“Guess what?”
“What?”
“The director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation has been talking personally to the chairman at Main Street! How about that!”
“I don’t believe you,” said Hollis. It was like an operation, without anesthetic, his stomach being gouged out.
“And there were two agents there in person,” insisted the girl, pleased with his shocked reaction.
“It can’t be right.”
“Janet, my roommate, works on the switchboard there, for Christ’s sake! She put the call through from Jackson’s office.”
“What about?”
“She didn’t listen! Just handled the call. But it must be important, big, mustn’t it?”
“Yes,” agreed Hollis. “I suppose it must.”
When they were eventually reunited late that night-after Henry Hartz, with the Russian foreign minister beside him at a televised press conference, identified the embassy missile to be American-William Cowley and Dimitri Danilov tried to compile their list of priorities. Like Pamela Darnley earlier in Washington, they decided the first had to be the Moscow connection to the house-or rather the telephone-at 69 Bay View Avenue, Brooklyn.
Which was the Golden Hussar on Pereulok Vorotnikovskij. No American calls had been made to or from it after those listed on the Brooklyn billing records. Cowley and Danilov reluctantly judged they were too publicly recognizable to visit it personally. Yuri Pavin was told to take his surprised wife out to dinner and the FBI’s Moscow-based Barry Martlew had to miss the departure party of the Internet-identified CIA station chief to remain outside with one of the newly arrived Washington forensic team, photographing customers.
Photographs took up a lot of their discussion. There was no criminal records trace of Arseni Yanovich Orlenko. Danilov had brought with him the FBI’s New Jersey surveillance pictures of Vyacheslav Fedorovich Kabanov and Ivan Gavrilovich Guzov, the two Russian directors of the company that owned the Brooklyn house.
“Will the personnel photographs of the KGB people who were let go within the CIA’s timeframe have been kept?” wondered Cowley. They were in the bar of the Savoy, where Cowley was staying.
“I don’t know.”
“Be a bitch if they haven’t.” Cowley was relieved to be in Moscow, spared overcrowded committee discussions that got nowhere. “What about tying up all the ends you left hanging when you came to Washington?”
“Anatoli Lasin, certainly. Even if he gives me a name, I don’t think we’re able to move against anyone else here in Moscow yet. I think we should go to Gorki.”
“So do I,” agreed the America. “As soon as possible.” He hesitated, knowing he had to say it. “I’m sorry about Olga.”
“Yes,” said Danilov.
Cowley waited but Danilov didn’t say anything more.
The Kirovskaya apartment would be as she left it going to the Kliniceskaja Bolnica for the abortion, Danilov realized. And as he would have expected it to be, if she had still been alive. There were discarded clothes, even underwear, on the living room couch and the bed was unmade, a jumbled heap of blankets and sheets. The familiar stalagmite of unwashed dishes jutted from the kitchen sink.
He found an old cardboard suitcase with only one clasp that worked and heaped all the living room trash into it before adding the rest of Olga’s clothes from the closet and drawers in the bedroom, surprised there was so much because she’d always seemed to wear the same things, day after day. He found a separate supermarket bag for her four pairs of shoes, all of which needed repairing.
He realized for the first time that nowhere in the apartment were there photographs of them when they first married-when he at least had been trying to make it work-and found three, including a wedding picture, him in his militia uniform, in a box at the bottom of the bedroom closet. Their marriage certificate was there, too. He left it all as it was and carried everything that had belonged to his wife out into the entrance hall, convenient for the following day.
He should, he supposed, tell her friends about the funeral, but the only one he could remember-knew even-was Irena. And Igor, the hairdresser. He decided to clean up the mess in the kitchen first.
24
The expected but unwelcome call from Interior Minister Nikolai Belik came within minutes of Danilov’s arrival at Petrovka the following day.
“I have been told, ordered, that I am now directly responsible to-and operating under-presidential authority.” Danilov thought his remark sounded like the schoolboy-to-schoolmaster recitation it was.
“I am your superior,” said Belik.
“A point I made to Georgi Chelyag. I was told you would be advised of this changed arrangement.” This wasn’t so much the sort of loose end he and Cowley had talked about the previous night-more of a rope with which he could so very easily hang himself.
“I am not challenging any new arrangement. You are, additionally, to report to me.”
“I have not been told that by the White House.”
“You don’t have to be told by the White House. I’m telling you.”
Danilov felt the telephone becoming slippery in his hand. “That’s not my understanding-my orders-from the White House.”
“They’re your orders from me. Which you will follow.”
Damned if he did-and Georgi Chelyag found out-and damned if he didn’t, by the man who was his ultimate superior and whose instructions were unquestionable. Why was the situation-the cliche itself-so constantly the same? “I think the matter needs to be clarified.”
“There is nothing whatsoever you need to clarify with anyone-any other authority-except me. Nor will you.” Belik paused. “Although perhaps, Dimitri Ivanovich, your proper political understanding is lacking. Which is something else upon which you will take guidance from me and no one else.”
Danilov’s curiosity began to grow. “Perhaps I would benefit from some political clarification.”
