Rockets' Red Glare

Chapter Twenty

The sun shone with golden brilliance on Comiso, Sicily, an agrarian community sprinkled across a lush southern plateau. A nightingale flew low over the grassy fields, and landed on a vine laden with wild berries. All morning, the bird had been siphoning the sweet nectar and ferrying it to her young, nearby. Now, she heard a distant clanking and stiffened.

About a half mile away, a convoy of earth movers, led by a huge bulldozer, lumbered over the crest of a hill, like an invading army. Indeed, the olive drab equipment displayed military markings, and soldiers from the Italian Corps of Engineers sat in the cabs.

The racket grew louder.

The frightened bird flew off.

A short time earlier, more than a hundred protestors had assembled in the flower-dotted fields. Now they placed themselves between the advancing convoy and the grove where the bird was foraging.

The bulldozer charged down the hill toward them.

For centuries, Comiso’s richly vegetated plateaus have been a haven for wildlife and a nesting ground for birds migrating south for the winter from across the continent — an ideal sanctuary due to the area’s extreme isolation, predictably mild climate, and strategic location in the center of the Mediterranean.

For these same reasons, experts at NATO, in consultation with the Pentagon, had selected Comiso for deployment of one hundred and twelve American cruise missiles. This site “maximized the potential” for the intermediate-range low-flying weapons to be launched without interference from man or nature, and to strike preselected targets with their nuclear warheads.

A year before, when the Italian government sanctioned deployment, hordes of placard-waving peace demonstrators from across Western Europe descended on Comiso. The diverse group had been assembled by a resourceful young woman named Dominica Maresca.

The daughter of a wealthy Venetian industrialist, Dominica grew up in an opulent palazzo on the city’s Grand Canal, and was schooled in local convents. A willowy beauty with the almond-shaped face and long, sharply cut nose of her forebears, she could have been the model for Modigliani’s “La Belle Romaine.” But behind the serene mask throbbed a recalcitrant vein, and at eighteen, she broke with her family and strict religious upbringing to attend the University of Bologna, where she joined the Italian Communist party, and worked as an organizer in elections. The latter brought her to Rome, where her antinuclear stance came to the attention of Ilya Zeitzev, the KGB rezident.

Zeitzev was a ruddy, obese man in his fifties with a lumbering gait, and tiny, tightly gathered features that gave his large face a rather pinched expression. He worked out of the Soviet Embassy — a stone building hidden behind sheets of steel which are welded to the wrought iron fence that rings the grounds — where he was listed as deputy cultural attaché, a cover that gave him diplomatic immunity. This meant he couldn’t be prosecuted should his espionage activities be exposed. Indeed, he could commit murder in front of witnesses, and at worst be expelled. More practically, Zeitzev could park anywhere without his car being cited or towed azway. And in a city of almost two million vehicles, the DPL license plates were the real payoff.

Diplomatic status also gave Zeitzev an entree to events where government, business, and cultural leaders mingled. At such an event, a fundraiser for World Peace sponsored by the Italian Communist party, Zeitzev first approached Dominica Maresca.

The benefit was part of the International Horse Show at Piazza dei Siena in the Borghese Gardens. The amphitheater encircled the forecourt of a fourteenth-century castle which housed the exclusive, elegantly furnished indoor boxes — each connected to a private stable beneath — of the leading Italian breeders. Each box opened onto a sweeping balcony that overlooked the arena and flanked the castle’s entrance, a massive stone door displaying the crest of the original owner. At the trumpeted call to colors, an ingenious mechanism swung the slab upward into a horizontal position behind the castle’s facade, creating a dramatic entrance for the horses. Brightly colored banners ringed the arena, adding to the air of pageantry. That of famiglia Borsa, long prominent in international equestrian circles and philanthropies, fluttered from the center pole.

The current scion, Italy’s Defense Minister Giancarlo Borsa, hosted the benefit. Tall, with thoughtful eyes and flowing white mane, Borsa exemplified the ideal of noblesse oblige in which he was raised as he strode from his private box, joining the guests assembled on the balcony. As if on cue, the sun moved above a prism built into the tower across the arena and, as Renaissance architects intended, projected a beam of light onto the stone door illuminating the crest. The ambient glow created an aura around Borsa as he held court amidst the guests, Dominica Maresca among them.

“You really think Hilliard’s proposal is the answer,” the statuesque Venetian said, provoking him.

“Yes. It will force the Soviets to the table,” Borsa replied. “I think Italy should deploy. Will deploy, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I think it’s a ruse. Sleight of hand to achieve the very thing Hilliard claims to oppose.”

“Young lady,” Borsa said somewhat condescendingly, “Perhaps you’re forgetting, there are those committed to keeping him honest — myself among them.”

“Then it’s time you stopped him from using the promise of nuclear cutbacks as an excuse to build up his own arsenal.”

“It’s obvious you have no understanding of the man’s policy,” Borsa replied, setting off a chorus of support among the group.

“It’s an indefensible policy,” she retorted.

“An apocryphal one, as well,” said Zeitzev, timing his entrance to provide Dominica with an ally just when it seemed there were none to be had. He took her arm and directed her away from the group. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t hold back any longer,” he went on as they strolled along the balcony. “You seemed surrounded by the enemy.”

“By choice,” she said spiritedly. “Best way to turn them around is from the inside.”

“I agree. But as they say in my country, ‘You can’t turn stampeding caribou from the middle of the herd’—not without being trampled.”

“Someone has to take the risks.”

“I might be in a position to minimize them.”

Dominica tilted her head, considering the remark. “Why offer to help me?”

“Because we share the same goals,” he replied, going on to say he was impressed by her work, and introducing himself as the Soviet cultural attaché.

The latter was a test. Most responded by asking why he was involved in matters outside his official jurisdiction. Most failed.

“Good. I just wanted to be certain,” she said, assuming he was KGB.

A trumpeted fanfare echoed through the arena. The castle’s massive stone door rumbled loudly, and began rising. The prized Arabian horses that would be auctioned to raise money pranced onto the red clay.

That was a year ago, and since, with Zeitzev’s support, Dominica infiltrated the European peace movement and incited many antinuclear demonstrations. Despite her efforts, the cruise missiles had been standing quietly in their silos in Comiso for months.

Recently, pressure applied by President Hilliard on NATO countries reluctant to deploy nuclear weapons had given rise to increasingly rabid opposition. NATO personnel, as well as business and political leaders outspoken in their support, had become terrorist targets.

Such incidents prompted NATO to issue a directive that antiterrorist measures at all bases be tightened. This meant that the wildlife sanctuaries next to the silos in Comiso had to be cleared of vegetation.

About a week later, when Ilya Zeitzev arrived in his office on the second floor of the Soviet Embassy, deputy rezident Antonin Kovlek was waiting for him. Kovlek was a taut man with thick glasses that belied his limited intellect. Prioritizing the influx of intelligence data was one of his responsibilities.

While Kovlek briefed him on NATO’s decision to remove the vegetation in Comiso, Zeitzev took a wedge of taleggio, one of the Italian cheeses that had become his passion, from a small refrigerator. He lowered his massive body into his desk chair, and began peeling the wrapper from the cheese. He knew the vegetation in Comiso provided cover for his agents who routinely monitored the NATO installation, and — should the Politburo so decide — would also provide a staging area from which to launch a terrorist attack on it.

“When, Comrade? Do we know when?” he asked impatiently the instant he grasped the implications.

Kovlek nodded crisply, and handed Zeitzev a photocopy of a document that displayed the official seal of the Italian Defense Ministry. “The twenty-third according to this directive we obtained,” the deputy replied. “That’s a Monday.”

“A little more than three weeks,” Zeitzev calculated in a tone that suggested he was unhappy with the little time he had to counter the plan.

“Yes, but the vegetation is on Italian land. So, the Italian Army will remove it. Therefore, three weeks could easily turn into three months,” Kovlek replied jauntily, hoping to mollify him.

“Or three days,” Zeitzev snapped, holding up the photocopy. “Did you see the signature on this?”

“Borsa,” Kovlek said flatly.

“Borsa, head of the Defense Ministry. Borsa, champion of deployment,” Zeitzev lectured.

He shook his head and slipped a piece of the cheese between his lips, savoring the nutty flavor that made the roof of his mouth tingle — a timely reminder of how much he enjoyed the advantages of being posted in a Western capital, and of how unhappy his mentors at No. 2 Dzerzhinsky Square would be if NATO curtailed surveillance of the missile base.

“This plan, Comrade — it must, must be subverted,” he said. “Give it to Dominica.”

Now, as the equipment that would remove the vegetation charged across the field, Dominica Maresca, once again, led a group of protestors in Comiso. This time their placards displayed, not antinuclear slogans and peace signs, but catchphrases that lamented the plight of the area’s wildlife. Dominica had rallied environmental groups from across Europe to force the government to declare the area a national sanctuary. However, their petitions had been ignored, and the KGB’s highly valued camouflage had run out of time.

A representative of the Italian Government rode in a jeep next to the convoy of earth movers. He waited until the bulldozer that bore down on the protestors was a few meters from Dominica before he held up a hand.

She stood her ground unflinchingly as the massive piece of equipment stopped closer than she anticipated. The battered plow arched high above her, clumps of grass and shrubs were jammed between the menacing teeth.

The government man got out of his jeep. “I must ask you to instruct your people to move aside,” he said politely.

“And I must instruct them to remain,” she replied, a defiant timbre in her voice.

The soldiers who operated the equipment revved the diesels in response. They built the sound to an intimidating cadence, filling the air with acrid fumes.

Dominica raised a bullhorn to her mouth. “Wildlife! Wildlife! Wildlife!” she shouted.

The protestors quickly took up the chant, turned their backs to the convoy, and sat down — heads bent forward, backs curved, arms wrapped around pulled-up knees — like boulders scattered in the field.

“Fucking assholes,” muttered the government representative in disgust. He was a mid-level bureaucrat in the Defense Ministry. Procedure called for him to report the stalemate to superiors, and await instructions. Experience taught him it would be days before he had them — days during which Italy’s soccer championships would be decided. The tickets had cost him plenty, and no group of bleeding heart ecologists was going to keep him from the match. He made a snap decision to expedite the situation, and signaled the bulldozer with an abrupt wave of his arm.

The soldier started the twenty-five tons of steel rolling, and centered it on a cluster of protestors. He depressed pedals and pulled levers until he had maneuvered the leading edge of the plow beneath a half dozen of the hunched men and women. He scooped them into the deeply curved trough, and yanked hard on another lever. The hydraulic pistons that manipulated the bulldozer’s welded steel arms drove the plow upward, swiftly elevating its human cargo five meters above the ground. With a vengeful smirk, he pulled a third lever releasing the compressed air that held the plow in position. It pivoted downward, dumping the protestors like clods of earth atop others below.

Those who weren’t injured scrambled to their feet, shouting expletives at the soldier. He laughed and made an obscene gesture. The angry protestors surged forward, surrounding the bulldozer.

Dominica climbed up onto one of the treads.

“Bastard! You bastard!” she screamed in Italian through her bullhorn. “Why did you do that? Why?”

“Bitch!” the soldier shouted.

He reared back and slammed a foot into Dominica’s stomach, knocking her to the ground. Some of the men in the group leaped onto the dozer, threatening the soldier. One lunged into the cab and began punching him. The soldier panicked, slammed the transmission in gear, and pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. The bulldozer lurched and charged into the crowd.

The protestors began screaming, and started to scatter. Some stumbled as they attempted to get out of the way. A shriek that segued to an agonized wail silenced the shouting mob. The unmistakably terminal plea announced that the fifty-thousand-pound bulldozer had crushed one of the demonstrators.

Dominica pushed her way through the crowd that formed around the victim. She recoiled at the sight of a twelve-year-old boy beneath one of the Caterpillar treads — his torso pressed into the soft earth, his mouth frozen open in a silent scream, his eyes wide with the puzzled look of someone who had no reason to expect to die. She bent over him and took his hand, which immediately tightened around her’s. He tried to speak, but could manage only a muffled gurgle. Blood rose from the back of his throat, and filled his mouth. The crimson lake spilled over his lip and ran down the side of his face onto their locked hands. His last breath was pungent and warm against her face.

Chapter Twenty-one

That same morning, nine hundred and fifty miles to the north, a heavy rain pelted Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport as TWA flight 802 from New York dropped out of the clouds and touched down on the slick runway.

The time was 11:26 A.M.

Andrew Churcher was one of the first passengers to come through the boarding ramp into the terminal. A shoulder bag containing the client files McKendrick had given him slapped at his side. He ambled along, making small talk with an older couple who had also traveled first class. They were horse people from the auction circuit who, like Andrew, had come to Rome for the International Show at Piazza dei Siena.

Valery Gorodin had traveled coach, and took steps to avoid being detained by those passengers clogging the aisles while removing carry-on items from overhead compartments. Just prior to landing, he had casually moved from the rear of the plane to an empty seat directly behind the first class bulkhead. A position which would enable him to deplane quickly, and resume close surveillance of Andrew Churcher.

Italian military personnel in gray jumpsuits, black berets, and mirror polished boots provided security inside the terminal. Each carried an Uzi slung across the front of his body.

Andrew cleared passport control, and entered the baggage claim area where those meeting passengers were grouped behind a waist-high security barrier. Some held signs with handwritten names. Almost immediately, Andrew saw the one that read “Churcher.” But the sixteen-hour journey from Houston had a disorienting effect, and he continued walking a few steps before he realized that the uniformed chauffeur standing inside the barrier next to the automated baggage carousel was there to meet him.

The chauffeur’s presence reminded Andrew that this was a Churchco operation, everything prearranged by Elsbeth, Theodor Churcher’s assistant, to exacting specifications. In the past, Andrew would have bristled at the long-distance control exerted by his father. But now that he was gone, Andrew found it surprisingly reassuring.

Andrew raised a hand to the chauffeur who had been standing impassively. The man’s eyes lost their blank expression, and the blue in them twinkled as the casually attired young man approached.

“Welcome to Rome,” the chauffeur said in heavily accented English. “I’m sorry about your father,” he went on uneasily. He wanted to pay his respects, but was hesitant to bring up an unpleasant topic.

“Thanks,” Andrew replied, feeling saddened, and distanced from the stronger emotions that surfaced at the thought of his father having been murdered.

The stocky Italian extended a hand, and, brightening, said, “Fausto.”

“Of course,” Andrew said, shaking it. “You drove for us last year, didn’t you?”

“Si, si. And many times for your father before that. He was a very fine man.”

Andrew nodded, wondering — as he did last time — why, unlike the others, Fausto was allowed to wait inside the security barrier for his passenger. A loud buzzer that announced the baggage carousel was being activated pulled Fausto away before Andrew could ask.

Gorodin had been watching from the other side of the carousel. He paced a few steps closer to the security barrier, and lit a cigarette. Then he blew out the match, threw it to the floor, and ground it into the gray terrazzo with his heel. A stream of smoke came from his nostrils as he surveyed the anxious faces that looked past him in search of friends and loved-ones. The crack of match against striker, and the whoosh of sulfur bursting into flame, called his attention to a plainly dressed man, with thick glasses.

After lighting his cigarette, Antonin Kovlek disposed of his match in exactly the same manner as had Gorodin, identifying himself as his contact.

Gorodin’s eyes directed Kovlek’s attention to Andrew. Neither agent openly acknowledged the other. Zeitzev had sent his deputy as a safety precaution, not a welcoming committee. Should Gorodin be delayed by Italian authorities, Kovlek would take up surveillance of Andrew Churcher. If not, he’d keep an eye on Gorodin — Gorodin was GRU.

Fausto carried Andrew’s travel bag and led the way toward a row of customs stations, angling toward the one on the extreme left. The uniformed agent broke into a broad smile the instant he saw them approaching. Fausto winked, and said something in Italian that turned the agent’s smile into a lewd chuckle. Then, further heightening Andrew’s curiosity about Fausto, the customs agent waved them through without even a cursory check of Andrew’s passport or baggage.

They had walked a short distance when one of the Uzi-carrying guards noticed, and stepped forward to challenge them. Before Andrew knew what was happening, Fausto had produced his wallet and opened it with a snap of his wrist that emphasized the inconvenience.

To the guard’s chagrin, he was staring at a brass shield pinned next to official police identification.

Fausto snapped the wallet closed, ticking the tip of the guard’s nose. “Careful!” he barked in Italian. “You lose that, you lose the only thing you have that will get you a promotion.” Then he turned and headed for the glass doors that led outside the terminal.

“So, Fausto, you’re with the police?” Andrew said. He wanted it to sound like a casual observation, but was unable to suppress the wonder in his voice.

“Retired. Twenty-five years on the Questura,” he replied, referring to the detective squad, adding “Twenty-five years of collecting IOUs.”

“The customs agent — that wasn’t a professional courtesy?” Andrew asked, surprised.

Fausto smiled cagily, and shook no. “He cheats on his wife. He got — how you say? — busted in a raid on a sex club. I decided he might be useful and kept his name out of the reports.” Fausto chuckled, savoring the memory of it. “He’s been eternally grateful,” he went on, adding philosophically, “Of course, human nature being what it is, gratitude has always been the seed of resentment.” He pulled back his jacket, letting Andrew glimpse the 9mm Baretta that rode on his hip.

The exit door opened automatically.

Fausto led Andrew toward a Maserati quatroporto. The black sedan was parked directly in front of the terminal, in a restricted area, beneath an overhang that protected them from the rain.

The Maserati pulled away from the terminal, water spitting from its grooved radials.

Andrew settled back into the soft Italian leather, and stretched out his lanky frame — his body telling him it was night; the brightness, despite the rain, insisting it was day.

Fausto wheeled the big car onto a road that led to the autostrada, and pushed a button on the walnut-paneled console. The electric door locks engaged.

The precise click triggered the memory of a thriller Andrew had once seen. The opening sequence raced through his mind: An airport, a chauffeur with a sign, a businessman, a limousine speeding into the night, fingers pushing buttons. And then, in a frenetic visual barrage — electric door locks activating, the window between passenger and chauffeur ascending, deadly gas filling the rear compartment, the man’s eyes widening with terror, fingers clawing at the glass, body falling back onto the seat unconscious!

At the time, Andrew thought it was a damn clever abduction. Now, he thought about McKendrick’s warning, “Watch your ass son. Russians, professionals.”

Andrew realized he had no proof of anything Fausto had said. He resembled his father’s chauffeur; but that was a year ago, and the memory was vague. Anyone could get a police shield and phony ID, especially a pro. Why hadn’t he been more alert, more vigilant?! Why hadn’t he walked right past Fausto, and taken a taxi? Why hadn’t he watched his ass? He hadn’t been in Italy a half hour and already he had screwed up in a way that, at least in the movies, had proved costly. Andrew studied his reflection in the glass that separated him from Fausto, and listened for the hiss of deadly gas.

The Maserati cut through the sheets of rain, turned onto the autostrada, and accelerated smoothly on the glistening concrete ribbon.

Approximately two hundred meters back, Gorodin and Kovlek sat behind the chattering wipers of an aging Fiat, its engine straining to keep up with the high performance vehicle it was tailing.

Chapter Twenty-two

At approximately the same time that Gorodin and Kovlek were following their target, First Lieutenant Jon Lowell was searching for his.

The time in Tampa, Florida, was 8:17 A.M.

The moment he completed his midnight to eight ASW tour, Lowell had gone directly to K building.

Now, he was hunched over a computer console in a SOSUS research lab set up for use by ASW personnel. The electronics-packed facility was adjacent to the main control room where military technicians, on a rotating twenty-four-hour watch, sat at consoles monitoring satellite and underwater cable transmissions. All pertinent data was sent over a land-based communications net to analysts at the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland, then forwarded to the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia.

After shifting his focus to the mystery vessel he had spotted on the satellite photographs, Lowell pulled copies of the twelve hydrotapes that covered the one-hour-forty-eight-minute SOSUS window he’d established. With assistance of Navy Electronics Technician Lew Scofield, Lowell had been searching the tapes for the recording of the ship’s acoustic signature. Once located, it would be computer-compared with all others on file in the sonar library. With any luck, it would match one that had already been identified. Lowell and Scofield had searched ten tapes without finding it.

When Lowell arrived that morning, Sconfield was threading the next to last hydrotape across the sound heads of the big Ampex reel-to-reel machine. He balanced a slowly growing ash on the tip of a cigarette that never left his mouth. Lowell had been working on and off with the lanky midwesterner for over a week, and had never once seen the ever-present ash fall before the technician could tap it into an ashtray.

“Data up, sir,” Scofield announced when he had finished. “We’re looking at fifty-fifty today.”

“Yeah, odds are getting better. Has to be a set of twin screws on one of these.”

“Unless you’re off on the tonnage, sir, and the sig we’re after’s a one banger.”

“No way,” Lowell replied as he settled in at the console. “Ship scales out somewhere between a hundred forty and a hundred fifty thousand tons. That means we’re looking at a tanker or containerized carrier. And either way, something that big has to be pushing twins,” he went on, referring to the propulsion arrangement which gave the big vessels otherwise unattainable maneuverability.

