Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

Identifying another of Danilov’s already reached awarenesses, Reztsov indicated a service road controlled by both barriers and a tower and said, “See what I mean about the degree of security? Nothing left of these plants that wasn’t intended to.”

“Exactly,” Danilov replied.

“I meant officially,” said the stiff-faced police chief.

“We’re already getting street rumors,” said Averin from the front seat, trying to come to his superior’s rescue. “The gangs are worried about the sudden interest we’re taking in them.”

Danilov didn’t bother to challenge the ridiculously premature claim or ask why the interest had been so sudden. “What about Viktor Nikov?”

“The most interesting of all,” said the major. “Not at his home or any of his garages. Hasn’t been seen for several days, apparently.”

“Why not, do you think?” questioned Danilov. He hadn’t told them of Pavin’s discoveries in Moscow about Nikov’s defense witnesses.

“Who knows?” Reztsov shrugged.

“The question we’ve got to answer, along with all the rest,” suggested Danilov.

According to Danilov’s separate parts-of-a-whole assessment, Plant 35 was at the very edge of the straggling installation. Beyond the barrier and tower checkpoint there were two more manned control points before they reached the gates themselves, where their identities were confirmed for a fourth time.

Professor Sergei Alexandrovich Ivanov, the director of Plant 35, was a hugely bearded, limp-haired man with the distracted demeanor of an academic and the physical appearance of a Mongol wrestler. The office was a box, like all the boxes-some empty and without lights, most of the others seemingly inactive, despite their being occupied by white-coated or protectively dressed staff-that had preceded it. Ivanov’s white coat was not newly stained but dirtily ingrained by wear. There was so little room that Averin had to remain standing. There was no hospitality prepared for the visit, which Danilov believed the scientist, whom he guessed to be well beyond seventy, had genuinely forgotten. Danilov said, “You know what happened in New York?”

There was a hesitation before the bearded man said, “Yes. Of course.”

Danilov offered the FBI photographs of the missile and said, “You recognize it?”

The frowned hesitation was longer this time, before the director said almost wistfully, “These were a very long time ago. I’d almost forgotten.”

“But they were produced here!” demanded Danilov, impatient with nostalgia.

“Before my appointment,” said the man, instantly defensive. “It was a ridiculous idea, trying to improvise a hybrid. The rocket wasn’t designed to deliver it. But in the sixties everything and everybody was paranoid: Everyone’s finger on the red button, no one thinking beyond the official line.” He frowned toward the two policemen, and Danilov identified the never-lost communist legacy of fear of informants and provocateurs.

“As long ago as that?” queried Danilov.

“The prototype was developed here in 1961. I stopped the program myself when I got here in 1975,” said Ivanov. “Absurd. Could never properly have worked without its own delivery systems.”

“How many such warheads were built?” pressed Danilov.

Ivanov gave a shrug of uncertainty. “Who knows throughout the Soviet Union?”

The disappointed Danilov said, “They weren’t only made here?”

“Of course not,” said Ivanov, as if the question were naive. “Inconceivable though it seems now-as it was then, scientifically or ballistically-this thing”-he swept a disparaging hand toward the photographs, still laid out on his desk-“this thing was to be our recovery for Khrushchev being faced down by Kennedy over Cuba. It didn’t matter that it never flew properly, or that the rockets Khrushchev put on Cuba didn’t have a guidance system that would have gotten them to Florida. Central Planning decreed they had to be produced and so they were, by the hundreds-”

“Hundreds!” broke in Danilov, in stomach-dropping despair.

Ivanov gave another empty shrug. “At least. The prototype was produced here; it proved to be totally ineffective. But what did that matter at that time? Moscow always knew better. They demanded a stockpile-set a norm which we initially met but couldn’t sustain so the production was extended.”

“To where?” Reztsov broke in.

Ivanov’s shoulders rose and fell again in what Danilov guessed to be a habitual responsibility-avoidance gesture. “Moscow, I believe. Two definitely just outside Leningrad, as it was then. And in the republics that were then part of the Union. Kiev, certainly. There was a great concentration of weaponry-nuclear, too-in the Ukraine because of its geographic position, so close to the West.”

“What about these numbers?” demanded Danilov, pointing to the print that specifically showed them on the side of each canister. “What do they signify?”

“Stock designation,” identified Ivanov.

“So they identify the manufacturing plant?” seized Danilov, suspecting an admission.

“No,” said Ivanov. “They were issued from Moscow, for Moscow’s records, not ours. The zero in both lines of numerals: That’s Moscow.”

“What about the emergency phone number?” persisted Danilov.

“Seven numerals,” the professor pointed out. “That’s Moscow again.”

“There’s a treaty. Signed in 1993. Everything should have been destroyed,” reminded Danilov.

“You can’t just pour these things down a sink, flush it away. There’s been a start.”

“This warhead didn’t work and was developed more than thirty years ago!” protested Danilov.

“ Because it didn’t work it was considered the least important. We still work to Moscow’s instructions: Follow ministry guidance.”

Danilov knew he shouldn’t have been surprised at the inference of a treaty being abrogated-Washington was probably only making token gestures, as well-but he was. How many people at the emergency meeting-Sergei Gromov, from the Defense Ministry, in particular-had known about the extent of the program and Moscow’s control of it? “How many of these do you still have here at this plant?”

Ivanov groped in a desk drawer. Papers erupted at once, and he disturbed more shuffling through the lucky dip tub, finally emerging triumphantly with a three-ring binder it took him several more minutes to pick through. Still triumphant, he announced, “Fiftysix!”

“When was that count taken?”

The shrug came again. “There’s no date. It’s a program that ended a long time ago, as I said.”

“So it’s an old figure?”

“Yes,” conceded the man.

“It wasn’t verified, before our coming today?”

“No.”

“So you wouldn’t know if one-or more than one-was missing?”

“No. I don’t see how there could be, though.”

“Can I see them?”

“What!”

The question came from Reztsov, not the director. Danilov didn’t respond to the police chief. Instead he repeated to Ivanov, “Can I see them? They’re inert-harmless-in storage, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Ivanov said doubtfully.

“So we could look at them?” persisted Danilov, not knowing to what question the older man had been responding.

“I suppose so,” said Ivanov, still doubtful.

“Then I’d like to. Now.” As Danilov rose, intending to carry out his breakfast knife idea, another occurred to him. He decided to wait. The other three men followed hesitantly. They went along a different corridor from the one along which they’d approached. Some of the protectively suited and helmeted scientists in the nowoccupied offices were working with their arms and hands encased in sleeves and gloves forming permanent parts of the sealed chambers at which they stood.