Rockets' Red Glare (21 page)

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.”

* * * * * *