Lowell donned a set of experimental headphones he had been testing. They received their signal by infrared light beam rather than by wire, giving him freedom of movement in the lab. And he had been pleased to discover they were more than able to reproduce a broad range of pure frequencies. He flipped on the tape console that was linked to the big Cray X-MP supercomputers used to process and analyze intelligence data, and began scrutinizing the hydrotape.

His ears filled with the overlapping frequencies of moving ships, sea-life, and the surging Caribbean.

A little over a half hour had passed. Lowell had gotten up from his chair, and was pacing thoughtfully as he listened. Suddenly, he paused in mid-stride, and pressed the earphone to his head.

Scofield was bringing his Zippo to a fresh Marlboro when he saw Lowell’s reaction.

“Low frequency rumble,” Lowell said. He listened for a few more seconds, then nodded emphatically, and sat down at the console. “Yeah, yeah we’re talking power here. Real big plant. Ship’s gotta be in the tonnage range we’re looking for.”

The target was in his sights now. He could feel the competitive intensity building; just as it did in the Viking whenever the hours of tedious searching paid off in the blip of an enemy submarine pinging across his monitor.

“Patch it through the frequency digitizer,” he said to Scofield sharply.

“The what, sir?” Scofield asked uneasily. He was fully conscious of Lowell’s intensity and embarrassed he couldn’t respond.

Lowell flicked him a sideways glance, and smiled. He knew Scofield was relatively new to the job and welcomed the chance to broaden his knowledge. The digitizer was a piece of equipment Lowell had adapted from submarine surveillance technology. He was an outstanding sonar technician until he decided he’d rather hunt than be hunted, and applied to ASW.

“It’s a bunch of chips about that big,” Lowell said, indicating Scofield’s Zippo. “It reduces the sound waves to digitized pulses, cuts negative feedback to zero, and separates them into a dozen frequency ranges. We can listen to each range by itself.”

“Kind of like the graphic equalizer on a stereo.”

Lowell nodded, and stabbed a finger at a row of buttons on the console in front of Scofield. “Give me the high end first,” he said decisively. If he was right, it would be the only frequency range he’d need.

“Yes, sir. And thanks, I’ll remember that,” Scofield said, pushing the button labeled 16/40 kHz, rerouting the hydrotape data through the digitizer that filtered out all but the highest frequencies.

The sound in Lowell’s headphones changed dramatically. The low rumble of the ship’s power plant dropped out, as did the swishing throb of a passing school of barracuda, leaving the high frequency whine of propeller cavitation, the noise made by the ship’s blades carving a hole in the water. The singsong rhythm of the whine he’d isolated was all the proof Lowell needed that the vessel was pushing twin screws.

“That’s the one,” he said triumphantly.

Lowell removed his headphones, scooped up the phone that hung from one side of the console, and punched out Arnsbarger’s number.

The phone rang several times before Arnsbarger lifted his head from the pillow. “Cissy? Cissy, get that will you?” he growled, before realizing that she was in the shower and her son had already left for school. Finally, he crawled out from beneath the bedding and picked it up. “Yeah—” he mumbled in a sleepy voice.

“Rise and shine, big fella!” Lowell hooted.

“Christ,” Arnsbarger replied, wincing. “Won’t be noon for a couple of hours. What the hell’s going on?”

“I nailed her!” Lowell blurted excitedly.

“Great. Glad to hear you’re not a virgin anymore, son. Now if you don’t mind—”

“I’m talking about our mystery ship,” Lowell interrupted, laughing. “We just tracked down her acoustic signature.”

“Oh,” said Arnsbarger, suddenly coming to life. “Way to go. I sure to hell wished it’d taken you a couple of hours longer. On my way.”

In the forty-five minutes it took Arnsbarger to shower, dress, and drive to the base, Lowell and Scofield refined the distinction between frequencies, and digitally isolated the acoustic signature of each of the ship’s propellers.

When Arnsbarger entered, they had already made separate tracks of each cavitation whine, and Lowell was running them through the graphic analyzer.

Two linear patterns moved horizontally across the console’s video screen. Each of the parallel waves peaked and valleyed about a centerline, like an electrocardiogram.

“What do you have up there?” Arnsbarger rasped, looking better than he sounded. “A couple of whales getting it on?”

“Yeah,” Lowell chuckled. “You’re looking at the hottest pair of twin screws this side of Cienfuegos.”

“Separated them out, huh?”

“It was easy. Look at that.”

Lowell tapped the screen, indicating the top signature pattern. It was decidedly more frenetic than the lower.

“Hard to port,” he went on. “Starboard screw is turning almost half again as many revs. Frequency’s more than ten killies lower.”

“Well, let’s find out if that John Hancock has a match,” Arnsbarger replied. “What’re we waiting for, anyway?”

“For your head to clear,” Lowell cracked.

“Ship’ll be a pile of scrap in a Yokohama yard before that happens.”

“So will you if you don’t give it a night off once in a while.”

“You’re starting to sound just like Cissy,” Arnsbarger teased. “But she’s a lot easier to look at. I mean, I could’ve stayed home and heard that.”

“Yeah, but not this,” Lowell replied.

He removed his headphones and tossed them to Arnsbarger, who slipped them on. Then Lowell swiveled to the console’s keyboard and encoded:

This linked the computer in Lowell’s console to the Cray X-MP in the control room, instructed it to access the acoustic signature library, and run a comparative analysis program on the two-track specimen signature Lowell had prepared.

“Okay. Here we go,” he announced, pushing a button that transmitted the data and started the search and match process.

Operating at speeds in excess of one billion instructions per second, the supercomputer compared the specimen acoustic signature with the hundreds of thousands on file. In the time it took Scofield to stub out a cigarette, pull another from his pack, and light it, the Cray had found a match. The laser printer tied in to Lowell’s computer came to life:

Lowell tore the page from the printer, and the three men huddled scanning the data.

Arnsbarger whistled.

Scofield nodded in agreement.

Lowell just smiled.

All eyes were on the third line from the bottom. The connection to Boulton’s KIQ directive was strong. They went to the ranking ASW intelligence officer in K building immediately. Within an hour, copies of the acoustic signature report on the Kira, the KH-11 recon photographs, and a log listing the sightings of the Soviet submarine that provoked their investigation had been transmitted, via a secure communications link, to Boulton at Langley. In minutes, the best of the CIA’s analytical minds were focused on the Kira.

Chapter Twenty-three

The weather in Rome had cleared when Melanie Winslow’s flight from New York landed later that same morning. She cleared customs and hurried to a bank of public telephones. Her pulse rate soared as she pulled the Rome directory from its hanger, opened it to the Ds, and frantically turned the pages to the heading DES. She ran her finger down the column of names — Descano, Descenta, Descilare. The names jumped from Desc-e to Desc-i. Not a single Desc-h. No Deschin, not a one. Melanie let out a long breath, and admonished herself for believing, even for a moment, that it might be this easy.

She took a taxi into the city and checked into the Gregoriana, a tiny hotel that lies hidden just east of the Spanish Steps on a narrow residential street after which it is named. Its fourteen cozy rooms were coveted by those in the arts who were fond of their intimacy and the bright palette used in their decor. Melanie had stayed here once, years ago, while performing with a dance company at Teatro dell’ Opera. She was pleased to find the hotel’s ambience intact on her return.

She showered quickly, slipped into jeans, turtleneck, and leather bomber jacket, and took a taxi to the Piazza Cavour, where she rented a motor scooter.

An attendant in coveralls with SCOOT-A-LONG embroidered on the breast pocket gassed the bright green Motobecane, and gave Melanie a map of the city.

“My last one. I saved it just for you,” he said flirtatiously.

“Thanks,” Melanie replied with a smile. She settled on the scooter and, handling the controls with familiarity, started the engine, prompting the attendant to skip his orientation speech. “Maybe you can tell me how to get to the State Archives?” she asked.

“Ah, si, the Sapienza. You want the most direct route? Or the one where the streets have cobblestones?” he asked with a lascivious smile.

“I can see it’s time for me to be scooting along,” she said sharply. She pushed the scooter off its stand, popped the clutch, and accelerated onto Via Triboniano, which borders the west side of the piazza.

The attendant’s remark got her thinking about the first time she had rented a scooter in Italy. She was in Florence and observed to an English painter she had met that “The young women seem so spirited, so—”

“Fulfilled,” he offered somewhat smugly.

“Exactly,” she said. “They’ve been liberated. They have jobs, incomes, careers.”

“And motor scooters,” he added with an enigmatic smile. “They have motor scooters.”

Melanie didn’t understand.

Hze teased her mercilessly, and refused to explain, prompting her to rent one. And then she understood: the cobblestone streets, the steady vibration, the stimulating sensation building. As a teenager, she’d made a similar discovery galloping bareback across the New Hampshire countryside on her chestnut colt.

The airy dome of Capella di Sant’Ivo — the fourteenth-century church in Palazzo di Sapienza where Pope Boniface VIII, a Machiavellian churchman who wielded the power of his office with unscrupulous abandon, founded the University of Rome — shimmered in the afternoon light as Melanie approached on her scooter.

The state-funded institution, directly across the Tiber from the Vatican, bestows degrees in the full range of arts and sciences. In 1935, the University was awarded modern accredition and moved to more spacious quarters. Nevertheless, records are still kept at the Sapienza, which now houses the State Archives.

The courtyard between the two massive wings was clogged with traffic as Melanie cruised the grounds on the motor scooter in search of the records office. The ride and the cold air had reddened her complexion and lifted her spirits.

A sign that read UNIVERSITA L’UFFICIO REGISTRAZIONE got her attention. She backed off the throttle and steered the Motobecane into a parking area that looked like a motor scooter convention. She hurried up the steps of the administration building and, after a few wrong turns in the maze of corridors, found the Records Office.

The room had Renaissance proportions and had once been a refrectory. Beneath the vaulted ceiling, its plaster darkened from centuries of burning tallow, stood several cluttered desks, rows of file cabinets, and a modern glass enclosure that created a private space for the supervisor.

Melanie paused to evaluate the student clerks behind the service counter, and approached the one she judged had the most easygoing nature of the three.

The young fellow looked up from the file cards he was methodically alphabetizing.

“Prego signora?” he said.

“Si,” she replied. “Parla inglese, perfavore? You speak English?”

He held his thumb and forefinger about a half inch apart. “Capisco un po’—I think,” he replied, breaking into the friendly smile she had anticipated.

Melanie smiled back, relieved. “I’m trying to find someone,” she said slowly in a louder than normal voice, making the assumption — for whatever reason most people do — that comprehension increases with volume. “He was a student here in the late thirties.”

“Thirties?” the clerk exclaimed.

He wasn’t a day over nineteen, and as far as he was concerned, she could just as well have said 1300s.

“Yes, the years just prior to the war. His name’s Deschin. Aleksei Deschin.”

Melanie took a piece of paper and pencil from the counter, and began neatly printing the name.

In the rows of gray steel cabinets behind them, another clerk was filing document folders that were in a wheeled cart. Marco Profetta had no reason to pay attention to their conversation — not until he heard Melanie say, “Deschin.” His eyes flickered at the first mention. He mused when she repeated it, then coolly resumed his filing chores, covering his reaction.

Melanie finished writing Deschin’s name on the slip of paper, and handed it to the clerk.

He stared at it blankly for a moment.

“You do have records that go back that far, don’t you?” she prompted optimistically.

The young clerk shrugged, and splayed his hands.

“Can you find out? Is there someone who might—”

“Aspetti un momento,” he said, interrupting her. He turned from Melanie, crossed the room, and entered the glass enclosure. A slim, fashionably attired woman was working at a computer terminal.

Melanie couldn’t hear what was being said. But she could see the clerk explaining, and the woman responding with a pained expression, and making quick little negative movements with her head. Melanie decided it was time to be more assertive, and walked around the counter to the glass enclosure.

“Tell her I’m trying to find my father,” she said, addressing the clerk. “Tell her it’s very important.”

The supervisor looked up with a slightly piqued expression. “I’m sorry, but we can’t accommodate you,” she replied coolly, in excellent English. “Current records are on the computer. Those from recent years, though inactive, are filed here as you can see. But anything from before the war—” she let the sentence trail off, shaking no with the same quick movement of her head she had used with the clerk, then resumed, “—they would be almost impossible to retrieve.”

“But you do have them,” Melanie said, undaunted.

“Some,” the supervisor reluctantly admitted. “But it could take days, even weeks, in the archives just to find the proper volume. If it wasn’t destroyed in the war. I’d like to help you, but—”

“Then please hear me out,” Melanie interrupted in a desperate voice. “The only thing I know about my father is that he was a student here. That and his name. Maybe the records were destroyed in the war. Maybe he was destroyed in it,” she added glumly. “Or maybe he fell out of bed twenty years ago and broke his neck. I don’t know. Look, I realize the chances of finding him are pretty slim. But I have to try. I have to find out as much about him as I can. And I have nowhere else to start. Nowhere. You’re all I’ve got. I’d appreciate whatever help you can give me.”

The supervisor was visibly touched, her expression more sympathetic now. “Perhaps Gianni can find the records for you,” she said, shifting her look to the clerk.

“I have class,” he said, glad to have an excuse to avoid the dank, musty caverns beneath the Sapienza. He turned to Melanie, and lifted a shoulder in an apologetic shrug. “Ciao, Signora,” he said as he left.

Melanie thought for a moment, then brightened with an idea. “Suppose I look for them?” she said, turning back to the supervisor. “If the records are in the archives, I’ll find them, believe me. I don’t care how long it takes. Would that be okay?”

The supervisor considered the suggestion for a moment, and smiled. “I don’t see why not.”

“Thank you. Really, I can’t tell you what this means to me,” Melanie said.

“There is a form you must fill out first,” the supervisor said, reverting to a more businesslike manner. “We are very cautious about releasing data on our alumni, and to whom.”

She got up from her chair, and stepped to the opening in the glass enclosure.

“Marco?” she called out to the clerk who was still filing documents in the rows of steel cabinets. “Marco, venga qui?”

Marco didn’t look up from the folders in the cart immediately. When he did, he pointed to himself, indicating he was uncertain she was addressing him.

“Si, Marco,” she replied. “E mi porta un forma requisizioni?”

He closed the file drawer and came toward them in a floating saunter, using an effeminate flick of his wrist to take an information request card from the counter on the way. He had heard her call him the first time, but feigned he hadn’t. It was preferable that they didn’t know he’d been observing them from the moment he overheard Melanie say, “Deschin, Aleksei Deschin.”

The name didn’t mean anything to the clerk or the supervisor. They had no reason to know the name of the Soviet minister of culture.

But Marco Profetta did. To him it meant money.

Chapter Twenty-four

The Maserati was traveling fast on the S201 Autostrada toward the city when the rain let up and the skies started to brighten.

To Andrew’s relief, no deadly gas had filled the rear compartment, and no attempt had been made to abduct him. The turn in the weather prompted him to go to Piazza dei Siena — the outdoor amphitheater in the Borghese Gardens where the horse show would be held — prior to checking in at his hotel.

Fausto adjusted his course, left the S201, cutting through the Trastavere District to Ponte Garibaldi. He crossed to the east bank of the Tiber, and headed north on the Lungotevere, the broad boulevard that snakes past the townhouses fronting the river. At Ponte Cavour, he angled into Via Ripetta, and continued to Piazza Del Popouli, just west of their new destination. There, the Maserati’s progress came to an abrupt halt. The piazza was congested with traffic. Hundreds of vehicles were gridlocked about the Hellenic obelisk at its center.

Andrew lowered the window for a better view of the limestone needle that split a backdrop of evergreens.

The sharp crack of a gunshot rang out behind him.

He spun to the rear window of the Maserati.

The tinted glass framed Santa Maria Dei Montesanto and Santa Maria Dei Miracoli, the churches that divide the streets which fan out from the south side of the piazza. Befittingly, the baroque twins were clothed in a matching latticework of construction scaffolding.

Another gunshot echoed through the stone piazza.

As the sharp pop rang in his ears, Andrew wondered why neither pedestrians, nor workers crawling about the scaffolding, had reacted or taken cover.

Silvio Festa knew why. Silvio was the smoothly muscled construction worker using the Ram-set, a gunlike tool that anchors things to concrete. He fired it dozens of times each day, and the sharp report had become just another sound in the noisy piazza.

Silvio was ruggedly handsome; and in sweat-stained tank top, faded jeans, and tool belt slung low on his waist, he exuded a raw sexuality. Indeed, women found him irresistible. He slept with them all and bragged they were fazzolettini di carta—Kleenex. But one had a sassy elusiveness that captivated him, and unlike the others, she controlled the pace of their relationship. Silvio patiently planned to consummate it. She had been in Sicily for a few days on business. This evening, he would pick her up at the airport, take her to dinner, and fill her veins with Frascati, a smoky local wine. This evening, Dominica Maresca would be his.

Silvio pushed a spike into the barrel of the Ram-set, then opened a small steel box. It contained rows of color-coded cartridges that resembled .22 blanks. He selected a powder load, thumbed it into the chamber, inserted the breech plug, and snapped the tool closed. The muzzle had a square safety guard. He positioned it on a two-by-six he was anchoring, pressed down to release the safety, and pulled the trigger.

The Ram-set fired with a loud bang. The spike pierced the hardened lumber, pinning it to the concrete.

Silvio stepped back from his work, thinking about his elusive woman, thinking about Dominica’s long limbs wrapped around him, her generous mouth devouring his, and went about reloading.

Fausto had finally maneuvered the black Maserati through the traffic jam in the piazza. He made a right into the Viale del Mauro Torto, the main road that runs just inside the wall of the Gardens, and accelerated beneath a tunnel of evergreens.

The Fiat in which Gorodin and Kovlek were following was still locked in traffic. They watched the Maserati zigzagging between the angled vehicles up ahead, losing visual contact when it exited the piazza through the arched gateway at the north end.

Kovlek leaned on the horn in frustration.

The driver of the car in front of him stabbed an arm out the window and gave him the finger.

Gorodin was too tired to be angry, and broke into an amused smile.

“Where’s Churcher staying?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Kovlek replied, feeling chagrined and trying to hide it. “A hotel, I imagine. I don’t know which one.”

“Okay, head for the Embassy,” Gorodin said wearily, his tone born of severe jet lag.

“My orders are to maintain surveillance,” Kovlek protested, angered by Gorodin’s lethargy.

“So are mine, comrade,” Gorodin replied. “But the fact remains — we haven’t.”

“Which means we do whatever is necessary to reestablish contact,” Kovlek snapped. “And I don’t see how returning to the Embassy will accomplish that.”

Gorodin had anticipated the rivalry. It was always this way between the two agencies. GRU and KGB were no different than other organizations when it came to territorial imperatives. He was tired, and had hoped to stave it off. But he knew exactly how to reestablish contact with Andrew Churcher, and decided to dispense with Kovlek quickly.

“Pull over there,” he said in a commanding tone, pointing to a line of taxis at a stand.

“What?” Kovlek blurted indignantly.

“Drive aimlessly in search of Churcher if you wish, comrade, but you’ll do it alone. I’ll be at the Embassy. And I guarantee you, within minutes of arriving I’ll know where to pick up his trail.”

Kovlek looked surprised.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Gorodin continued. “Before leaving to resume surveillance, I’ll be sure to inform your rezident of Churcher’s whereabouts”—he paused, letting Kovlek chew on the barb before he gaffed him—“in case, for some absurd reason, he’d want you to continue backing me up.”

Gorodin smiled as Kovlek angrily downshifted the Fiat and turned the wheel hard, pulling out of the piazza into a street that led to the Embassy.

Fausto sat patiently behind the wheel of the Maserati that was parked in the entrance tunnel of Piazza Dei Siena. Within a few days, the amphitheater in the southeast quadrant of the Borghese Gardens would be overrun with international horse traders. The clatter of hooves, prancing before the breeders private boxes, would fill the air.

But now it was empty and silent.

The red clay was still moist from the rain. The musky scent mixed with the fragrance wafting from the pine forest that surrounded the fourteenth-century castle.

Andrew was standing alone in the show ring in front of the massive stone door, thinking McKendrick would be proud of him. As exclusive agent for the prized, and therefore higher priced, Soviet Arabians, this was where he would be competing for millions of dollars in orders. And like a battlefield commander on a reconnaissance mission, he was getting a feel for the terrain on which he would soon be fighting. But at the moment, Andrew’s capacity for strategic planning was limited. He was tired, and wanted nothing more than to curl up in a sleeping bag on the bed of pine needles that lay beneath the towering trees.

He settled for Suite 610 in The Hassler-Villa Medici, the superdeluxe hotel perched imperiously above Piazza de Spagna on Via Sistina. The luxurious cluster of rooms in the northwest corner had been his father’s private enclave whenever he was in Rome. The broad expanse of windows overlooked the dome-studded southern half of the city.

It was just after 3 P.M. when Andrew checked in and found a stack of phone messages; one was from Giancarlo Borsa. Andrew went to the suite and locked the door behind the departing bellman. The phone was on a credenza next to the bed. He took a banana from a bowl of fruit, and deftly slipped it into the telephone cradle as he removed the receiver to make certain the pins remained depressed, and a connection was not made.

He unscrewed the plastic mouthpiece exposing the diaphragm. No bugging device or additional wiring indicating a tap was visible. He turned the receiver over, and shook it gently. The diaphragm dropped into his palm with the same result. He reassembled the receiver and hung it back on the cradle.

