Qazi leaped from the sedan and tossed his valise into the open trunk. Noora threaded the sedan into the vacant parking space. Then Qazi and the girl lay down in the trunk and the chauffeur slammed the lid closed. The transfer had taken forty-five seconds.
The trunk was dark and their positions were cramped, although they were lying on a blanket. Qazi and Noora tried to ease themselves into comfortable positions as the vehicle swayed and bounced. The safe house was only three miles away, but the circuitous route the driver would take would stretch the ride to almost an hour.
“Welcome to Rome, Colonel,” Noora whispered as he helped her unfasten the buttons on her dress. She wore nothing under it. As she fumbled with his trousers, Qazi tried to decide if wearing a bra would make Noora more or less noticeable in a major European city. He lost his train of thought when her lips found his.
The man in the gray wool suit cut in the English style paused briefly in the door of St. Peter’s and quickly scanned the tourists, then stepped to his right and let the people behind him enter. He moved further right and scrutinized each person coming in while he pretended to consult a guidebook. Finally the book went into his pocket. He stood with his left arm folded across his chest, his right hand on his chin, raptly examining the architectural features of the great basilica as if seeing them for the first time. On his right, near the Pietà, he saw a man in a rumpled black suit, with close-cropped hair and fleshy lips. This man was also engrossed in a guidebook.
After another minute of wondrous contemplation, the man near the door crossed to the left side of the basilica and strolled slowly toward the high altar. He circled it completely, appearing to examine Bernini’s bronze baldachin from every angle, his restless eyes actually scanning faces and the niches and cornices above where conceivably a man might observe the crowd.
The crowd was thin today, perhaps owing to the summer heat outside. Colonel Qazi checked his watch as he consulted his guidebook again. With the book closed in his left hand, he walked slowly back toward the main entrance, his eyes moving, his pace slow and even.
The man in the black suit with the fleshy face was still near the Pietà, yet he was well behind and away from anyone using a camera to photograph the sculpture. Qazi paused near him and opened the guidebook.
“I see we are using the same book,” the man said in English.
“Quite so,” Qazi replied. “Most informative.”
“Thorough, although there are not enough illustrations.” He had a slight accent, hard to place.
“Yes.” Qazi placed his book in his pocket and walked toward the nearest door.
Crossing St. Peter’s Square, the man in the black suit was fifty feet behind. Qazi paused at the colonnades on the north side of the square until the man joined him. Then he turned and proceeded north through the colonnades, the other man at his side.
“Where are we going?”
“You will know when we get there. What should I call you?”
“Chekhov.”
“Someone in the GRU has a sense of humor. This shatters my preconceptions. One hopes the rot has not spread too far. As it happens, I am called Solzhenitsyn. You are perspiring, Chekhov.”
“It is very warm.”
“They should let you leave Moscow more often,” Qazi said as he glanced over his shoulder. “And how have you found the Roman women?”
The Russian did not deign to reply. In a few minutes they reached the entrance to the Vatican Museum and Qazi paid the admission fee with lire for both of them. Once inside he paused where he could watch the door and consulted his guidebook. The Russian looked about dourly and stepped across the room, where he became absorbed in a dark medieval painting with little to recommend it.
Finally Qazi replaced the book in his pocket and wandered away, the Russian a few paces behind. After five minutes of this he entered a men’s room. Qazi stood beside a heavy Italian at the urinals while Chekhov used a stall. When the Italian departed, the door to the stall opened and the Russian exited to find Qazi pointing an automatic pistol with a silencer screwed into the barrel.
“Very slowly, Chekhov, lean against the door. We don’t need any visitors.” The Soviet’s face reddened and he started to speak. Qazi silenced him with a finger. “Do it, or this will be a very short meeting.” Chekhov slowly placed both hands against the door. “Feet wider apart. That’s right. Like in the American movies.” Satisfied, Qazi patted the man down. “What, no gun? A GRU man without a gun …” Qazi carefully felt the man’s crotch and the arms above the wrists. “First humor and now this! The GRU will become a laughingstock. But of course there is a microphone.”
Qazi lifted all the pens from the Russian’s shirt pocket and examined them, one by one. “It had better be here, Chekhov, or you will have to part with your buttons and your shoes.” It was in the third pen. “Now turn around and sit against the door.”
The Russian’s face was covered with perspiration, his fleshy lips twisted in a sneer. “The shoes.”
Qazi examined them carefully and tossed them back. “Now the coat.”
This he scrutinized minutely. From the uppermost of the large three buttons on the front of the coat a very fine wire was just visible buried amid the thread that held the button on. Qazi sawed the button free with a small pocketknife, then dropped the pen and button down a commode. He tossed the coat back to Chekhov. “And the belt.”
After a quick glance, Qazi handed it back. “Hurry, we have much to say to each other.” He unscrewed the silencer and replaced the pistol in his ankle holster. He opened the door as the Russian scrambled awkwardly to his feet.
An hour later the two men were seated in the Sistine Chapel against the back wall, facing the altar and Michelangelo’s masterpiece The Last Judgment behind it. On the right the high windows admitted a subdued light. Qazi kept his eyes on the tourists examining the paintings on the ceiling and walls.
“Is it in Rome, as General Simonov promised?”
“Yes. But you must tell us why you want it.”
“Is it genuine, or is it a masterpiece from an Aquarium print shop?” The Aquarium was the nickname for GRU headquarters in Moscow.
The Russian’s lips curled, revealing yellow, impacted teeth. This was his smile. “We obtained it from Warrant Officer Walker.”
“Ah, those Americans! One wonders just how long they knew about Walker’s activities.”
The Russian raised his shoulders and lowered them. “Why do you want the document?”
“El Hakim has not authorized me to reveal his reasons. Not that we don’t trust you. We value the goodwill of the Soviet Union most highly. And we intend to continue to cultivate that goodwill. But to reveal what you do not need to know is to take the risk that the Americans will learn of our plans through their activities against you.”
“If you are implying they have penetrated—”
“Chekhov, I am not implying anything. I am merely weighing risks. And I am being very forthright with you. No subterfuge. No evasion. Just the plain truth. Surely a professional like you can appreciate that?”
“This document is very valuable.”
“Perhaps. If it is genuine, it certainly has some potential value to El Hakim or we would not desire to obtain it. If it is genuine, El Hakim will no doubt be grateful in proportion to the value it ultimately has for us. If it is not genuine, the Americans have made very great fools of you. And of us, if we do not factor in that possibility.”