Rockets' Red Glare (22 page)

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.