The Watchmen cad-3

by Brian Freemantle

  “Their bank source, obviously.”

  “How?” demanded Ross. “Four banks! That many branches!”

  “Banks deal with other banks,” said Pamela. “But to have that access he’ll have to be fairly high.”

  “‘Brother,’” quoted the director. “‘Sister.’ Black-speak? Roanne Harding?”

  “Could be. Copied a lot by Caucasians, though. The voice intonation doesn’t give any indication.”

  “Could the limited Chicago photographs be of any practical use?”

  “I’m running every one through records here. Been doing that from the beginning. The army still insists any comparison is impossible with discharged personnel.” She paused, creating the division. “I’ve already told Carl Ashton about the conversation. He said it was confirmation he didn’t need. And I’ve sent the entire transcript to Moscow, of course.”

  “I talked with Bill,” said Ross.

  “He told me. That you’d talked, I mean. Not in any detail.”

  “In detail it came down to what we’ve decided: that we still can’t move,” said the exasperated director.

  In Moscow neither Cowley nor Danilov had decided they couldn’t move, either separately or together, although they’d both reached the same furious conclusion as the FBI director and of Pamela Darnley before him.

  “You had the Watchmen’s leader,” said Danilov.

  “And lost him,” agreed Cowley.

  Georgi Chelyag’s call anticipated Danilov’s by thirty minutes, and Danilov went directly from the American embassy to the Russian White House. He avoided the continuing protests by using the sidealley route but was reminded by some of the banner slogans of the impending Duma vote of no confidence in the president. That automatically led his mind to the interior minister’s direct threat, after his initial complaint to the presidential aide. In the last twentyfour-or was it thirty-six? — hours he’d consciously avoided thinking about it, but now it forced itself into his mind, demanding attention. Which achieved nothing. What was the point-more important, the protection-in raising it further? The conversation itself was something else about which he had insufficient proof. No proof at all, in fact. So to complain-seek Chelyag’s intervention for a second time-would simply worsen an already irrevocable situation between that familiar rock and that inevitable hard place, with no way out. It really was a shitty expression. He had to stop using it, even in his mind.

  He was ushered immediately into Chelyag’s overly ornate, baroque office, which the squat man appeared far too inconspicuous to occupy. Chelyag remained behind the desk, which fit the office but not the man. No note-takers and therefore no records, Danilov realized.

  Chelyag began speaking even before Danilov sat down, using a dossier that clearly contained the notes-possibly even the verbatim transcript-of the president’s meeting with Henry Hartz. The recitation took the chief of staff a full fifteen minutes, and it was almost as long as that before Danilov understood why he was being told.

  “Well?” Chelyag demanded, finally looking up.

  “Nothing was held back, as far as the investigation is concerned,” Danilov confirmed at once.

  Chelyag allowed a rare smile. “That’s good. They’re being honest with us then?”

  Danilov was surprised-and concerned-at the degree of American openness: It was more than he’d imagined from Cowley’s account of his discussion with the secretary of state. “Quite obviously a lot of it-most of it-can’t be made public.”

  “That point was made. And agreed,” said the aide.

  “Can I ask how many people were present at the meeting?”

  There was a moment’s studied examination from the other man. “You mean Russian?” Chelyag demanded pointedly.

  “Yes.”

  “The president. Myself. A translator and a note-taker.” The smile came again. “Nothing will leak.”

  “You should see this,” said Danilov, offering a translation of the latest intercepted conversation. While the other man read, Danilov gazed around the office, curious why proletariat communism had found the trappings of tsardom so necessary. Because, he supposed, they had been hobnailed and dirty-fingered tsars themselves.

  Chelyag’s calm reaction was different from what Danilov expected. The chief of staff said, “Will you be able to prevent another attack here in Moscow? A totally honest answer!”

  “Only if we learn of the target from another intercepted telephone call. And that would create a dilemma. To stop it-which we would have to-would alert them we are listening: know certainly who Naina Karpov is and that she’s supplying the American terrorists. Who would without question or hesitation use their intrusion into American military headquarters when they realized it.”

