Rockets' Red Glare (20 page)

The fountain’s waters roared.

Andrew was alone.

* * * * * *

Chapter Twenty-nine

A pastel moon hovered in hazy twilight as Alitalia Flight 776 from Comiso descended toward Leonardo da Vinci, and taxied to the domestic terminal.

Silvio Festa, the single-minded construction worker whose “gunshots” had gotten Andrew’s attention earlier, was waiting for Dominica Maresca when she deplaned. But alas, upset by the day’s events in Sicily, Dominica wasn’t in the mood for the evening Silvio had planned, and insisted he take her home.

When he parked in front of her building on Via Campagni in the Tributino district, she leaned over and put a light kiss on his mouth, flicking her tongue beneath his upper lip as she broke it off. “Thanks. I knew you’d understand,” she said in a soft, seductive voice. And then, making certain he glimpsed her bare breast through the scooped neck of her blouse, she turned, got out of the car, and walked toward the building.

Silvio hungrily eyed her swaying hips as she climbed the steps and went inside. Then his desire shattered the fragile dam that contained it. He charged out of the car, into the building, and up the stairs after her. He had never raped before. He had never been denied before. Not like this.

Dominica was opening the door to her apartment when she heard the rush of footsteps. Silvio lunged for her, his momentum carrying them
into the vestibule. He landed on top of her, tearing at her clothing in a passionate frenzy. She pummeled him, and squirmed and struggled, trying to fight him off, and, finally working a leg out from beneath him, kicked the door closed.

For in truth, Dominica was emotionally charged by her ordeal in Comiso, and wanted nothing more than to scream in ecstacy and drive the painful memory of it from her mind. But she was consumed by it. Consumed by what had happened to that boy, by the image of his body pressed into the earth, the life squeezed out of it by steel treads—and
she
had put him beneath them. His death was on her soul, as his blood had been on her hands; and she still had the smell of it, and the smell of his last breath in her nostrils. From the moment they pried his body from the soil and took him away, she had been planning her absolution.

Silvio finally pinned her to the floor and plunged into her like a lust-crazed stallion. It didn’t occur to him that she was still controlling the pace; she who knew that women’s rights had become fashionable in Italian courts, that men who treated their women like
fazzolettini di carta,
like Kleenex, were vulnerable; she who planned to use him, and had.

Soon she had him in her bed, and held him in her arms; and now, while her long fingers made him ready to love her again, she made her next move.

“He will never know this,” she said softly, with a haunting sadness.

“Who?” Silvio wondered, tilting his head up from her breast so he could see her face.

“That poor boy in Comiso,” she replied. “He will never have a lover, or a family, or anything.”

“Ah, Dominica,” he said with a philosophical tone, “there is nothing you can do.”

“Don’t say that,” she pleaded, stealing a glance at him to assess the effect.

“Dominica,” he said comfortingly, gently touching her face, “it will be all right. It will pass.”

“Exactly,” she replied. “Soon, it will be as if he never existed, a forgotten child, a wasted life. I don’t want to live with that, Silvio. I can’t.”

“Well, what are you going to do?” he asked, giving her the opening she sought.

Dominica considered her answer for a long moment.

“Give his death meaning,” she replied, choosing her words carefully. “Force Giancarlo Borsa to pay for that poor child’s sacrifice, so
that those who plan nuclear war in the name of peace will think of him every day and never forget he died for their sins.”

“How?” he asked facetiously. “Plaster his picture on milk cartons and buses, like they do with missing children in America?”

Dominica shook her head from side to side, and smiled tolerantly.

“With a symbol. We will use a symbol, Silvio,” she replied, enthusiasm building. “One that already exists. Millions of them, all over the country.”

Silvio pushed up on an elbow.

“Well then, it should be easy to point out one of these ‘symbols,’” he said, challenging her.

Dominica smiled knowingly, almost mischievously. She had him now, she thought. She leaned over him, and ran her tongue over his hardening penis.

Silvio moaned and forgot all about his question.

Dominica answered it anyway, continuing to lick a path from his loins to a sweat-filled hollow on his chest where a tiny crucifix lay. She took it between her teeth and jerked her head, snapping the thin chain.

Silvio blinked, startled.

Dominica bounced up from the bed, and put a leg over him, straddling his hips. The cross was still in her teeth, the chain dangling above Silvio’s face like golden tinsel in the moonlight. Her eyes narrowed in a wicked glint as she put her hands on her bare hips and thrust her breasts forward, declaring victory.

Silvio smiled acknowledging it. He reached up to her mouth and, gently forcing his thumb between her soft lips, took the crucifix from them.

“See?” she said. “Now, all we have to do is—connect the symbol to the event.”

“I can think of at least a thousand ways,” he said facetiously.

“I’m not surprised. I have a feeling you have a real flair for what I have in mind. Matter-of-fact, I know you do.”

“Really? So, tell me, what is it that—”

Silvio sighed, then shuddered as she reached down between their bodies and slipped him inside her.

“I will, Silvio,” she purred. “I’ll tell you exactly. But not now. Ohhh, Silvio, not now.”

