He dragged Borodin as far back into the shadows as he could and arranged the body to look like he was sleeping off a drinking binge. It was not unknown among the occupying forces, although it was rare for Beria’s men to behave so unprofessionally. Such foolishness was almost inevitably fatal. If the Great Satan himself did not see to your demise, the local population almost certainly would.
Ivanov set off once more, drifting east, then south toward Via Giordano Bruno. Back in July 1944, partisans in this part of the city had staged a brief but intense last stand against the Red Army paratroopers who had jumped into Rome when the fascist regime fell apart. Strange bedfellows these resistance fighters had been. Gangs of criminals, demobilized soldiers who had held on to their weapons, anarchists, and even some local Communists who had sided with Trotsky decades before. There had also been rumors of Allied special operators fighting alongside the Italians, in order to delay and frustrate a complete Soviet takeover of Rome. Ivanov had been working with the Office of Strategic Services since the end of the war and he had heard most of these rumors from fellow operatives. None of them, however, ever laid claim to having been on the ground here at the time.
The burned-out shells of buildings, large piles of rubble, and occasional overgrown, weed-choked lots on both sides of Giordano Bruno spoke of high-intensity urban warfare. The Russians had done well to confine it to a few blocks, although the partisans had aided in preserving the wider city by not spreading and escalating their fight. To the trained eye of the former Spetsnaz officer, the rumors of OSS and British Special Operations Executive involvement looked less like wish fulfillment as he strode through the ruined district. Stalin’s forces had bled out here for two weeks, and yet a couple of blocks away, the Eternal City appeared untouched by war, the Transition, and even time itself. Maybe there was some truth to the stories.
Moving slowly in the direction of the Wall, Ivanov reviewed the situation. He had elected to make his own crossing back to Free Rome, without the support of Franco’s people or whatever network the elder Furedi was running. The Roman Wall was not impenetrable; it was merely very difficult to cross aboveground, under the muzzles of the machine guns in the watchtowers. That was the escape route normal people took, and that was how so many contemporary Romans had died. But the Furedis had shown him there were alternatives. He just didn’t know how to navigate them.
He slowed down as a six-wheeled troop carrier rumbled through an intersection two blocks ahead. The vehicle commander was buttoned up inside, Ivanov noticed, in contravention of the Red Army mandate that officers ride uncovered while on patrol, head out of the hatch. But he was obviously a wiser man than the superiors who issued a standing order that amounted to an invitation to be sniped. The big diesel engines of the BMP grunted and roared as it coughed oily smoke from its exhausts and rolled on into the night.
With the money, transit pass, and ID lifted from the men he had killed, Ivanov did have the option of lying low in the occupied sector, or even of going deeper into Communist northern Italy. That he was expressly barred from doing so by his handlers was of minor concern. They were using him, and he was using them. In the end, only results would matter. Sobeskaia had given the OSS enough of a fright to put Ivanov into North Rome, the first time in many years the Americans had let him operate within the Eastern Bloc. Whatever the businessman had to offer, they wanted it. And Ivanov wanted it too.
His track had taken him through the bomb-blasted, skeletal remains of three blocks along Via Giordano Bruno. Quite abruptly, he now entered a neighborhood less ravaged by the previous decade’s street fighting. Here the apartment buildings were covered in scaffolding; a cement truck and a small crane, both of them locked up for the night, were further signs of local reclamation work. Within another block, he’d left behind all evidence of the small, intimate war that had once been fought here. Between Vias Ostia and Candia, the only damage had been done by the dead hand of Soviet occupation. The heavy, drab graying out of any color or sense of vibrancy in the streetscape was consistent with the rest of Communist-controlled Rome. But at least the fabric of the city had not been torn apart. Once the Stalinists were driven out, life would return. Real life.
