Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

He had been treated contemptuously in Gorki, which didn’t make sense in view of the international enormity of what he was investigating. Even as accustomed as they obviously were to unchallenged corruption, Oleg Reztsov and Gennardi Averin had been far too confident. And there was something that didn’t fit-because, in fact, it fit too easily-about the roped-together drowning of the mobster and the germ factory stores supervisor.

Despite the unexpected delay on the inner beltway, there was still enough time before the scheduled Interior Ministry appointment for Danilov to detour to Petrovka. Yuri Pavin was already there. The autopsy report on the two dead men had been promised that afternoon, and he’d arranged for Naina Karpov to be taken formally to identify her husband’s body. Although the woman insisted she’d never met any of Karpov’s friends, Pavin had taken from their criminal record files photographs of the two men who’d provided the arms-trading alibi for Viktor Nikov to be shown to her. The two were Anatoli Sergeevich Lasin and Igor Ivanovich Baratov. Their files-with other photographs-were on Danilov’s desk. Their last known addresses were being checked for them to be brought in for questioning.

“We know the brigade they are with?” asked Danilov.

“Osipov,” responded Pavin. “Mikhail Vasilevich Osipov. The biggest and best-organized gang centered around Vnukovo Airport. Fought quite a lot of turf wars a few years ago.”

With the pointless Gorki encounter with Aleksai Zotin fresh in his mind, Danilov decided it would be another waste of time interviewing Mikhail Osipov, at least until there was something positive with which to confront the gang leader. “Where are the warheads and the mine casings?”

“Still in the trunk of my car. I thought they were safer there than in here.”

“I think so, too.”

“What do you want done with them?”

“Leave them where they are,” decided Danilov. Would he be able to turn their possession to another, protective advantage? He was going to need something and couldn’t at that moment-that far too impending moment-think what it was.

“This is becoming-might even have become- precisely the situation I made clear should not be allowed to arise!” declared Georgi Chelyag.

The Russian president’s chief of staff spoke looking directly at Danilov, focusing everyone else’s attention. Each man sat in his same assigned seat. So did the stenographers, faithfully recording the eagerness to avoid blame. Danilov accepted that the risk in exceeding his rank or authority was awesome, but he couldn’t think of another way. He was, he realized, the only man in the room whose political allegiance wasn’t known. He was supposed to be apolitical, concerned only in the crime he was investigating, but then the Russian militia was supposed to be made up of honest men. He wished he could decide which faction to back.

Yuri Kisayev said, “The relationship between us and Washington is at a very crucial stage. Our UN ambassador expects China to initiate a formal protest debate about the attack in the General Assembly. And that America is privately going along with the idea, because of the extra pressure it would put on us.”

“Let’s retain some objectivity,” said Danilov’s immediate superior, Nikolai Belik. “America’s made absolutely no progress whatsoever. It’s politically expedient-politically obvious-to try to divert criticism on to us.”

“Tell us, Dimitri Ivanovich,” demanded Viktor Kedrov, personally identifying Danilov for the note-takers, “exactly how far forward is our investigation?”

Easily, prepared, Danilov recounted the previous day’s murders that linked the assassination of an accused weapons smuggler to a man who worked for a chemical and biological weapons establishment on the Moscow outskirts.

General Sergei Gromov said, “From which plant did the warhead come? Surely you’ve been able to determined that!”

“No,” