by Greg Dinallo
“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 th
ought 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.”
* * * * * *
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?”