by Greg Dinallo
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:
HE WAS MURDERED. I KNOW WHY. PIAZ
ZA DI TREVI. 6PM.
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.
x Welcome to Rome, comrade,” he said, extending a hand to Gorodin. “We’re looking forward to assisting you in whatever way we can.”
You lying slob, Gorodin thought as he locked onto Zeitzev’s beefy fist and shook it. “This is a fairly straightforward task. I can manage alone if you’re shorthanded,” he replied, reaching for his cigarettes.
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Zeitzev said.
Gorodin nodded, and forced a smile. GRU ran the COMINT operation; but field personnel were in short supply in Rome, and he’d be forced to work with KGB backup. He would have been delighted if Zeitzev had taken the out, but he didn’t really expect he would.
Zeitzev’s ebullient mood caused Kovlek to assume events had gone well in Sicily that morning. And nothing would please him more than to be praised in front of Gorodin. “Comiso?” he asked solicitously.
Zeitzev’s eyes tightened in a cold stare. “It was a mess down there. Horrible,” he said, explaining about the bulldozer incident. “Dominica was devastated when she called, and quite obsessed with avenging the boy’s death.” He paused in reflection, and smiled. “I was quite intrigued by how she proposed to achieve it.” Then, in order to prevent Kovlek from pursing the matter in front of their GRU rival, the rezident turned immediately to Gorodin. “Now, to other business. Your business,” he said, crossing toward the storage wall. “Recorded less than fifteen minutes ago,” he added, intending to impress him. “Listen.”
Zeitzev depressed the start button on the cassette player, and the ring of a telephone came from the big speakers. Once, twice, then—
“Hello?”
“Mr. Churcher?”
“Speaking.”
“This is the housekeeper. The writing equipment you requested is in the desk.”
Zeitzev clicked off the tape deck. “The man, of course, is Andrew Churcher,” he said. “But who’s the woman? We know she isn’t who she says she is because the housekeeper at the Hassler is named Vin-cente.”
The color drained from Kovlek’s face. He couldn’t believe what the existence of the tape implied. He felt like a fool.
Gorodin burned the stunned deputy with a look. He couldn’t believe it either; but, on second thought, he could. It was a classic example of KGB paranoia run rampant—Zeitzev had found out where Andrew Churcher was staying; had technicians bug the hotel room; but hadn’t informed Kovlek.
“Well?” Zeitzev said, like a prodding schoolmaster.
“The accent,” Gorodin said. “It’s slight but—”
“Everyone in Italy has an accent when they speak English,” Kovlek interrupted scornfully.
“Not an Estonian inflection,” Gorodin said, weary of his denseness. He was referring to the Scandinavian lilt of the Russian spoken in the Baltic Republics.
Zeitzev heard the certainty in Gorodin’s voice, and nodded, “My assessment, too,” he said in an outright lie. He’d detected the accent, but couldn’t place it. “The Baltic Republics definitely.” He lifted the phone and buzzed his secretary. “Bring me The List,” he said.
Since the Revolution, secrecy and control had been the mechanisms of the Soviet state. Ideas, art, music, and literature were censored; computers, copiers, printing presses, and typewriters were controlled; the movement of citizens strictly regulated.
Guaranteed the right to rest in Article 41 of their Constitution, Soviets vacation at government-operated resorts. Few travel outside the Iron Curtain. Those who do are on The List. The names in the green leather binder, found in Soviet embassies the world over, are updated daily. Travel itineraries and extensive biographical data are noted next to each.
Zeitzev’s gangly secretary entered with the binder, and leaned across the desk to whisper to him.
“He’ll have to come back,” Zeitzev replied, a mild irritation in his voice.
“I told him you were busy, comrade,” she said defensively. “He said he has something important, and insisted on waiting.”
Zeitzev’s expression softened. “All right,” he said, reconsidering.
The secretary nodded and left.
Zeitzev opened the binder, and began running a finger down the columns of names. “Eight from Baltic Republics,” he announced. “Three cleared to Italy. One woman. Birthplace: Tallinn, Estonia. Residence: Moscow.”
“Estoninans,” Kovlek said with disgust. “They do nothing but complain of religious persecution, and watch Western television programs from Helsinki. Unpatriotic swine each and every one.”
“Well, this swine has blat,” Zeitzev said, using Russian slang for clout. “Winner of three Olympic medals in equestrian events. Father, chairman of the Arabian Breeders League. Reason for travel, International Horse Show, Rome. All things considered, I’d say the chances that Comrade Raina Maiskaya was Churcher’s caller are rather high, Gorodin, wouldn’t you?”
Gorodin nodded cautiously, pushed another cigarette between his lips, and lit it.
“But if she’s here to horse-trade with Churcher,” Kovlek said, “why impersonate the housekeeper?”<
br />
“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.
