Rockets' Red Glare

by Greg Dinallo

  “Maybe I could get in on the pretext of business,” Andrew went on undaunted. “Make up a story about the Arabians. You know some problem that—”

  “Forget it,” Fausto interrupted. “Nobody does business at this hour. Besides, they know you were with her. They’d see right through your pretext.”

  Andrew took a deep breath and let it out. “I guess you’re right,” he said, suddenly hit by exhaustion. “What do you think’ll happen to her?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll need some time to—how you say—scavasto.” He made a churning gesture with his hands while he searched for the word. Then, literally translating the Italian, said, “Excavate.”

  “You mean, do some digging.”

  Fausto nodded. “Get some rest. Sell some horses. I’ll call you,” he said, adding, “so to speak.”

  “Thanks.”

  Fausto patted him on the cheek and left.

  Andrew fell facedown across the bed. Thirty-two hours had passed since he left Houston, and aside from a catnap on the plane, he hadn’t slept. He lay on his stomach, staring at the intricately woven patterns in the oriental rug until he fell asleep.

  When he woke, it was with a start. He was on his back looking straight into the blazing chandelier above the bed. He lay there disoriented for a few moments. Then it all came back, in a rush, with an overwhelming sense of urgency. He sat up suddenly, and glanced to his watch. It was almost eleven thirty. He had slept for over two hours. It felt like two minutes. He took the map from his pocket, and began searching for the Soviet Embassy.

  * * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Melanie stood on the top step of the staircase in the Archives beneath the Sapienza, pounding on the door with her fists, and screaming for help at the top of her lungs. It was more out of frustration now. She’d been doing this on and off for hours to no avail. Finally, she overcame her anxiety, sat down again on the steps in the darkness, and started thinking.

  She had survived New York’s Streets and subways for twenty years, not to mention the blackout in sixty-seven. She was in her early twenties and new to the city at the time, and spent that night backstage at the Odeon, a dumpy theater on Houston Street in the East Village where she’d gone to audition for Oh Calcutta! on a dare. But that evening, others had groped through the blackness with candles and bottles of wine and pizzas, and it turned into quite a party.

  This was different. She was alone, hungry, and softened by middle-aged comforts. She’d expected her eyes to acclimate and bring vague suggestions of steps, and walls, and light fixtures into view. But after the first hour, she still couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. The absence of light was total, as if she was suddenly struck blind.

  She was digging through her purse for a package of gum to alleviate the dryness in her mouth when she began thinking about the footsteps she had heard earlier and recalled the sequence of events: whoever locked the door had come down the staircase a short distance, then the lights went out, and then footsteps ascended. That meant the switch was on her side of the door! She ran it through her mind over and over, trying to hear the footsteps, trying to count them.

  With one hand on the rail, the other on the wall, Melanie started down the steps in the pitch blackness. It took several tries, first one wall, then the other, sliding her palms over the dusty surfaces before her fingers found a run of electrical conduit which led her to the rotary switch—Click! The bare bulbs exploded with light, sending the angled shadows up the walls and illuminating the cobweb tapestries.

  She was startled by the sudden brilliance. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust and focus on the eeriness, which she found comforting now.

  Bolstered by the triumph, and resigned to her incarceration, Melanie decided to make use of the time. She descended the twisting staircase to the stone room and resumed her search for Aleksei Deschin’s records.

  * * * * * *

  Marco Profetta spent the evening at Allegro, a gay bar on Paccione, not far from the Sapienza. For hours, Marco had resisted the advances of a barrel-chested businessman who fancied the wiry sleekness of his body. Marco would have liked nothing better than to let the big German take him back to his room in the DeVille, and pound him mercilessly into the sheets. But Zeitzev had agreed to pay Marco the 500,000 lire that he wanted for the Information Card to deal with Melanie Winslow. And his work wasn’t finished.

  It was 11:23 P.M. when he left Allegro to return to the Sapienza. He cruised the courtyard in his red Alpha. The headlights revealed dozens of motor scooters still parked in the area. Some were clustered near the entrance to the Records Office. Marco got out of the car, and examined them. His eyes darted to the words SCOOT-A-LONG stenciled across a green Motobecane. A tag displaying the distinctive logo had dangled from the key ring clutched in Melanie’s fist that afternoon. He smiled at his cleverness, lifted the scooter’s molded plastic engine housing, and began the next phase of his plan.