A helicopter thudded through the night a mile or so away. A big Hind gunship, by the sound of it, apparently patrolling in a long, lazy arc. A searchlight stabbed down at one point, but blinked out again almost immediately—a routine procedure, to remind citizens that they were forever under surveillance. If the chopper crew had been searching for a particular target, they would’ve lanced it with the spotlights and possibly opened up with miniguns. There had been no such incidents since the start of the trade conference, but Ivanov did not doubt that should one of the gunships catch Franco and his colleagues out in the open, image management would quickly give way to an opportunistic firestorm.
He checked his watch. It was late, many hours since he had broken contact with that dog Skarov. The relative quiet on the streets and the apparent concentration of occupying forces near the Wall gave him to believe that Skarov had poured his resources into pursuing the Romans there, hoping to bottle them up before they could escape via their maze of underground passages. Even as he argued with himself in favor of this conclusion, another helicopter hammered by in the night sky, overhead this time, making for the airspace above the Wall a few blocks to the south. Once there, the Hind took up a holding pattern, occasionally slicing up the streets below with all four of its spotlights.
Forcing himself to maintain a steady, even pace when all of his instincts told him to shy away in the shadows, Ivanov continued on a course toward Sobeskaia’s hotel. He turned up the collar of the long black coat and reassured himself there were any number of reasons and justifications he could cite for taking such a risk. Primary among them, his failure. He had failed to make contact with the businessman or the man’s mistress. He had failed to collect whatever intelligence they had to offer. He had failed even to establish the nature of that offering. The presence of Skarov, the wild, intemperate response of the Communists while the whole world looked toward Rome—these things indicated a measure of desperation on Beria’s part. Whatever game was in play here, the stakes were high. It was worth Ivanov’s taking a risk just to keep playing.
But as he moved back into the streets he had escaped earlier with the help of Franco and Marius and, let’s not forget, cousin Carlo’s murderous little girl, he knew that all of the reasons and justifications in the world meant nothing really. Only one thing was drawing him back to that hotel, only one man, and it was not Valentin Sobeskaia. It was Colonel-General Skarov of the NKVD. Pavel Ivanov meant to kill him. Maybe he would be at the Albergo. Maybe not.
His bootheels clicked on ancient flagstones as he advanced, in character as Sergant Special’noy Stanislav Borodin of the NKVD. Perhaps the troopers he’d encounter ahead would recognize him from alerts and bulletins, not to mention the wanted posters that hung in their thousands throughout the USSR and its satellite territories. Perhaps they would sling the submachine guns they carried and open up on him in panic.
Or perhaps he might walk right past them and into the hotel.
12
North Rome (Soviet sector)
There were no primaries at the Albergo Grimaldi. Nobody like Borodin, or Skarov, or himself. Only sleepy guards and anxious-looking hotel staff. The two conscripts on the front door hurried to shuffle out of his way as he stomped up the steps and reached for his stolen ID. The trench coat, the badge, the air of entitlement and threat were enough for them.
Of course, thought Ivanov.
The foyer was a mess. Four more troopers lounged around inside, two of them asleep. The other pair played cards and smoked. They started a little when he stalked in but returned to their game when the NKVD man evinced no interest in them. The Albergo’s entry and reception area was not large and what space there was had been taken up by piles of luggage, suitcases, and so on, and by the squaddies’ equipment, which included a small gas stove on whic
h they were heating coffee. Probably spiked with vodka, and almost certainly stolen from the hotel stores.
Muddy footprints ran everywhere over the threadbare carpet. A couple of lightbulbs had failed, adding to the gloomy atmosphere. A man and a woman, both with the underfed, anxious look of locals about them, worked behind the counter, mostly trying not to catch his eye. Ivanov had Borodin’s identity card and badge out by then and bruted his way over to them, jutting his chin out and allowing the contempt that all secret policemen felt for their fellow beings to run free across his features. A brief wave of the NKVD badge was enough to ensure their attention and drain what little color was left in the face of the night manager.
