by Greg Dinallo
“Jake,” the President said a little impatiently, “are you telling me that Herons are deployed in that tub? That a hundred-fifty miles off our shores, there’s a tanker loaded with nukes on a Caribbean cruise?”
“No, sir. Theory considered and dismissed,” replied Boulton, reverting to his staccato delivery. He stood and, with a flick of a thumb and forefinger, rebuttoned his suit jacket. “DDI calculates said compartment could provide only marginal deployment capability, that is, one Heron and attendant support.”
“Hell,” the President said. “The Russians didn’t go to the trouble of reoutfitting a tanker just to deploy one missile.”
“Agreed.”
Hilliard’s face clouded over at the thought that occurred to him. “Christ, Jake—what are the chances we’re looking at a fleet of ’em?”
“Negative. Scenario dictates a missile-to-launch-crew ratio of one-to-one. Submarine deployment is twenty-five-to-one. Limited supply of qualified technical personnel eliminates the option.”
“Yes, the Kremlin’s worse off than we are. And they’re not competing with a private sector that triples the pay in the military. They can’t afford to take crews from subs carrying twenty-five birds and assign ’em to tankers with one. I agree.”
Hilliard flicked a glance to the slide projector Boulton’s aide had set up. “What’s the feature presentation?”
Boulton nodded to the aide who dimmed the overhead lights, and flipped on the projector.
A glowing chart of Gulf and Caribbean waters appeared on the wall opposite the President. The landmasses of Cuba, Central America, and the Gulf coast of the United States were delineated.
Boulton took a pointer from his pocket, telescoped it open, and traced a big triangle on the projection as he spoke. “VLCC Kira runs a triangular circuit, sir. Havana, Gulf, Puerto Sandino, and back. Pick up crew, take on crude, pump off crude, ad infinitum.”
“Sounds like maybe we’re looking at a missile delivery truck,” the President ventured.
“Indeed, a prime scenario, sir. Moscow ships hardware to Cuba. Kira picks up and, under legitimate cover, delivers to Soviet missile base in Nicaragua, but—” Boulton advanced the slide, and a satellite surveillance photograph of Nicaragua replaced the map —“analysis of KH-11 reconnaissance indicates”— Boulton zoomed in to the distinctive geometry of a baseball field; long shadows of personnel in strategic positions indicated a game was in progress —“that said scenario is negated.”
“Because of a baseball diamond?” asked the President somewhat incredulously.
“Yes, sir,” Boulton replied smartly. “The import here is—Russians play soccer. Baseball is a Cuban game.”
“Pardon me?” Hilliard said, offended by the DCI’s Cubanization of the national pastime. The President grew up in Chicago, and spent as much time at Wrigley Field as he had at the U. of C. Law School. Ernie Banks was his hero, and it still irked him that the guy who hit five grand slams in one season, led the league in home runs and RBIs four times, and was voted MVP two seasons running had never played in a World Series. “Let me tell you, Jake,” he went on, “if this means that Abner Doubleday really grew up in Havana, I’m going to be real upset.”
“I’ll put someone right on it, sir,” Boulton said deadpan.
The President laughed.
Boulton nodded to his aide, who flicked off the projector and brought up the room lights.
“So what you’re telling me,” the President concluded, “is that baseball means we have a Cuban, rather than a Soviet, presence in Nicaragua.”
“Correct, sir.”
“And the soccer team would never turn its nuclear hardware over to the baseball team.”
“Correct again.”
“Okay—back to the Kira. False alarm, pack of trouble, what?”
“Trouble—situation demands that conclusion.”
“Until we verify one way or the other.”
“Exactly.”
“How?”
“Visual inspection.”
“Board her?”
“Affirmative. It would require a finding, sir.”
The President nodded thoughtfully. “Very well, I’ll sign it. But we can’t get caught, Jake,” he warned. “No gaffs. I don’t want people telling the truth when they should be lying. Not now.”
“Not ever, sir,” Boulton replied grimly.
The President drifted off for a moment, then tightened his lips and caught Boulton’s eye. “If we’re right, Jake. If the Soviet’s have Herons deployed out there somewhere, that means they wouldn’t break-even in Geneva—they’d win. What would result?”
“World domination; unreasonable demands—without option,” Boulton replied, angered by the idea. “Consider bilateral disarmament in place—a year, two, three—then imbalance is insidiously revealed,” he paused unexpectedly, and broke into a curious smile.
The President stared at him, baffled as to why.
“Consider, sir,” Boulton went on, delighted by his vision, “consider the import if positions were reversed.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Hilliard said, sharing it. “We would have them out of eastern Europe so fast it’d make their heads spin.” He paused, then added, “For openers.”
“Affirmative,” Boulton said, the smile gone now.
The President nodded, decision made. “Go to it.”
Boulton and his aide packed up and left.
The President pressed a button on his console. “Cathleen? Get me Phil, will you?”
* * * * * *
The U.S.S. Marathon, a Navy patrol gunboat, sliced through the icy waters of Lake Geneva, pulling streaks of red and green light through the darkness behind it. The swift vessel, armed with ordnance and electronic surveillance gear, was assigned to provide offshore security for the U.S. disarmament contingent housed at Maison de Saussure.