  Chelyag nodded in acceptance, lips pursed, still calm. “In military campaigns-and these terrorists clearly believe they are involved in some sort of military campaign-it is very often necessary to make small sacrifices to achieve a larger objective. Particularly to deceive the enemy …. The British are supposed to have allowed an entire city to be bombed, many people to be killed, to prevent the Nazis knowing they had broken their most essential code during the Great Patriotic War.”

  Danilov was actually leaning forward in his chair, knowing this wasn’t a lecture on military tactics or history.

  The man tapped the record of the Hartz meeting. “I’m glad-the president will be glad-of this honesty. There is to be another session between the two of them. We will be just as honest: make it clear we understand all the difficulties but that no wedge can be forced between us, whatever new outrage occurs here. Immediately after their meeting the president will make a televised address to the nation, just as the American leader did.”

  What was it! Danilov sought desperately. Until he worked it out, he wouldn’t know how to respond!

  “The obvious complaint against Russia within the United States is that it was Russian weaponry used in the American attacks or attempted attacks. To reassure the American public, the president intends to announce that all military stockpiles throughout the country are to be placed under far more stringent and direct military control and supervision: no civilian involvement whatsoever. That strict and sole military supervision will, of course, apply particularly at Plants 35 and 43. To reinforce the commitment to that pledge, our chiefs of staff will appear with the president.”

  Danilov thought he saw a glimmer of light, almost too faint to recognize. Taking a risk, he said, “Will anyone else appear publicly with the president?”

  “Appropriate minister,” said Chelyag. He nodded as if approving Danilov’s question.

  “When’s the television appearance to be?”

  “Tomorrow,” said the chief of staff. “You do understand the importance of my being fully briefed on every development, particularly over the next two or three days?”

  “I think so,” said Danilov, believing he did. The Duma impeachment debate would begin in two days. By which time the as-yet undeclared leaders-and military chiefs most affected by detente between Russia and America-would have been made publicly responsible for preventing the loss of any more Russian weaponry. Too much of which-apart from germ and biological warheads-Georgi Chelyag and the president already knew to be stolen and available for sale. On the pretext of preventing an American catastrophe, the president was going to imply to the American secretary of state that Moscow was prepared to sustain an atrocity to achieve the greater good of destroying a fanatical, international terrorist group. And in so doing, squaring the circle, to destroy the president’s impeachment-seeking opposition.

  “Then you’ll also understand how important it was-and even more so is now-for you to continue to report only to me?” This time Chelyag’s smile was much longer.

  “I thought I had made clear to whom I was solely reporting,” said Danilov.

  “Precisely the reason I thought you might benefit from this meeting,” said Chelyag. “But I don’t think it’s necessary for this conversation to go beyond this room. O
r the two of us.”

  “No,” agreed Danilov. Was the president’s determination-desperation-to remain in office great enough for the White House to allow a germ warfare attack on Moscow? There was probably another cliche to describe his going from one impossible situation to another, but at that moment Danilov couldn’t be bothered to search for it.

  With no reason to return to Kirovskaya, apart from to sleep and change his clothes, Danilov had begun to spend his evenings with Cowley, and because of the time he drove directly from the White House to the hotel. He did so automatically, still trying to digest-but almost not wanting to-the conversation with Georgi Stepanovich Chelyag. There couldn’t be any misunderstanding. So he was … was what? Corrupted wasn’t the word. There had to be one far bigger, stronger, to describe the enormity of what he’d become inveigled in-agreed to become inveigled in. Or had he? Could he, if he knew there was a possibility of a warhead being exploded in Moscow, say nothing, do nothing? Would-could-the Americans? Probably, he answered himself, using the total cynicism to which he’d just been subjected. But that wasn’t the question; it was an effort to avoid it. The question was what was he prepared to do-acquiesce to save himself or do nothing and knowingly let people die? Wasn’t there a depravity-depravity a better word than corrupted, although still not right-in his even having to ask himself the question? What about the words he should be thinking, words like integrity and honesty and morality, words he’d personally paraded like the banners now being waved outside the embassy he’d soon be passing? Not a decision he had to make, not now, not immediately. Hypothetical, even. The unknown man in Chicago had said maybe there’d be something else in Moscow: that he needed to discuss it with people here. He’d wait, Danilov decided, recognizing the avoidance and despising himself for it. Wait and think. Not something that could be decided in minutes.

