Rockets' Red Glare

by Greg Dinallo

  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.

  “This area is private. Is he expecting you?” he barked in Italian, sticking a pipe in his mouth, as if that was all he’d need to say. It had a short curved stem that let the bowl rest against his chin.

  Melanie couldn’t understand a word he said, but she nodded just to be polite.

  “Yes, well, you see, he doesn’t know me, but—”

  “Prego,” he said, taking the nod as an affirmative reply, adding, “Ministro Borsa stabili in mezzo.”

  Melanie hurried past the gatehouse and down a dirt road lined with horse vans to the stable. She entered beneath the Borsa crest, walked between the stalls, and up a staircase. The private box was a shuttered wood-paneled room, lushly furnished with priceless antiques, Persian rugs, paintings of horses, and countless show ribbons. She stepped through it lively and out the arched door to the balcony. In the show ring below, Borsa, in natty equestrian attire, and a stableboy were adjusting the saddle on an Arabian.

  “He’s beautiful,” Melanie called out to get Borsa’s attention, after watching for a few moments.

  “Thank you,” Borsa replied, climbing a staircase to join her. “You’re rather early,” he went on, assuming she was there for the benefit, which wouldn’t start for hours. He towered over her as he stepped onto the balcony, and Melanie introduced herself. She was clearly taken by his presence, and offered an awkward apology for the intrusion. Then, quickly capturing his attention with the WWII photograph, Melanie told the story of her search for her father.

  “My God,” Borsa said in an amazed whisper. “Look at us—Sarah—Aleksei—Your parents you say?”

  “Yes,” Melanie replied, heartened by his reaction.

  “I knew them both,” he said poignantly. “Aleksei was an art student from Russia who came to study in the heart of the Renaissance. We were classmates at the university. He was trapped here when the war came.”

  Melanie was stunned. She didn’t hear a word after “from Russia.” She wasn’t sure she even heard that.

  “And as you can see, we fought together,” Borsa continued, reflecting on the photo. “Against the Nazis, and the Fascists,” he added proudly and, seguing into an afterthought, asked, “Do you ride?”

  “Pardon me?” Melanie asked, still in shock.

  “Do you ride, are you a horsewoman?”

  “Oh,” she replied coming out of it. “As a matter of fact, yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Good, I was about to take him for a run in the Gardens,” Borsa said, referring to the Arabian. “And we have a mare who could use some exercise. We’ll ride, and I’ll tell you what I can remember.” He called down to the stableboy, who hurried off to fetch the animal.

  At that moment, a horse van arrived at the entrance to the stable area. The guard came from the gatehouse.

&nb
sp; “I have a horse for the auction,” Dominica said from behind the wheel. “Give me a hand will you?”

  She wore a black balaclava—a fitted orlon hood with an oblong opening for the eyes, worn by climbers and race drivers—and large dark sunglasses. The effect was more that of a trendy fashion excess than a device to conceal her identity, which it did.

  The guard grunted and waved the van into the courtyard beyond the gatehouse, following after it. When the van stopped, he opened the rear door and poked his head into the darkness in search of an animal that wasn’t there. That’s when Dominica shoved him into Silvio’s arms from behind. The powerful construction worker pulled an oat sack down hard over the startled guard’s head, and dragged him into the van. By the time Dominica closed the door, the guard had succumbed to the chloroform that had been liberally splashed into the sack. While Silvio—wearing headgear similar to Dominica’s—bound the guard, she returned to the cab and drove the van toward Borsa’s stable.

  Kovlek had been watching from his Fiat on the approach road. He smiled at their progress, left the car, and walked toward the gatehouse.

  In the show ring, Melanie took the reins of a magnificent dappled Arabian from the stableboy, and swung into the saddle. She followed Borsa across the red clay and through a tunnel to the bridle paths that interlaced the surrounding pine forest.

  “It was spring, 1945, when that picture was taken,” Borsa said, “but it was that February when it all began. And what I remember most vividly, is rain—torrents of endless, bone-chilling rain.”

