The current scion, Italy’s Defense Minister Giancarlo Borsa, hosted the benefit. Tall, with thoughtful eyes and flowing white mane, Borsa exemplified the ideal of noblesse oblige in which he was raised as he strode from his private box, joining the guests assembled on the balcony. As if on cue, the sun moved above a prism built into the tower across the arena and, as Renaissance architects intended, projected a beam of light onto the stone door illuminating the crest. The ambient glow created an aura around Borsa as he held court amidst the guests, Dominica Maresca among them.
“You really think Hilliard’s proposal is the answer,” the statuesque Venetian said, provoking him.
“Yes. It will force the Soviets to the table,” Borsa replied. “I think Italy should deploy. Will deploy, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I think it’s a ruse. Sleight of hand to achieve the very thing Hilliard claims to oppose.”
“Young lady,” Borsa said somewhat condescendingly, “Perhaps you’re forgetting, there are those committed to keeping him honest — myself among them.”
“Then it’s time you stopped him from using the promise of nuclear cutbacks as an excuse to build up his own arsenal.”
“It’s obvious you have no understanding of the man’s policy,” Borsa replied, setting off a chorus of support among the group.
“It’s an indefensible policy,” she retorted.
“An apocryphal one, as well,” said Zeitzev, timing his entrance to provide Dominica with an ally just when it seemed there were none to be had. He took her arm and directed her away from the group. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t hold back any longer,” he went on as they strolled along the balcony. “You seemed surrounded by the enemy.”
“By choice,” she said spiritedly. “Best way to turn them around is from the inside.”
“I agree. But as they say in my country, ‘You can’t turn stampeding caribou from the middle of the herd’—not without being trampled.”
“Someone has to take the risks.”
“I might be in a position to minimize them.”
Dominica tilted her head, considering the remark. “Why offer to help me?”
“Because we share the same goals,” he replied, going on to say he was impressed by her work, and introducing himself as the Soviet cultural attaché.
The latter was a test. Most responded by asking why he was involved in matters outside his official jurisdiction. Most failed.
“Good. I just wanted to be certain,” she said, assuming he was KGB.
A trumpeted fanfare echoed through the arena. The castle’s massive stone door rumbled loudly, and began rising. The prized Arabian horses that would be auctioned to raise money pranced onto the red clay.
That was a year ago, and since, with Zeitzev’s support, Dominica infiltrated the European peace movement and incited many antinuclear demonstrations. Despite her efforts, the cruise missiles had been standing quietly in their silos in Comiso for months.
Recently, pressure applied by President Hilliard on NATO countries reluctant to deploy nuclear weapons had given rise to increasingly rabid opposition. NATO personnel, as well as business and political leaders outspoken in their support, had become terrorist targets.
Such incidents prompted NATO to issue a directive that antiterrorist measures at all bases be tightened. This meant that the wildlife sanctuaries next to the silos in Comiso had to be cleared of vegetation.
About a week later, when Ilya Zeitzev arrived in his office on the second floor of the Soviet Embassy, deputy rezident Antonin Kovlek was waiting for him. Kovlek was a taut man with thick glasses that belied his limited intellect. Prioritizing the influx of intelligence data was one of his responsibilities.
While Kovlek briefed him on NATO’s decision to remove the vegetation in Comiso, Zeitzev took a wedge of taleggio, one of the Italian cheeses that had become his passion, from a small refrigerator. He lowered his massive body into his desk chair, and began peeling the wrapper from the cheese. He knew the vegetation in Comiso provided cover for his agents who routinely monitored the NATO installation, and — should the Politburo so decide — would also provide a staging area from which to launch a terrorist attack on it.
“When, Comrade? Do we know when?” he asked impatiently the instant he grasped the implications.
Kovlek nodded crisply, and handed Zeitzev a photocopy of a document that displayed the official seal of the Italian Defense Ministry. “The twenty-third according to this directive we obtained,” the deputy replied. “That’s a Monday.”
“A little more than three weeks,” Zeitzev calculated in a tone that suggested he was unhappy with the little time he had to counter the plan.
“Yes, but the vegetation is on Italian land. So, the Italian Army will remove it. Therefore, three weeks could easily turn into three months,” Kovlek replied jauntily, hoping to mollify him.
“Or three days,” Zeitzev snapped, holding up the photocopy. “Did you see the signature on this?”
“Borsa,” Kovlek said flatly.
“Borsa, head of the Defense Ministry. Borsa, champion of deployment,” Zeitzev lectured.
He shook his head and slipped a piece of the cheese between his lips, savoring the nutty flavor that made the roof of his mouth tingle — a timely reminder of how much he enjoyed the advantages of being posted in a Western capital, and of how unhappy his mentors at No. 2 Dzerzhinsky Square would be if NATO curtailed surveillance of the missile base.
“This plan, Comrade — it must, must be subverted,” he said. “Give it to Dominica.”
Now, as the equipment that would remove the vegetation charged across the field, Dominica Maresca, once again, led a group of protestors in Comiso. This time their placards displayed, not antinuclear slogans and peace signs, but catchphrases that lamented the plight of the area’s wildlife. Dominica had rallied environmental groups from across Europe to force the government to declare the area a national sanctuary. However, their petitions had been ignored, and the KGB’s highly valued camouflage had run out of time.
A representative of the Italian Government rode in a jeep next to the convoy of earth movers. He waited until the bulldozer that bore down on the protestors was a few meters from Dominica before he held up a hand.
She stood her ground unflinchingly as the massive piece of equipment stopped closer than she anticipated. The battered plow arched high above her, clumps of grass and shrubs were jammed between the menacing teeth.
The government man got out of his jeep. “I must ask you to instruct your people to move aside,” he said politely.
“And I must instruct them to remain,” she replied, a defiant timbre in her voice.
The soldiers who operated the equipment revved the diesels in response. They built the sound to an intimidating cadence, filling the air with acrid fumes.
Dominica raised a bullhorn to her mouth. “Wildlife! Wildlife! Wildlife!” she shouted.
The protestors quickly took up the chant, turned their backs to the convoy, and sat down — heads bent forward, backs curved, arms wrapped around pulled-up knees — like boulders scattered in the field.
“Fucking assholes,” muttered the government representative in disgust. He was a mid-level bureaucrat in the Defense Ministry. Procedure called for him to report the stalemate to superiors, and await instructions. Experience taught him it would be days before he had them — days during which Italy’s soccer championships would be decided. The tickets had cost him plenty, and no group of bleeding heart ecologists was going to keep him from the match. He made a snap decision to expedite the situation, and signaled the bulldozer with an abrupt wave of his arm.