The pause this time was longer, the man at the other end making a decision or maybe arranging his words. “There is going to be widespread political fallout at the very highest level over this. The Duma resolution is not an empty gesture.”
“I realize that,” encouraged Danilov. It had been spelled out at the first of their joint meetings, which, like Cowley, he was glad was over.
“Then perhaps you should also realize that it’s important you give support to those upon whom you-and your future-most depend.”
The telephone was still greasy in his hand but Danilov felt a physical chill. Unformed thoughts-awarenesses-jostled in his mind, very much indeed needing to be clarified, put in their proper order. It had been Belik’s voice when he’d lifted the telephone. So the call hadn’t come through either the ministry or militia switchboard. Officially it wasn’t taking place. Belik was positively ordering him not to approach Georgi Chelyag. Uncertain, then, despite the heavy-handed innuendo about choosing the right side. So which was the right side? The traditionalists in whose camp he’d already put Belik, along with the security chief and the deputy defense minister? Or the supposedly reforming presidential faction increasingly threatened by the communist-dominated-and therefore traditional-Duma? It was very much a matter for political judgment. Danilov’s problem was reaching it.
“Dimitri Ivanovich?” prompted Belik.
“I appreciate your guidance,” Danilov said emptily, needing more time. Uncertain, he thought again. It hardly mattered whether this telephone conversation was deniable or not. Nikolai Mikhailovich Belik was taking an astonishing-desperate-risk approaching him like this, scarcely bothering anymore with clumsy innuendo.
“It’s important that you take it,” said the politician. “I accept you already have arranged commitments with the Americans. What’s a good time in your schedule for us to meet?”
The word “desperate” echoed in Danilov’s mind again. No longer demanding. Accommodating. “I’ll need to get back to you.”
There was yet another pause, the longest yet
. “Make sure you do, Dimitri Ivanovich. Make sure you don’t make a mistake you could very easily and very soon regret.”
Danilov had a joint schedule with William Cowley, but he moved on to it distracted, unsettled by the choice demanded of him.
If the obvious comparison between the technology-controlled and gleaming FBI building on Pennsylvania Avenue and the cracked Bakelite and the unswept corridors of Petrovka registered with Cowley, the American didn’t show it. But then, remembered Danilov, he’d been there before, knew what to expect. Or rather was not to expect. Danilov was still glad of the improvements to his own office: His television was actually bigger than Cowley’s. He’d left it on CNN while he’d gone down to greet the American, and when they reentered that day’s renewed demonstrations outside the Ulitza Chaykovskovo embassy were on the screen. The voice-over commentary claimed the crowd was larger than the previous day, despite Henry Hartz’s televised assurance of full cooperation with the Russian foreign minister, and Cowley said that was very definitely the impression from inside the building. To avoid running the gauntlet he’d come directly to Petrovka from the hotel. Immediately after the television report of an intended meeting between Hartz and the Russian president, there was a live interview with an English-speaking communist deputy from the Duma insisting that the resolution criticizing the president would definitely become an impeachment debate.
His mind still very much upon the conversation with the interior minister, Danilov said, “What do your State Department people traveling with the secretary say about that?”
“Haven’t discussed it with anyone in detail.” Cowley shrugged. “Takes a hell of a long time to impeach a president, either here or at home.”
“Unless they’re forced out by the threat, like Nixon was,” reminded Danilov.
“Then it comes down to how hard-assed your guy is,” said Cowley. “A political problem, not ours.”
“Yes,” agreed Danilov, wishing it were true. Should he talk to the American about the Belik conversation: ask Cowley to circulate the question of the Russian president’s survival among Hartz’s support staff? There would be an exaggerated show of confidence from the Russian White House in front of Hartz and his people, so any playback would be misleading. And apart from the sort of television pictures on at that moment, the Americans had little way to gauge the parliamentary opposition’s strength or weakness.
Cowley held up his hands against the reunion with Yuri Pavin becoming too effusively bear-hugging, and the Russian avoided any reaction to the American’s hair ditch along one side of his head. The greetings were quickly over.
“So how was dinner at the Golden Hussar?” demanded Danilov.
“The food was better than the chances of recognizing anyone-which I didn’t-but it definitely has the smell of a new brigade location,” Pavin said at once. “A lot of available women, men in their favorite shiny suits and just slightly more Mercedes than BMWs. Accepts every Western credit and charge card and the menu’s priced in U.S. dollars.” Danilov nodded to the gesture toward his desk, and Pavin unrolled a white tube of paper he was carrying, pinning the edges open with the telephone and pen holder. “Architect’s drawings of the restructuring work carried out less than a year ago. No record of their being approved but they’ve been carried out, so someone paid someone.” As Danilov and Cowley came to either side, Pavin moved his finger in explanation and said, “And here’s our problem. Long bar, immediately after the main entrance. Restaurant, supposedly for sixty people, directly beyond that. Kitchens, closed off obviously, halfway down the left-hand side and from them, leading out into an alley quite separate from an adjoining road, are two doors.” The finger traced on. “And here’s what’s listed as office and administration space. See, here, here, and here are three more doors, designated fire exits, but in fact closed off from the restaurant itself by this full-length wall.” He looked to each man. “Two of them lead again into separate roads. Five different ways by which people can come and go, unseen, unless we’re going to surround the place by what would need to be a squad of at least twenty observers.”