After making his report to the President, Keating had joined Gisela Pomerantz in one of the mansion’s private dining rooms. Lights on the opposite shore twinkled through the mist. The silver and crystal between them shimmered in candlelight, adding to the romantic aura.
Pomerantz raised her glass in a toast. “To two-act plays,” she said, gazing alluringly over the goblet at Keating.
He smiled knowingly at the reference, and touched his glass to hers. “To two-act plays,” he said, thinking the years had given her a radiance that made her all the more attractive to him. Then, in an effort to lighten the mood, he added, “You know, I think that might come in handy during tomorrow’s session.”
She continued staring at him, not as if puzzled, but as if she hadn’t heard what he’d said. Then she smiled, and asked, “What might come in handy?”
“The way you’re looking at me,” he replied with a grin, “Take my word for it—it’s very disarming.”
“I was hoping it would have that effect on you, Philip,” she replied seductively.
“Gisela—” he said, feigning he was taken aback by her boldness. “Surely, after all these years you know better than to expect the promise of carnal pleasures to cloud my judgment. I’m a highly trained professional, sworn to uphold and defend the Constitution of the United States—a married one.”
“I didn’t know the Seventh Commandment was part of it,” she replied, breaking into a wry smile.
“Well,” he said, matching it, “I have to admit the framers were rather passionate when it came to separation of church and state, but I—”
“Very passionate, as I understand it,” she said, interrupting.
“And you’re suggesting we take full advantage of their wisdom—”
“—And exercise our freedoms to the fullest,” she said, finishing Keating’s sentence in a sensual tone. “Yes.”
“Well, I’ve always been in favor of exercise—” he replied thoughtfully, as if considering what she’d proposed. Then, the desire in his eyes matching hers, he dipped a fingertip into the champagne, brought it to her mouth, and began moistening her lips with the v
intage Cristal, while softly adding “—And passion can have its moments.”
“I’ve been waiting years for this one,” she replied in a breathy whisper. “The sight of you has always made me—” she paused, licked a droplet of champagne from the corner of her mouth, then, leaning forward until her lips were inches from his, purred “—has always made me wet.”
A tingling sensation rippled across Keating’s midsection and spread down into his thighs. He wanted her now, wanted her more than ever as he took her face in his hands, fighting the temptation to touch his lips to hers. He was thinking that they would be soft and eager and, moistened with the champagne, would fuel the passionate rush, as he’d always imagined, when someone knocked on the door.
Keating and Pomerantz froze momentarily, then settled back into their chairs with wistful sighs.
“Yes?” Keating called out.
The door to the small dining room opened, and one of his aide’s entered. He smiled at Pomerantz, then bent to Keating, and whispered something.
“Tell him I’m on my way,” Keating said.
The aide nodded and hurried off.
“The President’s calling,” Keating said.
“I’ll be here.”
“Could be awhile.”
“I’ll be here,” she replied seductively.
No more than fifteen minutes had passed when Keating returned, accompanied by his aide, and, with cautious optimism, briefed Germany’s minister for strategic deployment on the Kira. Despite the short interval, the President’s call had turned Keating’s mind firmly to business, and the intimacy had been forever lost.
* * * * * *
Chapter Twenty-eight
Raina Maiskaya stepped out of the elevator into the Hotel Eden’s handsome lobby, pulling on short leather gloves. In fur hat and tailored wool coat that went below the calves of her boots, she looked like the wealthy Roman women who came to the hotel’s chic rooftop restaurant with their lovers—as she had many times with Theodor Churcher.
She didn’t know she was being watched; she assumed it, and planned to use the long walk to Piazza di Trevi to lose any surveillance. The Eden’s revolving door spun her into the cool night. She walked east on Ludovisi. East was the wrong direction. But Ludovisi is a one-way street, and walking against traffic would prevent a vehicle from tailing her.
Kovlek and the KGB man were across the street in the Fiat. They drove to the intersection, made a left into Pinciana, and went around the block. The Fiat was on Aurora approaching Ludovisi when Raina came around the corner into the glare of its headlights. When the oncoming traffic passed, they made a broken U-turn and followed at a distance.
At the next intersection, Raina turned west into Liguria. A third of the way down the steep slope, she angled into a cobbled alley behind the shops.
The Fiat drove a short distance past the alley, stopped, and started to back up.
“No, she’ll hear the car,” Kovlek said. “And it’s a rat’s maze in there—staircases, narrow passageways.”
The driver pulled the Fiat to the curb.
Kovlek removed two palm-sized walkie-talkies from the glove box, and handed one to the driver.
“I’ll let you know where we come out,” he said.
Kovlek walked up the incline into the darkened alley. Light spilled from a few windows onto the piles of trash and cars that hugged the buildings.
Raina followed the twisting alley to a court from which other passageways branched. She was going down a staircase when she heard footsteps and looked back. A shadow stretched high across a wall above her. Then a figure shrouded in darkness appeared atop the steps. The man paused, unsure of the route she had taken from the court. Raina held her breath in the shadows until he stepped back to examine the other passageways; then she hurried down the steps to an adjoining lane.
