around Fontana di Trevi. The city was alive with vehicles and pedestrians, and the crisp twilight of the cold night raised his spirits. He jammed his hands in his pockets and quickened his step.

Gorodin gauged Andrew’s direction from within the lobby. Then he exited, crossed to the top of the broad staircase, and watched him descend. His calf was still all pins and needles. He shook his leg in an effort to restore the circulation, and waited until Andrew had reached the piazza below before starting down himself.

* * * * * *

About a half mile away, a battered Fiat was parked adjacent to the high stucco wall that parallels Via Ludovisi, opposite the Hotel Eden. Kovlek sat in the darkness, next to a KGB driver, patiently watching the windows of a second floor room. Occasionally, a shadow could be seen moving across the sheer curtains. In less than an hour, Raina Maiskaya would leave the hotel for her meeting with Andrew Churcher.

* * * * * *