  * * * * * *

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The winter of 1944 unleashed violent rainstorms across all of Western Europe.

  In Italy’s Elsa Valley, Aleksei Deschin blinked at the flash of lightning and clap of thunder that rolled through San Gimignano, an ancient mountain town. Rain came off his pancho in sheets as he leaned into the torrent and continued up Via San Matteo, a narrow street in the north end. Three men trudged uphill behind him—a Russian, an Italian, and two Americans—searching for a German supply depot in the downpour.

  The storm front ran from Rome through Florence to the north—the same line taken by the allied offensive to liberate central and northern Italy. The chilling deluge had eroded the morale of troops on both sides. But it was the Germans—running out of ammunition, food, and fuel—who were in retreat on every front.

  Contrary to this trend, divisions under Field Marshall Albert Kesselring were holding their own in the Elsa Valley against the U.S. Fifth Army. These units, commanded by General Mark Clark, were to push east through Volterra and San Gimignano to Florence. They would join Eighth Army forces advancing west, and attack the Gothic Line, the Wermacht’s final defensive position, fifteen miles north. But the well-fueled and fortified German divisions, with an endless supply of ammunition, had stopped Clark’s Fifth Army cold.

  Adolph Hitler’s spirits soared at the news. “This is the turning point!” the Führer exulted. “As I told you it would be!”

  And he had. Just a year ago, the Führer overruled his general staff, who thought San Gimignano too far west, and insisted the supply depot be located there. The ninth-century city, with its thick walls and lookout towers was not only impenetrable but also strategically located above the roads from the coast to Florence.

  Allied Command wanted the depot destroyed. But they had to find it first, and had been working closely with Italian partisans who had infiltrated the valley.

  Deschin, the sharp-minded Russian the Americans had code-named Gillette Blue, was in charge of partisan liaison and intelligence. Numerous reconnaissance missions into heavily fortified enemy areas had failed to locate the depot, and he had shifted his focus to San Gimignano. Few German troops were billeted there. Perhaps, Deschin reasoned, it was a ploy to divert attention from the depot. Now, he led the group up San Matteo in search of it.

  A stone wall sealed off the top of the street. Much of the soil behind it had been excavated, creating a bunker that concealed two German soldiers and a machine gun. A few flat stones had been removed from the wall to provide a slit for the muzzle. Rain pinged on the corrugated steel roof as the Germans watched Deschin’s group enter a bombed-out granary. The German private trained his weapon on the entrance, waiting for the four men to come out.

  “Nein,” the sergeant warned, seeing his eagerness.

  “But, they will be like bottles on a wall,” the private protested.

  “Nein,” the sergeant said more sternly. “You know our orders. Only if they cross toward the church.”

  Unlike other buildings in the city, neither the church, the magnificently steepled Cappella Di Santa Fina, nor the German storage depot in the catacombs beneath had been touched by allied bombs. Crates of weapons and ammunition, and drums of fuel, were safely concealed in the network of rock tunnels. But months of rain had saturated the porous stone to the limit, and water began seeping through cracks and fissures. The gradual trickles had become unending cascades; and German troops were working frantically in ankle-deep water, covering the precious supplies with tarpaulins.

  Deschin’s group had finished searching the granary and, having come up empty, was back out in the rain, advancing up San Matteo.

  “What do you think?” he asked, eyeing the church.

  Giancarlo Borsa looked up at the thousand-year-old structure, rain pelting his sharply cut features. He had organized the resistance in the area and brought Deschin into the group.

  “I doubt it, Aleksei,” he replied. “Kesselring has respected our artistic treasures. And we can’t afford another Monte Cassino,” he went on, referring to the sixth-century Benedictine monastery near Naples that the Allies had reduced to rubble only to discover the Germans had never used it for military purposes.

  “Maybe that’s why Kesselring thinks he could get away with it here,” Deschin replied incisively.