Then Andrew went about the room examining picture frames, lamps, headboard, television, chandelier, a vase of flowers; but found no listening devices. It struck him that the flowers had no scent. He leaned closer to an Astramarium, one of dozens of the hybrid lilies in the arrangement. The speckled blossoms looked authentic. They felt authentic, too. But they were made of silk, as were all the others in the vase. Each a brilliant example of the flower-maker’s art.

From the moment he entered the suite, Andrew had assumed that the flowers were neutralizing the aroma of furniture polish, cleansers, and starch that make hotel rooms the world over smell the same. But they weren’t. The competing fragrance, he realized, was the vestige of a familiar perfume.

The exotic blend of essences took Andrew back to that day at the auction in Tersk. And he knew that his father’s woman, the aristocratic Russian swathed in sable, the one whom Theodor Churcher had allowed to outbid him, the one whose face Andrew couldn’t recall, had been here — in his hotel room, that afternoon.

The phone rang.

Andrew was deep in concentration, and jumped at the sound. He let it ring again, then scooped up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Churcher?” The voice was dusky — a woman’s accented English.

“Speaking,” he replied.

The woman said, “This is the housekeeper. The writing equipment you requested is in the desk,” and hung up.

Andrew listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, then lowered the receiver to its cradle. He was puzzled. He hadn’t made any special equipment requests. The gilded antique desk stood against the north wall. He lowered the hinged front that served as a writing surface, revealing a portable typewriter inside. A sheet of paper had been rolled halfway into the platen. Andrew studied it for a moment, then grasped the knob on the side of the typewriter and turned it slowly, rolling the sheet upwards. Four clicks brought the tops of letters into view. A snap of his wrist revealed the single line that had been typed across the page — and then rolled back behind the platen to conceal the message. It read:

The phone rang again. A single, startling ring.

Andrew backed his way across the room, unable to take his eyes off the typewriter.

His hand found the phone and lifted it.

No one was on the line.

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.

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.

Chapter Twenty-seven

That afternoon in Geneva, Switzerland, Philip Keating and Gisela Pomerantz sat opposite each other at a long table beneath a canopy of chandeliers in the United Nations Palace. The disarmament negotiators were meeting for their first bargaining session.

Mikhail Pykonen, the wiley Soviet, held up a copy of the book by former U.S. Negotiator Arthur Nicholson — published after Boulton eased CIA censorship — entitled THE KEY QUESTION. On the cover was a photo of a hand inserting a launch key in the arming mechanism of a Minuteman Missile.

Keating sighed, anticipating a windy tirade on how past negotiators distorted Soviet positions.

“A most powerful work by Mr. Nicholson,” Pykonen began. “And to open these proceedings, I would like to read a scenario he has hypothesized, one which may well be prophetic should these talks fail.”

Pykonen paused dramatically, opening the book.

“Mr. Nicholson writes—‘The precept of mutual deterrence should be held inviolable. The unchecked deployment of advanced first-strike weapons will undermine this cardinal rule, and breed preemptive strategies. Within this “do it to them before they do it to us” mentality lurks the ultimate nuclear threat. And one day, a Russian or an American military strategist will be forced to make such a recommendation—because of the technologies thrust upon him.’ Then Mr. Nicholson goes on to ask the key question—‘Are leaders in Moscow and Washington willing to recognize this threat and defuse it?’”

Pykonen swept his eyes over the group. “Yes!” he said fervently. “Those in Moscow are. Those in Moscow will.”

The delegates around the table broke into applause.

“And they now propose,” Pykonen went on, “an immediate bilateral freeze, during which deployed systems will be verified on-site, those in development divulged, followed by elimination of first-strike weaponry and deployment of bilateral strategic defense systems.”

This elicited another round of applause — which Phil Keating hoped would be lengthy. He needed time to think. Despite the dying Soviet Premier’s obsession, Keating hadn’t expected his negotiator to discard the standard hard-line attitude so early on. And Keating had prepared remarks to counter it. Now, he had to abandon them, and make an extemporaneous reply. He had recently seen a PBS production of Chekov’s The Three Sisters, and as the faces around the table turned to him, Keating’s mind leapt to the Soviet dramatist.

“Minister Pykonen has most generously quoted an American author,” Keating began. “I would like to quote one from his country, in turn. Though not a disarmament expert, Anton Chekov unknowingly outlined the crux of our task in a letter to his friend A. S. Souvorin when he said—‘Remember, a gun on the wall in the first act is sure to fire in the third.’”

Keating paused, catching a look from Pomerantz, who was thinking, Chekov? Bleak, pessimistic, futile Chekov?

“We are well into the first act,” Keating resumed. “And there is not one, but thirty thousand guns on the wall — thirty thousand nuclear warheads between the two superpowers alone.”

Pomerantz brightened, thinking, not bad.

“And each carries almost ten times the yield of the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima,” Keating went on, building to his finish. “Unlike Chekov, our job is to structure an imperfect drama; to make certain that neither his precept nor Mr. Nicholson’s scenario become part of it. Our job is to make certain that not one of those thirty thousand guns ever fires.”

When the ensuing applause subsided, Keating added, “And in light of Minister Pykonen’s remarks, I have no doubt we can do just that.”

The sun had gone down, and a thin wash of purple light reflected from the winter sky when the DCI’s armored limousine pulled up to the south portico of the White House. The results of an intensive DDI analysis of the data transmitted earlier that day from ASW were contained in Boulton’s briefcase, and in a slide projector carried by an aide. The two men stepped from the limousine to an entrance that gave them direct access to the Oval Office.

The President was on the phone with Keating in Geneva. When he hung up, he tilted back in his chair and leveled an apprehensive look at his DCI.

“That was Phil,” he said. “The Russians are—different this time. They’re not rigid anymore, not frightened. They put it all on the table first crack out of the box. Phil thinks they’re up to something.”

“That’s a given, sir.”

“What do you have for me?”

“An intriguing anomaly, sir,” Boulton replied, handing him copies of the ASW data. “Vessel in question — tanker. Cargo, one hundred twenty-five thousand tons of crude. Documents analysis reveals a one-thousand-ton discrepancy between rated and delivered tonnage,” Boulton replied in his cryptographic syntax.

“Which means—” Hilliard pressed, sorting through the pages of data.

“Various scenarios that invite scrutiny arise,” Boulton replied, finishing the President’s sentence. “Conclusion due to unwavering consistency of discrepancy. Precisely one thousand tons each time.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket, and sat on the edge of the President’s desk. “Consider, Mr. President,” the DCI went on more conversationally, “That when the Kira was reoutfitted, a one thousand-ton-sized compartment was carved out of her hold — a compartment for ‘cargo’ other than oil, so to speak.”

“Jake,” the President said a little impatiently, “are you telling me that Herons are deployed in that tub? That a hundred-fifty miles off our shores, there’s a tanker loaded with nukes on a Caribbean cruise?”

“No, sir. Theory considered and dismissed,” replied Boulton, reverting to his staccato delivery. He stood and, with a flick of a thumb and forefinger, rebuttoned his suit jacket. “DDI calculates said compartment could provide only marginal deployment capability, that is, one Heron and attendant support.”

“Hell,” the President said. “The Russians didn’t go to the trouble of reoutfitting a tanker just to deploy one missile.”

“Agreed.”

Hilliard’s face clouded over at the thought that occurred to him. “Christ, Jake — what are the chances we’re looking at a fleet of ’em?”

“Negative. Scenario dictates a missile-to-launch-crew ratio of one-to-one. Submarine deployment is twenty-five-to-one. Limited supply of qualified technical personnel eliminates the option.”

“Yes, the Kremlin’s worse off than we are. And they’re not competing with a private sector that triples the pay in the military. They can’t afford to take crews from subs carrying twenty-five birds and assign ’em to tankers with one. I agree.”

Hilliard flicked a glance to the slide projector Boulton’s aide had set up. “What’s the feature presentation?”

Boulton nodded to the aide who dimmed the overhead lights, and flipped on the projector.

A glowing chart of Gulf and Caribbean waters appeared on the wall opposite the President. The landmasses of Cuba, Central America, and the Gulf coast of the United States were delineated.

Boulton took a pointer from his pocket, telescoped it open, and traced a big triangle on the projection as he spoke. “VLCC Kira runs a triangular circuit, sir. Havana, Gulf, Puerto Sandino, and back. Pick up crew, take on crude, pump off crude, ad infinitum.”

“Sounds like maybe we’re looking at a missile delivery truck,” the President ventured.

“Indeed, a prime scenario, sir. Moscow ships hardware to Cuba. Kira picks up and, under legitimate cover, delivers to Soviet missile base in Nicaragua, but—” Boulton advanced the slide, and a satellite surveillance photograph of Nicaragua replaced the map —“analysis of KH-11 reconnaissance indicates”— Boulton zoomed in to the distinctive geometry of a baseball field; long shadows of personnel in strategic positions indicated a game was in progress —“that said scenario is negated.”

“Because of a baseball diamond?” asked the President somewhat incredulously.

“Yes, sir,” Boulton replied smartly. “The import here is — Russians play soccer. Baseball is a Cuban game.”

“Pardon me?” Hilliard said, offended by the DCI’s Cubanization of the national pastime. The President grew up in Chicago, and spent as much time at Wrigley Field as he had at the U. of C. Law School. Ernie Banks was his hero, and it still irked him that the guy who hit five grand slams in one season, led the league in home runs and RBIs four times, and was voted MVP two seasons running had never played in a World Series. “Let me tell you, Jake,” he went on, “if this means that Abner Doubleday really grew up in Havana, I’m going to be real upset.”

“I’ll put someone right on it, sir,” Boulton said deadpan.

The President laughed.

Boulton nodded to his aide, who flicked off the projector and brought up the room lights.

“So what you’re telling me,” the President concluded, “is that baseball means we have a Cuban, rather than a Soviet, presence in Nicaragua.”

“Correct, sir.”

“And the soccer team would never turn its nuclear hardware over to the baseball team.”

“Correct again.”

“Okay — back to the Kira. False alarm, pack of trouble, what?”

“Trouble — situation demands that conclusion.”

“Until we verify one way or the other.”

“Exactly.”

“How?”

“Visual inspection.”

“Board her?”

“Affirmative. It would require a finding, sir.”

The President nodded thoughtfully. “Very well, I’ll sign it. But we can’t get caught, Jake,” he warned. “No gaffs. I don’t want people telling the truth when they should be lying. Not now.”

“Not ever, sir,” Boulton replied grimly.

The President drifted off for a moment, then tightened his lips and caught Boulton’s eye. “If we’re right, Jake. If the Soviet’s have Herons deployed out there somewhere, that means they wouldn’t break-even in Geneva — they’d win. What would result?”

“World domination; unreasonable demands — without option,” Boulton replied, angered by the idea. “Consider bilateral disarmament in place — a year, two, three—then imbalance is insidiously revealed,” he paused unexpectedly, and broke into a curious smile.

The President stared at him, baffled as to why.

“Consider, sir,” Boulton went on, delighted by his vision, “consider the import if positions were reversed.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Hilliard said, sharing it. “We would have them out of eastern Europe so fast it’d make their heads spin.” He paused, then added, “For openers.”

“Affirmative,” Boulton said, the smile gone now.

The President nodded, decision made. “Go to it.”

Boulton and his aide packed up and left.

The President pressed a button on his console. “Cathleen? Get me Phil, will you?”

The U.S.S. Marathon, a Navy patrol gunboat, sliced through the icy waters of Lake Geneva, pulling streaks of red and green light through the darkness behind it. The swift vessel, armed with ordnance and electronic surveillance gear, was assigned to provide offshore security for the U.S. disarmament contingent housed at Maison de Saussure.

After making his report to the President, Keating had joined Gisela Pomerantz in one of the mansion’s private dining rooms. Lights on the opposite shore twinkled through the mist. The silver and crystal between them shimmered in candlelight, adding to the romantic aura.

Pomerantz raised her glass in a toast. “To two-act plays,” she said, gazing alluringly over the goblet at Keating.

He smiled knowingly at the reference, and touched his glass to hers. “To two-act plays,” he said, thinking the years had given her a radiance that made her all the more attractive to him. Then, in an effort to lighten the mood, he added, “You know, I think that might come in handy during tomorrow’s session.”

She continued staring at him, not as if puzzled, but as if she hadn’t heard what he’d said. Then she smiled, and asked, “What might come in handy?”

“The way you’re looking at me,” he replied with a grin, “Take my word for it — it’s very disarming.”

“I was hoping it would have that effect on you, Philip,” she replied seductively.

“Gisela—” he said, feigning he was taken aback by her boldness. “Surely, after all these years you know better than to expect the promise of carnal pleasures to cloud my judgment. I’m a highly trained professional, sworn to uphold and defend the Constitution of the United States — a married one.”

“I didn’t know the Seventh Commandment was part of it,” she replied, breaking into a wry smile.

“Well,” he said, matching it, “I have to admit the framers were rather passionate when it came to separation of church and state, but I—”

“Very passionate, as I understand it,” she said, interrupting.

“And you’re suggesting we take full advantage of their wisdom—”

“—And exercise our freedoms to the fullest,” she said, finishing Keating’s sentence in a sensual tone. “Yes.”

“Well, I’ve always been in favor of exercise—” he replied thoughtfully, as if considering what she’d proposed. Then, the desire in his eyes matching hers, he dipped a fingertip into the champagne, brought it to her mouth, and began moistening her lips with the vintage Cristal, while softly adding “—And passion can have its moments.”

“I’ve been waiting years for this one,” she replied in a breathy whisper. “The sight of you has always made me—” she paused, licked a droplet of champagne from the corner of her mouth, then, leaning forward until her lips were inches from his, purred “—has always made me wet.”

A tingling sensation rippled across Keating’s midsection and spread down into his thighs. He wanted her now, wanted her more than ever as he took her face in his hands, fighting the temptation to touch his lips to hers. He was thinking that they would be soft and eager and, moistened with the champagne, would fuel the passionate rush, as he’d always imagined, when someone knocked on the door.

Keating and Pomerantz froze momentarily, then settled back into their chairs with wistful sighs.

“Yes?” Keating called out.

The door to the small dining room opened, and one of his aide’s entered. He smiled at Pomerantz, then bent to Keating, and whispered something.

“Tell him I’m on my way,” Keating said.

The aide nodded and hurried off.

“The President’s calling,” Keating said.

“I’ll be here.”

“Could be awhile.”

“I’ll be here,” she replied seductively.

No more than fifteen minutes had passed when Keating returned, accompanied by his aide, and, with cautious optimism, briefed Germany’s minister for strategic deployment on the Kira. Despite the short interval, the President’s call had turned Keating’s mind firmly to business, and the intimacy had been forever lost.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Raina Maiskaya stepped out of the elevator into the Hotel Eden’s handsome lobby, pulling on short leather gloves. In fur hat and tailored wool coat that went below the calves of her boots, she looked like the wealthy Roman women who came to the hotel’s chic rooftop restaurant with their lovers — as she had many times with Theodor Churcher.

She didn’t know she was being watched; she assumed it, and planned to use the long walk to Piazza di Trevi to lose any surveillance. The Eden’s revolving door spun her into the cool night. She walked east on Ludovisi. East was the wrong direction. But Ludovisi is a one-way street, and walking against traffic would prevent a vehicle from tailing her.

Kovlek and the KGB man were across the street in the Fiat. They drove to the intersection, made a left into Pinciana, and went around the block. The Fiat was on Aurora approaching Ludovisi when Raina came around the corner into the glare of its headlights. When the oncoming traffic passed, they made a broken U-turn and followed at a distance.

At the next intersection, Raina turned west into Liguria. A third of the way down the steep slope, she angled into a cobbled alley behind the shops.

The Fiat drove a short distance past the alley, stopped, and started to back up.

“No, she’ll hear the car,” Kovlek said. “And it’s a rat’s maze in there — staircases, narrow passageways.”

The driver pulled the Fiat to the curb.

Kovlek removed two palm-sized walkie-talkies from the glove box, and handed one to the driver.

“I’ll let you know where we come out,” he said.

Kovlek walked up the incline into the darkened alley. Light spilled from a few windows onto the piles of trash and cars that hugged the buildings.

Raina followed the twisting alley to a court from which other passageways branched. She was going down a staircase when she heard footsteps and looked back. A shadow stretched high across a wall above her. Then a figure shrouded in darkness appeared atop the steps. The man paused, unsure of the route she had taken from the court. Raina held her breath in the shadows until he stepped back to examine the other passageways; then she hurried down the steps to an adjoining lane.

Up ahead, two men were unloading a bakery truck. One dragged sacks of flour onto the tailgate. The other stood in the street, stacking them on a dolly. Raina hurried between the truck and the building, startling him as she passed. The sack slipped from his grasp, hit the ground, and burst, broadcasting the flour across the cobblestones. The two men began arguing heatedly in Italian.

Footsteps were coming down the staircase behind her now — but Raina couldn’t hear them.

Andrew was at a stand-up counter in a coffee bar, a few blocks from Piazza di Trevi when the city’s bell towers began pealing their solemn call to vespers. He glanced to his watch, washed down the last bite of a brioche with his second cup of espresso — to keep him alert — folded the map, and hurried into the dark streets that swirl around Piazza di Trevi. He heard the fountain before he saw it, and moved in the direction of the roaring waters.

Valery Gorodin passed the time window-shopping, and had become virtually captivated by a display of lingerie. Italian men loved it and their women loved to wear it, and their shops knew how to sell it. The window was filled, not with stiff plastic torsos, but with photo blowups of luscious Italian models in seductive poses, wearing the risqué fare. Gorodin had given his imagination full rein when he noticed a reflection rippling across the glass, and realized Andrew was leaving the coffee bar. Gorodin had lost his concentration, and almost missed him. He waited until his anxiety subsided, then followed.

Indeed, Piazza di Trevi is one of Rome’s major shopping districts. And the semicircle of boutiques opposite the fountain are among the busiest, especially on reopening after the midday shutdown. By six o’clock, the well-lit piazza was crowded with shoppers and strolling Romans taking their passeggiata.

For this reason, and for the many escape routes in the knot of surrounding streets, Raina Maiskaya had picked this time and place for the meeting. She was feigning interest in some shoes on a sidewalk display when she saw Andrew come loping into the piazza.

Getting out of the hotel had settled him, but now his apprehension returned, and his stomach was churning. The impact of the immense monument in the tiny piazza — the powerfully muscled Tritons charging through the swirling waters on their steeds — gave him a tourist’s demeanor that concealed his nervousness.

Raina watched him, wondering how anyone who looked so much like Theodor Churcher could be so different in temperament. She recalled the time Churcher complained, “The kid’s an eccentric, a cowboy who won’t join the club,” and how she gently suggested he involve Andrew with the Arabians, and how it delighted Churcher when the horses brought them together, as she’d predicted.

Andrew saw the striking woman coming across the piazza. Yes, yes, he could see her on his father’s arm. He had no doubt she was the woman that day in Tersk. And when her long strides brought her beneath the light, he saw she had a cool, mysterious beauty — sharp features set against luminous porcelain, like Steichen’s portraits of Garbo. He stared, unable to imagine how the image had ever escaped him.

Raina quickened her stride, broke into a little run, and threw her arms around him in an expression of sympathy and affection. And he returned it. Moments earlier, he was anxious and alone in a strange city. Now, he was holding this woman who had held his father, who he sensed shared his feelings and concerns, and whose presence bolstered him. He had no idea that her gesture, though genuine, also established a cover.

“Were you followed?” she asked, still hugging him. Her voice had the dusky lilt he heard over the phone.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone.”

“I was, but I lost him.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Andrew said in a whisper as they pulled back from each other, “how’d you get into the suite?”

“Don’t whisper. It attracts attention,” she warned. “With a key — your father had given me.”

Andrew smiled, feeling a little naive. “How do you know he was murdered?” he asked.

She blinked at his directness, took his arm, and started walking around the curve of the piazza. “He called me that morning. He was furious, and said he was going to ‘kick Aleksei’s butt.’”

“Sounds just like him,” Andrew said with a little smile. “Who’s Aleksei?”

“Aleksei Deschin, cultural minister, Politburo, and very close to the Premier. Your father ‘did business’ with them for years.”

“He was paid in paintings, wasn’t he,” Andrew said. It was a statement.

“Yes. That’s where the problem arose. He discovered the ‘payments’ were fakes.”

Andrew nodded with some understanding now. “Payments for what?”

“Cooperation — in matters of national security. That’s all he ever told me. For my own protection.”

Andrew was stunned by her reply. “That’s, that’s just unbelievable,” he finally muttered, the words sticking in his throat. “I don’t know what to say.”

To his extreme dismay, she had confirmed his darkest suspicions about his father. His hopes of disproving them, if only to himself, had just been undeniably shattered. The realization was anguishing, and, despite the evidence, fueled his unwillingness to accept the idea that his father had hurt his country.

Theodor Churcher was a patriot, and war hero, not a traitor; and try as Andrew might, he couldn’t reconcile his view with Raina’s; the data refused to compute. If she was right, the world might soon learn that his father had sold out to the Russians. The thought was more than painful — it was mortifying.

