Rockets' Red Glare (25 page)

He took her hands in his, and held them up for her to see. “Now there are four!” he said. “We’re going to dig our way out.”

She smiled, the tension eased by his charming manner and undaunted optimism.

Deschin paused to get his bearings, then began drawing in the dust on the floor. He calculated the location of the staircase relative to then-position, and crawled to that section of the rubble, carefully working free a jagged piece of stone.

“That way,” he announced.

He removed another piece of rubble, and then another, sliding each behind him to Sarah, who pushed it aside. In a few hours they had dug a narrow tunnel about five feet deep into the densely packed rubble. But night fell quickly, and soon they were working in total darkness, and numbing cold.

Sarah fell back against the sacks of grain. “I’m cold, Aleksei. I’m cold and tired.”

“So am I,” he replied wearily. “My hands are numb.”

He fell against the sacks next to her, and huddling for warmth, they slept. They awoke hours later to see a few pencil-thin shafts of light that pierced the tons of rubble overhead. Heartened by the new day, they ate
some of the grain and sipped water from his canteen, then emptied Sarah’s haversack of medical supplies, using it to collect the rainwater that dripped from above.

And Aleksei dug. Hour after hour, he tunneled through wet stone, brick, and mortar, shoring up the walls of the narrow shaft with pieces of wood he unearthed along the way. Patiently, cautiously, he dug, until his hands were raw and bloodied; until Sarah had used up all the soothing medication and bandages; and until having dug far enough to reach the staircase, having every reason to believe their release was imminent, Sarah heard Aleksei’s angry, frustrated wail coming from the far end of the tunnel.

“Aleksei? What is it? You all right?”

He emitted another agonzing bellow in reply.

She crawled the length of the tunnel and found him clawing at a wall with his fingers; clawing futilely at the thick, unmoving concrete and stone surface against which the shaft had ended—instead of against the base of the staircase as they had hoped. Aleksei heard her behind him, and turned from the wall. She took his bloodied hands in hers, and they knelt in the cramped tunnel, silently staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

Then, their spirits crushed, they crawled back to their space beneath the slab; and as their terror gradually subsided and was replaced by a forlorn acceptance of their fate, they fell into an exhausted embrace, heads buried in each other’s shoulder, drawing strength and support. And finally, in what they believed to be their last moments of life, in the absolute blackness of night, without a word being spoken, they lifted their heads slowly, their cheeks delicately brushing until their lips touched; and then, bringing the spark of life to the cold, damp hellhole that entombed them, they became lovers.

It was slow, unhurried lovemaking, not wildly passionate or frenzied, more like a gentle, tender, everlasting embrace; as if, perhaps, seated face-to-face, rocking back and forth in each other’s arms, in vibrant silence, they might ignore the rising stench of death, and forget where they were and why, and fall asleep in a warm, blissful haze, and never wake up, and never know they had died.

* * * * * *

Chapter Thirty-six

Giancarlo Borsa had developed a slight limp as he walked through the pine forest. He had lived with it for almost forty years, and concealed it expertly; but the topic intensified it. He and Melanie had ridden the Arabians for a while, and the more he talked about Sarah and Deschin, and the more Melanie pulled the details of those desperate moments out of him, the more they felt the need for an intimate exchange. So they dismounted and were strolling side by side on a bridle path that ran along a bluff, the city far below, the Arabians clomping along behind them solemnly, as if sensing the tenor of their conversation.

“Your parents were fiercely brave,” Borsa said in conclusion. “They almost lost their lives. But the Germans fell quickly once the storage depot was gone. And Ettore returned for them with
partizani.
”

Melanie was touched and fulfilled by the tale, and her eyes had become watery, as had Borsa’s.

“That’s so incredible,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Did they spend time together after that?”

“They were inseparable,” Borsa replied. “I recall, Aleksei was devastated when your mother decided to return to the States. It took him a year to get over her; and then, all of a sudden, something happened that
plunged him back into the gloominess. He wouldn’t talk about it, and went back to Russia shortly thereafter. Your mother seemed much more able to manage it than he, more self-possessed, mature.”

“Sounds like mother,” Melanie said fondly. “She was always the strong one, always in control.”

“Indeed,” Borsa went on. “One day, I went to her tent to say good-bye. She was packing, holding the picture, studying it. Her eyes told me she was deciding something. She tightened her lips, then folded it in half, almost as if folding Aleksei out of her life, and put it in her trunk.” He sighed wistfully, adding, “We were all children really, barely in our twenties, and we went our ways; that’s how it was.”

Melanie nodded, sensing why her mother had kept it inside all those years, sensing that Sarah knew talking about it might create yearnings for something that was forever gone.

“Do you know what happened to my father?”

“Oh, yes. We’ve maintained occasional contact over the years. He’s a very important official in the Soviet Union, now. Minister of culture.”

“Could you help me get in touch with him,” Melanie asked, feeling overwhelmed.