She arched her back as he came up to meet her, and stayed with him like this until the sounds he made told her he was close. Then, she purposely slid off him before he finished, and moved forward onto his chest until her wet thighs were on either side of his head. And as she
had hoped, he did what she wanted without protest or prompting. Dominica was sure of him now; sure there would be no need for coercion—for the threat of criminal proceedings as she had planned—to obtain his assistance. Silvio Festa would do whatever she asked, because he wanted to please her.

* * * * * *

Chapter Thirty

Andrew had been stunned by the abduction, stunned by the swiftness of it. Raina had been on his arm one minute and gone the next. Actually, in
less
than a minute, he had calculated. From the time she saw the man with the glasses to when she vanished in the narrow street couldn’t have been more than forty-five seconds. Andrew had been wandering Rome’s dark streets for much longer than that, now. He turned a corner and found himself in front of Police Headquarters on San Vitale. He stood blinking at the whirling roof flashers on the Fiats that pulled up with the evening’s collection of drunks, prostitutes, and petty thieves—wondering what he would tell the police if he went inside.

“Excuse me, but I was having a clandestine meeting with a Russian woman when she was abducted.”

“You actually witnessed this abduction?”

“Well, sort of, I mean, I chased the car, but—”

“You
didn’t
witness it.”

“No.”

“What was this meeting about?”

“My father’s espionage activities.”

“Your father’s espionage activities—”

“Well, you see, she was his lover; but he was recently murdered, and now, I’m trying to—”

Andrew zipped his jacket against the cold, shoved his hands deep
into the pockets, and walked on, deciding en route to return to the hotel and call Fausto.

The two had been in Suite 610 for over a half hour now. Fausto had bawled Andrew out for not calling him before leaving the hotel. Andrew had briefed him on events that led to his meeting with Raina, and running on adrenalin, he was still pacing, and still talking.

“Where? Where would they take her?” he wondered.

“Soviet Embassy, most likely,” Fausto replied in his heavy accent. He was slouched in a club chair, and gesturing to another, gently added, “Andrew, maybe you should sit down.”

“Let’s go there and ask to see her,” Andrew pressed on, ignoring Fausto’s suggestion.

Fausto shook his head. “They’d deny she was there,” he replied. “We wouldn’t even get through the gate.”

“Damn. I finally had a way to go with this. I mean, Raina had connections. We were going to meet in Moscow and—” He threw up his hands. “I might’ve stopped them if that Frenchman hadn’t clobbered me.”

“You might have stopped a bullet,” Fausto suggested sagely.

Andrew’s fervor cooled in acknowledgment. He dropped into a chair opposite Fausto, thinking about what had happened to McKendrick.

“You’re sure he wasn’t one of them?” Fausto asked.

“The Frenchman?”

Fausto grunted.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” Andrew replied. “What’s it matter anyway?”

“I was thinking, they might be watching you, too,” Fausto replied. “If they are—” He paused, and swung a glance to the phone. “Did the woman call you?”

Andrew nodded.

Fausto’s brows went up.

“But we didn’t talk about a meeting,” Andrew said, seeing his reaction. “And she didn’t identify herself. Besides, I checked the phone.”

Fausto nodded sagely, pulled himself from the cushions of the club chair, and went toward the phone.

Andrew swiveled on the chair, watching him. He smiled when Fausto lifted the receiver, replacing it with one of the bananas from the bowl on the credenza.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said genially.

Fausto unscrewed the mouthpiece, and let the diaphragm drop into
his palm. No bugging device. No wires. He peered into the hollow plastic shell. Same result. He shrugged, then glanced around the room.

“I checked the rest of the place, too,” Andrew said, knowing what he was thinking.

Fausto sat puzzled for a moment, then considered the diaphragm in his palm. He turned to the lamp on the nightstand, and began tilting the diaphragm at various angles, so its surfaces caught the light.

Andrew’s curiosity got the better of him. He stood, and crossed to Fausto. “What’re you doing?”

“Aspetti.”

Fausto was holding the diaphragm steady now, adjusting the angle just so. “Ah, look.”

Andrew leaned closer and saw the legend KIZ/1MCR inscribed in the metal casing. “Yeah—” he said, not understanding.

“Koehler Industries, Zurich—one-thousand-meter range cellular relay,” Fausto said slowly, relating each word to the legend. “
That’s
your bug.”

“You replace the diaphragm in any phone with this diaphragm, and it’s bugged.”

“Diaphragms,”
Fausto said, emphasizing the plural as he unscrewed the earpiece revealing another. “One in each end of the handset—to hear both sides of the conversation. They’re the best on the market. And, perhaps you’ve noticed, not easily detected by the untrained eye.”

Andrew broke into an embarrassed grin.

“They work in tandem with a recorder or relay unit,” Fausto went on, reassembling the phone and leaving the bugs in place. “Better if they don’t know we found them,” he explained.
“Capisco?”

“Capisco,” Andrew echoed.

Fausto’s face suddenly clouded with conern. “You called me from here—”

Andrew nodded grimly. “I didn’t do anything right, tonight. I probably
should have
gone to the police.”

Fausto shook no. “What makes you think
their
inquiries wouldn’t be met with denials? Remember, an Embassy is sovereign territory. It can’t be searched.”

“Legally,”
Andrew said, his eyes brightening with an idea.

“Che pazza!”
Fausto snapped, knowing what Andrew was thinking. You’ll get shot on sight—
legally.
”

“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.

* * * * * *