  “Good point,” Borsa said. “But I hate to think of what will happen if you’re right.”

  Theodor Churcher threw back the hood of his pancho angrily. “Horseshit!” he bellowed in a thick drawl. “Not a building on earth worth saving if it’s endangering men’s lives, let alone American lives!”

  The lanky Texan had just turned twenty, a brash, ambitious, unpolished hayseed who thought the sun rose and set on Texas and the United States—in that order. He challenged the others with a look, and set out purposefully toward the church.

  “On my signal,” the German sergeant ordered in a tense whisper. The private nodded, hugged the stock of his weapon, and wrapped his finger around the trigger.

  * * * * * *

  That morning, during a break in the weather, an Air Force C-47, Dakota, headed down a makeshift runway north of Rome with a Waco glider in tow, and began climbing. Three hundred feet back in the Waco, pilot Ted Churcher and spotter Mike Rosenthal were fighting to keep the glider from catching the tug’s turbulence, and pinwheeling at the end of the nylon towline.

  About eight months ago, Churcher had completed his junior year at Rice and had come home to Lubbock for the summer. He was flying crop dusters, as he did every vacation, when he heard the Army Air Force opened its combat glider school on the outskirts of town. Churcher graduated number one in his class, and flew over a hundred reconnaissance missions behind enemy lines in North Africa and Sicily.

  When Captain Jake Boulton, OSS liaison with Fifth Army Intelligence, called for glider-recon to locate the German storage depot, Churcher volunteered.

  Now, 4,500 feet above the Tuscan countryside, he checked his landmarks and nodded to Rosenthal.

  “Time to part company,” he drawled. He clicked on an intercom that ran on a wire wrapped around the towline. “Thanks for the ride, Jake.”

  “Anytime,” Boulton—who was at the controls of the Dakota—replied. “Matter of fact, you find that Kraut depot, and we’ll tow you all the way back home to Lummox if you like.”

  “That’s Lubbock, Jake,” Churcher retorted. “And you can bet the farm we’ll
find it. We’ll just keep riding the elevator till we do,” he added, referring to the air currents that take a glider back up to altitude.

  He pulled the towline release. The metal fitting unlatched with a loud clank. The Waco cut free from the C-47 and soared, gaining altitude, the whoosh of air rushing over its surfaces the only sound now. Churcher put it on a glide path to the target ten miles away.

  Made of canvas over a tubular steel frame, the gray-green Waco had an 85-foot wingspan that gave it a rate of descent of less than 2 feet per second—slower than a soap bubble in still air. Riding thermals, the bird could stay up for hours, needing barely 150 feet to land when it came down.

  Churcher came in over San Gimignano against the camouflage of clouds, and made a silent pass over the multi-towered city. Rosenthal panned his binoculars in search of vehicle tracks or troop activity that would reveal the location of the enemy storage depot. During the next few hours, Churcher made a half dozen passes, lowering the altitude each time. Finally, Rosenthal turned from his binoculars in disgust.

  “We’re wasting our time, Ted.”

  “Yeah, the Krauts must move the stuff out at night. The rain washed away the tracks before we got here. Maybe, if I came in lower, you could—”

  “Lower? Any lower we’ll leave the family jewels hanging on one of those pines.”

  “Impossible. We’re coming in below them. Matter of fact, Rosenthal, I’m treating you to a bona fide South Texas ass scraper.”

  Churcher put the Waco into a steep dive and swooped down over the north end of San Gimignano.

  Flocks of ravens roosted in many of the city’s towers. The German lookout in the northernmost one saw what at first appeared to be a hovering bird. When he saw it had a shiny Plexiglas nose, he opened fire.

  Rounds splintered the plywood floor behind the Waco’s cockpit, pinging off the steel tubing and ricocheting out the top of the canvas fuselage.

  “Son of a bitch!” Churcher exclaimed as he put the glider into a diving turn, keeping a wing tip to the tower to present as small a target as possible.