Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“There’s the sort of Moscow connection you were asking about. I’d momentarily forgotten about it,” said Reztsov. Apologizing that it might take several days to find an available office, the local police chief had insisted that a desk, chair, and filing cabinet be moved into his own suite and remained attentively close to Danilov, even selecting and offering the folders.

“Considering how big the arms industry is here, I’m surprised there’s been so very little crime-leakage-involving it, particularly now that so much is superfluous with the end of the Cold War,” said Danilov.

“I told you, security’s good,” reminded Reztsov. “It’s directed from Moscow.”

“There’s no more than this?” pressed Danilov. Their attitude wasn’t patronizing but their selection was. It had taken less than an hour to produce.

“This is what I understood you wanted,” said Major Averin. “How else can I help?”

“Zotin is the foremost family?”

“We’ve moved against them a lot,” Averin pointed out.

“You got any feedback from informants that they might be connected with what happened in New York?”

“Not yet,” said the major. “My task force was only formed two days ago. We’ve spread the word.”

“We should talk to Nikov,” said the local police chief, as if it were a decision no one else would have reached.

“Does he still run the garages referred to in his file?” asked Danilov. They’d sell cars stolen in Western Europe and smuggled in largely through Poland.

“When we last heard,” Averin said carelessly.

“You haven’t checked the whereabouts of someone who twice escaped arms-dealing prosecution?” Danilov demanded sharply.

“We always know where he is,” assured Reztsov, the condescension edging back. “We always know where all our major players are.”

“Let’s bring him in then; see what he’s got to say,” agreed Danilov.

The dinner that Danilov decided he had to accept and to which they drove in Reztsov’s perfumed car showed how fully the police chief’s preparation-and his misunderstanding-had been. The genuinely French owner greeted Reztsov at the door of the restaurant overlooking the oil-smooth river. It took a long time for Danilov’s disinterest to register with both Reztsov and Averin before they stopped recommending several girls smiling invitingly from the bar and an outer lounge.

There was a message from Yuri Pavin asking Danilov to call him at home, at any time, when he got back to the National Hotel. Pavin answered on the first ring. Two of the defense witnesses at Viktor Nikolaevich Nikov’s second trial were logged on Moscow’s criminal records as being associates of a family operating under the aegis of the Dolgopruadnanskaya, the city’s largest mafia grouping. The third had been shot dead in a territory war with a Chechen gang soon after testifying for Nikov.

“What Chechen gang?” Danilov demanded at once.

“Not the one that would interest you,” said Pavin, equally quickly, accustomed to the question. “Perhaps Nikov’s your man?”

“We’ll soon find out,” said Danilov. “He’s being brought in for questioning.” Danilov supposed his religiously minded deputy actually believed in miracles. He certainly didn’t.

William Cowley and Burt Bradley moved up to the more centrally convenient Manhattan FBI office and split equally between them the interviews with what in the end turned out to be six claimed eyewitnesses, three commuter plane pilots, a second trash barge captain, and a yacht charter skipper. They dismissed completely the account of the yacht skipper, whom they decided was seeking business publicity-and who later asked payment for media interviews-and at the end of a long day distilled down to just one page anything remotely of value from the remaining five. The consensus was that there had been two people-one possibly a woman-on the cruiser from which the missile had been fired. None of the witnesses had actually seen the ignition or anyone holding the launcher because the hitting of the Secretariat Tower had been more obvious. Four insisted the cruiser was blue and white, one that it had been entirely white. Two thought a blue canvas canopy had been erected over the flying bridge, three weren’t sure it had a flying bridge at all. None could suggest a make, and the estimates of its length varied from between thirty feet and fifty-five feet. Only two chose the same photograph of one of the eight cruisers reported stolen in the previous week. One of the commuter pilots was so unsure he said it could have been any one of three.

By the end of that third full day no terrorist group had claimed responsibility, and the special task force Bradley created at Pennsylvania Avenue to computer analyze and cross-reference every known and potential faction-with an emphasis on missile or military technical expertise-had processed eight, with four breakaway associations, covering the spectrum from the Ku Klux Klan to the Black Brotherhood. Islamic fundamentalism was definitely slammed. It was Cowley’s suggestion to ask Interpol to provide all likely international organizations in their files and to extend beyond known Islamic fundamentalist movements by asking the Mossad, Israel’s intelligence service, for what information they possessed on the state terror structures of Iraq, Iran, Algeria, and the Sudan. The personal authority of Leonard Ross had been invoked for all three branches of the military to research their files for people with specialized weapons knowledge-particularly missiles-who had recently left or been discharged from their service.

Bradley said, “We’re building ourselves a paper mountain and we ain’t got Jack squat. We’re just waiting for the next outrage.”

“I know,” accepted Cowley. He’d expected the FBI director to have more readily accepted his assessment that Washington was the most likely target. It had been bridge building to suggest it to Burt Bradley, too: The resentment from the other man at Cowley being officially designated case officer was obvious. For that reason Cowley had urged Bradley to include the warning in one of his early assessments, as if it had been his idea.

“You think your guy in Moscow’s going to get anything?”

“Not on what we’ve been able to give him so far.”

Bradley looked at his watch. “We’re too late for happy hour, but I’m ready to pay full price.”

If Bradley hadn’t suggested it, Cowley knew he would have done so. Continuing the bridge building, to the benefit of the investigation, he told himself.

Cowley was struggling into his coat, so Bradley took the telephone call. At once he shouted, “Leave it! Don’t touch a thing! Rope everything off until we get scientists up there.” He looked across at Cowley with the telephone still in his hand. “Highway Patrol took until this afternoon to check out a report of a fire in a creek near New Rochelle. And found the Eschevaux , one of our missing boats.”

“This is wonderful!” enthused Elizabeth Hollis.

“It’s foreign. A Jaguar,” said her son. “I can go 120 miles an hour at least.”

“You haven’t driven that fast?” the woman demanded, swiveling in her seat to look at him.

“Of course I haven’t, mother! That would be illegal.”

“You promise me?”

“I promise you.”

“I couldn’t live without you, Patrick. Without knowing you’re always going to be close to me, looking after me now that your father’s passed on.”

“You’re never going to have to. I keep telling you that.”

She patted the leather seat. “I love the new smell!”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Only what you deserve, working so hard for the bank as you do.”

“I don’t want you to tell anyone how grateful they are,” warned the man. “You know how jealous people get.” He still used the three-year-old Volkswagen to drive to Albany. Would Carole-would any of the girls-go out with him if they knew about the Jaguar?