“I am here under the direct orders of district coordinator Kuznetzov,” he informed them while keeping an eye on the Red Army squad members in the dirty, fly-specked mirror behind the counter. The name of Kuznetzov caught the attention of the corporal who was playing cards, and the young man kept one eye on Ivanov while attending to the little gas stove. Like a good Russian, however, he took no initiative to act beyond the orders he had been given. Watch the foyer.
“There was an incident here earlier today,” continued Ivanov, in character. “I have flown up from Naples to investigate the handling of this matter. I will need to inspect the rooms and property of all involved, and to speak with the controlling officer, Colonel-General Skarov. Where is he?”
The name of Lavrenty Beria’s hatchet man caused both of the troopers to turn his way now, warily, and the poor Romans behind the desk to shake uncontrollably. The man and woman exchanged a nervous glance and seemed even more nervous for having done so.
“Conrad … Comrade Skarov is not here,” said the man.
The woman clutched at her throat—probably reaching for the rosary beads she dared not wear in public, Ivanov thought.
“He is at the Wall,” the night manager added. “There have been incidents. Terrorists and criminals.” The woman nodded gravely, still clutching at the religious totem that was not there.
“The keys then,” he demanded.
The manager looked confused, perhaps even a bit reluctant. Ivanov glowered at him. “These terrorists, these criminals—you have some sympathy with them, comrade?”
The poor Italian almost choked on his response. “Oh no, no, no …” he said quickly, while reaching around to pluck two keys from a board on the wall behind him.
Ivanov snatched them out of his hand and stalked away from the counter, stopping to bestow a withering gaze on the corporal, who was staring at him.
“You there, soldier!” he barked.
The man jumped, spilling some of his coffee. Ivanov was certain he could smell ouzo.
“Do you know where Colonel-General Skarov might be? I am to report to him and seek information about what took place here earlier.”
The noncom stumbled to his feet. His two sleeping comrades disturbed themselves. “No …” the corporal said uncertainly, before adding with more vigor: “No, comrade. We were detailed here when your section was finished with the scene. Partisans attacked today. They are everywhere in this part of the city. We are to secure the hotel against them.”
Ivanov stared at the steaming coffee he held. “Good job,” he said drily. “What can you tell me of the partisan attack? Quickly now, I must be about my investigations.”
“It was a serious attack,” the other man replied. “They came up through the sewers. We heard that many of Colonel-General Skarov’s men were killed down there. The colonel chases them now. That is what we hear, anyway. But the NKVD does not always inform us of details. We have been given orders, comrade. To stay here in the foyer. That is really all I know. If you cannot find Colonel-General Skarov, it is because he is in pursuit of the partisans.”
Ivanov allowed himself to look only slightly dissatisfied with the answer. It rang true. Skarov was not a man to step back from the blow that the Furedi brothers had delivered to him this afternoon. He would take it as a personal affront and a failure. Ivanov was familiar with that way of thinking.
With a wave, he dismissed the soldier, who resumed his seat, his card game, and his drink. The would-be NKVD master sergeant turned away without another word. He took the stairs to the second floor, where Sobeskaia and his mistress had taken adjoining rooms. The crowded foyer with its piles of luggage and unwashed floor had given the impression of a poorly run, typically drab state hotel. But the muddy footprints petered out on the first landing of the stairwell, and from what he could see of the hallway, the staff had done a better job of maintaining some order up here.
Ten rooms ran off either side of the long corridor, which was well lit and tidy. Halfway down, a small table held a bowl of fruit. That in itself was testimony to a standard of luxury not easily found on this side of the Wall. The apples, pears, and grapes looked fresh. It was significant, he thought, that they remained untouched. To provide them in the first place was an uncommon measure of largesse in the Soviet sector; that nobody had stolen every piece of fruit gave some indication that the guests here were more familiar with material ease than the Romans on the streets outside. It also meant, he would bet, that the conscripts he had seen downstairs had not wandered up here. The accommodation fitted with Ivanov’s image of Sobeskaia as a privileged boyar. At least, until very recently.
