Rockets' Red Glare (14 page)

McKendrick lifted his good shoulder in a shrug. “Hell, he’s been doing business over there for years,” he replied. “Who knows?”

“After everything that’s happened,” Andrew said, “it’s the
kind
of business I’m wondering about.”

“Where’re you headed?”

“Well—Churchco’s into all kinds of high tech stuff. Stuff that’s illegal to export. And—”

“Stuff the Russians are working twenty-four-hours-a-day to get their hands on,” McKendrick interjected, warming to the idea. “Interesting theory.”

Andrew shrugged, feeling disloyal to his father for suggesting it. “It just occurred to me that the paintings could induce that kind of cooperation,” he replied defensively. “I mean, art’s always been my father’s passion. Money would be the
last
thing that would tempt him,” he explained, adding, “Just an idea.”

“You’ve got a wicked mind, son. I like it.”

“Hey, you’re the one who said something weird was going on,” Andrew retorted. “My father said, ‘send that package to Boulton, to the
CIA
if I croak mysteriously.’ The coroner said, ‘rapid ascent from a great depth, possibly a submarine.’ ” He shrugged and shifted gears, feeling the need to supply a more positive explanation. “Maybe he was working on something with Boulton. They were in the OSS together during the war. I don’t know. What’s it matter, anyway?” he asked, suddenly aware of the futility.

“What’re you going to do next?” McKendrick asked.

“Go to Rome—sell Arabians, I guess,” Andrew replied, unenthused and somewhat evasively.

“You guess?” McKendrick prodded.

“Nothing I can do here. You said it yourself, he’s gone. Besides, nothing would frost my father more than knowing I was moping around doing nothing.”

McKendrick nodded in agreement. “Going to Moscow and Tersk, too,” he asked slyly.

Andrew nodded resolutely.

“Horse-trading, huh?”

Andrew’s lips tightened in a thin smile. “Mostly.”

McKendrick grinned. “You’re okay, kid. But watch your ass,” he said sharply. “Those two pansies I beat the shit out of last week—?” His inflection rose, and he paused.

Andrew chuckled and nodded, deciding he actually liked the crude fellow.

McKendrick smiled cryptically. “They were Russians—professionals.”

Andrew looked at him squarely and said, “Figured that.”

* * * * * *

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.