He walked in silence until the impact wore off, then his face softened with a question.

“What’s your name?”

“Raina, Raina Maiskaya,” she said lyrically.

“Who killed my father, Raina?” he asked with quiet intensity.

“Glavnoe Razvedyvatelnoe Upravlenie,” she said, bitterly enunciating each syllable.

Andrew stared at her baffled.

“GRU,” she said. “They’re like KGB — just as ruthless but more cunning.” She shook her head, dismayed. “It should never have happened. There was a package. Your father was totally confident it would protect him.” She saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “You’re aware of it—”

“Yes,” he said cautiously, hearing McKendrick’s voice warning him.

“Then I assume that it has been—”

“No,” he said, anticipating her question.

“They got it,” she said flatly.

Andrew nodded grimly. “You’re familiar with the contents?” he asked.

“Drawings. Engineering drawings of a tanker.”

“A tanker? I don’t get it.”

“Nor do I. Your father wanted the drawings. I got them for him. That’s all.”

“You got them—”

“Yes, from a man I know. A Jew. He’s a marine engineer in Leningrad. A refusenik. His job sensitivity is used as an excuse to detain him. He wanted his son to get out of Russia before he could be conscripted.”

They had crossed the piazza and were a few steps into the darkness of a narrow street. Raina swung him around, and started walking in the direction from which they had just come.

“What is it?” he asked at the sudden reversal.

“Nothing. Just a precaution. I don’t like to be predictable. To make a long story short, I heard about my friend’s problem, and used my connections to get his son out — in exchange for the drawings.”

“They killed my father before they had them.”

“He must have endangered something of very high priority for them to take that chance.”

Andrew nodded, thinking his father had trusted her completely — and he would now. “The highest,” he said. “My father wanted that package to go to the CIA.”

Raina flicked him a look.

“McKendrick took two bullets trying,” Andrew went on. “Now it’s my turn.”

“How?”

“You got the drawings for my father. Get them for me.”

“Impossible.”

“I’ll be in Moscow in a week,” he said, ignoring her reply, and, in a commanding tone, added, “Find a way.”

Raina’s face hardened at his brashness, then eased into a smile. Pure Theodor Churcher, she thought.

Kovlek had been watching from the steps of a church across the piazza, and casually tailed them when they walked off together. Now, all of a sudden, they were coming right at him. He was positive she hadn’t seen him earlier; positive she had no reason to suspect him. He would handle this boldly, as if he had as much reason to be there as they. And so, he came at them, at a brisk cadence.

As expected, Raina took no notice of him as they passed within a meter of each other. As a matter of fact, she averted her eyes. For no special reason. Just a quick glance to the ground that fell atop the granite pavers where he stepped, that fell atop his shoes, atop the flour that filled the crease between the upper and sole and dotted the polished black toes. She knew a man had followed her into the alley; and she put the pieces together, and knew Kovlek was that man.

“I was wrong,” she said, pulling Andrew closer, and wrapping her arms around him, as if they were lovers. “The man with the glasses—”

Andrew’s eyes flicked in Kovlek’s direction.

“Don’t stare,” she warned.

She pulled him to her and kissed him. Hard. On the lips. “I’ll contact you again,” she said as she broke it off. Then gently brushing the hair from his puzzled face, added, “I’m sorry for what I had to tell you, Andrew. And very sorry for this.” He didn’t understand until she reared back and slapped him across the face. “Animal! Filthy animal!” she shouted, implying he had suggested something tawdry. She turned on a heel and stalked off in the direction of a dark narrow street.

The blow caught Andrew by surprise. He recoiled, backing into a row of sidewalk display racks.

Most observers laughed, assuming, as Raina intended, that she had just dispatched an overzealous gigolo.

Kovlek stiffened, and took the walkie-talkie from his pocket.

Gorodin was watching from a shadowed doorway. He winced, realizing Kovlek was about to apprehend her. Left alone, she would think her charade had worked and maintain contact with Andrew, which Gorodin much preferred. He whistled to get Kovlek’s attention, and shook no vehemently to dissuade him.

Kovlek had had his fill of his GRU rival. And having blown the surveillance, he shuddered at the thought of facing Zeitzev empty-handed. He ignored the warning and clicked on the walkie-talkie.

“Vladas? Vladas, are you there?” he barked to the driver in the Fiat. The walkie-talkie crackled with a reply.

“She spotted me!” Kovlek went on. “She’s heading west on Sabini! Move in! We have to pick her up now! Hurry!” He clicked off and charged after Raina.

Andrew had spotted them running across the piazza. He had just started to pursue when Gorodin stumbled purposely into his path.

“Merde!” Gorodin shouted as they went down in a tangle of limbs. He made certain he landed atop Andrew to further delay him and, as they got to their feet, acted as if the collision was Andrew’s fault.

“Idiot!” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. “Ce n’est pas ma faute! C’est vous qui l’avez fait. Idiot!”

“Okay, okay!” Andrew said, trying to placate the incensed Frenchman.

Suddenly, the screech of tires and blast of headlights came from behind them. The Fiat roared past, following Raina and Kovlek into the narrow street.

Andrew whirled from Gorodin, and ran after it. The piazza was cluttered with displays and shoppers, which slowed his progress. He threaded his way through them, rounded the corner, and ran into the narrow street. His footsteps echoed in the tunnel of hard surfaces. Hellbent, he ran a long distance in the darkness before realizing the street was empty. The man and the car and Raina Maiskaya had vanished into the night. Andrew pulled up abruptly, then reversed direction and hurried back to the piazza.

Gorodin was gone.

The fountain’s waters roared.

Andrew was alone.

Chapter Twenty-nine

A pastel moon hovered in hazy twilight as Alitalia Flight 776 from Comiso descended toward Leonardo da Vinci, and taxied to the domestic terminal.

Silvio Festa, the single-minded construction worker whose “gunshots” had gotten Andrew’s attention earlier, was waiting for Dominica Maresca when she deplaned. But alas, upset by the day’s events in Sicily, Dominica wasn’t in the mood for the evening Silvio had planned, and insisted he take her home.

When he parked in front of her building on Via Campagni in the Tributino district, she leaned over and put a light kiss on his mouth, flicking her tongue beneath his upper lip as she broke it off. “Thanks. I knew you’d understand,” she said in a soft, seductive voice. And then, making certain he glimpsed her bare breast through the scooped neck of her blouse, she turned, got out of the car, and walked toward the building.

Silvio hungrily eyed her swaying hips as she climbed the steps and went inside. Then his desire shattered the fragile dam that contained it. He charged out of the car, into the building, and up the stairs after her. He had never raped before. He had never been denied before. Not like this.

Dominica was opening the door to her apartment when she heard the rush of footsteps. Silvio lunged for her, his momentum carrying them into the vestibule. He landed on top of her, tearing at her clothing in a passionate frenzy. She pummeled him, and squirmed and struggled, trying to fight him off, and, finally working a leg out from beneath him, kicked the door closed.

For in truth, Dominica was emotionally charged by her ordeal in Comiso, and wanted nothing more than to scream in ecstacy and drive the painful memory of it from her mind. But she was consumed by it. Consumed by what had happened to that boy, by the image of his body pressed into the earth, the life squeezed out of it by steel treads — and she had put him beneath them. His death was on her soul, as his blood had been on her hands; and she still had the smell of it, and the smell of his last breath in her nostrils. From the moment they pried his body from the soil and took him away, she had been planning her absolution.

Silvio finally pinned her to the floor and plunged into her like a lust-crazed stallion. It didn’t occur to him that she was still controlling the pace; she who knew that women’s rights had become fashionable in Italian courts, that men who treated their women like fazzolettini di carta, like Kleenex, were vulnerable; she who planned to use him, and had.

Soon she had him in her bed, and held him in her arms; and now, while her long fingers made him ready to love her again, she made her next move.

“He will never know this,” she said softly, with a haunting sadness.

“Who?” Silvio wondered, tilting his head up from her breast so he could see her face.

“That poor boy in Comiso,” she replied. “He will never have a lover, or a family, or anything.”

“Ah, Dominica,” he said with a philosophical tone, “there is nothing you can do.”

“Don’t say that,” she pleaded, stealing a glance at him to assess the effect.

“Dominica,” he said comfortingly, gently touching her face, “it will be all right. It will pass.”

“Exactly,” she replied. “Soon, it will be as if he never existed, a forgotten child, a wasted life. I don’t want to live with that, Silvio. I can’t.”

“Well, what are you going to do?” he asked, giving her the opening she sought.

Dominica considered her answer for a long moment.

“Give his death meaning,” she replied, choosing her words carefully. “Force Giancarlo Borsa to pay for that poor child’s sacrifice, so that those who plan nuclear war in the name of peace will think of him every day and never forget he died for their sins.”

“How?” he asked facetiously. “Plaster his picture on milk cartons and buses, like they do with missing children in America?”

Dominica shook her head from side to side, and smiled tolerantly.

“With a symbol. We will use a symbol, Silvio,” she replied, enthusiasm building. “One that already exists. Millions of them, all over the country.”

Silvio pushed up on an elbow.

“Well then, it should be easy to point out one of these ‘symbols,’” he said, challenging her.

Dominica smiled knowingly, almost mischievously. She had him now, she thought. She leaned over him, and ran her tongue over his hardening penis.

Silvio moaned and forgot all about his question.

Dominica answered it anyway, continuing to lick a path from his loins to a sweat-filled hollow on his chest where a tiny crucifix lay. She took it between her teeth and jerked her head, snapping the thin chain.

Silvio blinked, startled.

Dominica bounced up from the bed, and put a leg over him, straddling his hips. The cross was still in her teeth, the chain dangling above Silvio’s face like golden tinsel in the moonlight. Her eyes narrowed in a wicked glint as she put her hands on her bare hips and thrust her breasts forward, declaring victory.

Silvio smiled acknowledging it. He reached up to her mouth and, gently forcing his thumb between her soft lips, took the crucifix from them.

“See?” she said. “Now, all we have to do is — connect the symbol to the event.”

“I can think of at least a thousand ways,” he said facetiously.

“I’m not surprised. I have a feeling you have a real flair for what I have in mind. Matter-of-fact, I know you do.”

“Really? So, tell me, what is it that—”

Silvio sighed, then shuddered as she reached down between their bodies and slipped him inside her.

“I will, Silvio,” she purred. “I’ll tell you exactly. But not now. Ohhh, Silvio, not now.”

She arched her back as he came up to meet her, and stayed with him like this until the sounds he made told her he was close. Then, she purposely slid off him before he finished, and moved forward onto his chest until her wet thighs were on either side of his head. And as she had hoped, he did what she wanted without protest or prompting. Dominica was sure of him now; sure there would be no need for coercion — for the threat of criminal proceedings as she had planned — to obtain his assistance. Silvio Festa would do whatever she asked, because he wanted to please her.

Chapter Thirty

Andrew had been stunned by the abduction, stunned by the swiftness of it. Raina had been on his arm one minute and gone the next. Actually, in less than a minute, he had calculated. From the time she saw the man with the glasses to when she vanished in the narrow street couldn’t have been more than forty-five seconds. Andrew had been wandering Rome’s dark streets for much longer than that, now. He turned a corner and found himself in front of Police Headquarters on San Vitale. He stood blinking at the whirling roof flashers on the Fiats that pulled up with the evening’s collection of drunks, prostitutes, and petty thieves — wondering what he would tell the police if he went inside.

“Excuse me, but I was having a clandestine meeting with a Russian woman when she was abducted.”

“You actually witnessed this abduction?”

“Well, sort of, I mean, I chased the car, but—”

“You didn’t witness it.”

“No.”

“What was this meeting about?”

“My father’s espionage activities.”

“Your father’s espionage activities—”

“Well, you see, she was his lover; but he was recently murdered, and now, I’m trying to—”

Andrew zipped his jacket against the cold, shoved his hands deep into the pockets, and walked on, deciding en route to return to the hotel and call Fausto.

The two had been in Suite 610 for over a half hour now. Fausto had bawled Andrew out for not calling him before leaving the hotel. Andrew had briefed him on events that led to his meeting with Raina, and running on adrenalin, he was still pacing, and still talking.

“Where? Where would they take her?” he wondered.

“Soviet Embassy, most likely,” Fausto replied in his heavy accent. He was slouched in a club chair, and gesturing to another, gently added, “Andrew, maybe you should sit down.”

“Let’s go there and ask to see her,” Andrew pressed on, ignoring Fausto’s suggestion.

Fausto shook his head. “They’d deny she was there,” he replied. “We wouldn’t even get through the gate.”

“Damn. I finally had a way to go with this. I mean, Raina had connections. We were going to meet in Moscow and—” He threw up his hands. “I might’ve stopped them if that Frenchman hadn’t clobbered me.”

“You might have stopped a bullet,” Fausto suggested sagely.

Andrew’s fervor cooled in acknowledgment. He dropped into a chair opposite Fausto, thinking about what had happened to McKendrick.

“You’re sure he wasn’t one of them?” Fausto asked.

“The Frenchman?”

Fausto grunted.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Andrew replied. “What’s it matter anyway?”

“I was thinking, they might be watching you, too,” Fausto replied. “If they are—” He paused, and swung a glance to the phone. “Did the woman call you?”

Andrew nodded.

Fausto’s brows went up.

“But we didn’t talk about a meeting,” Andrew said, seeing his reaction. “And she didn’t identify herself. Besides, I checked the phone.”

Fausto nodded sagely, pulled himself from the cushions of the club chair, and went toward the phone.

Andrew swiveled on the chair, watching him. He smiled when Fausto lifted the receiver, replacing it with one of the bananas from the bowl on the credenza.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said genially.

Fausto unscrewed the mouthpiece, and let the diaphragm drop into his palm. No bugging device. No wires. He peered into the hollow plastic shell. Same result. He shrugged, then glanced around the room.

“I checked the rest of the place, too,” Andrew said, knowing what he was thinking.

Fausto sat puzzled for a moment, then considered the diaphragm in his palm. He turned to the lamp on the nightstand, and began tilting the diaphragm at various angles, so its surfaces caught the light.

Andrew’s curiosity got the better of him. He stood, and crossed to Fausto. “What’re you doing?”

“Aspetti.”

Fausto was holding the diaphragm steady now, adjusting the angle just so. “Ah, look.”

Andrew leaned closer and saw the legend KIZ/1MCR inscribed in the metal casing. “Yeah—” he said, not understanding.

“Koehler Industries, Zurich — one-thousand-meter range cellular relay,” Fausto said slowly, relating each word to the legend. “That’s your bug.”

“You replace the diaphragm in any phone with this diaphragm, and it’s bugged.”

“Diaphragms,” Fausto said, emphasizing the plural as he unscrewed the earpiece revealing another. “One in each end of the handset — to hear both sides of the conversation. They’re the best on the market. And, perhaps you’ve noticed, not easily detected by the untrained eye.”

Andrew broke into an embarrassed grin.

“They work in tandem with a recorder or relay unit,” Fausto went on, reassembling the phone and leaving the bugs in place. “Better if they don’t know we found them,” he explained. “Capisco?”

“Capisco,” Andrew echoed.

Fausto’s face suddenly clouded with conern. “You called me from here—”

Andrew nodded grimly. “I didn’t do anything right, tonight. I probably should have gone to the police.”

Fausto shook no. “What makes you think their inquiries wouldn’t be met with denials? Remember, an Embassy is sovereign territory. It can’t be searched.”

“Legally,” Andrew said, his eyes brightening with an idea.

“Che pazza!” Fausto snapped, knowing what Andrew was thinking. You’ll get shot on sight—legally.”

“Maybe I could get in on the pretext of business,” Andrew went on undaunted. “Make up a story about the Arabians. You know some problem that—”

“Forget it,” Fausto interrupted. “Nobody does business at this hour. Besides, they know you were with her. They’d see right through your pretext.”

Andrew took a deep breath and let it out. “I guess you’re right,” he said, suddenly hit by exhaustion. “What do you think’ll happen to her?”

“I don’t know. I’ll need some time to — how you say—scavasto.” He made a churning gesture with his hands while he searched for the word. Then, literally translating the Italian, said, “Excavate.”

“You mean, do some digging.”

Fausto nodded. “Get some rest. Sell some horses. I’ll call you,” he said, adding, “so to speak.”

“Thanks.”

Fausto patted him on the cheek and left.

Andrew fell facedown across the bed. Thirty-two hours had passed since he left Houston, and aside from a catnap on the plane, he hadn’t slept. He lay on his stomach, staring at the intricately woven patterns in the oriental rug until he fell asleep.

When he woke, it was with a start. He was on his back looking straight into the blazing chandelier above the bed. He lay there disoriented for a few moments. Then it all came back, in a rush, with an overwhelming sense of urgency. He sat up suddenly, and glanced to his watch. It was almost eleven thirty. He had slept for over two hours. It felt like two minutes. He took the map from his pocket, and began searching for the Soviet Embassy.

Chapter Thirty-one

Melanie stood on the top step of the staircase in the Archives beneath the Sapienza, pounding on the door with her fists, and screaming for help at the top of her lungs. It was more out of frustration now. She’d been doing this on and off for hours to no avail. Finally, she overcame her anxiety, sat down again on the steps in the darkness, and started thinking.

She had survived New York’s Streets and subways for twenty years, not to mention the blackout in sixty-seven. She was in her early twenties and new to the city at the time, and spent that night backstage at the Odeon, a dumpy theater on Houston Street in the East Village where she’d gone to audition for Oh Calcutta! on a dare. But that evening, others had groped through the blackness with candles and bottles of wine and pizzas, and it turned into quite a party.

This was different. She was alone, hungry, and softened by middle-aged comforts. She’d expected her eyes to acclimate and bring vague suggestions of steps, and walls, and light fixtures into view. But after the first hour, she still couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. The absence of light was total, as if she was suddenly struck blind.

She was digging through her purse for a package of gum to alleviate the dryness in her mouth when she began thinking about the footsteps she had heard earlier and recalled the sequence of events: whoever locked the door had come down the staircase a short distance, then the lights went out, and then footsteps ascended. That meant the switch was on her side of the door! She ran it through her mind over and over, trying to hear the footsteps, trying to count them.

With one hand on the rail, the other on the wall, Melanie started down the steps in the pitch blackness. It took several tries, first one wall, then the other, sliding her palms over the dusty surfaces before her fingers found a run of electrical conduit which led her to the rotary switch — Click! The bare bulbs exploded with light, sending the angled shadows up the walls and illuminating the cobweb tapestries.

She was startled by the sudden brilliance. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust and focus on the eeriness, which she found comforting now.

Bolstered by the triumph, and resigned to her incarceration, Melanie decided to make use of the time. She descended the twisting staircase to the stone room and resumed her search for Aleksei Deschin’s records.

Marco Profetta spent the evening at Allegro, a gay bar on Paccione, not far from the Sapienza. For hours, Marco had resisted the advances of a barrel-chested businessman who fancied the wiry sleekness of his body. Marco would have liked nothing better than to let the big German take him back to his room in the DeVille, and pound him mercilessly into the sheets. But Zeitzev had agreed to pay Marco the 500,000 lire that he wanted for the Information Card to deal with Melanie Winslow. And his work wasn’t finished.

It was 11:23 P.M. when he left Allegro to return to the Sapienza. He cruised the courtyard in his red Alpha. The headlights revealed dozens of motor scooters still parked in the area. Some were clustered near the entrance to the Records Office. Marco got out of the car, and examined them. His eyes darted to the words SCOOT-A-LONG stenciled across a green Motobecane. A tag displaying the distinctive logo had dangled from the key ring clutched in Melanie’s fist that afternoon. He smiled at his cleverness, lifted the scooter’s molded plastic engine housing, and began the next phase of his plan.

Hours of searching still hadn’t turned up the elusive name Melanie sought. She was opening another folder when her head snapped up in reaction to the creak of the door hinge above.

“Pronto? C’e qualcuno qui?” came the prissy voice from the top of the staircase, “Hello? Hello, anyone down there?”

“Yes! Yes, there is,” Melanie shouted back.

She grabbed her purse and ran like hell, her dancer’s legs taking the stairs three at a time.

“Yes, wait! I’m coming,” she shouted as she climbed.

Marco stood to one side of the opened door, hands on hips, smiling slyly at the relief he heard in her voice. She would be so grateful.

The dashing footsteps got louder, and suddenly, Melanie charged through the open doorway, past Marco, into the records office.

“Signora!” he exclaimed. “We thought you had left,” he said, feigning confusion.

“Somebody locked me in,” she replied breathlessly. “I shouted and shouted. I can’t imagine no one heard me.”

“Ah,” Marco said, knowingly. “Janitor, sordo,” he went on, cupping a hand behind his ear, indicating the fellow was hard of hearing. “Sordo.”

“Oh,” Melanie said, understanding.

“I came back for my book,” he said, holding up a text. “I saw light under the door.”

“Thank God,” she said in a more subdued tone.

“You need a ride?”

“No, I rented a scooter,” she replied. “Thanks.”

She took a moment to collect herself, and they went outside together.

“Ciao, signora.”

“Ciao, Marco. Molto grazie.”

Marco waved and sauntered toward the parking area.

Melanie stood in the courtyard for a few moments, drawing the cool, fresh air into her lungs. Then she walked quickly toward her motor scooter.

