Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

He was caught by her seriousness. “Have I missed part of the plot here?”

“I hope not.”

“Why don’t you sketch it out for me?”

Pamela did, in seconds, knowing nothing beyond what Osnan had told her the day she returned from Albany. Anticipating the question, she said, “I tried to get a name but couldn’t.”

“I drink,” Cowley declared flatly.

“I’ve noticed.”

“But it doesn’t-will never-screw up how I work a case. Booze had nothing to do with my lifting the street surveillance in Moscow.”

“I accept that. But I’m not the person you’ve got to convince if these stories build.”

“How can I stop them? The stories, I mean?”

Pamela shook her head. “I don’t know. It was important that you knew they were circulating.”

“I appreciate it.”

“ Were there any problems in Moscow?”

She couldn’t have heard of the previous occasion with the hooker. Only Danilov knew that. She was talking about now. “There were a couple of sessions: a celebration when we found the arms cache. Other people drank more than I did.”

“I just wanted you to be warned,” Pamela said. She supposed there had never been a right time but decided that her moment had been wrong. Until at least halfway through the meal Cowley toyed with just one glass of wine before deciding-and declaring-that it was a stupid reaction and began sharing it properly with her. It was an improvement and each relaxed a little, but what she’d said hung between them. Finally he said, “Was that what this was all about? Warning me?”

“Partly, I guess.”

“What’s the other part?”

Pamela shrugged, bemused by her difficulty. “Maybe an apology.”

“For what?”

“Being such a tight-ass before.”

“Got you what you wanted.”

“So let’s make another part a celebration,” she said. “For you as well as me. I did get some breaks. You prevented the Lincoln Memorial catastrophe. If we’re scoring points, we’re about even.”

Cowley finished the bottle between their two glasses. “So here’s to us.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Pamela.

Once more he was caught by her seriousness. “Is there another part we haven’t covered yet?”

“I’m not sure. I think there could be.” Wasn’t that the way of single bars, always up front, in your face?

“So how we going to cover it?”

“My taking control ends with my buying the meal.”

Cowley was very nervous, frightened at first that he was going to fail, which made him even more nervous. He tried to cover his difficulty with foreplay, which she seemed to enjoy and matched him, stroke for stroke, tongue for tongue, hand for hand, and it began to happen. They joined hurriedly and came hurriedly together, but he didn’t need to stop. Their second orgasm took longer but was again together, Pamela bucking and crying out and then arcing under him.

It was a long time before they spoke. Cowley said, “You were right. If we’d tried that the last time you stayed over, it would have killed me.”

“You believe me when I tell you I had no idea this was going to happen?”

“Easily. I had no idea it was going to happen, either. Sorry?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

“We don’t need to analyze anything, do we?”

“No,” he agreed again.

There was another long silence before he said, “I can handle it, you know. Booze.”

“I’m here now. We can handle it together.”

Dimitri Danilov had the same time during which to organize the simultaneously coordinated swoop the moment the Americans were led to the terrorist group but was confronted with the difficulty of Petrovka security, particularly now that Ashot Mizin had been positively identified as the eyes and ears of the other intended targets. He considered and rejected going to Gorki, not wanting prematurely to confront Reztsov and Averin. He continued using the U.S. Embassy facilities to produce enlarged, identifying photographs he personally distributed to the commanders of the three spetznaz units selected for the seizure operation upon the personal authority of Georgi Chelyag. Danilov spent most of one day with the three men, all colonels, a lot of it convincing them that such a level of cooperation really did exist between Moscow and Washington.

Yuri Pavin reached the end of an inquiry that had begun while Danilov had still been in America, folding back layer upon layer of company concealment finally to discover that the ownership of the Golden Hussar was joint between Naina Karpov and Igor Baratov. Naina also turned out to share ownership of both of Baratov’s garages.

The watch was maintained on the Oldsmobile’s garage, but during the one outing there was nothing of any significance in the overheard conversation between brother and sister, apart from Baratov wondering what the terrorists planned to hit, to Naina’s dismissal that she didn’t know. Intriguingly she added, “We’ll probably find out soon.”

It was during another cleaning visit to Larissa’s grave that Danilov began reflecting on the militia corruption that her husband had so epitomized and how his determination to eradicate it at least from Petrovka had been overwhelmed by her death.

He summoned Pavin as soon as he got back to militia headquarters and said, “How many detectives on your suspect list?”

“Six,” replied his deputy. “Seven including Mizin.”

“Who’ll tell us everything we want to know to save his neck,” judged Danilov. “And I want it all. Every name, every brigade or organization. We’ll put Mizin in court as a prosecution witness against those he knows about and in turn use what they know to get the others. I’ll clear the whole damned place out.” It would be sensational, Danilov recognized. But at that precise moment he was in a strong enough position to initiate such a purge. Which wasn’t entirely the altruism of an honest policeman. Quite a long way from it, in fact. He was following the cynically discovered-and practiced-rules of survival. There were few more effective ways of bringing himself to the attention of the newly installed interior minister as well as publicly demonstrating the declared aim of the president.

Pavin regarded him curiously. “It’s a hell of an undertaking.”

“So’s what we’re doing now.”

“It’ll just be the two of us.”

“That’s enough,” decided Danilov. If Yevgenni Kosov hadn’t been in the pocket of a mob, Larissa would still be alive.

William Cowley’s meeting with the director wasn’t the inquest he had expected, although he was glad of Pamela’s warning. It was Cowley himself who raised the shipment loss, to Ross’s dismissal that it had been found again. And the man listened, without comment, to what had been arranged for the Cidicj Star ’s arrival.

It was toward the end of the encounter that Ross said, “How you feeling yourself?”

“Fine, sir,” said Cowley, to the jangle of alarm bells.

“You’ve been working at a hell of a pace after being caught up in that explosion. Maybe too hard.”

“I really am quite all right.”

“Did you ever have a follow-up check?”

“No.”

“Maybe after it’s all over.”

“Maybe after everything’s all over.”

“About as subtle as an avalanche,” Cowley told Pamela as soon as he got back to the incident room.

“Sure you’re not overreacting?”

“Positive.”

“You’re back now, under his and everybody else’s nose. All we’ve got to do is prove them wrong.”

Cowley liked the “we’ve.” “That’s all.”

They flew together to Illinois for a conference with the Chicago police commissioner and his division chiefs. They encountered no resentment from a force clearly more than content for the responsibility to be anyone else’s but theirs. In the office of the local Customs chief there was virtually an identical map of the eastern seaboard showing the progress of the Cidicj Star as the one Terry Osnan was maintaining in Washington.