The bell began to ring again, a little more urgently, summoning the final stragglers. Harry could see a couple of publicists making their way over to wrangle Sir Alec and himself away.
“Sorry about that,” said Harry with bluff good humor as he patted Guinness on the shoulder. “In my experience, when dealing with Julia, it’s best to just lie back and think of England.”
Sir Alec snorted just as the first of the publicists arrived. He was a short, rotund man with heavily oiled hair, wringing his hands nervously.
“Your Highness, Sir Alec …”
“If you could just spare us a moment,” said the actor, politely enough, but with enough steel in his voice that Harry could easily imagine him commanding a small boat running weapons to partisans in the Balkans during the war.
The publicist coughed and nodded, and backed away. “Of course, of course …”
“I would not want you to think me uncharitable about your lady friend,” continued Sir Alec. “She really was very good at her job. Unfortunately, that made for a rather uncomfortable time for me. But, of course, I brought that on myself. Lessons of history, and everything. And I will say, of all the interviews I sat through to publicize this film, hers was the only one that didn’t bring up that bloody Star Wars movie. Please pass on my regards.”
Harry bowed his head briefly. “I will. And for what it’s worth, I really did enjoy this movie. We all did.”
“Very kind of you to say so,” said Guinness. “But now I can see from the panic sweat staining the armpits of my press-relations professional over there that I must away. Enjoy your date, and please, my compliments to Ms. Duffy.”
“Of course.”
They shook hands again and parted as Sir Alec was ushered away, not toward the theater but into the clutches of yet more journalists for another round of interviews.
Harry stifled a sigh as he spotted his own personal protection detail-two special constables from Scotland Yard-dressed in dark double-breasted suits, both of them wearing Homburgs. At least they would keep a discreet distance this evening, but Harry could not help feeling slightly put out. He was much more able to take care of himself than these two constables were. For that matter, Julia Duffy was probably a more daunting prospect to any would-be attacker than the plainclothes bobbies.
She had his attention now, smiling and waving as she said good-bye to her colleagues. They were very obviously reporters as well. They carried notebooks and large satchels slung over their shoulders, from which one of the women took out a small cardboard camera to snap Harry’s photo as he approached. Julia backhanded the woman in the solar plexus, playfully, but firmly enough to drive a small “oof” from her, after which the little cardboard camera disappeared.
Julia, he noted, was not carrying a satchelful of disposable Kodaks. She was packing a 21C digital shooter. Her old Canon Eos, he was certain. Nearly a quarter of a century old, and still one of the most advanced pieces of optic technology marooned here in the 1950s. A lot of people would think it foolish, a woman hauling around such a valuable piece of kit. Especially in a city like Rome, where the Allied sector still swarmed with displaced people ten years after the end of the war. Harry knew better, however. His on-and-off girlfriend was an embed, with nearly as much combat experience as he. A common street thief who tried knocking her down for the camera was more likely to leave the encounter with a couple of bullets in his face or a knife buried deep in his neck.
“Hey,” she called out. “You done schmoozing with all your fancy actor friends? Got time for a drink with a working girl?”
Julia’s companions fell silent as he drew near. Harry revised his previous opinion about them: They probably weren’t uptimers. Too young, for a start. They were dressed in the lighter, more casual fashion of the next century, and styled their hair and makeup to imitate Julia’s own; but they did not have her hard, angular body shape. Even in her forties, her figure remained gym-ripped and almost masculine compared to the soft, doughy shapes of women from this era. Her musculature was well-defined and very apparent when she moved. Theirs was not. Their cheeks retained the fleshy curves of cherubs. Diet and brutal exercise had stripped most of the body fat from Duffy, and it showed in her high cheekbones and the slightly hollow planes of her face. The temps’ aping of her uptime style did not extend to Paleo diets, MMA workouts, and high-intensity interval training. When they spoke, to say hello, they did so with American accents, and he was finally able to place them.
California. The Zone.
2
May 6, 1955: North Rome (Soviet sector)
The church, a humble box of gray brick and slate and narrow, unglazed windows, sat on the point of a sharp turn in a nest of back streets and alleyways a few blocks north of the Vatican. Ivanov peered out through one of the slits, scanning the cobblestone passage outside their hiding place. A sewer had backed up nearby and flooded the alley with a shallow stream of excrement. Unpleasant, but useful. It meant that foot traffic, already light in this part of the Soviet sector, was unlikely to build up as the Romans took to the streets in an hour or so for passeggiatto, the daily late-afternoon/early-evening stroll enjoyed by civilized Italians up and down the peninsula. Even here, under the boot of the Communists, people tried to wriggle free at least once every day, dressing in whatever old, shabby finery they might yet possess to walk their local streets, to greet neighbors and friends, and wherever possible, to dine and drink and talk. If they were lucky, they might even push back the unpleasant realities of life behind the Wall, just enough to sleep a little easier that night.
He envied them.
For Pavel Ivanov, when he closed his eyes at the end of the day, only dreams of death and screaming waited. He would sometimes wake, biting back on a strangled cry, rubbing at the scar that ran down his right temple. It was an old wound, but full of phantom pains that haunted him between sleep and wakefulness.
His fingertips probed gently at the scar now. It was throbbing. Playing Russian roulette with a Makarov had seemed like a bright idea at the time. A beacon of reason, in fact, that had shone with unusual brightness in a very dark moment, many years ago. A shitty round had saved his life but left him scarred. Ever since, he had turned away from the solace of vodka and misery and focused on the mission.
Only the mission.
Today that mission was a man called Valentin Sobeskaia. A Russian businessman, and a boyar of the Party, free to travel to Rome for the GATT talks. And not just to the Soviet-controlled quadrant either; Sobeskaia was trusted enough to be able to cross over to Free Rome, the Allied sector. Free to cross over but not free to move around without an escort or constraints. In “free” South Rome, the NKVD would guard and watch him, holding him as closely as a newborn. Ironically, it was safer and much easier for Ivanov to contact him here, through his mistress, Anna, in the open-air prison of the city’s Communist-controlled north.
The special forces veteran scanned the streets outside again. Nothing moved.
Normal life, such as it was, was possible just a few short streets away, on the other side of the Roman Wall. Here in the Soviet-controlled sector, however, there were no privately owned trattoria or ristorante, no crowded bars hot and bright with life and celebration. There were “people’s canteens,” where you might get a drink if your tastes ran to toe-curling Bulgarian wine and thin, oily Moskovskaya vodka, but they were poorly patronized by the Romans. Only the lowest, most despised cadre of Party members were to be found there. Even the poorly paid junior officers of the occupying Red Army divisions avoided the canteens, preferring to eat and drink in their barracks. It was safer that way. A man was less likely to get a shiv in the neck or turn up floating in the Tiber with his belly sliced open and his innards trailing behind him.