Up ahead, two men were unloading a bakery truck. One dragged sacks of flour onto the tailgate. The other stood in the street, stacking them on a dolly. Raina hurried between the truck and the building, startling him as she passed. The sack slipped from his grasp, hit the ground, and burst, broadcasting the flour across the cobblestones. The two men began arguing heatedly in Italian.
Footsteps were coming down the staircase behind her now—but Raina couldn’t hear them.
* * * * * *
Andrew was at a stand-up counter in a coffee bar, a few blocks from Piazza di Trevi when the city’s bell towers began pealing their solemn call to vespers. He glanced to his watch, washed down the last bite of a brioche with his second cup of espresso—to keep him alert—folded the map, and hurried into the dark streets that swirl around Piazza di Trevi. He heard the fountain before he saw it, and moved in the direction of the roaring waters.
Valery Gorodin passed the time window-shopping, and had become virtually captivated by a display of lingerie. Italian men loved it and their women loved to wear it, and their shops knew how to sell it. The window was filled, not with stiff plastic torsos, but with photo blowups of luscious Italian models in seductive poses, wearing the risqué fare. Gorodin had given his imagination full rein when he noticed a reflection rippling across the glass, and realized Andrew was leaving the coffee bar. Gorodin had lost his concentration, and almost missed him. He waited until his anxiety subsided, then followed.
* * * * * *
Indeed, Piazza di Trevi is one of Rome’s major shopping districts. And the semicircle of boutiques opposite the fountain are among the busiest, especially on reopening after the midday shutdown. By six o’clock, the well-lit piazza was crowded with shoppers and strolling Romans taking their passeggiata.
For this reason, and for the many escape routes in the knot of surrounding streets, Raina Maiskaya had picked this time and place for the meeting. She was feigning interest in some shoes on a sidewalk display when she saw Andrew come loping into the piazza.
Getting out of the hotel had settled him, but now his apprehension returned, and his stomach was churning. The impact of the immense monument in the tiny piazza—the powerfully muscled Tritons charging through the swirling waters on their steeds—gave him a tourist’s demeanor that concealed his nervousness.
Raina watched him, wondering how anyone who looked so much like Theodor Churcher could be so different in temperament. She recalled the time Churcher complained, “The kid’s an eccentric, a cowboy who won’t join the club,” and how she gently suggested he involve Andrew with the Arabians, and how it delighted Churcher when the horses brought them together, as she’d predicted.
Andrew saw the striking woman coming across the piazza. Yes, yes, he could see her on his father’s arm. He had no doubt she was the woman that day in Tersk. And when her long strides brought her beneath the light, he saw she had a cool, mysterious beauty—sharp features set against luminous porcelain, like Steichen’s portraits of Garbo. He stared, unable to imagine how the image had ever escaped him.
Raina quickened her stride, broke into a little run, and threw her arms around him in an expression of sympathy and affection. And he returned it. Moments earlier, he was anxious and alone in a strange city. Now, he was holding this woman who had held his father, who he sensed shared his feelings and concerns, and whose presence bolstered him. He had no idea that her gesture, though genuine, also established a cover.
“Were you followed?” she asked, still hugging him. Her voice had the dusky lilt he heard over the phone.
“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone.”
“I was, but I lost him.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Andrew said in a whisper as they pulled back from each other, “how’d you get into the suite?”
“Don’t whisper. It attracts attention,” she warned. “With a key—your father had given me.”
Andrew smiled, feeling a little naive. “How do you know he was murdered?” he asked.
She blinked at his directness, took his arm, and started walking around the curve of the piazza. “He called me that morning. He was furious, and said he was
going to ‘kick Aleksei’s butt.’”
“Sounds just like him,” Andrew said with a little smile. “Who’s Aleksei?”
“Aleksei Deschin, cultural minister, Politburo, and very close to the Premier. Your father ‘did business’ with them for years.”
“He was paid in paintings, wasn’t he,” Andrew said. It was a statement.
“Yes. That’s where the problem arose. He discovered the ‘payments’ were fakes.”
Andrew nodded with some understanding now. “Payments for what?”
“Cooperation—in matters of national security. That’s all he ever told me. For my own protection.”
Andrew was stunned by her reply. “That’s, that’s just unbelievable,” he finally muttered, the words sticking in his throat. “I don’t know what to say.”
To his extreme dismay, she had confirmed his darkest suspicions about his father. His hopes of disproving them, if only to himself, had just been undeniably shattered. The realization was anguishing, and, despite the evidence, fueled his unwillingness to accept the idea that his father had hurt his country.
Theodor Churcher was a patriot, and war hero, not a traitor; and try as Andrew might, he couldn’t reconcile his view with Raina’s; the data refused to compute. If she was right, the world might soon learn that his father had sold out to the Russians. The thought was more than painful—it was mortifying.
He walked in silence until the impact wore off, then his face softened with a question.
“What’s your name?”
“Raina, Raina Maiskaya,” she said lyrically.
“Who killed my father, Raina?” he asked with quiet intensity.
“Glavnoe Razvedyvatelnoe Upravlenie,” she said, bitterly enunciating each syllable.