Marco got into his car, and watched expectantly.

Melanie dropped onto the Motobecane’s seat, fishing through her purse for the key. In ten minutes, she thought, twenty if she detoured to one of those cobblestoned streets, she would be standing under the hot shower in her room; after which, she’d go down to the cozy hotel bar. God, how she wanted a tall, frosty gin and tonic that would wash the musty taste of the archives from her mouth. She found the keys and, in her haste, stabbed the key at the ignition upside down. She fidgeted with it for a moment until she realized her mistake, then, all in one motion, reversed the key, pushed in, and turned it. The engine kicked over, but refused to start. She waited a few seconds and tried again. Nothing. She sighed, slumped on the seat, and noticed headlights approaching.

Marco leaned out the window of the Alpha coupe which pulled up next to her.

“Walk-A-Long strikes again,” he said, chuckling.

“I’m afraid my sense of humor’s been dealt a fatal blow,” she replied with a thin smile.

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Gregoriana.”

“Come on, I’ll take you.”

“What about the scooter?”

“Call them, and they’ll pick it up. Come on.”

Melanie gathered her things, and got into the Alpha next to him. Marco smiled and drove out of the parking area, heading north on Delia Scroffa.

“What are you looking for down there, anyway?” he asked offhandedly.

“Information about my father.”

“Oh,” he said, filing it away. “My father went to the university, too; graduated in fifty-eight, I think.”

Marco took Copelle to del Tritione and started up the hill. Many people had already left the city for the weekend. And traffic was light at this hour. It took less than ten minutes to drive to the Gregoriana.

“Thanks again, Marco,” Melanie said as she popped the Alpha’s door.

“Prego, signora,” he said magnanimously. “What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Melanie replied, puzzled.

“Yes, I’ll be your driver.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. You’ve already done enough. I’ll get another scooter.”

“Please, signora,” he insisted. “In Rome, a man who rescues a woman becomes responsible for her. It’s an old custom. You have no choice. So, your wish is my command — almost,” he joked charmingly.

Melanie smiled and looked at him thoughtfully.

“Well, there is something you can help me with,” she said. “The Records Office is closed for the weekend, isn’t it?”

“Si.”

“I’d like to get back in there tomorrow, and Sunday instead of waiting. Can you arrange it?”

“Of course, I have the key. What time shall I pick you up?”

“Ten?”

“Si. Le dieci.”

Marco had her perfectly positioned, now. Why follow her, and chance being spotted or losing her in traffic on that scooter when he could chauffeur her instead. He watched her go into the hotel, then drove back to the Sapienza, and descended into the Archives. He had until 10 A.M. the next morning to find Aleksei Deschin’s records.

Chapter Thirty-two

The back of Kovlek’s hand landed on Raina Maiskaya’s cheek with a loud smack.

She lurched backwards, almost toppling the chair, in Zeitzev’s office to which she was bound. Kovlek was standing over her. Zeitzev, and Vladas, the KGB driver, were slouched in stuffed side chairs. They had removed Raina’s outercoat, and the rope that held her to the chair crisscrossed the center of her chest, pulling her silk blouse tight against her breasts.

“Well?” Kovlek shouted.

Raina lifted her head to the defiant angle it held prior to the blow. Four red welts were already rising on the side of her face.

“I told you,” she replied evenly, “Mr. Churcher and I were talking business. Arabian horses.”

“Liar!” Kovlek shrieked, slapping her again.

Raina recovered and eyed him with an odious smirk.

“Then why did you strike him? Why did you run?”

“Because he offended me,” she replied. “He made a filthy sexual suggestion.”

“Another lie! What were you trying to cover up?”

“Nothing.”

“Why did you say you were the housekeeper when you called him?”

“I never called him.”

Zeitzev pulled his huge frame from the chair and lumbered toward her. “Madame Maiskaya,” he scolded gently, “we have a recording of the conversation.”

“Impossible.”

“It is your voice,” he insisted.

“Impossible.”

“Listen.” He popped a piece of cheese into his mouth, and nodded to Kovlek.

The deputy placed a set of headphones over Raina’s ears. He turned to the stereo unit behind her, and depressed the play button on the cassette deck.

Raina heard the two rings of the phone, followed by the exchange between she and Andrew.

“Well?” Zeitzev prompted.

“That’s not me,” she lied.

“Listen again,” Zeitzev said insidiously.

Kovlek had already rewound the tape. He pressed play, and cranked the volume to the maximum setting.

The first ring exploded in Raina’s ears at a full 150 watts per channel. Her eyes snapped open like she’d been stabbed. At the second, she lurched against her bonds as if an electric current was surging through her body. Her head snapped from side to side in a futile effort to shed the headphones as the voices screamed inside her skull unable to get out.

When the tape ended, Zeitzev approached her, dropped to a knee, and removed the headphones.

Raina began shaking her head trying to clear it.

“Now, madame,” Zeitzev said more sternly, “your actions with Churcher have been highly suspect. It’s very important we know what he’s up to. You will tell us.” He stood, walked a few steps, and paused. “Oh, yes,” he went on as if he’d forgotten, “we have other tapes, special ones designed to induce cooperation. Entire symphonies, if you will, that last for hours. You see, Madame Maiskaya,” he went on, embellishing the scenario, “sound is a truly unique sensory stimulant. Dentists use it to increase pain thresholds. We use it to exceed them. Indeed, the human nervous system is extremely sensitive to auditory invasion, which makes sound a most potent form of torture. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know it leaves no visible marks or scars, but be advised, it’s power is unlimited, and its effect can be lasting and traumatic.”

Raina eyed him coldly, with hatred. “I can’t hear a word you’re saying,” she said facetiously.

“That may well be your fate,” was his icy reply.

A short time earlier, Andrew came out of the Hassler, carrying a manila envelope. He got into the first taxicab in the line at the curb, stuffed some lire into the driver’s hand, and gave him the envelope.

“Deliver it to the American Embassy, okay?”

The cabdriver smiled at the lire, and nodded.

Andrew slipped out the opposite door of the taxi and hurried into the darkness.

The cabdriver didn’t know the envelope was empty, and the addressee fictitious, nor would it have mattered if he had. He pocketed the money, and drove off.

Seconds later, Gorodin hurried from the hotel and jumped into the next cab, exhorting the driver to follow the first.

Andrew watched the two vehicles heading north on Tinita di Monti, then walked to the Soviet Embassy.

He was standing beneath a tree, in the silent blackness of the small park opposite the Embassy gates, now. Lights burned in many windows of the staid building. Andrew wondered behind which Raina might be. He crossed the street, angling away from the gate where a member of the Red Army Guard cradling an AK-47 was posted. The high fence was topped with razor-wire; and the sheets of steel welded over the decorative ironwork, not only blocked sightlines, and bullets, but also hand and footholds, as well.

Andrew had walked a short distance in search of a way over it when a vehicle turned the corner and caught him in its headlights. He ducked back against the fence as a taxi passed and pulled up to the gates. Gorodin got out and slammed the door. Andrew didn’t know that the U.S. Embassy was a short drive from the Hassler. He picked it because he knew any cabdriver would understand. Gorodin realized immediately upon arriving there that Andrew had shaken him, and headed here. He approached the guard and displayed his identification, which drew a cursory glance.

“Nomyer sveedam namorye?” the guard challenged.

“Nyet, sbalkonam,” Gorodin replied flatly.

The guard nodded and opened a personnel door to the right of the gate, allowing Gorodin onto the grounds.

Andrew observed the lax check of identification, and overheard their conversation. The tone suggested it was an exchange of passwords, which it was.

“A room with a view of the sea?”

“No, with a balcony.”

“Nyet, sbalkonam,” Andrew repeated to himself. Perhaps the password would get him onto the grounds, he thought. And the fact that he was doing business with the Soviet Union might cover him if challenged once inside. At worst, he’d be denied entry. He was an American. They couldn’t abduct him off the street.

The needles in the VU meters of Zeitzev’s stereo were slammed so hard to the right they appeared to be stuck.

Raina’s long body arched in the chair against the pain that stabbed into her from the headphones. The precise frequency of fingernails on a blackboard had been screeching in her ears for over a minute now. Her entire body was vibrating. But it hadn’t moved since her pelvis thrust forward at the first chilling tone. The movement had hiked her dress up around her thighs, exposing her vulnerably opened legs.

“Best orgasm she’s ever had,” Zeitzev chortled.

“Yes, yes,” Kovlek slobbered. “But wait till she gets a taste of the microphone!” he roared, thrusting his groin forward, prompting vulgar laughter.

Raina couldn’t hear it. She had no thoughts, made no sounds, and saw only violent electronic patterns, as if her mind had become a television screen that had gone suddenly haywire. Her posture gradually became even more explicit, allowing the three Russians to glimpse tufts of pubic hair curling from beneath the lace edges of her lingerie. They were so consumed by their perversity that they jumped when the door opened, and Gorodin entered.

Zeitzev saw the disgust in his eyes and decided to take the offensive. “Why aren’t you on Churcher?”

“He’s tucked in for the night,” Gorodin lied.

His head snapped to Raina. The frequency in the headphones had just changed to an oscillating bass resonance, and her stiffened body had suddenly started to buck and gyrate convulsively.

Gorodin grasped the cord from the headphones and snapped it with his wrist, like a bullwhip, unplugging the jack from the amplifier.

Raina slumped into the chair as if it was her body that had been unplugged.

“She refuses to tell us what she and Churcher were discussing,” Zeitzev said defensively.

“She would have if this idiot had left her alone,” Gorodin snapped, gesturing to Kovlek.

“She’s my account,” Kovlek countered loudly.

“She was Theodor Churcher’s lover, and that makes her mine,” Gorodin retorted. “What happens between her and Churcher’s son is GRU business, not yours.” He swung a searing look to Zeitzev. “I told you it was classified!” he went on. “Contact Moscow Center! Ask Tvardovskiy for verification, if you wish. But I’d think twice before rousing him at this hour.”

The three men exchanged frustrated glances, itching to challenge Gorodin, but knowing better.

“Well, you’re not as stupid as I thought,” he said, sensing their capitulation. “Now, get out. I want to talk to her alone.”

Zeitzev thought for a moment, nodded to Kovlek and Vladas, and the three of them left the office.

Gorodin crouched, and untied Raina from the chair. She was barely conscious. Her complexion was waxen; her clothing soaked with sweat. He filled a glass with water from a pitcher on the desk, cradled her head, and poured some onto her lips, then gently onto her face.

“Can you hear me?” he asked.

Her eyes were open in a blank stare.

“Can you hear me?” he asked again a little louder.

She made a pained expression, and nodded slightly.

“I know who you are, Raina Maiskaya,” Gorodin said. “Your silence could inflict untold damage on your country. Do you understand?”

Raina nodded.

“Good. You are going home,” he went on. “You think about what I said on the way. It will be the most important decision of your life, and should you decide wrongly — the last.”

Nomyer sveedam namorye? the guard would challenge.

Nyet, sbalkonam, Andrew would reply.

Nyet, sbalkonam.

Nyet, sblakonam.

Nyet, sbalkonam.

Andrew had remained in the darkness, repeating the words. He was concerned that he might skew one of the sounds and change the meaning by mistake. He recalled the time he had said “conscientious,” and his listener heard “contentious.” Ironically, he was applying to Rice, his father’s alma mater, and the interviewer was impressed that Andrew had inherited the tycoon’s gall.

The Russian guard noticed Andrew approaching, turned his head slightly, and swept his eyes over him.

Andrew studied the stern marble-hard face in search of a crack, and decided the fair-skinned, blue-eyed, bow-lipped guard would look like a cherub if he smiled — but he didn’t. The rigid fellow personified the monolithic hold the Soviet Union has on its people, Andrew thought. And his admiration for Raina grew, strengthening his resolve to help her.

He was reaching for his wallet and poised for the guard’s challenge when the headlights of a car came from inside the grounds. The guard turned from Andrew, and rolled back the gates allowing it to pull forward, then stepped to the driver’s window and shone a flashlight across the faces inside.

Andrew was stunned as the light moved onto the ashen, catatonic mask between Gorodin and Zeitzev.

Raina’s head turned. She looked right at Andrew, right through him with her blank eyes.

Andrew froze, unable to move or utter a sound. He watched as the car roared off into the darkness.

The guard closed the gate, and turned to him.

“Yes, what do you want?” he asked in Russian.

Andrew eyed him for a long moment.

“Go to hell,” he said bitterly.

Andrew turned and walked away — walked along the welded sheets of steel. He was barely four years old when America’s thirty-fifth President went to Berlin, but he’d seen documentaries and news clips, and now, the distinctive cadence rang in his ears—“We don’t have to build walls to keep our people in.”

Chapter Thirty-three

It was a warm, humid Saturday morning in Pensacola. Lt. Commander Keith Arnsbarger was in his backyard, hitting grounders to his girlfriend’s eleven-year-old, when the Naval intelligence officer arrived and Cissy brought him out back. Arnsbarger hit the Little Leaguer one last big hopper, mussed his hair, and tossed him clothes and all into the pool.

Cissy was howling, and the kid was laughing like hell as Arnsbarger and the officer moved off toward an orchard of fruit trees. The brush-cut courier informed Arnsbarger he’d been dispatched to take him to a meeting with the director of Central Intelligence, who was arriving in Pensacola within the hour.

“Can’t make it,” Arnsbarger cracked. “The President’s on his way over to shag some flies. Baseball’s his sport,” he went on, assuming Lowell or another of his buddies was playing a joke.

Lowell was jogging on Coastline Drive, and well into the ten miles he ran every day when the officer dispatched with his orders caught up with him. The lanky Californian thought maybe he had overdosed on beta endorphins, and was as incredulous as Arnsbarger.

“Will you repeat that, please?” he asked. “You caught me in the middle of a runner’s high.”

He hadn’t expected any feedback to his response to the KIQ directive, let alone one as direct as a meeting with the DCI himself. It had been barely eight hours since the data had been transmitted to the NRO in the Pentagon. Lowell couldn’t imagine what, but he had no doubt something extraordinary was in the works.

The previous afternoon, during the short ride from the White House to his office, DCI Jake Boulton came up with a scenario to accomplish on-board inspection of the Kira. He met with agency strategists at Langley and ascertained from the ASW data on hand that if the Kira adhered to schedule, she would be leaving Havana in six days for Gulf oil fields to take on cargo. Details of his plan were solidified during the night. And the next morning, Boulton — who still held the rank of Rear Admiral, and never missed a chance to get back into a flight harness — departed for Pensacola in the pilot’s seat of a Navy F-14 Tomcat.

Now Lowell and Arnsbarger paced anxiously in “The Tank,” a secure conference room in K building’s TSZ, waiting for Boulton. They snapped to when he, and the aide who had been at the meeting with the President, were shown in by the ranking naval intelligence officer. The same one who had transmitted the KIQ response.

The DCI was a commanding presence in a flight suit. “As you were, gentlemen,” he said smartly. “Sacrifice of free time appreciated.”

He glanced sideways to the intelligence officer.

“Carry on, colonel,” Boulton said, dismissing him. “I’ll reestablish contact before departure.”

The colonel had expected to be included in the meeting. The thought of having appeared presumptuous in front of the DCI unsettled him. He banged his knee on a chair, making a less than graceful exit.

Boulton didn’t react.

Arnsbarger and Lowell surpressed smiles.

“Take seats,” the DCI said. He went on to brief them on his meeting with the President; specifically, the need for immediate visual inspection of the Kira to ascertain the existence of a compartment carved out of her hold, and its contents — or lack thereof.

“Mission objective — satisfy Commander in Chief’s primary KIQ,” he concluded. “Supersecret classification dictates four criteria. One — highly unorthodox scenario. Two — minimum personnel exposure, which means inclusion on need-to-know basis only. Colonel will be briefed eventually to handle ASW liaison during execution. Three — zero equipment profile.”

“In other words, we’re talking hardware that’s compatible with operational climate,” Arnsbarger said, sensing where the DCI was headed.

“Affirmative,” Boulton said. “Enemy vessels expect Viking S-3A overflights. No stigma attached. Four — the import of one through three. ASW data initiators become optimum mission candidates.”

“We’re honored, sir,” Lowell said smartly.

“Seconded, sir,” Arnsbarger said. “We can have our bird on the flight line by—”

“Negative, Captain,” Boulton interrupted. “Mission hardware will be supplied.”

“Perhaps, I misunderstood, sir,” Arnsbarger said. “I thought the Viking was the key to creating the appearance of routine, details not withstanding.”

“Affirmative, Captain,” the DCI replied. “Bird supplied will be a Viking S-3A envelope — minus TACCO and classified airborne navigational equipment.”

“Gutted,” Lowell said.

“Gutted,” Boulton echoed. “Operational climate is high risk. Lead time, minimum. Support negligible. Acknowledgment upon completion unlikely. Logic will become manifest upon briefing. Briefing contingent upon — confirmation of enlistment by personnel.”

Boulton had just given them a chance to change their minds. He leveled a look at Lowell, then flicked his eyes to Arnsbarger.

“Enlistment confirmed, sir,” Lowell said evenly.

Arnsbarger nodded crisply. “Count me in.”

Boulton smiled and nodded to his aide, who stepped forward with briefing materials.

“For openers, gentlemen,” the aide began, “you’ll be taking several refresher courses designed to polish and tune skills essential to the success of this mission — you’ll start with jump school.”

Chapter Thirty-four

Andrew was exhausted when he returned to the Hassler from the Soviet Embassy, and slept soundly. The next morning he was laying in bed half awake, wondering if he’d imagined it all, when Fausto arrived and reported that one of his airport contacts had seen a Soviet citizen, “A woman who had taken ill on a business trip,” put aboard a flight for Moscow. Andrew was angry, but not surprised. It was time to get back to business. The drawings of the tanker were in the Soviet Union, and a thick file of orders for Arabians was his visa.

At Piazza dei Siena, Andrew went about working the balcony, the stables, the private boxes, wherever breeders gathered. And though Borsa wasn’t there to provide an entreé, as sole representative for Soviet Arabians, Andrew had no trouble writing orders. The horse-trading took place over bidding authorizations to fill those orders at Soviet auctions — a “not to exceed” limit negotiated with each client. Andrew knew the elitism, the perfectionism that drives breeders, and he played the quality and scarcity of Soviet stock against it. However, one American, new to horse breeding, presented a unique challenge.

“Russian Arabians?” the man said with patriotic fervor. “I don’t buy Russian horses. I don’t buy Russian vodka. I don’t buy Russian anything!”

Andrew knew from studying the files that the wealthy fellow owned a number of professional sports franchises, a baseball team among them, which gave him an idea. “Well, it was a little before my time—” Andrew began, “—but I heard people used to have a similar attitude about baseball. Then somebody changed their minds. I think the guy’s name was Jackie — Jackie Robinson.”

The fellow studied Andrew for a moment, impressed by his shrewdness. “You’re telling me the Russian Arabians are the best available,” he challenged.

“I know they are,” Andrew replied, undaunted. “You think Dr. Hammer’s franchise would have paid a million dollars for Pesniar if they weren’t? Muscat, a recent U.S. National Champion, was Russian bred, too.”

The fellow thought it over for a moment. “I need a franchise maker,” he confided intensely. “You find me a Fernando, a Gooden, a Reggie Jackson, and I won’t care what that stallion costs me.”

“You’ll have him,” Andrew said earnestly, adding, “especially if that wasn’t just a figure of speech.”

The client confirmed the unlimited authorization. Throughout the weekend, Andrew convinced many others to do the same. This meant he would have little trouble turning the orders into purchases, and handsome profits for Churchco’s Equestrian Division.

Rome’s streets were once again gridlocked, the air filled with honking horns, expletives, and exhaust fumes. It was morning on Monday.

Fausto was sitting in the black Maserati, parked in Piazza dei Cinquecento in front of Stazione Termini, Rome’s classic, postwar train station.

Andrew was in one of the public SIP transatlantic booths, talking to McKendrick on a phone that he correctly assumed wasn’t tapped.

“Twenty million in four days,” Andrew reported.

“Orders are only as good as the authorization-to-bid that backs ’em,” McKendrick challenged.

“Unlimited good enough?” Andrew replied coolly.

“Damn well is, Drew.”

“Thanks. How’re you doing?”

“Real good,” McKendrick enthused. “Been walking for over a week; jogging starts tomorrow.”

Almost three weeks had passed since the shooting, and McKendrick had been moved to a room in the Medical Center’s rehabilitation wing. He sat next to a window, squeezing a rubber ball in his left hand as he talked.

“Hear anything more about my father?” Andrew asked.

“Chief Coughlan wrangled a look at the preliminary FAA report. Those pieces of debris were jagged and charred, which means something made that chopper go boom.”

“Try the Russians.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Did you know my father had a mistress?”

“Raina—”

“Yes. She contacted me as soon as I got here. She was giving me important information when they grabbed her. For all I know, she’s in the Gulag by now.”

“Drew, you’re doing fine. I’m impressed.”

“I’m scared.”

McKendrick laughed heartily, and leaned forward to the window, eyeing the tight bottom of a shapely nurse hurrying past on the sidewalk outside.

“Sounds like you need to unwind, son. You check out those numbers I gave you?”

