“Buon giorno, General,” Qazi said.
“Aleksandr Isayevich, huh? A priest today.” He was looking at Qazi’s clerical collar, black short-sleeved shirt, and trousers.
“When in Rome …”
“Your man ran me all over the city.”
“He enjoys his job.”
“So what do you and that fanatic fool, El Hakim, plan to do with this?” the general asked, nodding toward the attaché case near his feet. His Russian accent was muted but detectable.
“I thought I might read it.”
“You picked a nice place for this little meet. As I recall there are at least eight nearby exits from this rabbit hole.”
“Eight or nine.”
General Simonov removed a packet of American cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out through his nose. “The Israelis want you very badly. They did not enjoy reading about their underground weapons facility in the press.”
People were walking by. A young man with a backpack walked through the double glass doors from the main entryway and stood behind a gray matron using the automatic teller. To the right, through the floor-to-ceiling windows and across the airshaft, Qazi could see the entrance to the parking garage and, beyond that, the entrance to the pedestrian tunnel that led to the subway station and on to the Piazza di Spagna.
“And you?”
“I’ll admit, that was one of your better shows. A triumph.”
“Thank you.”
“The CIA is also very unhappy about the disappearance of one Samuel Jarvis, weapons engineer. Should I tell them to see you for the particulars?”
“Come come, General. You didn’t drive all over Rome on this warm summer’s day to have an idle chat.”
The general’s eyes were as gray as Moscow in winter. “What are you up to, Qazi? Why did you want the manual delivered in Rome?”
Qazi had thought long and hard about the wisdom of seeking the Soviets’ help. He had not discussed it with El Hakim because if the ruler had approved, the manual would have been delivered in the capital by a Soviet diplomat. General Simonov was nobody’s fool. He would have several working hypotheses to explain the delivery in Rome, one of which would be very close to the truth.
“I needed a short holiday on the expense account, old boy,” Qazi replied lightly.
Simonov’s fingers flipped rhythmically at the cigarette filter. He glanced at a man in a dark business suit who had joined the line to use the money-dispensing machine. “No doubt that’s why you just spent three days in Naples, Qazi. Ah, and you thought I wouldn’t know about that. We have many, many friends in Italy. Old boy.”
No doubt, thought Qazi bitterly as he once again scanned the area. Naples has a communist city government. Every garbageman and street sweeper is probably on the GRU payroll. And that is where the Americans anchor their aircraft carriers! “It must be pleasant to have a post that takes you to the sunny climes for a change.”
“What do you intend to do with a nuclear weapon?”
Qazi glanced at Simonov. “We do not have a nuclear weapon, but if we did, its employment would be strictly our business.”
“That is what El Hakim told our ambassador this morning.” The general dropped the cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his shoe. “Moscow would be very unhappy if any such device were used in a way that conflicted with Soviet interests in the Mediterranean.” He extracted another cigarette from his shirt pocket and flicked a lighter. The youth with the backpack was punching the buttons of the automatic teller machine. He wore jeans and running shoes and had unruly, short black hair. “We’re concerned about El Hakim’s activities. It would be a great mistake to think otherwise. A very great mistake.”
The teller machine rejected the young man’s card. He slapped the machine, then fed the card in again and pushed buttons. “I think El Hakim is aware of your position,” Qazi said, “but I’ll tell him you voiced it, again. But I didn’t know the Kremlin used you to deliver diplomatic notes to third-world fanatics, General. I thought they had better uses for you.”
The man in the suit behind the youth at the machine was looking around impatiently. The machine had rejected the youngster’s card for the third time.
“Your El Hakim has spent too many nights dressed up in women’s clothing. Tell him I said that.”
The backpack was now under the young man’s left armpit. His head moved slightly. Qazi realized he was looking at the reflections in the shiny metal of the machine.
Qazi bent and lifted the attaché case with his left hand. The youth at the machine was spinning, falling on one knee, reaching into the open backpack. The Russian started.
Qazi lunged through the open door to his right, knocking aside a woman coming in. He ran down the ramp toward the entrance to the tunnel. Over his shoulder he saw the youth coming through the door, a weapon in his hands.
Qazi ran.
The tunnel had a flat roof about eight feet above a floor covered with a rubberized mat. The mat improved his footing. The walls were concave, giving the illusion of more space. The lighting was indirect, from the ceiling.
Not too many people. Qazi scrambled through them and sent a few sprawling. He ran past the turnoff to the Galoppatoio exit, and before he reached the next turn, he glanced again over his shoulder. The gunman was still coming.
The low ceiling gave Qazi an illusion of great speed. He shot past an exit to the Via Veneto on his left and raced toward the moving sidewalk ahead. He almost lost his balance when he hit it, but he pushed off on a pedestrian who didn’t hear him coming and kept his balance. The moving sidewalk also had a rubberized coating. It descended ahead of him, seemingly endless. He felt as if he were literally flying. After fifty yards he glanced back. The gunman was gaining.
He was running faster than he ever had in his life. The end of the sidewalk was coming up. He leaped for the platform and lost his balance and careened onto the down escalator, into a group of men and women, bowling them over. He was up before they could react and taking the moving stairs downward four at a time.
At the bottom the tunnel ended in a cross-corridor. He turned left, toward the entrance to the Metropolitana, the subway, and buttonhooked against the wall.
He scanned the corridor. Just pedestrians, walking normally.
When the gunman rounded the corner, Qazi shot him three times with the Walther before he hit the floor. The falling man lost his weapon, an Uzi, which bounced off the concrete wall. Someone screamed. A young man reached half-heartedly for Qazi and he threw a shot over his shoulder.
Then he ran, away from the subway entrance, down the corridor toward the Piazza di Spagna. As he ran he ripped off the clerical collar and the black shirt. He literally tore the shirt from his left arm.
When he reached the tunnel exit, he slowed to a walk. He could hear several sirens growing louder, a penetrating two-tone wail. The piazza was full of people strolling and sitting and pointing cameras in all directions. Qazi walked purposefully but unhurriedly the hundred feet to the Spanish Steps and began to climb it toward the obelisk at the top. The stairs were lined with flowers. He paused and watched a police car with blue light flashing proceed through the scrambling people at the foot of the white marble staircase.
He transferred the attaché case to his right hand, wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief, then continued climbing the stairs. Two carabinieri in khaki uniforms, wearing berets and carrying submachine guns on straps over their shoulders, ran down the stairs past him.