“I’d be happy to,” he replied, bringing a smile to her face. “I can see you assume he’ll be joyfully pleased to know of you, and indeed, he should. But, keep in mind that your father’s position, and the society in which he lives, could cause quite the opposite reaction,” Borsa added gently, “Regardless, you’ll
need
help. You couldn’t reach him the way you reached me. These men aren’t public figures. They don’t get involved the way we do here in the West,” he went on, and glancing to his watch, added, “Which reminds me, I have a benefit I must host. Shall we?”

Melanie nodded, and they mounted the Arabians and headed for the amphitheater.

Piazza dei Siena was filled with spectators now. Well-heeled bidders and their guests were milling on the long balcony in front of the private boxes. In the stables below, grooms were preparing the horses that would soon be auctioned. A huge banner proclaiming
PACE MON-DIALE
hung on the tower opposite the massive stone door through which the horses would make their dramatic entrance.

Borsa and Melanie came through the tunnel from the bridle paths on the Arabians and cantered across the show ring toward his stables.

“Ciao, Olmo! Lucianna! Buongiorno!”
he exclaimed, waving to a couple he recognized on the balcony as he and Melanie dismounted. He automatically held out the reins to the stableboy, who wasn’t there; then looked around puzzled and went beneath the overhang, calling out,
“Paolo? Paolo, venga qui!”
He waited briefly, then shrugged in disgust.

“We’ll have to stable them ourselves,” he said to Melanie apologetically. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I spent my childhood in stables,” she said, smiling.

They led the horses inside, removed saddles and bridles, and put them into stalls, then climbed the stairs to the private box above.

Borsa entered first. He walked briskly across the Persian rug to the balcony door, and discovered it had been locked from the inside, ornate key removed. That’s when he noticed the shutters had been closed; and when Melanie noticed the hooded figure behind her locking the door to the stables; and when Borsa whirled to see the two faces concealed by the black balaclavas and sunglasses that gave them the look of giant insects. They had been hidden in plain sight amidst the elegant trappings—Dominica in a wing chair, high back to the door concealing her, Silvio on a leather sofa in an alcove to one side.

“What is this!” Borsa demanded angrily. He had walked right past Dominica on his way to the door, and was facing her now.

“Quiet, please,” she ordered, her voice muffled by the balaclava. “Just do as you’re told,” she went on, remaining seated, calmly leveling a handgun at him.

“I’ll do what I came here to do,” Borsa replied. “I’m going to start this auction,
now.
And—”

“Yes,” Dominica interrupted. “Go and
deploy
your horses, Mr. Defense Minister. Then return here, alone. Any trickery—your stableboy, your guard, and your ladyfriend will die.”

Silvio pushed a gun against the side of Melanie’s head. Her eyes darted to it fearfully. They had been speaking in Italian, and she had no idea what they were saying, which made her even more frightened.

“Go!” Dominica ordered.

Borsa flicked a torn glance at Melanie.

“Be calm,” he advised. “Don’t confront them.”

Dominica unlocked the door, opening it just enough to allow Borsa through. He strode past and down a short flight of steps to the balcony.

The crowd in the amphitheater broke into applause.

A TV crew with a mobile minicam followed Borsa through the crowd to a podium at the edge of the balcony. Paparazzi surged around him, motor-driven cameras whirring and clicking noisily.

“Welcome to the Benefit Auction for World Peace,” Borsa began as the applause subsided. “Again, it is my pleasure to host this worthy event. And I ask that you bid generously for the magnificent animals we have for you today. And now”—His voice cracked as he forced it to a climax—“to officially open these proceedings—” he peaked and gestured broadly to the arena.

A trumpter in medieval silks raised the long instrument to his lips and played a spirited fanfare. The banners of the prominent breeding families snapped in the wind, filling the pauses between the stanzas.

Behind the castle’s facade, an attendant listened for the last note to trail off. Then he grasped a thick hawser that hung from the upper reaches of the castle and pulled down, as if ringing church bells.

The heavy rope was affixed to a shaft that ran between two large cogwheels. The teeth engaged the links of a heavy chain that ran from the top corners of the stone door to huge counterweights hanging above it. The attendant’s pull lowered the weights just past the balance point. They began a slow, steady plunge, raising the immense slab upward and back—like the door on a residential garage—into a horizontal position behind the facade.

Centuries ago, when so raised, the door served as a bridge over which medieval archers marched to battle stations on parapets along the wall. When lowered, it sealed the portal from enemy hordes,
and
—bridge thus removed—prevented invaders who scaled the walls from crossing into the castle proper.

The first group of horses to be auctioned, each with numbered tag affixed, had been massed behind the door. Now, they galloped dramatically through the suddenly opened door and down a ramp into the arena.

Borsa waved to the applauding crowd and began walking toward the entrance to his private box.

“Giancarlo? Giancarlo, you’re leaving us already?” one of the wealthy bidders asked.

“I must phone Geneva,” he said, making up an excuse. “I may have to return this afternoon.”

Fausto’s black Maserati approached the gatehouse at the entrance to the stable area. When the guard didn’t appear, Fausto drove through, and Andrew got out to ask a groom for directions to Borsa’s stables.