“If I was a cynical FBI investigator, I’d say the Golden Hussar was a custom-designed mob place,” said Cowley. “Lambert’s photographer went through four rolls of film last night, although he’s worried about the light and the quality. Thinks they can get prints to put against your criminal records by the end of today.”
“All of people going in through the front door,” reminded Pavin. He took a colored booklet from his inside pocket, laying it on top of the plans. “The official pictorial brochure, handed out with the bill. Gives you some idea what it looks like.”
There were a lot of long-leafed plants, small trees almost, around the walls, and in the very center there was more jungle-type greenery around an ornamental, fountain-fed pond.
Pavin said, “The pond has real fish.”
“What about telephones?” demanded Danilov.
“Two public, to the side of the bar. Neither is the number listed on the Bay View Avenue billing account. That has to be somewhere in the back, in one of the offices.”
“What about a tap from the exchange? Any problem getting a court order for that?”
“A bigger problem would be finding someone here who’d put it on without telling the Golden Hussar with his hand out,” said Danilov. Who, he wondered, would the homosexual Anatoli Lasin name as the mafia source within Petrovka?
“Lambert’s got a bunch of guys sightseeing and buying matroyshka dolls in the Arbat,” said Cowley.
Danilov had lowered the sound but kept the television on: The banner-carrying crowd seemed to have increased since he’d last looked. He said, “If your people installed it, the monitor would have to be from inside your embassy.”
Cowley followed Danilov’s look, toward the screen. “We’re wired at the Brooklyn end. Maybe it’s not a good idea to try to connect up here after all.”
“What about continuing the surveillance?” asked Pavin.
“I think we need to know how many people-and get identification if that’s possible-use the rear doors,” said Danilov.
“Let’s hope the identification isn’t of Americans doing it,” said Cowley, accepting the unasked request.
Pavin opened a farthest, functional flap of the restaurant brochure still lying on Danilov’s desk. “The bill. We both had goose. It was excellent, like I said. But very expensive.”
At the height of the KGB’s all-pervasive, all-intrusive power, the supposed militia guards on Moscow’s foreign embassies had all been KGB-America’s more heavily covered than any other. With the diminishment of the organization, the concentration had been scaled down although not completely abandoned. Danilov recognized at once that the bearded man, so big he dwarfed Pavin, was not just basic street-level but basic street-mentality militia. The uniform was soiled, shining from grease and wear, and the felt of his regulationissue winter boots, which he was still wearing in early summer, was scuffed through to the canvas lining. He smelled.
His immediate, apprehensive concentration was on the obviously American William Cowley, and his suspicious eyes flickered between Cowley-whom he also dwarfed-and the plastic-wrapped missile launcher that Pavin had collected from the Petrovka forensic department on his way to escort the embassy guard from the vestibule.
Danilov said, “We want you to tell us about the attack.”
“I acted correctly picking up that thing. It was evidence,” the man said at once, defensively.
“You’re not here to be accused of anything.”
“Nothing much to tell,” said the guard. “It was raining. Hard. I was in the hut, trying to keep dry. Heard a car but didn’t see it, not at first. No cars around, not even on the ring road, that late. Looked out and saw it had stopped, although the engine was still running. Then someone got out, bundled up. I saw him bring something up to his shoulder but it was too thick to be a rifle. Suddenly there was an explosion and a flash, as if something was blowing up, and th
en I heard a crash from farther down the alley beside the embassy and a very big explosion. I didn’t see him drop that thing, but when the car drove off I realized something was lying where the car had been. I pressed the alarm button and picked up the frame from the road. I knew it was important so I put it inside the shelter and didn’t give it to the Americans who came out. I waited for a militia colonel to arrive and gave it to him. He said I’d done the right thing. That’s all. A lot more officers came then. Took over.”
“Were you wearing gloves when you picked it up?” asked Cowley.
“Yes. It was cold. Wet.”
“What about the officer you gave it to? Was he wearing gloves?”
“I don’t know.”
Maybe-just maybe-the chance of a fingerprint if the officer could be eliminated, thought Danilov, following the direction of the questioning. “Tell me about the car. What make was it?”
“Foreign. American,” said the embassy guard at once.
“You sure about it being American?” demanded Cowley.
“I worked for two years with GIA: traffic.”
The man’s size alone would have terrorized motorists into handing over the expected bribes rather than be issued fabricated tickets, Danilov thought. He wondered whom the man had failed to bribe to keep the job. “Do you know the make?”
“It was big: bigger than a Zil. It went up at the back. The design, I mean.”
“Fins?” suggested Pavin.
“Yes.”
“Mercedes are foreign. So are BMWs. There are a lot of those in Moscow?”
“Mercedes and BMWs don’t go up at the back, like this car did.”
“What about a number?” pressed Pavin.
“I didn’t get a number. It was over too quick. And it was raining. And I thought he had a special gun.”
“What about a color?”
“Dark colored, not light.”
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