“Mr. Churcher?”
“Speaking.”
“This is the housekeeper. The writing equipment you requested is in the desk.”
Zeitzev clicked off the tape deck. “The man, of course, is Andrew Churcher,” he said. “But who’s the woman? We know she isn’t who she says she is because the housekeeper at the Hassler is named Vin-cente.”
The color drained from Kovlek’s face. He couldn’t believe what the existence of the tape implied. He felt like a fool.
Gorodin burned the stunned deputy with a look. He couldn’t believe it either; but, on second thought, he could. It was a classic example of KGB paranoia run rampant — Zeitzev had found out where Andrew Churcher was staying; had technicians bug the hotel room; but hadn’t informed Kovlek.
“Well?” Zeitzev said, like a prodding schoolmaster.
“The accent,” Gorodin said. “It’s slight but—”
“Everyone in Italy has an accent when they speak English,” Kovlek interrupted scornfully.
“Not an Estonian inflection,” Gorodin said, weary of his denseness. He was referring to the Scandinavian lilt of the Russian spoken in the Baltic Republics.
Zeitzev heard the certainty in Gorodin’s voice, and nodded, “My assessment, too,” he said in an outright lie. He’d detected the accent, but couldn’t place it. “The Baltic Republics definitely.” He lifted the phone and buzzed his secretary. “Bring me The List,” he said.
Since the Revolution, secrecy and control had been the mechanisms of the Soviet state. Ideas, art, music, and literature were censored; computers, copiers, printing presses, and typewriters were controlled; the movement of citizens strictly regulated.
Guaranteed the right to rest in Article 41 of their Constitution, Soviets vacation at government-operated resorts. Few travel outside the Iron Curtain. Those who do are on The List. The names in the green leather binder, found in Soviet embassies the world over, are updated daily. Travel itineraries and extensive biographical data are noted next to each.
Zeitzev’s gangly secretary entered with the binder, and leaned across the desk to whisper to him.
“He’ll have to come back,” Zeitzev replied, a mild irritation in his voice.
“I told him you were busy, comrade,” she said defensively. “He said he has something important, and insisted on waiting.”
Zeitzev’s expression softened. “All right,” he said, reconsidering.
The secretary nodded and left.
Zeitzev opened the binder, and began running a finger down the columns of names. “Eight from Baltic Republics,” he announced. “Three cleared to Italy. One woman. Birthplace: Tallinn, Estonia. Residence: Moscow.”
“Estoninans,” Kovlek said with disgust. “They do nothing but complain of religious persecution, and watch Western television programs from Helsinki. Unpatriotic swine each and every one.”
“Well, this swine has blat,” Zeitzev said, using Russian slang for clout. “Winner of three Olympic medals in equestrian events. Father, chairman of the Arabian Breeders League. Reason for travel, International Horse Show, Rome. All things considered, I’d say the chances that Comrade Raina Maiskaya was Churcher’s caller are rather high, Gorodin, wouldn’t you?”
Gorodin nodded cautiously, pushed another cigarette between his lips, and lit it.
“But if she’s here to horse-trade with Churcher,” Kovlek said, “why impersonate the housekeeper?”
“Precisely,” Zeitzev said, mulling it.
Kovlek moved around the desk to look at The List. “She’s staying at the Eden,” he announced. “I’ll pick her up, and question her.”
“No, comrade. I’d prefer you observe her for a while,” Zeitzev said, and shifting his eyes to Gorodin, ordered, “Maintain surveillance of Churcher.” He used the emphasis to remind him that he hadn’t, adding, “I’ll be happy to define the concept if you wish.”
Gorodin took the reprimand stoically. He had no need to retaliate. The Churcher “account” was his. He recognized the name Raina Maiskaya. It had been mentioned on and off during the years that he’d forwarded artwork from Deschin in Moscow to Churcher’s helicopter at sea. Gorodin knew she was Churcher’s Soviet lover. But he decided neither of his KGB rivals had a need to know. They worked for him, not vice versa. His sanction came from Moscow. He was GRU.
Zeitzev nodded, indicating the two operatives were dismissed, and buzzed his secretary on the intercom.
“Send him in,” he said, referring to the man who had been waiting in the outer office.
Gorodin and Kovlek were approaching the door when it opened, and Marco Profetta floated into the office.
“This will cost you,” he announced in prissy Italian that went with his walk. “Lady’s looking for your minister of culture. You know, your boss?” He slipped a file card from a shirt pocket, and held it up to Zeitzev. It was the Official Information Request Card Melanie Winslow had filled out, and had a Polaroid snapshot of her affixed.
Gorodin’s Italian was fluent. He stopped on a dime, stepped back into the office, and closed the door, shutting out Kovlek who had already exited.
“I’d better hear this,” he said to Zeitzev.
Zeitzev considered confronting Gorodin over the presumption, but decided against it. He held out a hand to Marco for the file card.
“Five hundred thousand lire” the wirey student said, fixing his price.
Zeitzev scowled, snatched the card from his hand, and studied it as Marco told the story of Melanie’s appearance in the Records Office, and how she strode boldly into the glass enclosure to confront the supervisor.
“But what does she want?” Zeitzev interrupted.
“I couldn’t hear what they were saying,” Marco replied in a perplexed whine. “But I can find out.”
Gorodin swung a skeptical look to Zeitzev.
“It’s the truth,” Marco said, seeing it. “What reason would I have to make it up?”
“I can think of at least five hundred thousand,” Gorodin said. He grasped one of Marco’s arms, and pushed up the sleeve. The veins ran in pale gray streaks. He shrugged at the absence of needle marks.
“Maybe, this Miss Winslow is the prevaricator,” the rezident ventured.
“Are you suggesting she’s a professional?”
“It’s possible.”
Gorodin shook his head. “It doesn’t sound like the Company’s way of doing business. Besides, what could Boulton find out about Comrade Deschin that he doesn’t already know?”
Zeitzev’s eyes speculated.
Gorodin nodded grudgingly at the implication.
“The usual hundred thousand lire,” Zeitzev said, dismissing Marco. “My secretary will take care of it.”
Marco sighed and left the office, closing the door after him.
Zeitzev crossed to the half-fridge and opened it. The rank odor in the office intensified. He removed a wedge of cheese, and unwrapped it. “We’ll have to find out what this Miss Winslow’s up to,” he said, then clarifying, added, “But she’s my problem. You deal with Churcher.”
“My orders are to refrain from interfering with Churcher as long as he sticks to business,” Gorodin replied, deciding he’d better establish his authority. “Moscow doesn’t want to raise suspicion that the services were involved in his father’s death.”
“Yes, my briefing included that task, but not why it was necessary,” Zetizev replied solicitously.
“With good reason,” Gorodin said sharply. “Its classification prohibits it. I can tell you, comrade, that the Politburo wants the flow of hard currency from the Arabians to continue. They’re counting on Andrew Churcher to peddle them. And we have no proof he’s doing otherwise.”