The soldier started the twenty-five tons of steel rolling, and centered it on a cluster of protestors. He depressed pedals and pulled levers until he had maneuvered the leading edge of the plow beneath a half dozen of the hunched men and women. He scooped them into the deeply curved trough, and yanked hard on another lever. The hydraulic pistons that manipulated the bulldozer’s welded steel arms drove the plow upward, swiftly elevating its human cargo five meters above the ground. With a vengeful smirk, he pulled a third lever releasing the compressed air that held the plow in position. It pivoted downward, dumping the protestors like clods of earth atop others below.
Those who weren’t injured scrambled to their feet, shouting expletives at the soldier. He laughed and made an obscene gesture. The angry protestors surged forward, surrounding the bulldozer.
Dominica climbed up onto one of the treads.
“Bastard! You bastard!” she screamed in Italian through her bullhorn. “Why did you do that? Why?”
“Bitch!” the soldier shouted.
He reared back and slammed a foot into Dominica’s stomach, knocking her to the ground. Some of the men in the group leaped onto the dozer, threatening the soldier. One lunged into the cab and began punching him. The soldier panicked, slammed the transmission in gear, and pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. The bulldozer lurched and charged into the crowd.
The protestors began screaming, and started to scatter. Some stumbled as they attempted to get out of the way. A shriek that segued to an agonized wail silenced the shouting mob. The unmistakably terminal plea announced that the fifty-thousand-pound bulldozer had crushed one of the demonstrators.
Dominica pushed her way through the crowd that formed around the victim. She recoiled at the sight of a twelve-year-old boy beneath one of the Caterpillar treads — his torso pressed into the soft earth, his mouth frozen open in a silent scream, his eyes wide with the puzzled look of someone who had no reason to expect to die. She bent over him and took his hand, which immediately tightened around her’s. He tried to speak, but could manage only a muffled gurgle. Blood rose from the back of his throat, and filled his mouth. The crimson lake spilled over his lip and ran down the side of his face onto their locked hands. His last breath was pungent and warm against her face.
Chapter Twenty-one
That same morning, nine hundred and fifty miles to the north, a heavy rain pelted Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport as TWA flight 802 from New York dropped out of the clouds and touched down on the slick runway.
The time was 11:26 A.M.
Andrew Churcher was one of the first passengers to come through the boarding ramp into the terminal. A shoulder bag containing the client files McKendrick had given him slapped at his side. He ambled along, making small talk with an older couple who had also traveled first class. They were horse people from the auction circuit who, like Andrew, had come to Rome for the International Show at Piazza dei Siena.
Valery Gorodin had traveled coach, and took steps to avoid being detained by those passengers clogging the aisles while removing carry-on items from overhead compartments. Just prior to landing, he had casually moved from the rear of the plane to an empty seat directly behind the first class bulkhead. A position which would enable him to deplane quickly, and resume close surveillance of Andrew Churcher.
Italian military personnel in gray jumpsuits, black berets, and mirror polished boots provided security inside the terminal. Each carried an Uzi slung across the front of his body.
Andrew cleared passport control, and entered the baggage claim area where those meeting passengers were grouped behind a waist-high security barrier. Some held signs with handwritten names. Almost immediately, Andrew saw the one that read “Churcher.” But the sixteen-hour journey from Houston had a disorienting effect, and he continued walking a few steps before he realized that the uniformed chauffeur standing inside the barrier next to the automated baggage carousel was there to meet him.
The chauffeur’s presence reminded Andrew that this was a Churchco operation, everything prearranged by Elsbeth, Theodor Churcher’s assistant, to exacting specifications. In the past, Andrew would have bristled at the long-distance control exerted by his father. But now that he was gone, Andrew found it surprisingly reassuring.
Andrew raised a hand to the chauffeur who had been standing impassively. The man’s eyes lost their blank expression, and the blue in them twinkled as the casually attired young man approached.
“Welcome to Rome,” the chauffeur said in heavily accented English. “I’m sorry about your father,” he went on uneasily. He wanted to pay his respects, but was hesitant to bring up an unpleasant topic.
“Thanks,” Andrew replied, feeling saddened, and distanced from the stronger emotions that surfaced at the thought of his father having been murdered.
The stocky Italian extended a hand, and, brightening, said, “Fausto.”
“Of course,” Andrew said, shaking it. “You drove for us last year, didn’t you?”
“Si, si. And many times for your father before that. He was a very fine man.”
Andrew nodded, wondering — as he did last time — why, unlike the others, Fausto was allowed to wait inside the security barrier for his passenger. A loud buzzer that announced the baggage carousel was being activated pulled Fausto away before Andrew could ask.
Gorodin had been watching from the other side of the carousel. He paced a few steps closer to the security barrier, and lit a cigarette. Then he blew out the match, threw it to the floor, and ground it into the gray terrazzo with his heel. A stream of smoke came from his nostrils as he surveyed the anxious faces that looked past him in search of friends and loved-ones. The crack of match against striker, and the whoosh of sulfur bursting into flame, called his attention to a plainly dressed man, with thick glasses.
After lighting his cigarette, Antonin Kovlek disposed of his match in exactly the same manner as had Gorodin, identifying himself as his contact.
Gorodin’s eyes directed Kovlek’s attention to Andrew. Neither agent openly acknowledged the other. Zeitzev had sent his deputy as a safety precaution, not a welcoming committee. Should Gorodin be delayed by Italian authorities, Kovlek would take up surveillance of Andrew Churcher. If not, he’d keep an eye on Gorodin — Gorodin was GRU.
Fausto carried Andrew’s travel bag and led the way toward a row of customs stations, angling toward the one on the extreme left. The uniformed agent broke into a broad smile the instant he saw them approaching. Fausto winked, and said something in Italian that turned the agent’s smile into a lewd chuckle. Then, further heightening Andrew’s curiosity about Fausto, the customs agent waved them through without even a cursory check of Andrew’s passport or baggage.
They had walked a short distance when one of the Uzi-carrying guards noticed, and stepped forward to challenge them. Before Andrew knew what was happening, Fausto had produced his wallet and opened it with a snap of his wrist that emphasized the inconvenience.
To the guard’s chagrin, he was staring at a brass shield pinned next to official police identification.
Fausto snapped the wallet closed, ticking the tip of the guard’s nose. “Careful!” he barked in Italian. “You lose that, you lose the only thing you have that will get you a promotion.” Then he turned and headed for the glass doors that led outside the terminal.