“No time for numbers, Ed. I’m meeting with Borsa tomorrow, then leaving for Moscow. I’m thinking about stopping in Leningrad after the auctions.”

“Why? What’s in Leningrad?”

“The guy who supplied that package.”

“You are doing okay,” McKendrick said, his tone suddenly devoid of levity.

“I’ll call you as soon as—” There was a click, and then an open line. “Ed? Ed?” Andrew said.

“Drew? Drew you there?” McKendrick said as he turned from the window and saw two wiry Asian men standing behind him. Dinh had a finger on the phone, disconnecting the call. His brother-in-law was standing against the door. Dinh put a finger to his lips, and said, “Mr. Churcher needs your help.”

McKendrick’s jaw slackened at the import, then his look hardened. “Mr. Churcher’s dead,” he said challengingly.

Dinh shook his head no. “He said to tell you not to send the museum package if you haven’t already done so. Either way, he wants you to come with us.”

McKendrick studied him for a moment; then his doubt removed by their knowledge of the package, he broke into a smile and started dressing.

In the Soviet Embassy in Rome, Valery Gorodin sat alone in a cubicle in the rezidentura’s communications room placing a call to Aleksei Deschin through the Vertushka, the secure switchboard in the Kremlin.

The weather in Moscow had been gloomy. Premier Kaparov had nearly collapsed at a Politburo meeting and spent the weekend in the hospital, and Deschin was feeling unusually morose. He was in Lubyanka — the prison block at the rear of KGB headquarters — observing an interrogation of Raina Maiskaya, which was doing little to change his mood, when Uzykin, his eagle-beaked bodyguard, informed him Gorodin was on the line.

“Andrew Churcher is back to business,” Gorodin reported.

“Good. Let’s keep it that way,” Deschin replied. “So far Madame Maiskaya hasn’t revealed a thing. As Theodor Churcher’s lover, I suspect she had a hand in getting him the package of drawings. I’m concerned she might do the same for his son.”

“I agree. How shall we proceed?” Gorodin asked, shrewdly deferring his own proposal.

“The drawings are the only thing that can hurt us,” Deschin said. “Hard currency or no, I think we should revoke his visa and deny him access.”

“A sound approach, Comrade Minister,” Gorodin replied. “But if I may, I would counsel the opposite. I suggest we make certain Andrew Churcher has no trouble entering the Soviet Union.”

“That is highly unorthodox, comrade,” Deschin warned. “I assume you have good reason?”

“Yes, I think you’ll agree, I do,” Gorodin replied. “If, as you suspect, he plans to obtain a similar package, he can lead us to the original source.”

“Yes, yes,” Deschin replied enthusiastically. “He will undoubtedly have to contact the same traitor who gave the drawings to his father. And once we identify that person, we can forever eliminate the threat to SLOW BURN.”

Gorodin went directly to Zeitzev’s office after he hung up. He briefed the rezident on the plan, warning him to make certain Kovlek didn’t interfere again. He was about to leave when Marco Profetta arrived.

Marco reported what Melanie Winslow had said during the short drive from the Sapienza to her hotel Friday evening.

“Looking for her father?” Zeitzev exclaimed.

“That’s right,” Marco insisted. “And as far as I can tell, that’s all she’s doing.”

“Could still be a cover,” Gorodin said.

“A good one,” Zeitzev said. “I mean, who could be so coldhearted as to deny information to a woman who’s looking for her father,” he went on melodramatically.

“I can’t imagine,” Marco simpered as he opened his shoulder bag and removed a dusty, water-stained folder that he placed on Zeitzev’s desk. “I spent most of Friday night in that slime pit. But it paid off.”

Zeitzev quickly undid the frayed tie, removed the documents, and thumbed through them.

“Minister Deschin’s records,” he said, playing down the fact that he was surprised.

“Don’t you love it?” Marco exclaimed gleefully. “She spent the weekend looking for those. And they’ve been in my car all along! Under her seat while I was driving her!” He broke up, unable to contain himself. Zeitzev laughed with him. Even Gorodin had to smile.

“Excellent, Marco,” Zeitzev said. “I’d say, we can forget about Miss Winslow becoming a problem.” Then, turning to Gorodin, he asked, “You really think she’s Minister Deschin’s daughter, comrade?”

Gorodin was thinking he had just been handed the most promising piece of biographic leverage of his career. It had nomenklatura written all over it. “Perhaps,” he replied, concealing his reaction. “But I can’t imagine a Soviet citizen so foolish as to confront a Politburo member with the matter of illegitimate offspring — let alone American illegitimate offspring,” he went on, planting the fear in Zeitzev’s mind. “Can you?” he asked pointedly, reinforcing it.

“Comrade,” Zeitzev admonished, “as one of Moscow’s most eligible bachelors, I imagine Minister Deschin has affected the populations of cities to which he’s traveled, but the affair is none of my concern.”

“I applaud your pun and your wisdom,” Gorodin said. “It’s undoubtedly the wellspring of your lengthy tenure.” He smiled cagily, and left the office.

Zeitzev paid Marco and dismissed him, then his mind turned to other matters. That morning he had briefed Kovlek on what Dominica had proposed when she called from Comiso — the proposal he had avoided discussing in front of Gorodin. Now, brow furrowed with concern, the rezident reached for the intercom and buzzed his deputy. “This thing with Borsa,” he said gravely, referring to Dominica’s vengeful plan. “I don’t want us linked to it if it goes wrong.”

Indeed, thanks to Marco, Melanie had wasted the weekend and most of Monday in the archives. She emerged exhausted into the Records Office above, and Lena wrapped a compassionate arm around her.

“You need a drink,” she said.

“Two,” Melanie replied.

“On me,” Lena said, and led the way to Columbia, a trendy little cafe across from the Sapienza. They sat at a table in the corner close to the window.

“I’ve been through every folder,” Melanie said dejectedly. “I’ll probably never find it. Besides, I don’t think I can spend another minute down there.”

“What are you going to do?” Lena asked.

Melanie took a long swallow of a gin and tonic, shrugged, and opened her purse, removing the WWII photograph that had been on her mother’s dresser.

“Well, I have this. That’s my mother, and that’s him — that’s my father,” she said, getting goose bumps. It was the first time she ever just said it unthinkingly.

Lena studied the photograph, comparing Deschin’s face to Melanie’s. “He sure is,” she said, indicating the cheekbones and upward cant of the eyes that had once caused a dance reviewer to observe that Melanie reminded him of Leslie Caron.

Melanie smiled poignantly, and shrugged. “Maybe I should make copies of that, and distribute them around the city,” she said, referring to the photograph.

Lena nodded, then suddenly focused on another face in the photograph.

“What is it?” Melanie asked.

“I mean, I could be wrong,” Lena said, indicating someone in the photograph, “but he looks familiar.”

Melanie slid her chair around next to Lena, who was pointing to a tall man standing behind Sarah and Deschin. The young fellow’s wavy black hair flowed from a widow’s peak, giving him a visionary air.

“Who is he?”

“A very important man in Italy, if I’m right,” Lena said, taking a copy of the International Herald Tribune from her shoulder bag. She thumbed through the newspaper, and found what she was after. “Look.” Lena held the WWII photograph next to one in the paper. The hair was white and receding now, which made the widow’s peak stronger; but the thin face had the same sharp-edged nose, wry smile, and haughty tilt.

“Giancarlo Borsa, defense minister, departing for Geneva—”Melanie said, reading the caption.

“If it isn’t him, it’s his twin,” Lena said. “He gives political science lectures sometimes.”

“Uh-huh,” Melanie said inattentively, still scanning the article. “Where’s Piazza dei Siena?”

“In the Borghese Gardens, just up the hill from your hotel,” Lena replied. “Why?”

“It says he’s expected back on Tuesday to host some benefit there.”

“Yes, he’s involved in—” Lena paused suddenly. “You’re not going to just show up?” she asked, having heard the intention in Melanie’s voice.

“Why not?”

“Could you get to see your secretary of defense at a benefit in — say — Madison Square Garden?”

“I don’t know; I’ve never tried,” Melanie said with characteristic spunk. “What else can I do? Call him and say, ‘Hi, Mr. Defense Minister, you don’t know me, but I’m a nice, honest American woman looking for my father, and I have this picture, and I thought maybe you might be able to tell me about—”

“It’s a nice walk,” Lena said, capitulating.

The next morning, Melanie walked Gregoriana to Trinita dei Monti and climbed the splendid staircase to the Pincio and Borghese Gardens beyond. The sun shone brightly, and a stiff breeze whistled through the pine forest around the amphitheater, causing the banners to snap loudly. She made her way to the rear of the castle and approached the entrance to the stable area. A uniformed armed guard was posted in a gatehouse, where a sign proclaimed, PRIVATO VIETATO INGRESSO.

“Prego?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Minister Borsa,” Melanie said.

“This area is private. Is he expecting you?” he barked in Italian, sticking a pipe in his mouth, as if that was all he’d need to say. It had a short curved stem that let the bowl rest against his chin.

Melanie couldn’t understand a word he said, but she nodded just to be polite.

“Yes, well, you see, he doesn’t know me, but—”

“Prego,” he said, taking the nod as an affirmative reply, adding, “Ministro Borsa stabili in mezzo.”

Melanie hurried past the gatehouse and down a dirt road lined with horse vans to the stable. She entered beneath the Borsa crest, walked between the stalls, and up a staircase. The private box was a shuttered wood-paneled room, lushly furnished with priceless antiques, Persian rugs, paintings of horses, and countless show ribbons. She stepped through it lively and out the arched door to the balcony. In the show ring below, Borsa, in natty equestrian attire, and a stableboy were adjusting the saddle on an Arabian.

“He’s beautiful,” Melanie called out to get Borsa’s attention, after watching for a few moments.

“Thank you,” Borsa replied, climbing a staircase to join her. “You’re rather early,” he went on, assuming she was there for the benefit, which wouldn’t start for hours. He towered over her as he stepped onto the balcony, and Melanie introduced herself. She was clearly taken by his presence, and offered an awkward apology for the intrusion. Then, quickly capturing his attention with the WWII photograph, Melanie told the story of her search for her father.

“My God,” Borsa said in an amazed whisper. “Look at us — Sarah — Aleksei — Your parents you say?”

“Yes,” Melanie replied, heartened by his reaction.

“I knew them both,” he said poignantly. “Aleksei was an art student from Russia who came to study in the heart of the Renaissance. We were classmates at the university. He was trapped here when the war came.”

Melanie was stunned. She didn’t hear a word after “from Russia.” She wasn’t sure she even heard that.

“And as you can see, we fought together,” Borsa continued, reflecting on the photo. “Against the Nazis, and the Fascists,” he added proudly and, seguing into an afterthought, asked, “Do you ride?”

“Pardon me?” Melanie asked, still in shock.

“Do you ride, are you a horsewoman?”

“Oh,” she replied coming out of it. “As a matter of fact, yes. Yes, I am.”

“Good, I was about to take him for a run in the Gardens,” Borsa said, referring to the Arabian. “And we have a mare who could use some exercise. We’ll ride, and I’ll tell you what I can remember.” He called down to the stableboy, who hurried off to fetch the animal.

At that moment, a horse van arrived at the entrance to the stable area. The guard came from the gatehouse.

“I have a horse for the auction,” Dominica said from behind the wheel. “Give me a hand will you?”

She wore a black balaclava — a fitted orlon hood with an oblong opening for the eyes, worn by climbers and race drivers — and large dark sunglasses. The effect was more that of a trendy fashion excess than a device to conceal her identity, which it did.

The guard grunted and waved the van into the courtyard beyond the gatehouse, following after it. When the van stopped, he opened the rear door and poked his head into the darkness in search of an animal that wasn’t there. That’s when Dominica shoved him into Silvio’s arms from behind. The powerful construction worker pulled an oat sack down hard over the startled guard’s head, and dragged him into the van. By the time Dominica closed the door, the guard had succumbed to the chloroform that had been liberally splashed into the sack. While Silvio — wearing headgear similar to Dominica’s — bound the guard, she returned to the cab and drove the van toward Borsa’s stable.

Kovlek had been watching from his Fiat on the approach road. He smiled at their progress, left the car, and walked toward the gatehouse.

In the show ring, Melanie took the reins of a magnificent dappled Arabian from the stableboy, and swung into the saddle. She followed Borsa across the red clay and through a tunnel to the bridle paths that interlaced the surrounding pine forest.

“It was spring, 1945, when that picture was taken,” Borsa said, “but it was that February when it all began. And what I remember most vividly, is rain — torrents of endless, bone-chilling rain.”

Chapter Thirty-five

The winter of 1944 unleashed violent rainstorms across all of Western Europe.

In Italy’s Elsa Valley, Aleksei Deschin blinked at the flash of lightning and clap of thunder that rolled through San Gimignano, an ancient mountain town. Rain came off his pancho in sheets as he leaned into the torrent and continued up Via San Matteo, a narrow street in the north end. Three men trudged uphill behind him — a Russian, an Italian, and two Americans — searching for a German supply depot in the downpour.

The storm front ran from Rome through Florence to the north — the same line taken by the allied offensive to liberate central and northern Italy. The chilling deluge had eroded the morale of troops on both sides. But it was the Germans — running out of ammunition, food, and fuel — who were in retreat on every front.

Contrary to this trend, divisions under Field Marshall Albert Kesselring were holding their own in the Elsa Valley against the U.S. Fifth Army. These units, commanded by General Mark Clark, were to push east through Volterra and San Gimignano to Florence. They would join Eighth Army forces advancing west, and attack the Gothic Line, the Wermacht’s final defensive position, fifteen miles north. But the well-fueled and fortified German divisions, with an endless supply of ammunition, had stopped Clark’s Fifth Army cold.

Adolph Hitler’s spirits soared at the news. “This is the turning point!” the Führer exulted. “As I told you it would be!”

And he had. Just a year ago, the Führer overruled his general staff, who thought San Gimignano too far west, and insisted the supply depot be located there. The ninth-century city, with its thick walls and lookout towers was not only impenetrable but also strategically located above the roads from the coast to Florence.

Allied Command wanted the depot destroyed. But they had to find it first, and had been working closely with Italian partisans who had infiltrated the valley.

Deschin, the sharp-minded Russian the Americans had code-named Gillette Blue, was in charge of partisan liaison and intelligence. Numerous reconnaissance missions into heavily fortified enemy areas had failed to locate the depot, and he had shifted his focus to San Gimignano. Few German troops were billeted there. Perhaps, Deschin reasoned, it was a ploy to divert attention from the depot. Now, he led the group up San Matteo in search of it.

A stone wall sealed off the top of the street. Much of the soil behind it had been excavated, creating a bunker that concealed two German soldiers and a machine gun. A few flat stones had been removed from the wall to provide a slit for the muzzle. Rain pinged on the corrugated steel roof as the Germans watched Deschin’s group enter a bombed-out granary. The German private trained his weapon on the entrance, waiting for the four men to come out.

“Nein,” the sergeant warned, seeing his eagerness.

“But, they will be like bottles on a wall,” the private protested.

“Nein,” the sergeant said more sternly. “You know our orders. Only if they cross toward the church.”

Unlike other buildings in the city, neither the church, the magnificently steepled Cappella Di Santa Fina, nor the German storage depot in the catacombs beneath had been touched by allied bombs. Crates of weapons and ammunition, and drums of fuel, were safely concealed in the network of rock tunnels. But months of rain had saturated the porous stone to the limit, and water began seeping through cracks and fissures. The gradual trickles had become unending cascades; and German troops were working frantically in ankle-deep water, covering the precious supplies with tarpaulins.

Deschin’s group had finished searching the granary and, having come up empty, was back out in the rain, advancing up San Matteo.

“What do you think?” he asked, eyeing the church.

Giancarlo Borsa looked up at the thousand-year-old structure, rain pelting his sharply cut features. He had organized the resistance in the area and brought Deschin into the group.

“I doubt it, Aleksei,” he replied. “Kesselring has respected our artistic treasures. And we can’t afford another Monte Cassino,” he went on, referring to the sixth-century Benedictine monastery near Naples that the Allies had reduced to rubble only to discover the Germans had never used it for military purposes.

“Maybe that’s why Kesselring thinks he could get away with it here,” Deschin replied incisively.

“Good point,” Borsa said. “But I hate to think of what will happen if you’re right.”

Theodor Churcher threw back the hood of his pancho angrily. “Horseshit!” he bellowed in a thick drawl. “Not a building on earth worth saving if it’s endangering men’s lives, let alone American lives!”

The lanky Texan had just turned twenty, a brash, ambitious, unpolished hayseed who thought the sun rose and set on Texas and the United States — in that order. He challenged the others with a look, and set out purposefully toward the church.

“On my signal,” the German sergeant ordered in a tense whisper. The private nodded, hugged the stock of his weapon, and wrapped his finger around the trigger.

That morning, during a break in the weather, an Air Force C-47, Dakota, headed down a makeshift runway north of Rome with a Waco glider in tow, and began climbing. Three hundred feet back in the Waco, pilot Ted Churcher and spotter Mike Rosenthal were fighting to keep the glider from catching the tug’s turbulence, and pinwheeling at the end of the nylon towline.

About eight months ago, Churcher had completed his junior year at Rice and had come home to Lubbock for the summer. He was flying crop dusters, as he did every vacation, when he heard the Army Air Force opened its combat glider school on the outskirts of town. Churcher graduated number one in his class, and flew over a hundred reconnaissance missions behind enemy lines in North Africa and Sicily.

When Captain Jake Boulton, OSS liaison with Fifth Army Intelligence, called for glider-recon to locate the German storage depot, Churcher volunteered.

Now, 4,500 feet above the Tuscan countryside, he checked his landmarks and nodded to Rosenthal.

“Time to part company,” he drawled. He clicked on an intercom that ran on a wire wrapped around the towline. “Thanks for the ride, Jake.”

“Anytime,” Boulton — who was at the controls of the Dakota—replied. “Matter of fact, you find that Kraut depot, and we’ll tow you all the way back home to Lummox if you like.”

“That’s Lubbock, Jake,” Churcher retorted. “And you can bet the farm we’ll find it. We’ll just keep riding the elevator till we do,” he added, referring to the air currents that take a glider back up to altitude.

He pulled the towline release. The metal fitting unlatched with a loud clank. The Waco cut free from the C-47 and soared, gaining altitude, the whoosh of air rushing over its surfaces the only sound now. Churcher put it on a glide path to the target ten miles away.

Made of canvas over a tubular steel frame, the gray-green Waco had an 85-foot wingspan that gave it a rate of descent of less than 2 feet per second — slower than a soap bubble in still air. Riding thermals, the bird could stay up for hours, needing barely 150 feet to land when it came down.

Churcher came in over San Gimignano against the camouflage of clouds, and made a silent pass over the multi-towered city. Rosenthal panned his binoculars in search of vehicle tracks or troop activity that would reveal the location of the enemy storage depot. During the next few hours, Churcher made a half dozen passes, lowering the altitude each time. Finally, Rosenthal turned from his binoculars in disgust.

“We’re wasting our time, Ted.”

“Yeah, the Krauts must move the stuff out at night. The rain washed away the tracks before we got here. Maybe, if I came in lower, you could—”

“Lower? Any lower we’ll leave the family jewels hanging on one of those pines.”

“Impossible. We’re coming in below them. Matter of fact, Rosenthal, I’m treating you to a bona fide South Texas ass scraper.”

Churcher put the Waco into a steep dive and swooped down over the north end of San Gimignano.

Flocks of ravens roosted in many of the city’s towers. The German lookout in the northernmost one saw what at first appeared to be a hovering bird. When he saw it had a shiny Plexiglas nose, he opened fire.

Rounds splintered the plywood floor behind the Waco’s cockpit, pinging off the steel tubing and ricocheting out the top of the canvas fuselage.

“Son of a bitch!” Churcher exclaimed as he put the glider into a diving turn, keeping a wing tip to the tower to present as small a target as possible.

The German fired another sustained burst.

The rounds perforated the Waco’s right wing. The air began tearing the canvas off the tubular structure, unbalancing the lift and threatening to flip the Waco over on its back. The shredded fabric was chattering like a jackhammer as Churcher fought to maintain control.

“Get behind me!” he shouted.

Rosenthal scrambled from the copilot’s seat. The weight shift helped settle the Waco down. Churcher put it into a wobbly dive toward a field a few miles away, just beyond a walnut grove. Gnarled branches began racing past the bottom of the Plexiglas bubble. The landing gear snagged the tops of the last row of trees and tore out of the bottom of the fuselage.

The instant the glider cleared the grove, Churcher got the braking flaps full up, and dropped it onto the tall grass. The Waco tilted forward onto the nose skid, and began sliding over the wet chaff. It had skidded about a hundred meters, and was losing momentum when what was left of the landing gear snagged a wire fence. The glider came to a sudden stop, and pitched over into the mud, burying the nose — which was the way out.

Churcher was stunned by the impact. Rosenthal, who had been out of his harness, was trapped in the tangle of tubing that had been the cockpit. But neither was seriously injured. Churcher was trying to get out of his harness and go to Rosenthal’s assistance, when he heard rustling in the grass outside. He pulled his .45 side arm and whirled, just as a bayonet stabbed through the canvas and slashed the fuselage. Churcher held his weapon with both hands and leveled it at the spot where the bayonet continued slashing the canvas to ribbons, making a large opening. Aleksei Deschin’s distinctive face peered into the glider.

