by Tom Savage
When she ended the call to Mario, Nora braced herself. She’d been dreading this next step, but it was necessary, and she was the logical person to take it. She went over to her shoulder bag and rummaged, coming up with the engraved business card. She wandered back to the window, staring down at the alien lettering, aware of the quiet conversation of her team. One of them was her husband, who’d been injured and nearly killed by these people, and the others had been threatened as well. Summoning all her acting skills, she placed the call.
“General Malinkov? It’s Joan Simmons. I’m sorry to be calling so late, but I thought you’d like to know that I just heard from Galina!”
Chapter 47
The three nuns came out through the wrought-iron gate and descended the snowy steps to the fondamenta. They turned to look up and wave to the two women standing at the gate, the smiling young nun and the beaming Mother Superior. Then they turned and made their solemn way, single file, their hands clasped together at their bosoms, across the slushy walkway to the water taxi that awaited them. Everyone who passed them on the fondamenta smiled and bobbed a little bow, but no one looked at their faces.
A smiling Aldo helped them aboard and went forward to start the engine. He headed west along the wide canal, ferrying them around the northwestern tip of the city and down to the train station on the mainland. As they arrived there, the tall nun in the center of the trio gazed longingly over at the mouth of the Grand Canal, hoping she’d be back here soon. She rose and disembarked with the two other women, and they moved in a dignified fashion to the parking area near the station. A smiling older man stood beside a limousine in full chauffeur’s livery. He doffed his cap and opened the rear door.
Nora entered first, then Galina, and finally Frances. As soon as the door with the tinted windows was shut behind them, they all reached up and removed their veils and wimples. The black cloaks covered their own street clothes, so now they were themselves again. Frances carefully folded the borrowed headgear into a neat stack, to be returned to the convent with their thanks. The chauffeur got in the driver’s seat, and the car glided forward. They were on their way.
As soon as they entered the road leading to the autostrada, the tinted partition window lowered.
“Buona sera, ladies,” Mario Naldi said. “I’m so glad to see you again!”
“Buona sera, grandfather!” Nora said. She wasn’t surprised to see Paolo in the front seat beside his father-in-law. “Buona sera, daddy! How long is this trip?”
Paolo grinned. “Not long. About forty-five minutes. Traffic isn’t bad today; we should be fine.”
Nora nodded and leaned back in the seat. She looked at Galina beside her, who was nervously blinking around at everything. The world outside the car was dark through the tinted windows. The weather was still overcast and sharply cold, but the threatened second snowstorm hadn’t materialized, and the local meteorologists were predicting that the worst was over. Thinking of the situation they would soon confront at Camp Ederle, Nora hoped they were correct. The last thing she needed was to be stranded on a U.S. Army base with Galina Rostova, not to mention the others she expected to see there.
It was now just after four o’clock in the afternoon, and the plane would be ready for takeoff at five. She’d slept in the armchair last night, giving Jeff the bed to himself. When she woke at ten this morning, Jeff was gone, along with Patch and all the luggage. She and Frances had entertained Galina throughout lunch and the early afternoon until it was time to get ready. Sister Dorothea had helped the three women to don the wimples and veils, and she’d given them a demonstration of the proper way to comport themselves in public. The folded hands and downcast gazes were an important part of the illusion, along with the gliding gait and deliberate pace. Even Frances, the nonactor, had picked it all up immediately.
Nora had gone along with the lesson and the costume tips, even though she now knew they were unnecessary. Two nights ago, when Mother Agnes had first suggested this means of escaping Venice undetected, Nora had assumed that people from the Russian Federation were scouring Venice in a desperate attempt to locate the missing actress. Now she knew better.
It was time to go home. She wanted to be back in her house, getting ready for the start of the spring semester at Stony Brook University. She had to prepare classes, lessons, and exercises for her eager young acting students. She’d been in Italy a mere six days, a brevity record for her, but she was eager to return to her life. Jeff was taking two weeks off from work in the city while his wound healed, so she could play Florence Nightingale after her daily classes at the university. Their daughter would be busy at NYU, but Nora was getting used to not having Dana around. She was looking forward to time alone with Jeff—as soon as this afternoon was over.
Nora sighed and tried to relax in the luxurious backseat of the limousine, nearly laughing aloud at her predicament. She’d never imagined she’d ever be so nervous that she couldn’t enjoy a ride in a limo, and yet such was the case. She knew what was about to happen at the airfield, and she could only hope it went without a hitch.
She glanced over at her fellow passengers. Neither of them had uttered a single word since leaving Santa Maria Magdalena. Frances seemed comfortable, gazing out at the snowy landscape, but Galina had a bad case of the fidgets: She was constantly looking through the windows, even twisting around in the seat to look behind them. Nora could feel the unease of the actress beside her; it was almost a palpable presence in the car. Still, Nora observed Galina’s behavior without comment. She merely braced herself and waited.
The incident, when it occurred, was right on schedule. They’d left Padua behind, and they were halfway to Vicenza when Nora noticed a sudden quickening; Mario was accelerating. The car had maintained a steady high speed since Mestre, but now they were definitely going faster. Resisting the urge to turn around and look, Nora leaned forward.
