Or perhaps he might walk right past them and into the hotel.
12
North Rome (Soviet sector)
There were no primaries at the Albergo Grimaldi. Nobody like Borodin, or Skarov, or himself. Only sleepy guards and anxious-looking hotel staff. The two conscripts on the front door hurried to shuffle out of his way as he stomped up the steps and reached for his stolen ID. The trench coat, the badge, the air of entitlement and threat were enough for them.
Of course, thought Ivanov.
The foyer was a mess. Four more troopers lounged around inside, two of them asleep. The other pair played cards and smoked. They started a little when he stalked in but returned to their game when the NKVD man evinced no interest in them. The Albergo’s entry and reception area was not large and what space there was had been taken up by piles of luggage, suitcases, and so on, and by the squaddies’ equipment, which included a small gas stove on which they were heating coffee. Probably spiked with vodka, and almost certainly stolen from the hotel stores.
Muddy footprints ran everywhere over the threadbare carpet. A couple of lightbulbs had failed, adding to the gloomy atmosphere. A man and a woman, both with the underfed, anxious look of locals about them, worked behind the counter, mostly trying not to catch his eye. Ivanov had Borodin’s identity card and badge out by then and bruted his way over to them, jutting his chin out and allowing the contempt that all secret policemen felt for their fellow beings to run free across his features. A brief wave of the NKVD badge was enough to ensure their attention and drain what little color was left in the face of the night manager.
“I am here under the direct orders of district coordinator Kuznetzov,” he informed them while keeping an eye on the Red Army squad members in the dirty, fly-specked mirror behind the counter. The name of Kuznetzov caught the attention of the corporal who was playing cards, and the young man kept one eye on Ivanov while attending to the little gas stove. Like a good Russian, however, he took no initiative to act beyond the orders he had been given. Watch the foyer.
“There was an incident here earlier today,” continued Ivanov, in character. “I have flown up from Naples to investigate the handling of this matter. I will need to inspect the rooms and property of all involved, and to speak with the controlling officer, Colonel-General Skarov. Where is he?”
The name of Lavrenty Beria’s hatchet man caused both of the troopers to turn his way now, warily, and the poor Romans behind the desk to shake uncontrollably. The man and woman exchanged a nervous glance and seemed even more nervous for having done so.
“Conrad … Comrade Skarov is not here,” said the man.
The woman clutched at her throat-probably reaching for the rosary beads she dared not wear in public, Ivanov thought.
“He is at the Wall,” the night manager added. “There have been incidents. Terrorists and criminals.” The woman nodded gravely, still clutching at the religious totem that was not there.
“The keys then,” he demanded.
The manager looked confused, perhaps even a bit reluctant. Ivanov glowered at him. “These terrorists, these criminals-you have some sympathy with them, comrade?”
The poor Italian almost choked on his response. “Oh no, no, no …” he said quickly, while reaching around to pluck two keys from a board on the wall behind him.
Ivanov snatched them out of his hand and stalked away from the counter, stopping to bestow a withering gaze on the corporal, who was staring at him.
“You there, soldier!” he barked.
The man jumped, spilling some of his coffee. Ivanov was certain he could smell ouzo.
“Do you know where Colonel-General Skarov might be? I am to report to him and seek information about what took place here earlier.”
The noncom stumbled to his feet. His two sleeping comrades disturbed themselves. “No …” the corporal said uncertainly, before adding with more vigor: “No, comrade. We were detailed here when your section was finished with the scene. Partisans attacked today. They are everywhere in this part of the city. We are to secure the hotel against them.”
Ivanov stared at the steaming coffee he held. “Good job,” he said drily. “What can you tell me of the partisan attack? Quickly now, I must be about my investigations.”
“It was a serious attack,” the other man replied. “They came up through the sewers. We heard that many of Colonel-General Skarov’s men were killed down there. The colonel chases them now. That is what we hear, anyway. But the NKVD does not always inform us of details. We have been given orders, comrade. To stay here in the foyer. That is really all I know. If you cannot find Colonel-General Skarov, it is because he is in pursuit of the partisans.”
Ivanov allowed himself to look only slightly dissatisfied with the answer. It rang true. Skarov was not a man to step back from the blow that the Furedi brothers had delivered to him this afternoon. He would take it as a personal affront and a failure. Ivanov was familiar with that way of thinking.
With a wave, he dismissed the soldier, who resumed his seat, his card game, and his drink. The would-be NKVD master sergeant turned away without another word. He took the stairs to the second floor, where Sobeskaia and his mistress had taken adjoining rooms. The crowded foyer with its piles of luggage and unwashed floor had given the impression of a poorly run, typically drab state hotel. But the muddy footprints petered out on the first landing of the stairwell, and from what he could see of the hallway, the staff had done a better job of maintaining some order up here.
Ten rooms ran off either side of the long corridor, which was well lit and tidy. Halfway down, a small table held a bowl of fruit. That in itself was testimony to a standard of luxury not easily found on this side of the Wall. The apples, pears, and grapes looked fresh. It was significant, he thought, that they remained untouched. To provide them in the first place was an uncommon measure of largesse in the Soviet sector; that nobody had stolen every piece of fruit gave some indication that the guests here were more familiar with material ease than the Romans on the streets outside. It also meant, he would bet, that the conscripts he had seen downstairs had not wandered up here. The accommodation fitted with Ivanov’s image of Sobeskaia as a privileged boyar. At least, until very recently.
He stopped outside room 203, where Anna, the mistress, had stayed. He could hear two guests talking in another room nearby, and the clink of cutlery on dinner plates as somebody ate a room-service meal. But nothing from 203. Drawing the pistol he had taken from Borodin, Ivanov entered the room.
It had been professionally searched. The bed was stripped, the mattress flipped. Dresser drawers had been removed and stacked. A watercolor painting leaned against the wall, an outline of its frame showing where it had hung until a few hours ago. He could see no personal effects. There would be nothing here, and probably nothing next door in Sobeskaia’s room.
A connecting door gave him access to 204, where he found the scene repeated. The room had been taken apart efficiently, methodically: no personal effects strewn everywhere; no curtains ripped down from the rails; no feathers or foam spilling out from where rough, impatient hands had slashed open the mattress, searching for contraband. There was nothing here for him. Still, it had to be searched, and he did so as thoroughly as whoever had come through here before.
Ivanov was in the en suite bathroom, lifting the lid on the toilet cistern, when he heard them coming for him. The thunder of boots up the stairs and along the corridor.