Lena nodded, then suddenly focused on another face in the photograph.
“What is it?” Melanie asked.
“I mean, I could be wrong,” Lena said, indicating someone in the photograph, “but he looks familiar.”
Melanie slid her chair around next to Lena, who was pointing to a tall man standing behind Sarah and Deschin. The young fellow’s wavy black hair flowed from a widow’s peak, giving him a visionary air.
“Who is he?”
“A very important man in Italy, if I’m right,” Lena said, taking a copy of the International Herald Tribune from her shoulder bag. She thumbed through the newspaper, and found what she was after. “Look.” Lena held the WWII photograph next to one in the paper. The hair was white and receding now, which made the widow’s peak stronger; but the thin face had the same sharp-edged nose, wry smile, and haughty tilt.
“Giancarlo Borsa, defense minister, departing for Geneva—”Melanie said, reading the caption.
“If it isn’t him, it’s his twin,” Lena said. “He gives political science lectures sometimes.”
“Uh-huh,” Melanie said inattentively, still scanning the article. “Where’s Piazza dei Siena?”
“In the Borghese Gardens, just up the hill from your hotel,” Lena replied. “Why?”
“It says he’s expected back on Tuesday to host some benefit there.”
“Yes, he’s involved in—” Lena paused suddenly. “You’re not going to just show up?” she asked, having heard the intention in Melanie’s voice.
“Why not?”
“Could you get to see your secretary of defense at a benefit in — say — Madison Square Garden?”
“I don’t know; I’ve never tried,” Melanie said with characteristic spunk. “What else can I do? Call him and say, ‘Hi, Mr. Defense Minister, you don’t know me, but I’m a nice, honest American woman looking for my father, and I have this picture, and I thought maybe you might be able to tell me about—”
“It’s a nice walk,” Lena said, capitulating.
The next morning, Melanie walked Gregoriana to Trinita dei Monti and climbed the splendid staircase to the Pincio and Borghese Gardens beyond. The sun shone brightly, and a stiff breeze whistled through the pine forest around the amphitheater, causing the banners to snap loudly. She made her way to the rear of the castle and approached the entrance to the stable area. A uniformed armed guard was posted in a gatehouse, where a sign proclaimed, PRIVATO VIETATO INGRESSO.
“Prego?” he asked.
“I’m looking for Minister Borsa,” Melanie said.
“This area is private. Is he expecting you?” he barked in Italian, sticking a pipe in his mouth, as if that was all he’d need to say. It had a short curved stem that let the bowl rest against his chin.
Melanie couldn’t understand a word he said, but she nodded just to be polite.
“Yes, well, you see, he doesn’t know me, but—”
“Prego,” he said, taking the nod as an affirmative reply, adding, “Ministro Borsa stabili in mezzo.”
Melanie hurried past the gatehouse and down a dirt road lined with horse vans to the stable. She entered beneath the Borsa crest, walked between the stalls, and up a staircase. The private box was a shuttered wood-paneled room, lushly furnished with priceless antiques, Persian rugs, paintings of horses, and countless show ribbons. She stepped through it lively and out the arched door to the balcony. In the show ring below, Borsa, in natty equestrian attire, and a stableboy were adjusting the saddle on an Arabian.
“He’s beautiful,” Melanie called out to get Borsa’s attention, after watching for a few moments.
“Thank you,” Borsa replied, climbing a staircase to join her. “You’re rather early,” he went on, assuming she was there for the benefit, which wouldn’t start for hours. He towered over her as he stepped onto the balcony, and Melanie introduced herself. She was clearly taken by his presence, and offered an awkward apology for the intrusion. Then, quickly capturing his attention with the WWII photograph, Melanie told the story of her search for her father.
“My God,” Borsa said in an amazed whisper. “Look at us — Sarah — Aleksei — Your parents you say?”
“Yes,” Melanie replied, heartened by his reaction.
“I knew them both,” he said poignantly. “Aleksei was an art student from Russia who came to study in the heart of the Renaissance. We were classmates at the university. He was trapped here when the war came.”
Melanie was stunned. She didn’t hear a word after “from Russia.” She wasn’t sure she even heard that.
“And as you can see, we fought together,” Borsa continued, reflecting on the photo. “Against the Nazis, and the Fascists,” he added proudly and, seguing into an afterthought, asked, “Do you ride?”
“Pardon me?” Melanie asked, still in shock.
“Do you ride, are you a horsewoman?”
“Oh,” she replied coming out of it. “As a matter of fact, yes. Yes, I am.”
“Good, I was about to take him for a run in the Gardens,” Borsa said, referring to the Arabian. “And we have a mare who could use some exercise. We’ll ride, and I’ll tell you what I can remember.” He called down to the stableboy, who hurried off to fetch the animal.
At that moment, a horse van arrived at the entrance to the stable area. The guard came from the gatehouse.
“I have a horse for the auction,” Dominica said from behind the wheel. “Give me a hand will you?”
She wore a black balaclava — a fitted orlon hood with an oblong opening for the eyes, worn by climbers and race drivers — and large dark sunglasses. The effect was more that of a trendy fashion excess than a device to conceal her identity, which it did.
The guard grunted and waved the van into the courtyard beyond the gatehouse, following after it. When the van stopped, he opened the rear door and poked his head into the darkness in search of an animal that wasn’t there. That’s when Dominica shoved him into Silvio’s arms from behind. The powerful construction worker pulled an oat sack down hard over the startled guard’s head, and dragged him into the van. By the time Dominica closed the door, the guard had succumbed to the chloroform that had been liberally splashed into the sack. While Silvio — wearing headgear similar to Dominica’s — bound the guard, she returned to the cab and drove the van toward Borsa’s stable.
Kovlek had been watching from his Fiat on the approach road. He smiled at their progress, left the car, and walked toward the gatehouse.
In the show ring, Melanie took the reins of a magnificent dappled Arabian from the stableboy, and swung into the saddle. She followed Borsa across the red clay and through a tunnel to the bridle paths that interlaced the surrounding pine forest.
“It was spring, 1945, when that picture was taken,” Borsa said, “but it was that February when it all began. And what I remember most vividly, is rain — torrents of endless, bone-chilling rain.”
Chapter Thirty-five
The winter of 1944 unleashed violent rainstorms across all of Western Europe.
In Italy’s Elsa Valley, Aleksei Deschin blinked at the flash of lightning and clap of thunder that rolled through San Gimignano, an ancient mountain town. Rain came off his pancho in sheets as he leaned into the torrent and continued up Via San Matteo, a narrow street in the north end. Three men trudged uphill behind him — a Russian, an Italian, and two Americans — searching for a German supply depot in the downpour.
The storm front ran from Rome through Florence to the north — the same line taken by the allied offensive to liberate central and northern Italy. The chilling deluge had eroded the morale of troops on both sides. But it was the Germans — running out of ammunition, food, and fuel — who were in retreat on every front.