  William Cowley was sitting at what had become his accustomed stool at the corner of the bar. He was alone. He drained his glass when he saw Danilov enter and had two more drinks waiting by the time the Russian reached him. Without any discussion they carried their glasses to a table out of hearing from the bar. Danilov told Cowley he knew about the second meeting between the secretary of state and the Russian president, waiting to be told that the Americans also knew of the planned television address. Instead Cowley said although the Chicago voice had been American, without any discernible foreign intonation, he’d asked that all the Chicago surveillance pictures be wired for comparison against the old Russian intelligence files. To Danilov’s nodded acceptance, Cowley outlined the surveillance and photographic arrangements for that night. And then, frowning, he said, “You OK?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “You’re pretty quiet. How did your meeting go?”

  Danilov hesitated. “Just passed on your intercept. He told me about the second meeting, like I said. Any idea what it’s about?” How could he say this, behave like this!

  “Hoped you might be able to tell me. It’s at your side’s suggestion, according to Hartz’s people.”

  Danilov shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

  Cowley said, “Spoke to the director again. He’s frightened the Chicago fuckup has skewed everything back home.”

  “Pamela in trouble?”

  “He didn’t seem very pleased. Says he’s looking for the next break from here.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t keep him waiting,” said Danilov, not knowing it would only be a matter of hours.

  From his locked den Hollis carefully followed that evening’s chosen, first-time stepping-stones through three consecutive online systems, not just to cut out any trace of his cracking-or of his being caught in a flytrap-but also to ensure the cost of that night’s three- or four-hour surfing would be charged to someone else. Finally online himself-as the Quartermaster-Hollis began a regimented march through the war game sites and found the message on his third entry.

  It said

  THE GENERAL REQUESTS THE QUARTERMASTER’S REPORT

  and was timed that day. The system was to wait a further three days before going to the newly designated telephone he hadn’t used before. Hollis had expected more progress from Mark Whittier by now; perhaps it was time to lead the FBI auditor more positively.

  Hollis surfed until he found what he wanted, the mapped and pictorially digitized re-creation of Paulus’s street-by-street siege of Stalingrad. Hollis appointed himself to the Nazi side, attacking the Russians. How incredible it would have been to be there in person in 1942! But this would have to do.

  It was the FBI’s Moscow station chief, Barry Martlew, who made the initial identification of the immaculate, dark-blue 1962 Oldsmobile with upswept rear tail fins as it drew up to the rear of the Golden Hussar. And then recognized the driver as Yevgenni Leanov. In the momentary brightness of the opened door to the restaurant the photographer beside Martlew managed six shots of the former KGB linguist and his female companion.

  “Got her perfectly,” guaranteed the photographer.

  “Like to hear her voice,” said Martlew.

  “Could be a long night if there’s to be another call from Brooklyn,” forecast the other man.

  But it wasn’t. The couple emerged after only three hours, actually stopping in the lighted doorway to talk to someone unseen behind, which gave the photographer the chance for four more shots. Leonov drove directly to Nikitskij Boulevard, where the woman waited patiently for him to put the Oldsmobile away in one of what appeared to be at least three locked garages in a side alley before walking with him, arm and arm, around the corner to an apartment block on Pereulok Kalasnyj.