“Anybody in here need a shave?” he asked in his heavy Russian accent.

“Yes, but we’re all out of blades,” Churcher replied tensely, training the .45 on him. “You have some we can borrow?”

“The best. Gillette Blue,” Deschin replied, completing the exchange of passwords.

Then Churcher relaxed, and lowered the gun.

“Geezus!” he howled as Deschin and Borsa entered the glider. “You guys should’ve said something before you started slashing. I thought you were Krauts.”

“After that landing,” Borsa teased, “we didn’t think you were in any shape to hear us.”

Deschin and Borsa had been waiting in the walnut grove in a mud-splattered truck. Boulton had alerted Gillette Blue to the glider recon-mission, and arranged for partisans to rendezvous with the Waco and get the crew back to Allied lines. And Churcher had skillfully piloted the crippled glider to the landing zone.

The group quickly freed Rosenthal and took cover in the walnut grove, where Ettore, an old partisan who drove the truck, supplied the Americans with civilian clothes. Introductions were made as they pulled the coarse garments over their uniforms, then the talk turned to the German storage depot.

“You know,” said Churcher thoughtfully, “we were up there for a long time, and nothing. But soon as we made a pass over the north end, whammo!”

This confirmed Deschin’s theory. He and Borsa decided they would drive the Americans back to their lines, then check out that area of the city. But Churcher and Rosenthal insisted on coming along.

“Not until I clear it with command,” Deschin replied.

“No need,” Churcher said. “Jake Boulton and I are buddies. He’ll think it’s a great idea.”

Deschin eyed him skeptically, and began cranking the handle of his walkie-talkie.

“This is Gillette Blue to Safety Razor. Gillette Blue to Safety Razor. Come in Safety Razor.”

“We read you, go ahead,” Boulton replied.

“Nest has fallen,” Deschin reported. “Both birds are safe and want to help locate the elusive worm.”

“Negative, Gillette Blue,” Boulton said. “Repeat, negative. Return birds to friendly nest, immediately.”

Churcher took the walkie from Deschin. He cranked the handle creating static, then replied, “Negative. Transmission garbled. Repeat, transmission garbled. Say again.” He cranked the handle, obscuring Boulton’s reply with static, then clicked off the walkie. “I told you Jake’d think it was a good idea,” he drawled, grinning. “Let’s find us that Kraut depot, Gillette.”

The group drove off in the old truck. They were approaching the outskirts of San Gimignano when the cold rain began again. They left Ettore with the truck, continuing on foot to avoid enemy patrols.

Now, Churcher strode boldly toward Cappella di Santa Fina in the downpour. The others strung out behind him. Deschin was in the rear. His eyes caught a flicker of movement in the stone wall at the top of the street. But there was nothing growing between the stones that might have caused it. Then he saw the gun site tracking them slowly across the slit where the stones had been removed.

“Down! Get down!” Deschin shouted.

The German private squeezed the trigger, spraying the street with machine-gun fire.

Churcher dove to the ground, bullets whizzing past him. He landed in the gutter, muddy water gushing into his face. A round had gone cleanly through his left arm. The flesh burned as if pierced by a hot poker. The pattern of fire moved toward the middle of the street. Countless rounds ripped into Rosenthal in the space of seconds, each snapping him in a different direction. He grabbed at his stomach as it exploded into his arms, and fell face down onto the cobblestones. The deadly burst caught Borsa next, popping into his legs, knocking him to the ground, and continued across toward Deschin, who dove into the bombed out granary. The rounds pockmarked the broken facade, missing him; but flying chips of stone cut his face. He hid behind the rubble until the firing stopped, then craned up, surveying the street.

Churcher was laying motionless in the gutter when he caught Deschin’s look, and waggled his hand to indicate his condition. The Russian pointed up the street, and Churcher turned his head slightly to see the two Germans coming out of the bunker. He looked back to Deschin, who signaled how they should proceed.

The two Germans came down the hill, each with a weapon in firing position, cautiously scanning the street for signs of life. The sergeant looked to the granary. Deschin’s apparently lifeless body hung facedown over the rubble. The private pointed to Churcher on his belly. The Germans concluded both were either dead or badly wounded, and continued toward Rosenthal and Borsa in the center of the street.

The private pushed the toe of a muddy jackboot beneath Rosenthal’s chest, and rolled him over on his back. The young flier’s head flopped back and splashed in a puddle. His eyes stared unblinking into the rain that pelted his face. The Germans stepped over him to Borsa who was on his back, conscious, but in shock. He managed to raise his hands in a defensive gesture. The sergeant angrily knocked them aside with the barrel of his Luger pistol and placed the muzzle against his forehead. The Italian closed his eyes prepared to die.

But the sharp crack Borsa heard came from behind him. His eyes popped open to see the German sergeant pitching forward. The bullet from Deschin’s carbine had cut in beneath his helmet, chipping the paint from the lower edge, and continued on an upward path through his neck, blowing pieces of bone, teeth, and tongue out through a large hole that had been his right cheek.

The second crack followed a microsecond after the first. Churcher had gradually pulled his .45 into firing position, and placed the bullet just in front of the left ear of the German private. He dropped like a marionette whose strings had been cut all in one snip.

Deschin ran to the bodies in the street. He grabbed Borsa beneath the arms, and dragged him across the wet cobblestones toward the granary.

Churcher climbed out of the gutter and, ignoring his own wound, did the same with Rosenthal’s body. “Bastards!” he said bitterly as they dragged the two down a short flight of steps into the basement of the bombed-out granary. “It’s the church, Gillette. You were right.”

A few miles away, on a broad plain that stretches beneath San Gimignano, an Allied Field Hospital had been set up. Rain drummed on the canvas tents. Water gushed in runoff trenches cut beneath the sagging overhangs. Tent flaps snapped noisily in the wind.

Sarah Winslow dashed between rows of wounded men on stretchers and entered a supply tent.

A doctor and nurse, in blood-spattered operating whites, were standing in two inches of water, working feverishly on a wounded GI. He lay on a stretcher set across two fifty-gallon fuel drums. A tray containing medical instruments lay atop a third. Light came from a bare bulb hung from the apex of the tent. A gust of wind followed Sarah inside and set the bulb swinging, creating moving shadows in the operational field.

“Dammit,” the doctor said. “Steady that light.”

Sarah grasped it and stopped the movement. “Sorry, I didn’t expect you’d be in here.”

“OR’s jammed up. He couldn’t wait,” the doctor replied, and indicating the soldier’s bloody abdominal cavity, added, “Pull back on that retractor.”

Sarah did it automatically. “I’ve got a kid out there,” she said, looking torn. “He’s bleeding to death.”

“So’s he,” the doctor replied curtly.

Sarah felt like she’d been punched. She’d been in the field almost a year, but the idea of young men dying because they couldn’t be treated in time still devastated her.

“Thanks, Sarah,” the doctor said when he had things under control. “Do what you can for your kid. I’ll come find you when I’m finished.”

On his first word, Sarah turned to the shelves behind her and filled her haversack with the medical supplies she’d come for originally.

She hurried from the tent into the downpour, and ran to a wounded GI. Her knees plopped into the mud next to the stretcher. Blood seeped from beneath it, mixing with the rainwater. Sarah gently peeled away the GI’s tattered shirt, exposing a massive chest wound. She took packets of sulfur from her haversack, tore off the tops, and dumped the yellow powder into the hole.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

The kid grimaced, holding off the pain. “Cochran, ma’am,” he answered. “Tommy Cochran.”

Sarah smiled. Despite lack of sleep and stress, her face still glowed with a special beauty. “Mine’s Sarah.” She made some gauze pads into a thick wad, pushed it into his chest, and held it there.

The soldier’s lower lip was trembling like a child’s. “I’m not going to make it, am I?”

“Sure you are, Tommy,” she replied. “I’ve seen a lot of these. You’re going to be as good as new.”

She only half-lied, she thought. She had seen similar injuries — but seen few GIs survive them. Her mind drifted to Zachary, who was somewhere in the Pacific. And she hoped with all her heart that no one was doing for him what she was doing for Tommy Cochran right now. They had been married about a year when Zack enlisted in the Marines. And Sarah quickly knew she couldn’t sit home in Dunbarton waiting, wondering. She was working for a doctor in private practice, and the day he was drafted, she enlisted as an Army nurse.

She looked down and saw blood had soaked the gauze pads and was oozing in thick pools between her fingers.

“Got a cigarette?” Cochran asked weakly.

“Sure,” she said, hiding her concern. She slipped a cigarette from her pocket, lit it, and took several deep drags, then put it to Cochran’s lips. But he didn’t respond. All along she could feel his heart pushing beneath her palm — and now she felt it stop.

A muddy truck pulled to a stop nearby. Deschin jumped out and helped Churcher from the cab. He slung an arm over the Russian’s shoulders, and they started walking between the tents.

Sarah pulled Cochran’s pancho up over his face, and hurried after them. Churcher was stumbling in the ruts when she caught up and wrapped an arm around his waist to help support him.

“This way,” she said commandingly, leading them toward an aid station. Another nurse met them at the entrance and directed them inside to a cubicle, where she went about tending to Churcher’s wound.

Sarah moistened some gauze pads with a disinfectant and brought it to the cuts on Deschin’s face.

“No time,” he said, pushing her hand aside. “I left a man in San Gimignano. He’s badly wounded.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Deschin shook his head no emphatically. “Too dangerous. It’s behind enemy lines.”

“They don’t shoot nurses,” Sarah replied.

“No, they rape them.”

“Not this one.”

Deschin studied her, taken by her spunk. “Hurry then,” he said, turning to leave.

“Aleksei!” Churcher’s voice rang out from where the nurse was working on his arm. “Don’t leave my copilot to the Krauts.”

“You have my word,” Deschin said.

Sarah grabbed a haversack of medical supplies, went back to the truck with Deschin, and got in next to Ettore. Deschin was about to follow when a motorcycle ground to a stop in the mud next to him. The courier had a dispatch addressed to:

Deschin removed the dispatch which read:

Deschin laughed and got into the truck. It was soon sloshing through rivers of mud that had once been cow paths and back roads. Flashes of lightning flickered behind the mountains. The three drove through the rain in silence. Deschin’s hand clutched his carbine, eyes searching the terrain for German troops.

Sarah was leaning back studying the intense Russian out of the corner of her eye. He’d brought wounded partisans to the field hospital several times. And she was reflecting on how their eyes had met, and how she’d found his unique looks and fractured English appealing. But she was very much in love with Zachary.

The rain intensified as the truck pulled up behind the bombed-out granary. Sarah slipped an arm through the strap of her haversack. Ettore took a stretcher from the truck, and they followed Deschin through the trees, over rubble that surrounded the granary, and down the staircase into the basement.

Borsa and Rosenthal lay amidst burlap sacks filled with flour and unmilled grain, where Deschin and Churcher had left them. Deschin had put one of the sacks beneath the Italian’s legs to keep them raised and minimize blood loss; it was stained crimson now, prompting Deschin to hurry to Borsa’s side.

“Giancarlo? Giancarlo, can you hear me?” Deschin asked intensely.

Borsa nodded slightly, and grimaced in pain.

The vacant stare of the dead American caught Sarah’s eye as she knelt next to Borsa. She bit a lip, prepared a syringe, pushed up Borsa’s sleeve, and shot the morphine into him. Deschin had already taken a bottle of plasma from her haversack, and Sarah pushed the needle into Borsa’s vein. The blood on his pants had congealed, and they’d become matted to his legs. She scissored the bullet-torn fabric loose, then cleansed, disinfected, and wrapped the wounds in temporary bandages.

Throughout, Deschin watched admiringly at the efficient manner in which Sarah worked. Her eyes darting, evaluating, deciding; her hands moving with swift precision. When she finished, Deschin and Ettore slid Borsa onto the stretcher, carried it across the basement, and up the staircase into the rain.

Sarah crouched next to Rosenthal’s body, and closed his eyes. Then she wrapped a pancho around the flier’s horribly gutted torso to enable Deschin and Ettore to more easily carry him when they returned.

They were sliding the stretcher into the truck when a shot rang out. The round whistled between them, punching a hole in the sheet metal. They whirled to see three German soldiers moving along the side of the granary in the downpour. One raised his rifle and fired again. Deschin and Ettore scrambled behind the truck, rounds chipping into the trees behind them.

“I’m going back,” Deschin said.

Ettore nodded that he knew what to do and leaned out from behind the truck, firing bursts from his carbine, pinning down the German patrol.

Deschin took off between the trees. Despite Ettore’s cover, one of the Germans popped up firing. Deschin dove headlong into the entrance that led to the staircase as rounds powdered the stucco facade.

“Sarah? Sarah come on!” he shouted as he ran down the stairs into the basement of the granary.

“What about him?” she exclaimed, gesturing to Rosenthal’s body.

“German patrol!” Deschin interrupted. “Come on!”

Sarah hesitated momentarily. And in that instant, a blinding flash of lightning, followed by a primordial crack of thunder that sounded as if it split the earth, illuminated San Gimignano like a dozen noons. Traveling over one hundred million feet per second, the jagged bolt stabbed from billowing thunderheads ten miles up, and, like the wrath of an angry diety, struck the spired campanile of Cappella di Santa Fina.

The carillon’s bells glowed like huge Christmas tree ornaments as fifteen million volts of electrical current coursed through the bronze. Crackling blue fuzz zigzagged along cracks and licked at the edges of stone as the current raced down the church’s wet facade and surged into the porous rock beneath.

In the limestone catacombs, the German soldiers, working to cover the crates of ammunition and drums of fuel with tarpaulins, watched horrified as the current darted out of fissures and crevices, and crawled across the moist surfaces buzzing with high energy. For the briefest instant, the caverns glowed with an ultraviolet fluorescence. Then the bristling voltage discharged in angry sheets across the ankle-deep water and through the ammunition and fuel at temperatures close to 50,000°F. The entire cache exploded in a chain reaction that accelerated through the network of tunnels beneath San Gimignano.

The whole town shuddered as if struck by a devastating earthquake. Buildings crumbled. Streets buckled and collapsed. Church bells rang wildly. Flocks of ravens erupted from the towers, filling the air with their angled black shapes. Thousands of cats darted wildly through the streets. Townsfolk and German soldiers ran panicked into the heavy rain.

The German patrol, advancing along the side of the granary, was buried in an avalanche of rubble as the wall above them collapsed. Et-tore jumped into the truck and drove off with his badly wounded passenger.

Deschin had just grasped Sarah’s hand to drag her from the basement when the granary came crashing down around them. She screamed as a huge section of the concrete-and-stone slab overhead fell, knocking them to the ground in a shower of dust and grain. Tons of rubble cascaded down, mercifully burying Rosenthal’s body. Then the frightening roar and quaking gave way to an eerie silence, and the sounds of rain.

Sarah and Deschin were lying on the floor, a short distance apart. But neither could see the other through the dust-filled air and darkness.

“Sarah?” Deschin called out.

“Here,” she replied. “Over here.”

Deschin crawled in the direction of her voice. His fingers found her hand, and he kept going until they were face-to-face.

“Are you hurt?”

“No. I’m okay,” she replied. “You?”

“Okay,” he parroted.

“What happened?”

“The German supply depot must have blown,” Deschin replied, smiling and sniffing at the air that was thick with the pungent odor of cordite and fuel.

He worked himself into a sitting position, and helped Sarah do the same. His smile vanished when he saw they were encircled by a wall of rabble and grain sacks, capped by the slab above.

The falling concrete floor had slammed into the sacks, which had been stacked high around them. The uppermost bags burst, absorbing the impact; while those below supported the weight, keeping the slab from crushing them to death.

“We’re trapped,” Sarah exclaimed, a tremor in her voice. “We’re buried alive, Aleksei. There’s no way out of here.”

“I’ve already found two,” he said brightly.

“Two?” she wondered, with a puzzled look.

He took her hands in his, and held them up for her to see. “Now there are four!” he said. “We’re going to dig our way out.”

She smiled, the tension eased by his charming manner and undaunted optimism.

Deschin paused to get his bearings, then began drawing in the dust on the floor. He calculated the location of the staircase relative to then-position, and crawled to that section of the rubble, carefully working free a jagged piece of stone.

“That way,” he announced.

He removed another piece of rubble, and then another, sliding each behind him to Sarah, who pushed it aside. In a few hours they had dug a narrow tunnel about five feet deep into the densely packed rubble. But night fell quickly, and soon they were working in total darkness, and numbing cold.

Sarah fell back against the sacks of grain. “I’m cold, Aleksei. I’m cold and tired.”

“So am I,” he replied wearily. “My hands are numb.”

He fell against the sacks next to her, and huddling for warmth, they slept. They awoke hours later to see a few pencil-thin shafts of light that pierced the tons of rubble overhead. Heartened by the new day, they ate some of the grain and sipped water from his canteen, then emptied Sarah’s haversack of medical supplies, using it to collect the rainwater that dripped from above.

And Aleksei dug. Hour after hour, he tunneled through wet stone, brick, and mortar, shoring up the walls of the narrow shaft with pieces of wood he unearthed along the way. Patiently, cautiously, he dug, until his hands were raw and bloodied; until Sarah had used up all the soothing medication and bandages; and until having dug far enough to reach the staircase, having every reason to believe their release was imminent, Sarah heard Aleksei’s angry, frustrated wail coming from the far end of the tunnel.

“Aleksei? What is it? You all right?”

He emitted another agonzing bellow in reply.

She crawled the length of the tunnel and found him clawing at a wall with his fingers; clawing futilely at the thick, unmoving concrete and stone surface against which the shaft had ended — instead of against the base of the staircase as they had hoped. Aleksei heard her behind him, and turned from the wall. She took his bloodied hands in hers, and they knelt in the cramped tunnel, silently staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

Then, their spirits crushed, they crawled back to their space beneath the slab; and as their terror gradually subsided and was replaced by a forlorn acceptance of their fate, they fell into an exhausted embrace, heads buried in each other’s shoulder, drawing strength and support. And finally, in what they believed to be their last moments of life, in the absolute blackness of night, without a word being spoken, they lifted their heads slowly, their cheeks delicately brushing until their lips touched; and then, bringing the spark of life to the cold, damp hellhole that entombed them, they became lovers.

It was slow, unhurried lovemaking, not wildly passionate or frenzied, more like a gentle, tender, everlasting embrace; as if, perhaps, seated face-to-face, rocking back and forth in each other’s arms, in vibrant silence, they might ignore the rising stench of death, and forget where they were and why, and fall asleep in a warm, blissful haze, and never wake up, and never know they had died.

Chapter Thirty-six

Giancarlo Borsa had developed a slight limp as he walked through the pine forest. He had lived with it for almost forty years, and concealed it expertly; but the topic intensified it. He and Melanie had ridden the Arabians for a while, and the more he talked about Sarah and Deschin, and the more Melanie pulled the details of those desperate moments out of him, the more they felt the need for an intimate exchange. So they dismounted and were strolling side by side on a bridle path that ran along a bluff, the city far below, the Arabians clomping along behind them solemnly, as if sensing the tenor of their conversation.

“Your parents were fiercely brave,” Borsa said in conclusion. “They almost lost their lives. But the Germans fell quickly once the storage depot was gone. And Ettore returned for them with partizani.”

Melanie was touched and fulfilled by the tale, and her eyes had become watery, as had Borsa’s.

“That’s so incredible,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Did they spend time together after that?”

“They were inseparable,” Borsa replied. “I recall, Aleksei was devastated when your mother decided to return to the States. It took him a year to get over her; and then, all of a sudden, something happened that plunged him back into the gloominess. He wouldn’t talk about it, and went back to Russia shortly thereafter. Your mother seemed much more able to manage it than he, more self-possessed, mature.”

“Sounds like mother,” Melanie said fondly. “She was always the strong one, always in control.”

“Indeed,” Borsa went on. “One day, I went to her tent to say good-bye. She was packing, holding the picture, studying it. Her eyes told me she was deciding something. She tightened her lips, then folded it in half, almost as if folding Aleksei out of her life, and put it in her trunk.” He sighed wistfully, adding, “We were all children really, barely in our twenties, and we went our ways; that’s how it was.”

Melanie nodded, sensing why her mother had kept it inside all those years, sensing that Sarah knew talking about it might create yearnings for something that was forever gone.

“Do you know what happened to my father?”

“Oh, yes. We’ve maintained occasional contact over the years. He’s a very important official in the Soviet Union, now. Minister of culture.”

“Could you help me get in touch with him,” Melanie asked, feeling overwhelmed.

“I’d be happy to,” he replied, bringing a smile to her face. “I can see you assume he’ll be joyfully pleased to know of you, and indeed, he should. But, keep in mind that your father’s position, and the society in which he lives, could cause quite the opposite reaction,” Borsa added gently, “Regardless, you’ll need help. You couldn’t reach him the way you reached me. These men aren’t public figures. They don’t get involved the way we do here in the West,” he went on, and glancing to his watch, added, “Which reminds me, I have a benefit I must host. Shall we?”

