Marco took Copelle to del Tritione and started up the hill. Many people had already left the city for the weekend. And traffic was light at this hour. It took less than ten minutes to drive to the Gregoriana.
“Thanks again, Marco,” Melanie said as she popped the Alpha’s door.
“Prego, signora,” he said magnanimously. “What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” Melanie replied, puzzled.
“Yes, I’ll be your driver.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary. You’ve already done enough. I’ll get another scooter.”
“Please, signora,” he insisted. “In Rome, a man who rescues a woman becomes responsible for her. It’s an old custom. You have no choice. So, your wish is my command — almost,” he joked charmingly.
Melanie smiled and looked at him thoughtfully.
“Well, there is something you can help me with,” she said. “The Records Office is closed for the weekend, isn’t it?”
“Si.”
“I’d like to get back in there tomorrow, and Sunday instead of waiting. Can you arrange it?”
“Of course, I have the key. What time shall I pick you up?”
“Ten?”
“Si. Le dieci.”
Marco had her perfectly positioned, now. Why follow her, and chance being spotted or losing her in traffic on that scooter when he could chauffeur her instead. He watched her go into the hotel, then drove back to the Sapienza, and descended into the Archives. He had until 10 A.M. the next morning to find Aleksei Deschin’s records.
Chapter Thirty-two
The back of Kovlek’s hand landed on Raina Maiskaya’s cheek with a loud smack.
She lurched backwards, almost toppling the chair, in Zeitzev’s office to which she was bound. Kovlek was standing over her. Zeitzev, and Vladas, the KGB driver, were slouched in stuffed side chairs. They had removed Raina’s outercoat, and the rope that held her to the chair crisscrossed the center of her chest, pulling her silk blouse tight against her breasts.
“Well?” Kovlek shouted.
Raina lifted her head to the defiant angle it held prior to the blow. Four red welts were already rising on the side of her face.
“I told you,” she replied evenly, “Mr. Churcher and I were talking business. Arabian horses.”
“Liar!” Kovlek shrieked, slapping her again.
Raina recovered and eyed him with an odious smirk.
“Then why did you strike him? Why did you run?”
“Because he offended me,” she replied. “He made a filthy sexual suggestion.”
“Another lie! What were you trying to cover up?”
“Nothing.”
“Why did you say you were the housekeeper when you called him?”
“I never called him.”
Zeitzev pulled his huge frame from the chair and lumbered toward her. “Madame Maiskaya,” he scolded gently, “we have a recording of the conversation.”
“Impossible.”
“It is your voice,” he insisted.
“Impossible.”
“Listen.” He popped a piece of cheese into his mouth, and nodded to Kovlek.
The deputy placed a set of headphones over Raina’s ears. He turned to the stereo unit behind her, and depressed the play button on the cassette deck.
Raina heard the two rings of the phone, followed by the exchange between she and Andrew.
“Well?” Zeitzev prompted.
“That’s not me,” she lied.
“Listen again,” Zeitzev said insidiously.
Kovlek had already rewound the tape. He pressed play, and cranked the volume to the maximum setting.
The first ring exploded in Raina’s ears at a full 150 watts per channel. Her eyes snapped open like she’d been stabbed. At the second, she lurched against her bonds as if an electric current was surging through her body. Her head snapped from side to side in a futile effort to shed the headphones as the voices screamed inside her skull unable to get out.
When the tape ended, Zeitzev approached her, dropped to a knee, and removed the headphones.
Raina began shaking her head trying to clear it.
“Now, madame,” Zeitzev said more sternly, “your actions with Churcher have been highly suspect. It’s very important we know what he’s up to. You will tell us.” He stood, walked a few steps, and paused. “Oh, yes,” he went on as if he’d forgotten, “we have other tapes, special ones designed to induce cooperation. Entire symphonies, if you will, that last for hours. You see, Madame Maiskaya,” he went on, embellishing the scenario, “sound is a truly unique sensory stimulant. Dentists use it to increase pain thresholds. We use it to exceed them. Indeed, the human nervous system is extremely sensitive to auditory invasion, which makes sound a most potent form of torture. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know it leaves no visible marks or scars, but be advised, it’s power is unlimited, and its effect can be lasting and traumatic.”
Raina eyed him coldly, with hatred. “I can’t hear a word you’re saying,” she said facetiously.
“That may well be your fate,” was his icy reply.
A short time earlier, Andrew came out of the Hassler, carrying a manila envelope. He got into the first taxicab in the line at the curb, stuffed some lire into the driver’s hand, and gave him the envelope.
“Deliver it to the American Embassy, okay?”
The cabdriver smiled at the lire, and nodded.
Andrew slipped out the opposite door of the taxi and hurried into the darkness.
The cabdriver didn’t know the envelope was empty, and the addressee fictitious, nor would it have mattered if he had. He pocketed the money, and drove off.
Seconds later, Gorodin hurried from the hotel and jumped into the next cab, exhorting the driver to follow the first.
Andrew watched the two vehicles heading north on Tinita di Monti, then walked to the Soviet Embassy.
He was standing beneath a tree, in the silent blackness of the small park opposite the Embassy gates, now. Lights burned in many windows of the staid building. Andrew wondered behind which Raina might be. He crossed the street, angling away from the gate where a member of the Red Army Guard cradling an AK-47 was posted. The high fence was topped with razor-wire; and the sheets of steel welded over the decorative ironwork, not only blocked sightlines, and bullets, but also hand and footholds, as well.
Andrew had walked a short distance in search of a way over it when a vehicle turned the corner and caught him in its headlights. He ducked back against the fence as a taxi passed and pulled up to the gates. Gorodin got out and slammed the door. Andrew didn’t know that the U.S. Embassy was a short drive from the Hassler. He picked it because he knew any cabdriver would understand. Gorodin realized immediately upon arriving there that Andrew had shaken him, and headed here. He approached the guard and displayed his identification, which drew a cursory glance.
“Nomyer sveedam namorye?” the guard challenged.
“Nyet, sbalkonam,” Gorodin replied flatly.
The guard nodded and opened a personnel door to the right of the gate, allowing Gorodin onto the grounds.
Andrew observed the lax check of identification, and overheard their conversation. The tone suggested it was an exchange of passwords, which it was.
“A room with a view of the sea?”
“No, with a balcony.”
“Nyet, sbalkonam,” Andrew repeated to himself. Perhaps the password would get him onto the grounds, he thought. And the fact that he was doing business with the Soviet Union might cover him if challenged once inside. At worst, he’d be denied entry. He was an American. They couldn’t abduct him off the street.