A taxi came to a stop a distance down the street behind the amphitheater. Gorodin paid the driver and strolled casually toward the gatehouse. Tapes of Andrew’s calls made prior to discovery of the bug revealed he would be meeting Borsa at the amphitheater, and the connection to Geneva caused Gorodin to decide to maintain distant surveillance.

Andrew waved to Fausto to remain parked, and began walking down the dirt road, lined with horse vans.

Kovlek was positioned behind the line of vehicles, from where he could keep an eye on Dominica’s van—the guard and stableboy imprisoned inside—as well as the entrance to Borsa’s stables. Anyone but Andrew would have been stopped. Kovlek had the dictum of noninterference drummed into him by Zeitzev and Gorodin, and let him enter unchallenged.

Andrew was crossing to the staircase inside the stables when one of the Arabians snorted, getting his attention. He detoured to the stall and was rubbing a palm over the spirited animal’s coat when he heard footsteps and turned to see two hooded figures coming down the stairs with Borsa and Melanie. Both carried handguns, and one also had a small gym bag.

Andrew’s adrenalin surged, prickling his skin.
Terrorists!
he thought as he ducked behind the Arabian.
Terrorists are kidnapping Italy’s Defense Minister!
They stopped on a landing halfway down the stairs. Melanie turned in protest as they prodded her through a door, and for a brief instant, her eyes caught Andrew’s in an anguished plea.

Andrew could feel the silent terror in them. He waited until the door closed, then hurried to a phone on the wall of the stable, and dialed the operator.

“Pronto? Che cosa vuole?”

“Yes, please the police! Get me the police!” he said in an urgent whisper.

“Ah, si, polizia. Vuole Carabinieri? Vigili Urbani? Questura? O Polizia Stradele?”
the operator asked, running down the list of police organizations.

“The police! Emergency, I have an emergency!”

There was a click, and then a man’s weary voice growled, “Pronto, Polizia Stradele”—The operator translated emergency to accident, and connected Andrew with the traffic police—
“Voi avete un incidente?”

“This is an emergency. There’s a kidnapping in progress at the amphitheater. Terrorists are—”

“Scuse, signore,”
the officer interrupted. “
Non capisco l’ingelese. C’e qualcuno qui la parla Italiano?”

Andrew groaned in frustration and hung up. He started to the entrance, intending to alert Fausto. But he realized the terrorists might be long gone with their hostages by then. He reversed direction, dashed to the landing, and slipped through the door, finding himself at the base of a staircase. Distant footsteps and voices came from above. He climbed the stairs that led to a maze of maintenance passageways built within the stone caverns to service utility and climate control systems in the private boxes and stables. Then catching up, he watched as they went up a short run of stairs and through a door.

Andrew laid back momentarily, then advanced to find it locked, and came back down the stairs. The system of chains and counterweights that operated the castle’s big stone door filled the space around him. Service platforms connected by a network of catwalks were suspended at various levels. He climbed onto one of them and saw the terrorists prodding their hostages along the parapet above the door. Borsa angrily yanked an arm free as they moved behind it. They were out of Andrew’s view now, but he could hear them arguing in Italian. Their voices echoed through the vaulted cavern amidst sounds of pushing and shoving and the clatter of hooves as horses thundered into the arena far below.

Andrew dashed to the end of a catwalk, and craned up to see heads, shoulders, arms, the brusque movement of figures scuffling—scuffling directly on the face of the horizontal stone door above. Then he heard a loud groan, and a thud, and a woman screaming, and a gunshot. He grasped one of the cables that suspended the catwalks, and climbed up onto the railing. Another shot rang out as he stretched upward, peering just over the edge of the stone slab.

But he couldn’t get onto the slab from the catwalk. Even if he could, the terrorists were armed. Andrew studied the immense mechanism around him, the function of the parts simple and clear. The hawser hung just out of reach. He leaped from the railing, clutching at the coarse hemp with his arms and legs, sliding down a ways before getting a purchase. His weight started the counterweights moving, and the massive stone door began closing.

Melanie took advantage of the distraction and sent one of the terrorists sprawling across the door with a shove, weapon skittering off the edge. The other scrambled to get back onto the parapet before the door dropped too far below it. Melanie ran in the opposite direction, to the
high end of the slowly tilting surface, the remaining terrorist crawling after her. Melanie jumped down a long distance to a service platform, landing on her feet, and rolling into a shoulder tumble to break her fall. The hooded figure landed behind her, came up standing, and came at her.

Melanie dashed right beneath Andrew, who was coming down the hawser. He let go, driving both feet into the terrorist who went over the railing, falling into the herd of Arabians thundering into the arena below.

Andrew landed on the platform next to Melanie, grasped her hand, and led the way to a door at the far end of one of the catwalks.

It was exactly noon. The prism in the tower projected a brilliant beam of light across the arena above the prancing Arabians onto the stone door, right on schedule.

The spectators began shrieking in horror.

There on the slowly closing slab—his head centered in the spotlight, leonine mane aglow, arms painfully outstretched, palms pierced by the spikes driven into the thousand-year-old stone by Silvio’s Ram-set, there, like Christ crucified, naked against the hard slab—hung Gian-carlo Borsa.