Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“Would the amounts he ordered have been cross-checked against the requisitions passed down after delivery?”

Oskavinsky shifted uncomfortably. “That’s the system. Cost control.”

“Was it observed?” persisted Danilov.

“To the best of my knowledge, yes.”

“By regular, specific audit.”

“No, not by specific audit,” conceded the man. “By comparing the department request against the suppliers’ delivery figure.”

“Which effectively put Karpov in total control of what he ordered?”

“I suppose so, yes,” the scientist admitted. There was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

“Is any of the metal alloyed here?”

“No. It’s a precise process, needing specific expertise and a controlled environment quite different from anything we have here.”

“These specifically produced, controlled environment alloys?” said Danilov. “Could they be used for anything else? Cannibalized for use in body repair work in garages, for instance?”

Oskavinsky looked at him incredulously. “Of course not! It would be like”-he waved his arms, seeking a comparison-“like trying to attach soft curd to hard cheese. They wouldn’t mix. In laymen’s terms, they wouldn’t stick together.”

“What do your other connected plants manufacture?” persisted Danilov.

“Basic high-explosive artillery shells.”

“Mines?”

“Yes.”

“Land? Or water?”

“Both.”

“What about the metal used in those? Could they be utilized in other industries? Car repairs particularly?”

“No!” said Oskavinsky, exasperated.

“I didn’t think so,” said Danilov. “I want empty mine casings-land and water-as well.”

“I didn’t think so, either,” said Pavin, as they drove back along the M11 toward Moscow. “I also don’t think any of that takes us very far.”

“Parts of a picture,” said Danilov. “A picture we can’t yet see. Which isn’t what worries me the most at the moment. What worries me is that we’ve no way of knowing just how many of these things-how many warheads or bombs or whatever else-have disappeared from these plants. Or where they are now.”

It was a worry that increased an hour later when Pamela Darnley told him the metal of what was now estimated to be the four antipersonnel mines from New Rochelle had tested positive to be Russian.

The conversation with Pamela Darnley lasted for more than an hour. This time Danilov was more forthcoming than he’d been from Gorki. He said he was wiring details and photographs of the two Moscow murders as well as summaries of his inquiries in Gorki and Moscow. There was some forensic evidence he wanted analyzed under superior FBI techniques that might confirm a source for the UN missile, one sample in particular he intended personally bringing to America.

“What’s keeping you?” demanded the acting head of the bureau’s terrorism unit.

“The need to get it right,” said Danilov. “I’ve more to do here first.” With the authority he had from the White House, he scarcely had to worry about legality. Which wasn’t a consideration anyway. The need was to make people feel complacent.

“We’re under a hell of a lot of pressure here,” admitted the woman. She was sure the chauvinistic bastard was holding out on her.

Danilov remembered that he had to report to the presidential committee the following day. “How’s Bill?”

“Pretending to be getting better faster than he really is, according to the doctor.”

“He is going to get back, though?”

“Is our cooperation dependent on that?” Pamela demanded outright. She needed to get this man in her pocket if she stood any chance of properly using the opportunity she had.

“You’ve got all I’ve got. Which doesn’t give us anything except my feeling that a lot more stuff could be missing.”

“That’s what we’re terrified of here,” said the woman.

“That’s what we’re terrified of here, too,” said Danilov.

It was only when he pulled up outside their Kirovskaya apartment that Danilov realized he still hadn’t told Olga he was back. Wednesday, he remembered. Wednesday was Olga’s night at the movies with Irena. It was a fleeting thought, washed away by another, more personally surprising awareness. It hadn’t occurred to him to go to Larissa’s grave. He turned back to the car and then away again. Enough. It had to stop and now was as good a time-the right time-as any. It was maudlin. Ridiculous, actually talking to her by the graveside: a pretense for no purpose. Larissa was dead and he was alive, and he had to learn- was learning-to live with the emptiness. He wouldn’t stop going completely-that would be a pretense in reverse-but he’d mourn properly.

There probably wouldn’t be any food in the apartment. There often wasn’t even when Olga knew he was coming home. He didn’t feel particularly hungry; could always go out later. At that precise moment he wanted to think through the uncertainties of Gorki and those of today, here, back in Moscow. Which is what they were-uncertainties, nothing more. It would be wrong, a mistake, to misconstrue Gorki and because of it misconstrue-or wrongly read-the two Moscow murders. The stenciling today had appeared identical to that at Gorki, so it would only have been necessary to switch the name if the missile had come from the Tushino installation. And he could be making the cardinal error of allowing personal feelings and attitudes at his being patronized by the Gorki militia chief to influence his thinking. Which was what he had to do tonight: Think, analyze, and be totally objective.

The vestibule and the living room beyond were as Danilov expected, neglected chaos. He dropped his case and coat in the hall and went into the kitchen: He kept the vodka in the refrigerator. That was all there was in it, apart from two slices of curled-edged bread and an unopened can of fish eggs. The stalagmite of dishes had grown in the sink.

It was as Danilov was leaving that he heard the noise. He stopped at once, listening, and heard it again. Nothing positive, identifiable. Just the sound of movement. Carefully Danilov stooped, placing his glass on the floor, and eased the restraining strap off the Makarov on its waistband holster. Why hadn’t he seen the marks of a forced entry-had difficulty with the key-as he entered? The noise came again, twice, louder the second time. The safety came soundlessly off the gun. He tested each step before making it, pausing, weapon ready, at what had appeared the empty main room. It was still empty. There was movement as he got to the bedroom door. He went in low, following his training, gun barrel upward but ready, back immediately and protectively to the wall.

There was no one there. Just the jumbled, unmade disorder there always was. And then the disorder moved and a tousled head-Olga’s head-appeared from beneath the tangled bedding.

She said, “It’s you! But you’re in Gorki!”

Danilov slid the catch back on the Makarov and restrapped it. As he did so another head, a man’s head, eyes staring, appeared beside Olga’s. For a brief moment Danilov’s mind went totally blank, refusing any thought. His first realization, absurdly, was that he must be staring wide-eyed, too. Then he wanted to laugh, which was laughable in itself, but it was the only feeling that came to him and he only just prevented himself doing it.

It became even more difficult when Olga said, almost formally, “This is Igor.”

The man said, “Hello.”

Then Danilov did laugh, unable to stop himself.

Olga said, “Don’t laugh. Igor. My hairdresser.”

Danilov became aware that despite what they’d obviously been doing, the man’s perfectly blond hair, although now disarrayed, would have been a close-fitting coif.