“What is it, Mario?” she asked.
He glanced out at the side mirror, then looked at Nora in the rearview mirror above him. “We have company. The green Fiat behind us has been there since Mestre. I made signals as though I would go off the autostrada, and it followed me into the lane. When I moved back, it followed me again. One man in the car; he wears the shades and a hat, but I think it is the Russian guard from San Marco.”
“Sergei!” Galina whispered. Her eyes widened, and she turned around to look. “Yes! It is Sergei—he has found us!” Now she turned her terrified face to Nora. “What—what should we do? Are we near to the Army base? He cannot go in there, yes?”
Nora looked appropriately concerned. Beyond Galina, Frances was watching with a hint of amusement. “I don’t know, Galina. If the Russian Federation sent him, he might have the proper credentials to—”
“No!” Galina cried. “No, he must not be allowed!” She leaned forward. “Signor Naldi—Mario—is there the way for you to get away from him?”
Mario glanced in the rearview mirror. “That might not be necessary. The Polizia di Stato are behind him, and they—”
At that moment, a siren blared. All three women turned around to look out the rear window. As they watched, a white-striped blue Alfa Romeo with flashing blue lights pulled abreast of the Fiat. A second police vehicle was behind it. Nora heard the muffled sound of an order shouted through a speaker, and all three cars moved over toward the right lane. The Fiat drove onto the shoulder and stopped. The police cars stopped, one in front of the Fiat and the other behind it. Officers emerged from the cars and approached the Fiat. The limousine continued down the autostrada, leaving the scene of the drama in its wake. The Fiat was soon blocked from their view by the traffic behind them. Nora faced the front and caught Mario’s eye in the rearview mirror. He winked.
When Galina finally tore her gaze from the rear window and turned around, she was genuinely shocked. No theatrical panic now; this was the real thing. Her face had gone white.
“Well, that’s the end of that,” Frances said, breaking her long silence. “I wo
nder why they stopped him. Was he speeding?”
“He must have rented that car,” Nora said, “and the people who rented it to him might have recognized him from the news reports.”
Galina stared at her. “News reports? What are you saying? What news reports?”
Now Nora turned to the distraught actress, arranging a look of grave concern on her face. “Oh, Galina, I didn’t want to tell you—I thought it would only upset you, but now…well, Mother Agnes saw the news on her computer this morning. She showed it to me, and there was a picture of Sergei. They say he killed a man in Venice yesterday, another Russian agent, a man named…what was it, Frances?”
“Ravel?” Frances offered. “Havel? Something like that.”
“Pavel,” Galina whispered. “Pavel Oblomov; he is one of our guards. Pavel is dead?”
Nora studied the face beside her. Galina was managing to look appropriately surprised at this news, even after the genuine shock of watching her accomplice being detained by Italian authorities. She really was a gifted actress.
“Yes, Galina,” Nora sighed. “Pavel is dead. And an eyewitness identified Sergei from photos of the gala at the Danieli the other night.” That was a lie. In fact, the man driving this car had blown the whistle on Sergei a few hours ago, even telling the polizia where and when they could arrest him. By then, thanks to Mario’s many local connections, they’d even known what type of car Sergei would be driving, and the license number. So much for Sergei, Nora thought. Now for Phase Two…
As if on cue, Paolo said, “Now we have more company.”
The three women turned around to look again, and Nora heard the gasp from the woman beside her. A dark limousine, almost identical to this one, had pulled in behind them, keeping pace with them. Mario indicated a lane change and moved into the right lane. The other limousine followed.
“We are nearly to the exit for Caserma Ederle,” Mario said. “Let us see if this official car follows us there.”
“Official car?” Frances said. For a nonactor, she made her surprise sound amazingly authentic. “What do you mean?”
“Look at the license,” Paolo said. “It is the license of a—a—what is the word for officials of another country who are in your country?”
“Diplomats,” Frances supplied. “You mean, the car behind us has diplomatic license plates?”
“Yes,” Paolo said. “It is a car for a foreign government diplomat.”
“Oh dear,” Nora said. “I hope it isn’t the Russian Embassy…” She stole a glance over at Galina. The actress was facing forward now, staring straight ahead of her. Her pupils were dilated, her nostrils flared, her cheeks were drained of blood, and her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. This was no act—the woman was genuinely terrified.
The sign for Caserma Ederle arrived on their right, and Mario turned onto the exit ramp. The other car followed. They drove in silence for several minutes, all the way from the autostrada to the gates of the compound. Mario slowed to a stop, and a sentry arrived beside the driver’s door. Mario lowered his window and held out his credentials, a printout of an email from the sentry’s own commanding officer. Someone very high up in the State Department had spoken with the colonel at three o’clock this morning, so they were expected. The sentry saluted, the bar was raised, and the limousine glided forward onto American property.
Nora’s main impression of what she saw through the windows was that Camp Ederle was essentially a small city. She saw barracks and various other buildings, with wide fields for sports and/or maneuvers. There were stores and a theater and other structures with signs indicating they were American grammar and high schools for the children of posted personnel. In the distance, an enclosed, gated community of residential homes for military families stood separate from the rest of the compound. This place was much like the military bases she’d seen in the States, a self-sufficient community of perhaps five thousand American service people.