  * * * * * *

  Hours of searching still hadn’t turned up the elusive name Melanie sought. She was opening another folder when her head snapped up in reaction to the creak of the door hinge above.

  “Pronto? C’e qualcuno qui?” came the prissy voice from the top of the staircase, “Hello? Hello, anyone down there?”

  “Yes! Yes, there is,” Melanie shouted back.

  She grabbed her purse and ran like hell, her dancer’s legs taking the stairs three at a time.

  “Yes, wait! I’m coming,” she shouted as she climbed.

  Marco stood to one side of the opened door, hands on hips, smiling slyly at the relief he heard in her voice. She would be so grateful.

  The dashing footsteps got louder, and suddenly, Melanie charged through the open doorway, past Marco, into the records office.

  “Signora!” he exclaimed. “We thought you had left,” he said, feigning confusion.

  “Somebody locked me in,” she replied breathlessly. “I shouted and shouted. I can’t imagine no one heard me.”

  “Ah,” Marco said, knowingly. “Janitor, sordo,” he went on, cupping a hand behind his ear, indicating the fellow was hard of hearing. “Sordo.”

  “Oh,” Melanie said, understanding.

  “I came back for my book,” he said, holding up a text. “I saw light under the door.”

  “Thank God,” she said in a more subdued tone.

  “You need a ride?”

  “No, I rented a scooter,” she replied. “Thanks.”

  She took a moment to collect herself, and they went outside together.

  “Ciao, signora.”

  “Ciao, Marco. Molto grazie.”

  Marco waved and sauntered toward the parking area.

  Melanie stood in the courtyard for a few moments, drawing the cool, fresh air into her lungs. Then she walked quickly toward her motor scooter.

  Marco got into his car, and watched expectantly.

  Melanie dropped onto the Motobecane’s seat, fishing through her purse for the key. In ten minutes, she thought, twenty if she detoured to one of those cobblestoned streets, she would be standing under the hot shower in her room; after which, she’d go down to the cozy hotel bar. God, how she wanted a tall, frosty gin and tonic that would wash the musty taste of the archives from her mouth. She found the keys and, in her haste, stabbed the key at the ignition upside down. She fidgeted with it for a moment until she realized her mistake, then, all in one motion, reversed the key, pushed in, and turned it. The engine kicked over, but refused to start. She waited a few seconds and tried again. Nothing. She sighed, slumped on the seat, and noticed headlights approaching.

  Marco leaned out the window of the Alpha coupe which pulled up next to her.

  “Walk-A-Long strikes again,” he said, chuckling.

  “I’m afraid my sense of humor’s been dealt a fatal blow,” she replied with a thin smile.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At the Gregoriana.”

  “Come on, I’ll take you.”
>
  “What about the scooter?”

  “Call them, and they’ll pick it up. Come on.”

  Melanie gathered her things, and got into the Alpha next to him. Marco smiled and drove out of the parking area, heading north on Delia Scroffa.

  “What are you looking for down there, anyway?” he asked offhandedly.

  “Information about my father.”

  “Oh,” he said, filing it away. “My father went to the university, too; graduated in fifty-eight, I think.”

  Marco took Copelle to del Tritione and started up the hill. Many people had already left the city for the weekend. And traffic was light at this hour. It took less than ten minutes to drive to the Gregoriana.

  “Thanks again, Marco,” Melanie said as she popped the Alpha’s door.

  “Prego, signora,” he said magnanimously. “What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” Melanie replied, puzzled.

  “Yes, I’ll be your driver.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary. You’ve already done enough. I’ll get another scooter.”

  “Please, signora,” he insisted. “In Rome, a man who rescues a woman becomes responsible for her. It’s an old custom. You have no choice. So, your wish is my command—almost,” he joked charmingly.

  Melanie smiled and looked at him thoughtfully.

  “Well, there is something you can help me with,” she said. “The Records Office is closed for the weekend, isn’t it?”

  “Si.”

  “I’d like to get back in there tomorrow, and Sunday instead of waiting. Can you arrange it?”

  “Of course, I have the key. What time shall I pick you up?”

  “Ten?”

  “Si. Le dieci.”

  Marco had her perfectly positioned, now. Why follow her, and chance being spotted or losing her in traffic on that scooter when he could chauffeur her instead. He watched her go into the hotel, then drove back to the Sapienza, and descended into the Archives. He had until 10 A.M. the next morning to find Aleksei Deschin’s records.

  * * * * * *

  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 woul
d 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.