  The garages were one hundred yards from Lev Ivanovich Baratov’s Mercedes outlet. Which was more than a mile from Pereulok Ucebyi, where two hours earlier the Cadillac in which Anatoli Sergeevich Lasin was setting out to collect a new, fifteen-year-old lover exploded so violently when he turned on the ignition that the vehicle was broken completely in half. The gas tank was full, and the resulting fire totally destroyed Lasin’s apartment and two others in the same block. Three people died in the blaze.

  31

  The photographs were of Naina Karpov. After it was enhanced, one of the departing shots showed the man to whom she was turning in farewell to be Igor Ivanovich Baratov.

  Five of the pictures were pinpoint sharp, and in three of them she appeared to be looking directly at the camera, as if she were posing. The transformation from the dowdy, distracted widow of Pereulok Samokatnaja was so complete that Danilov thought that in a casual, crowded situation he might not have even recognized her. The neglected hair was coiffed perfectly around an oval, even beautiful face to show off the glittering earrings that, with the singlestrand choker, made a complete set that threw off enough light to be genuine diamonds, which they probably were. There was a diamondlike flare from the ring on her ring finger, too, but no wedding band. The dress-maroon, according to Martlew-was close fitting without being tight, cut bare-shouldered and in two of the pictures exposing deep cleavage hidden by a covering stole of the same material. She was smiling-openly laughing in one frame-to show sculpted, even teeth.

  Yevgenni Leanov was just as immaculate-and smiling-in a single-breasted, Western-cut suit that Martlew remembered as dark blue. The surveillance photographs revealed a tactile attentiveness that had not registered with the two FBI watchers until the very end of the evening. In the arrival pictures Leanov had cupped Naina Karpov’s arm to help her out of the Oldsmobile and had his hand familiarly in the small of her back as they’d gone in through the restaurant’s rear door. Their hands had been touching in the first of the emerging photographs, and Leanov’s was around her waist in the others.

  It was not possible to see anything of Baratov, apart from his face, from the angle of the one print in which he’d been caught. He’d been smiling, like the rest of them.

  Danilov was grateful the necessary responses to the identification-and the murder of Anatoli Lasin-had delayed his day’s schedule until midday but he still felt crushed (t
he coming together of the rock against the hard place) by the hangover. It had been ridiculous-posturingly theatrical-to go on drinking as he had the previous night, as if integrity could be drowned in alcohol. He hadn’t, in fact, become forgetfully drunk. At least the vomiting had stopped. He wished the remorse and the pain would.

  Because of Henry Hartz’s continued presence at the U.S. Embassy, they were again in Cowley’s suite. The Golden Hussar photographs didn’t occupy much space on the table around which they were sitting, even though they were enlarged as well as enhanced. The rest was taken up by official Russian prints of Anatoli Lasin’s blown-apart car and fire-blackened shell of the Pereulok Ucebyi apartment block. Considerately, ever conscious of how Larissa died, Pavin had covered the murder scene pictures with those of the destroyed apartments.

  “If it was a delayed wake for the sadly missed husband, they enjoyed themselves,” said Cowley, disturbing the neatly piled prints of Naina Karpov. One of the American’s early-morning checks had been to establish from the Manhattan eavesdropping that there had been no calls from Brooklyn to the restaurant the previous night.

  “There as well as back at Leanov’s apartment,” said Danilov, working hard to disguise how he felt, surprised that Cowley was showing no discomfort whatsoever. Practice, he supposed. The ownership of the Pereulok Kalasnyj apartment was one of several things that Pavin had established during the morning. Another was that Leanov had divorced his wife four years earlier. A third was that the lock-up block listed on the same property register was owned by Lev Baratov’s garage company.

  “Why kill Lasin?” queried Pavin.

  “Because he knew Nikov he was originally brought into headquarters, which might not have been the best idea,” reflected Danilov, his headache so bad his words seemed to echo in his skull. “To keep her talking-to get as much for the voice comparison as we could-we told Naina Karpov we were going to reinterview everyone we’d already seen. Lasin was their weak link.”