He stopped outside room 203, where Anna, the mistress, had stayed. He could hear two guests talking in another room nearby, and the clink of cutlery on dinner plates as somebody ate a room-service meal. But nothing from 203. Drawing the pistol he had taken from Borodin, Ivanov entered the room.
It had been professionally searched. The bed was stripped, the mattress flipped. Dresser drawers had been removed and stacked. A watercolor painting leaned against the wall, an outline of its frame showing where it had hung until a few hours ago. He could see no personal effects. There would be nothing here, and probably nothing next door in Sobeskaia’s room.
A connecting door gave him access to 204, where he found the scene repeated. The room had been taken apart efficiently, methodically: no personal effects strewn everywhere; no curtains ripped down from the rails; no feathers or foam spilling out from where rough, impatient hands had slashed open the mattress, searching for contraband. There was nothing here for him. Still, it had to be searched, and he did so as thoroughly as whoever had come through here before.
Ivanov was in the en suite bathroom, lifting the lid on the toilet cistern, when he heard them coming for him. The thunder of boots up the stairs and along the corridor.
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t stop to think. He took a grenade from his weapons satchel, pulled the pin, and tossed it through into the bedroom a fraction of a second before he used the heavy ceramic cistern lid to smash open the fixed window of the bathroom. It sounded like all six of the squad members had come for him, but others were with them too.
Skarov. He recognized the devil’s voice as it called his name.
“Ivanov! Give up. We have you.”
But they didn’t. He ripped the plastic shower curtain from its moorings, looped it around a tap at the washbasin, which was directly below the broken window, and dived through, holding one end in each hand. The improvised rope allowed him to drop a few feet, and playing out the curtain by raising his right hand lowered him farther.
Hobnail boots crashed on a wooden door somewhere above him. He heard it burst inward and smash against the wall like the crack of a rifle shot a second before the grenade exploded. The entire building shook as he dropped through clear air, trailed by the screams of dying men. He seemed to fall forever, yet hit the ground immediately, allowing his legs to fold up underneath him, breathing out and dropping into a judo roll as glass and burning splinters rained down around him. The impact slammed up through his ankles and knees like an electric shock. He rolled to his feet and ran, not sure exactly where he was or in which direction he was heading.
He ran—surprised that he could, that a shinbone was not protruding from his lower leg like
a broken spear. A single shot rang out and sparked off the cobblestone beside him, but he threw himself to the left and around the corner, out of the line of fire.
Skarov would be coming for him. The NKVD colonel-general would not have led the way into the hotel room, knowing of the danger within. Ivanov cursed himself—his foolishness, his obsession—then he put it all aside and ran, stripping off the heavy trench coat as he dived into a barely lit, narrow passageway.
More shots, but muted by distance and the buildings that now stood between him and his pursuers. They were firing at shadows, at nothing. He had maybe a minute or two’s advantage, a head start before Skarov threw hundreds of men onto the streets of North Rome to find him.
Another left turn, then a right, however, and Ivanov suddenly found that his precious advantage was gone.
He had run blindly into a dead end. Darkened tenements rose three and four stories above him; behind him, he could hear shouts and the barking of dogs. At the very edge of perception, he was aware of being observed. Not by the men who were now hunting him but by the city itself. By hundreds of eyes in these darkened tenements. By blank walls, empty windows, and shadows.
He checked his satchel. Two Makarovs, the MP5, and night-vision goggles; in his pockets, three clips of ammunition for the pistols. His pursuers were drawing close. Ivanov could hear the engines of motorbikes and a truck, and the deep industrial growl of a troop carrier. He could not risk doubling back out of this cul-de-sac. But he seemed to have no options here, no external fire escapes or trellises he might scale, no open doors through which he could dive.
He was just fitting the NVGs, planning to scan for an entrance to the drains, when he heard her voice.
“Come with me, Russian. Quickly.”
He jumped. She had emerged from the pitch-black shadows.
“Who are …?” And then he recognized her. “Carlo’s little girl.” It was as much a question as a statement.
Stalin's Hammer: Rome Page 11