It was just after 3 P.M. when Andrew checked in and found a stack of phone messages; one was from Giancarlo Borsa. Andrew went to the suite and locked the door behind the departing bellman. The phone was on a credenza next to the bed. He took a banana from a bowl of fruit, and deftly slipped it into the telephone cradle as he removed the receiver to make certain the pins remained depressed, and a connection was not made.
He unscrewed the plastic mouthpiece exposing the diaphragm. No bugging device or additional wiring indicating a tap was visible. He turned the receiver over, and shook it gently. The diaphragm dropped into his palm with the same result. He reassembled the receiver and hung it back on the cradle.
Then Andrew went about the room examining picture frames, lamps, headboard, television, chandelier, a vase of flowers; but found no listening devices. It struck him that the flowers had no scent. He leaned closer to an Astramarium, one of dozens of the hybrid lilies in the arrangement. The speckled blossoms looked authentic. They felt authentic, too. But they were made of silk, as were all the others in the vase. Each a brilliant example of the flower-maker’s art.
From the moment he entered the suite, Andrew had assumed that the flowers were neutralizing the aroma of furniture polish, cleansers, and starch that make hotel rooms the world over smell the same. But they weren’t. The competing fragrance, he realized, was the vestige of a familiar perfume.
The exotic blend of essences took Andrew back to that day at the auction in Tersk. And he knew that his father’s woman, the aristocratic Russian swathed in sable, the one whom Theodor Churcher had allowed to outbid him, the one whose face Andrew couldn’t recall, had been here — in his hotel room, that afternoon.
The phone rang.
Andrew was deep in concentration, and jumped at the sound. He let it ring again, then scooped up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Churcher?” The voice was dusky — a woman’s accented English.
“Speaking,” he replied.
The woman said, “This is the housekeeper. The writing equipment you requested is in the desk,” and hung up.
Andrew listened to the dial tone for a few seconds, then lowered the receiver to its cradle. He was puzzled. He hadn’t made any special equipment requests. The gilded antique desk stood against the north wall. He lowered the hinged front that served as a writing surface, revealing a portable typewriter inside. A sheet of paper had been rolled halfway into the platen. Andrew studied it for a moment, then grasped the knob on the side of the typewriter and turned it slowly, rolling the sheet upwards. Four clicks brought the tops of letters into view. A snap of his wrist revealed the single line that had been typed across the page — and then rolled back behind the platen to conceal the message. It read:
HE WAS MURDERED. I KNOW WHY. PIAZZA DI TREVI. 6PM.
The phone rang again. A single, startling ring.
Andrew backed his way across the room, unable to take his eyes off the typewriter.
His hand found the phone and lifted it.
No one was on the line.
Chapter Twenty-five
While Andrew was checking in at the Hassler, Kovlek’s Fiat pulled up to the gates of the Soviet Embassy. A sergeant in the Red Army Guard stepped smartly to the car and bent to the window.
“Nomyer sveedam namorye?” he challenged.
“Nyet, skandeetsianyeram,” Kovlek replied, matter-of-factly, supplying his half of the day’s password.
The guard nodded and rolled back the gates, allowing the Fiat onto the grounds.
Kovlek led the way to the Embassy’s rezidentura.
Gorodin obtained a copy of the Rome yellow pages; then commandeered Kovlek’s secretary, Ludmilla, a robust woman who spoke fluent Italian, and conducted a telephone survey of Rome’s luxury hotels. She placed the calls alphabetically, asking each hotel if Mr. Andrew Churcher had checked in yet. The Ambasciatori, Cavalieri, Eden, Excelsior, and Grand proved negative.
Andrew was in Suite 610, staring in chilled silence at the one-line message in the typewriter, when Ludmilla called the Hassler.
“Yes, yes, I believe he has,” the operator said.
The phone rang once.
Ludmilla tapped the line button with the receiver in a lively gesture that disconnected the call.
“The Hassler,” she said triumphantly.
“The Hassler,” Gorodin echoed, glancing to Kovlek. “Shall we resume surveillance, comrade?”
The intercom buzzed before Kovlek could respond.
“Da? Deptezche rezident,” Ludmilla answered. She nodded several times, and hung up. “Comrade rezident wishes to see you both,” she said. “Right away.”
A surveillance specialist was leaving Zeitzev’s office as Gorodin and Kovlek approached. She climbed a staircase to the electronics-packed room beneath the Embassy’s roof. Here, as in Glen Cove, GRU conducted extensive COMINT operations: Listening devices planted throughout the city were monitored; communications of the Italian government, other embassies, and domestic and multinational corporations were intercepted.
All data was recorded.
When the recorder that the specialist had been monitoring clicked off, she transferred the data to cassette, and brought it to the resident’s office. She and Zeitzev listened to it several times on a sound system built into a modular storage wall that also housed a television and videotape recorder, shelves of albums and cassettes, reading matter, and the refrigerator filled with cheeses. Zeitzev spent long days in the heavily furnished room. The wall was his escape.
The office smelled somewhat rank as Gorodin and Kovlek entered. The big florid-faced rezident turned to them and broke into a broad smile. His suit looked like he’d slept in it, which he hadn’t.
Welcome to Rome, comrade,” he said, extending a hand to Gorodin. “We’re looking forward to assisting you in whatever way we can.”
You lying slob, Gorodin thought as he locked onto Zeitzev’s beefy fist and shook it. “This is a fairly straightforward task. I can manage alone if you’re shorthanded,” he replied, reaching for his cigarettes.
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Zeitzev said.
Gorodin nodded, and forced a smile. GRU ran the COMINT operation; but field personnel were in short supply in Rome, and he’d be forced to work with KGB backup. He would have been delighted if Zeitzev had taken the out, but he didn’t really expect he would.
Zeitzev’s ebullient mood caused Kovlek to assume events had gone well in Sicily that morning. And nothing would please him more than to be praised in front of Gorodin. “Comiso?” he asked solicitously.
Zeitzev’s eyes tightened in a cold stare. “It was a mess down there. Horrible,” he said, explaining about the bulldozer incident. “Dominica was devastated when she called, and quite obsessed with avenging the boy’s death.” He paused in reflection, and smiled. “I was quite intrigued by how she proposed to achieve it.” Then, in order to prevent Kovlek from pursing the matter in front of their GRU rival, the rezident turned immediately to Gorodin. “Now, to other business. Your business,” he said, crossing toward the storage wall. “Recorded less than fifteen minutes ago,” he added, intending to impress him. “Listen.”
Zeitzev depressed the start button on the cassette player, and the ring of a telephone came from the big speakers. Once, twice, then—
“Hello?”