“Drew, you’re doing fine. I’m impressed.”
“I’m scared.”
McKendrick laughed heartily, and leaned forward to the window, eyeing the tight bottom of a shapely nurse hurrying past on the sidewalk outside.
“Sounds like you need to unwind, son. You check out those numbers I gave you?”
“No time for numbers, Ed. I’m meeting with Borsa tomorrow, then leaving for Moscow. I’m thinking about stopping in Leningrad after the auctions.”
“Why? What’s in Leningrad?”
“The guy who supplied that package.”
“You are doing okay,” McKendrick said, his tone suddenly devoid of levity.
“I’ll call you as soon as—” There was a click, and then an open line. “Ed? Ed?” Andrew said.
“Drew? Drew you there?” McKendrick said as he turned from the window and saw two wiry Asian men standing behind him. Dinh had a finger on the phone, disconnecting the call. His brother-in-law was standing against the door. Dinh put a finger to his lips, and said, “Mr. Churcher needs your help.”
McKendrick’s jaw slackened at the import, then his look hardened. “Mr. Churcher’s dead,” he said challengingly.
Dinh shook his head no. “He said to tell you not to send the museum package if you haven’t already done so. Either way, he wants you to come with us.”
McKendrick studied him for a moment; then his doubt removed by their knowledge of the package, he broke into a smile and started dressing.
In the Soviet Embassy in Rome, Valery Gorodin sat alone in a cubicle in the rezidentura’s communications room placing a call to Aleksei Deschin through the Vertushka, the secure switchboard in the Kremlin.
The weather in Moscow had been gloomy. Premier Kaparov had nearly collapsed at a Politburo meeting and spent the weekend in the hospital, and Deschin was feeling unusually morose. He was in Lubyanka — the prison block at the rear of KGB headquarters — observing an interrogation of Raina Maiskaya, which was doing little to change his mood, when Uzykin, his eagle-beaked bodyguard, informed him Gorodin was on the line.
“Andrew Churcher is back to business,” Gorodin reported.
“Good. Let’s keep it that way,” Deschin replied. “So far Madame Maiskaya hasn’t revealed a thing. As Theodor Churcher’s lover, I suspect she had a hand in getting him the package of drawings. I’m concerned she might do the same for his son.”
“I agree. How shall we proceed?” Gorodin asked, shrewdly deferring his own proposal.
“The drawings are the only thing that can hurt us,” Deschin said. “Hard currency or no, I think we should revoke his visa and deny him access.”
“A sound approach, Comrade Minister,” Gorodin replied. “But if I may, I would counsel the opposite. I suggest we make certain Andrew Churcher has no trouble entering the Soviet Union.”
“That is highly unorthodox, comrade,” Deschin warned. “I assume you have good reason?”
“Yes, I think you’ll agree, I do,” Gorodin replied. “If, as you suspect, he plans to obtain a similar package, he can lead us to the original source.”
“Yes, yes,” Deschin replied enthusiastically. “He will undoubtedly have to contact the same traitor who gave the drawings to his father. And once we identify that person, we can forever eliminate the threat to SLOW BURN.”
Gorodin went directly to Zeitzev’s office after he hung up. He briefed the rezident on the plan, warning him to make certain Kovlek didn’t interfere again. He was about to leave when Marco Profetta arrived.
Marco reported what Melanie Winslow had said during the short drive from the Sapienza to her hotel Friday evening.
“Looking for her father?” Zeitzev exclaimed.
“That’s right,” Marco insisted. “And as far as I can tell, that’s all she’s doing.”
“Could still be a cover,” Gorodin said.
“A good one,” Zeitzev said. “I mean, who could be so coldhearted as to deny information to a woman who’s looking for her father,” he went on melodramatically.
“I can’t imagine,” Marco simpered as he opened his shoulder bag and removed a dusty, water-stained folder that he placed on Zeitzev’s desk. “I spent most of Friday night in that slime pit. But it paid off.”
Zeitzev quickly undid the frayed tie, removed the documents, and thumbed through them.
“Minister Deschin’s records,” he said, playing down the fact that he was surprised.
“Don’t you love it?” Marco exclaimed gleefully. “She spent the weekend looking for those. And they’ve been in my car all along! Under her seat while I was driving her!” He broke up, unable to contain himself. Zeitzev laughed with him. Even Gorodin had to smile.
“Excellent, Marco,” Zeitzev said. “I’d say, we can forget about Miss Winslow becoming a problem.” Then, turning to Gorodin, he asked, “You really think she’s Minister Deschin’s daughter, comrade?”
Gorodin was thinking he had just been handed the most promising piece of biographic leverage of his career. It had nomenklatura written all over it. “Perhaps,” he replied, concealing his reaction. “But I can’t imagine a Soviet citizen so foolish as to confront a Politburo member with the matter of illegitimate offspring — let alone American illegitimate offspring,” he went on, planting the fear in Zeitzev’s mind. “Can you?” he asked pointedly, reinforcing it.
“Comrade,” Zeitzev admonished, “as one of Moscow’s most eligible bachelors, I imagine Minister Deschin has affected the populations of cities to which he’s traveled, but the affair is none of my concern.”
“I applaud your pun and your wisdom,” Gorodin said. “It’s undoubtedly the wellspring of your lengthy tenure.” He smiled cagily, and left the office.
Zeitzev paid Marco and dismissed him, then his mind turned to other matters. That morning he had briefed Kovlek on what Dominica had proposed when she called from Comiso — the proposal he had avoided discussing in front of Gorodin. Now, brow furrowed with concern, the rezident reached for the intercom and buzzed his deputy. “This thing with Borsa,” he said gravely, referring to Dominica’s vengeful plan. “I don’t want us linked to it if it goes wrong.”
Indeed, thanks to Marco, Melanie had wasted the weekend and most of Monday in the archives. She emerged exhausted into the Records Office above, and Lena wrapped a compassionate arm around her.
“You need a drink,” she said.
“Two,” Melanie replied.
“On me,” Lena said, and led the way to Columbia, a trendy little cafe across from the Sapienza. They sat at a table in the corner close to the window.
“I’ve been through every folder,” Melanie said dejectedly. “I’ll probably never find it. Besides, I don’t think I can spend another minute down there.”
“What are you going to do?” Lena asked.
Melanie took a long swallow of a gin and tonic, shrugged, and opened her purse, removing the WWII photograph that had been on her mother’s dresser.
“Well, I have this. That’s my mother, and that’s him — that’s my father,” she said, getting goose bumps. It was the first time she ever just said it unthinkingly.
Lena studied the photograph, comparing Deschin’s face to Melanie’s. “He sure is,” she said, indicating the cheekbones and upward cant of the eyes that had once caused a dance reviewer to observe that Melanie reminded him of Leslie Caron.
Melanie smiled poignantly, and shrugged. “Maybe I should make copies of that, and distribute them around the city,” she said, referring to the photograph.