Melanie nodded, and they mounted the Arabians and headed for the amphitheater.

Piazza dei Siena was filled with spectators now. Well-heeled bidders and their guests were milling on the long balcony in front of the private boxes. In the stables below, grooms were preparing the horses that would soon be auctioned. A huge banner proclaiming PACE MON-DIALE hung on the tower opposite the massive stone door through which the horses would make their dramatic entrance.

Borsa and Melanie came through the tunnel from the bridle paths on the Arabians and cantered across the show ring toward his stables.

“Ciao, Olmo! Lucianna! Buongiorno!” he exclaimed, waving to a couple he recognized on the balcony as he and Melanie dismounted. He automatically held out the reins to the stableboy, who wasn’t there; then looked around puzzled and went beneath the overhang, calling out, “Paolo? Paolo, venga qui!” He waited briefly, then shrugged in disgust.

“We’ll have to stable them ourselves,” he said to Melanie apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I spent my childhood in stables,” she said, smiling.

They led the horses inside, removed saddles and bridles, and put them into stalls, then climbed the stairs to the private box above.

Borsa entered first. He walked briskly across the Persian rug to the balcony door, and discovered it had been locked from the inside, ornate key removed. That’s when he noticed the shutters had been closed; and when Melanie noticed the hooded figure behind her locking the door to the stables; and when Borsa whirled to see the two faces concealed by the black balaclavas and sunglasses that gave them the look of giant insects. They had been hidden in plain sight amidst the elegant trappings — Dominica in a wing chair, high back to the door concealing her, Silvio on a leather sofa in an alcove to one side.

“What is this!” Borsa demanded angrily. He had walked right past Dominica on his way to the door, and was facing her now.

“Quiet, please,” she ordered, her voice muffled by the balaclava. “Just do as you’re told,” she went on, remaining seated, calmly leveling a handgun at him.

“I’ll do what I came here to do,” Borsa replied. “I’m going to start this auction, now. And—”

“Yes,” Dominica interrupted. “Go and deploy your horses, Mr. Defense Minister. Then return here, alone. Any trickery — your stableboy, your guard, and your ladyfriend will die.”

Silvio pushed a gun against the side of Melanie’s head. Her eyes darted to it fearfully. They had been speaking in Italian, and she had no idea what they were saying, which made her even more frightened.

“Go!” Dominica ordered.

Borsa flicked a torn glance at Melanie.

“Be calm,” he advised. “Don’t confront them.”

Dominica unlocked the door, opening it just enough to allow Borsa through. He strode past and down a short flight of steps to the balcony.

The crowd in the amphitheater broke into applause.

A TV crew with a mobile minicam followed Borsa through the crowd to a podium at the edge of the balcony. Paparazzi surged around him, motor-driven cameras whirring and clicking noisily.

“Welcome to the Benefit Auction for World Peace,” Borsa began as the applause subsided. “Again, it is my pleasure to host this worthy event. And I ask that you bid generously for the magnificent animals we have for you today. And now”—His voice cracked as he forced it to a climax—“to officially open these proceedings—” he peaked and gestured broadly to the arena.

A trumpter in medieval silks raised the long instrument to his lips and played a spirited fanfare. The banners of the prominent breeding families snapped in the wind, filling the pauses between the stanzas.

Behind the castle’s facade, an attendant listened for the last note to trail off. Then he grasped a thick hawser that hung from the upper reaches of the castle and pulled down, as if ringing church bells.

The heavy rope was affixed to a shaft that ran between two large cogwheels. The teeth engaged the links of a heavy chain that ran from the top corners of the stone door to huge counterweights hanging above it. The attendant’s pull lowered the weights just past the balance point. They began a slow, steady plunge, raising the immense slab upward and back — like the door on a residential garage — into a horizontal position behind the facade.

Centuries ago, when so raised, the door served as a bridge over which medieval archers marched to battle stations on parapets along the wall. When lowered, it sealed the portal from enemy hordes, and—bridge thus removed — prevented invaders who scaled the walls from crossing into the castle proper.

The first group of horses to be auctioned, each with numbered tag affixed, had been massed behind the door. Now, they galloped dramatically through the suddenly opened door and down a ramp into the arena.

Borsa waved to the applauding crowd and began walking toward the entrance to his private box.

“Giancarlo? Giancarlo, you’re leaving us already?” one of the wealthy bidders asked.

“I must phone Geneva,” he said, making up an excuse. “I may have to return this afternoon.”

Fausto’s black Maserati approached the gatehouse at the entrance to the stable area. When the guard didn’t appear, Fausto drove through, and Andrew got out to ask a groom for directions to Borsa’s stables.

A taxi came to a stop a distance down the street behind the amphitheater. Gorodin paid the driver and strolled casually toward the gatehouse. Tapes of Andrew’s calls made prior to discovery of the bug revealed he would be meeting Borsa at the amphitheater, and the connection to Geneva caused Gorodin to decide to maintain distant surveillance.

Andrew waved to Fausto to remain parked, and began walking down the dirt road, lined with horse vans.

Kovlek was positioned behind the line of vehicles, from where he could keep an eye on Dominica’s van — the guard and stableboy imprisoned inside — as well as the entrance to Borsa’s stables. Anyone but Andrew would have been stopped. Kovlek had the dictum of noninterference drummed into him by Zeitzev and Gorodin, and let him enter unchallenged.

Andrew was crossing to the staircase inside the stables when one of the Arabians snorted, getting his attention. He detoured to the stall and was rubbing a palm over the spirited animal’s coat when he heard footsteps and turned to see two hooded figures coming down the stairs with Borsa and Melanie. Both carried handguns, and one also had a small gym bag.

Andrew’s adrenalin surged, prickling his skin. Terrorists! he thought as he ducked behind the Arabian. Terrorists are kidnapping Italy’s Defense Minister! They stopped on a landing halfway down the stairs. Melanie turned in protest as they prodded her through a door, and for a brief instant, her eyes caught Andrew’s in an anguished plea.

Andrew could feel the silent terror in them. He waited until the door closed, then hurried to a phone on the wall of the stable, and dialed the operator.

“Pronto? Che cosa vuole?”

“Yes, please the police! Get me the police!” he said in an urgent whisper.

“Ah, si, polizia. Vuole Carabinieri? Vigili Urbani? Questura? O Polizia Stradele?” the operator asked, running down the list of police organizations.

“The police! Emergency, I have an emergency!”

There was a click, and then a man’s weary voice growled, “Pronto, Polizia Stradele”—The operator translated emergency to accident, and connected Andrew with the traffic police—“Voi avete un incidente?”

“This is an emergency. There’s a kidnapping in progress at the amphitheater. Terrorists are—”

“Scuse, signore,” the officer interrupted. “Non capisco l’ingelese. C’e qualcuno qui la parla Italiano?”

Andrew groaned in frustration and hung up. He started to the entrance, intending to alert Fausto. But he realized the terrorists might be long gone with their hostages by then. He reversed direction, dashed to the landing, and slipped through the door, finding himself at the base of a staircase. Distant footsteps and voices came from above. He climbed the stairs that led to a maze of maintenance passageways built within the stone caverns to service utility and climate control systems in the private boxes and stables. Then catching up, he watched as they went up a short run of stairs and through a door.

Andrew laid back momentarily, then advanced to find it locked, and came back down the stairs. The system of chains and counterweights that operated the castle’s big stone door filled the space around him. Service platforms connected by a network of catwalks were suspended at various levels. He climbed onto one of them and saw the terrorists prodding their hostages along the parapet above the door. Borsa angrily yanked an arm free as they moved behind it. They were out of Andrew’s view now, but he could hear them arguing in Italian. Their voices echoed through the vaulted cavern amidst sounds of pushing and shoving and the clatter of hooves as horses thundered into the arena far below.

Andrew dashed to the end of a catwalk, and craned up to see heads, shoulders, arms, the brusque movement of figures scuffling — scuffling directly on the face of the horizontal stone door above. Then he heard a loud groan, and a thud, and a woman screaming, and a gunshot. He grasped one of the cables that suspended the catwalks, and climbed up onto the railing. Another shot rang out as he stretched upward, peering just over the edge of the stone slab.

But he couldn’t get onto the slab from the catwalk. Even if he could, the terrorists were armed. Andrew studied the immense mechanism around him, the function of the parts simple and clear. The hawser hung just out of reach. He leaped from the railing, clutching at the coarse hemp with his arms and legs, sliding down a ways before getting a purchase. His weight started the counterweights moving, and the massive stone door began closing.

Melanie took advantage of the distraction and sent one of the terrorists sprawling across the door with a shove, weapon skittering off the edge. The other scrambled to get back onto the parapet before the door dropped too far below it. Melanie ran in the opposite direction, to the high end of the slowly tilting surface, the remaining terrorist crawling after her. Melanie jumped down a long distance to a service platform, landing on her feet, and rolling into a shoulder tumble to break her fall. The hooded figure landed behind her, came up standing, and came at her.

Melanie dashed right beneath Andrew, who was coming down the hawser. He let go, driving both feet into the terrorist who went over the railing, falling into the herd of Arabians thundering into the arena below.

Andrew landed on the platform next to Melanie, grasped her hand, and led the way to a door at the far end of one of the catwalks.

It was exactly noon. The prism in the tower projected a brilliant beam of light across the arena above the prancing Arabians onto the stone door, right on schedule.

The spectators began shrieking in horror.

There on the slowly closing slab — his head centered in the spotlight, leonine mane aglow, arms painfully outstretched, palms pierced by the spikes driven into the thousand-year-old stone by Silvio’s Ram-set, there, like Christ crucified, naked against the hard slab — hung Gian-carlo Borsa.

He was unconscious. Blood ran down the stone from his palms in long streaks. A sign proclaiming PACE MONDIALE was affixed above his head.

The TV crew had come down the staircase from the balcony, and was running between the horses. The cameraman dropped to one knee in front of the stone door, and began recording the event for the evening news. Paparazzi surged around him, shouting in Italian, pushing, shoving, maneuvering for the best angle.

Andrew and Melanie were coming through a door from the catwalk into the maintenance passageways. The remaining terrorist ran past spotting them, whirled on the move, and opened fire. Andrew and Melanie took cover behind an abutment, the rounds chipped into the stone until the pistol clicked empty and the hooded figure ran. Andrew pursued.

Fausto had left the Maserati and was stretching his legs in the courtyard when the guard’s pipe caught his eye. Anyone could have dropped it, but Fausto had thought it curious no guard was on duty. He crossed to the gatehouse and saw little piles of ash on the ground outside where the guard often rapped the pipe to empty it. Something wasn’t right. He dialed an emergency number on a sticker affixed to the gatehouse wall.

In Borsa’s stables, the door on the staircase exploded open, and the hooded terrorist ran onto the landing, Andrew a few steps behind. He dove through the doorway at the hooded figure. They both tumbled down the stairs into the stable, the Ram-set skittering across the floor.

Melanie came through the door onto the landing, and watched terrified as they grappled below.

The terrorist came out on top, grabbed a handful of Andrew’s hair, slammed his head to the floor, and ran. Andrew got up and dove into the fleeing legs from behind. Again, the hooded figure went down, then, all in one motion, made a catlike swipe at the Ram-set, lunged upward, jammed the muzzle into Andrew’s chest, and pulled the trigger hastily — before the safety depressed. It clicked, but the charge and spike Silvio had loaded earlier to pin Borsa’s feet to the stone door, didn’t fire.

Now they stood face-to-face, hands wrapped around the deadly tool, fighting to control it. Andrew had come within a millimeter of having a sixteen-penny spike planted in the center of his chest, and the thought of it made him overpoweringly aggressive. He charged forward, shoving the Ram-set up and away, and drove his adversary backwards against a stall. The abrupt movement caused one of the terrorist’s gloved hands to slip. The opposing force suddenly removed, the Ram-set pivoted up and back in a rapid arc that slammed the muzzle flat against the balaclava above the sunglasses; the impact depressed the safety shoe, and jammed a finger against the trigger, causing it to fire.

The sixteen-penny spike ripped through the terrorist’s brain, boring a path between the halves of the cortex and shattering the limbic system beneath. Then exiting, it blew a piece of skull out the back of the head, and pinned it and the balaclava to the stall.

Melanie flinched and screamed in fright at the sharp report.

Andrew was frozen by the suddenness with which it all happened. He stood watching the terrorist slide downward against the stall, looking in growing horror at the head that pulled slowly out of the balaclava, at the anguished expression, and the tiny puncture in the forehead that caused it — just above where the brows grew together. The massive exit wound left a long bloody smear on the stall, and there, at the bottom of it, like the period beneath an exclamation mark, was Dominica Maresca’s oval face.

A short distance away, the Arabians that had been galloping into the ring when the massive stone door unexpectedly closed trapping them were still spooked, and their hooves were still trampling Silvio Festa’s broken body.

In the stables, Andrew was staring in shock at Dominica’s face when Melanie screamed again.

“No! No, look out! Look out!” she shrieked at him.

He whirled to see Kovlek, handgun drawn, charging into the stable, a terrifying, fast-moving blur leveling the weapon at him.

The operation had gone wrong, and Andrew was the cause of it. Kovlek had decided no witnesses would best insure the KGB came out clean as Zeitzev had ordered.

Andrew’s reaction was a mixture of fear and confusion. The KGB agent who had abducted Raina Maiskaya was going to kill him. He didn’t know why, and didn’t have a chance of stopping him. He was thinking McKendrick would be furious when he found out he had gotten himself killed when a shot rang out.

Kovlek stiffened and rocked back and forth for a moment. Then the life went out of him, and he collapsed where he stood, revealing Gorodin crouched behind him in the doorway, both hands on his Kalishnikov.

Andrew was too stunned to be relieved, and had no idea what to expect next. Gorodin holstered his weapon, and gestured with his head for them to go. Andrew put an arm around Melanie as she came off the stairs, and they ran from the stables, Gorodin right behind them.

Fausto was hurrying down the road toward Borsa’s stables after making the call from the gatehouse. He heard the shots, pulled his pistol, and leveled it at Gorodin, who appeared to be chasing them.

“No, Fausto! No!” Andrew shouted.

“Who is he?” Fausto asked as he turned and ran with Melanie and Andrew toward the Maserati.

“The Frenchman! He saved my hide!”

“What happened?”

“Terrorists! They crucified Minister Borsa in there,” he replied. “Literally.” He paused as they reached the Maserati, then with a weary nervousness added, “I killed one of ’em. Maybe two.”

“We must go,” Fausto said decisively.

Andrew nodded, yanked open the rear door, pushing Melanie in ahead of him. The surging scream of sirens began rising as Fausto started the engine. He slammed it in gear, and was starting to pull away when Gorodin yanked open the front passenger door and jumped in next to him. Fausto slammed his foot to the floor, and the big car ripped across the courtyard, past the gatehouse through the entrance, and accelerated down the street behind the amphitheater.

The sirens grew louder. Police vehicles, roof flashers strobing, came through the turn up ahead and screeched to sideways stops, blocking the street. Uniformed officers leaped out drawing guns. Fausto slammed on the brakes as they advanced toward the Maserati. An officer pushed a gun through the open window into his face. Fausto shoved his police identification under his nose in reply.

“Set up a checkpoint at the gatehouse,” he barked in Italian to the chagrined officer, adding, “Question everyone who comes out!”

The officer replied with a crisp affirmative, and ordered the police vehicles moved aside, allowing the Maserati to continue through onto the streets.

Melanie sat in the backseat hunched beneath Andrew’s arm, shaking, shocked by all she had seen.

Andrew was numb and woozy, heart pumping his blood so rapidly it was blurring his vision.

“You okay?” he asked, blinking to clear it.

“I think so,” she whimpered, looking up confused. “Who are you?” she asked. “Who’s he?” she indicated Gorodin, who was turned sideways in the front seat.

“Please, allow me,” Gorodin said in slightly accented English before Andrew could reply. “Andrew Churcher — he sells horses for my country. Melanie Winslow — she’s looking for her father there,” he said, introducing them; then gesturing to himself, added, “Valery Gorodin — KGB.” He loathed saying it, but knew it would instantly communicate.

Melanie looked at Andrew in stunned silence.

“I can help both of you get into Russia,” Gorodin concluded.

“I’m leaving for Moscow tonight,” Andrew said sharply. “I don’t need help.”

“Yes,” Gorodin said, matching Andrew’s tone. “Only because you’ve already had it.”

Andrew nodded pensively in acknowledgment. “Thank you,” he said in a subdued voice. Then he held Gorodin’s look, and asked, “Why?”

“Because it’s in the best interests of my country. Your business dealings are very high on the Politburo’s list of priorities.”

Indeed, choosing between Andrew and Kovlek was easy. Gorodin had no doubt whatsoever who was more valuable to the Soviet Union. At worst, Andrew would keep the hard currency coming. At best, he’d divert from business, and lead Gorodin to the source of the Kira drawings.

“And me?” Melanie asked, having regained some degree of composure.

“Because you’re here, and it’s within my power. Unless you’d rather wait six months for a visa, maybe a year. After what happened today — maybe never.”

“He’s right,” Fausto chimed in. “You should both get out of Italy, immediately — before the Questura finds out you were involved and holds you as witnesses. In Italy, once the wheels of justice start grinding, they grind for all eternity.”

“Then, that’s your choice, Miss Winslow,” Gorodin said knowingly, “eternity or — tonight.”

Melanie studied him for a moment suspiciously.

“Are you saying you know my father?” she challenged softly. “That you’ll take me to him?”

“Impossible,” Gorodin lied, with finality. “He’s a very important man. A member of the Politburo. He doesn’t even know I exist.” Gorodin knew she’d have no chance of getting anywhere near Deschin. He also knew timing was the key to exerting biographic leverage for maximum gain. He wanted her in Moscow, stalled and desperate, so that when he was strongest and Deschin most vulnerable, he could play his card. “Besides,” he went on, burnishing the deception, “Rome is my post, Miss Winslow. Once in Moscow, you’re on your own.”

Melanie digested his comments for a moment, then glanced to Andrew.

“Why not?” he said reassuringly. “You have nothing to lose.”

She shifted her look to Gorodin and nodded.

The timing was perfect. Gorodin wouldn’t even have to deal with Zeitzev on the matter. The rezident would have his hands full trying to cover the shooting of Kovlek in Borsa’s stables, and the questions it would raise about Soviet involvement in the terrorist attack on Italy’s defense minister — just as disarmament talks were commencing.

In the few hours it took Gorodin to force march Melanie’s visa through the Embassy bureaucracy, Fausto drove Andrew and Melanie to their hotels to collect their things, then to the Embassy to pick up the documents, and lastly to the airport.

Inside the packed international terminal at Leonardo da Vinci, travelers clustered around newstands, snapping up the evening papers that had photos of the ghastly crucifixion splashed across the front pages. Others collected around television sets in the bars — watching the videotape of the stone door closing, revealing Giancarlo Borsa hanging on it. Commentators speculated on the affiliation of the terrorists, their motives, and their objectives, and waited for word on the defense minister, who had been taken to a Rome hospital in critical condition.

And as purple shadows crept across the glittering domes of the eternal city, Aeroflot INT-237 to Moscow came down the runway in a light ground fog, and climbed into the Roman sky.

Andrew sat pensively staring out the window.

“You okay, Andrew?” Melanie asked, after watching him for a few moments. She found his thoughtful gentleness calming, and was attracted to him despite the difference in their ages.

“No,” he replied in a whisper. He couldn’t get Dominica’s face out of his mind. No matter where he looked, her almond-shaped death mask seemed to be looking back with haunting vulnerability.

“Sometimes it helps to talk,” Melanie said.

“Sometimes,” he said, thinking all the talk in the world wouldn’t change the fact that he’d killed two people. Then, realizing he was being insensitive, he turned to Melanie. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling relieved as her face replaced Dominica’s. “You’ve been through a lot today, too. Tell me about this search for your father.”

“It’s — painfully simple,” she said, choosing the words, and forcing a smile out of him. “For forty-two years, I thought I was Melanie Winslow, daughter of a New Hampshire carpenter. Then, my mother died, and I found out my father is a Russian, a government official named Aleksei Deschin.”

An anxious ripple went through Andrew, though he concealed it, and was certain she didn’t notice. Three weeks ago, his jaw would have dropped to his chest, and he would have said something like, “My father knew him. Your father is the Russian who probably had him killed.” But he had become immune to surprises, and was more calculating now. He knew Gorodin had been assigned to him because he was Theodor Churcher’s son, and had no doubt Deschin had ordered the surveillance. So he knew Gorodin had lied to Melanie, and was up to something. He decided to say nothing — for the time being, anyway.

“It’s such a strange feeling,” Melanie went on. “I mean, this man, Zachary Winslow, gave me his name, read me bedtime stories, and held me when I had nightmares. He taught me to ride horses, paid for my dance lessons, and — I mean, this wonderful man I called daddy”—she shrugged uncomprehendingly—“isn’t my father. And the man who really is — who’s my flesh and blood, my genes, my roots, my traditions, my face—turns out to be somebody I never knew. And it’s—” she paused, sensing Andrew’s distance. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to run on like that. It’s just sort of overwhelming to find out your father is someone other than you thought.”

Andrew nodded slightly, a sad irony in his eyes, and said, “I know.”