As they approached the turnoff that would lead them the last miles to the airfields, Nora and the others turned around to watch the limousine behind them as it came to a stop at the gatehouse. A window was lowered, the sentry saluted, and the diplomatic car was once more right behind them.
Nora looked over at her companions. There was every chance that she and Frances would have to carry Galina from the car, so great was her distress. Nora prepared herself for the final scene of this Russian melodrama.
Chapter 48
The charade had begun three years ago, when Galina Rostova was introduced to General Malinkov at a dinner party in Moscow. The ambitious young actress immediately intuited that attaching herself to this powerful Russian man would be a good career move. It was: Within a matter of months, she was being offered work in film and television by contacts of the general. He was clearly in love with her, and she used this to her advantage.
Nora had no idea if Galina had ever felt anything for the general, but Galina certainly loved the lifestyle that came with being his mistress. Nora guessed that Galina learned of his offshore interests by listening and watching, and possibly by gaining access to his computers. At any rate, she was definitely aware of his illegal holdings. He had his family, not to mention his constant military responsibilities, and she had her stage and screen career. She also had an impressive array of lovers, if the rumors could be believed. Nora thought they could.
The old director, Mr. Lovanko, was her first conquest, at the tender age of sixteen. This had led to her being cast as Irina in Three Sisters, where her stardom officially began. During this time—according to Ralph Johnson’s notes—she also entertained at least one actor and one producer of the Moscow State Theater. Later, while she built a résumé in the theater, she was intimate with other men, including Natalia’s fiancé, Ivan Kirin. Casual affairs, all of them, never lasting too long. She was a free spirit, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing for a talented actress to be, but she was a bit deficient in the morals department.
Then, last April, everything changed. For the first time in her life, Galina Rostova fell in love. She met the beautiful Lieutenant Marius Tarkovsky at Malinkov’s dacha, and the affair apparently began immediately. Over the next five months, she would sneak away from the general to meet the lieutenant—including at a summer getaway on the Baltic with friends, according to the Facebook picture. There were other trysts as well, enough of them that the general might naturally have become suspicious, which he did.
Vera Gubalova had recalled the ugly scene in the dressing room in late August, when Malinkov confronted Galina and struck her. Galina had admitted her love for the lieutenant, and Nora knew what that would have done to the insanely possessive general. Approximately two weeks later, in the first week of September, Marius Tarkovsky vanished. He’d last been seen at the camp where he was stationed—and where Malinkov was his commanding officer.
Marius Tarkovsky is a drunken soldier; he drinks vodka and beer all the time, and he is—forgive me—he is the homosexual. He is with another soldier, and they fight, and Marius gets drunk and runs away. Maybe he goes out of the base and kills himself in the forest, who knows? We never find him.
Nora remembered the general’s speech verbatim. She’d accepted it at the time, at the gala for the Russians, because she didn’t know these people. Later, she wondered about it. Why tell her that? Why such intimate details of a missing and possibly dead man? Vodka and beer, another soldier, a fight—and then that oddly specific detail: Maybe he goes out of the base and kills himself in the forest, who knows?
As an actor, Nora had uttered the lines of dozens of playwrights, and she knew a good line from a bad one. She also had an instinct for a peculiar line, and that part of Malinkov’s speech was definitely strange, what her daughter would call TMI: too much information. Or, as Nora had written in her notes last night:
9. Why mention forest? (Russian police confirm. Yay, Nora!)
Nora thought of another line, from Hamlet: “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” O
nly it wasn’t a lady; it was General Malinkov telling a complete stranger way too much unnecessary information about a man she’d never met. Why? Because he hated the man, certainly, but it was more than that. He wanted everyone—even strangers—to form the distinct impression that Marius wasn’t a threat to him. An alcoholic homosexual wasn’t a likely candidate to steal Galina away from the general, and therefore the general would have no reason to shoot Marius Tarkovsky twice with his service pistol, once in the head and once through the heart, and bury him in the small forest just outside the military camp. But that’s what he’d done; the Russian police and their cadaver dogs had found the body last night, exactly where Nora had told them to look.
Malinkov would have told Galina what he’d done, because he was precisely that type of man. If you cheat on me again, this is what will happen. But now Galina had a weapon against him, and she used it. She screamed, she wept, and then she jumped right back into Malinkov’s bed. She demanded access to his secret stash of ill-gotten money from the Russian treasury, and she got it. He must have added her name as a cosignatory, because the people at the Alpine Bank didn’t question her when she showed up in Zurich and transferred his fifty-six million dollars to Panama. Exactly where it had been transferred from there was anybody’s guess.
Getting Sergei and Juna to assist her would have been a snap for any woman as glamorous as Galina Rostova. Sergei was a childhood friend who happened to be poor, and the woman guard was a failed Olympian who also happened to be poor. All they had to do was watch and follow the Americans, creating the illusion that the Russian Federation was an imminent threat to the defection.
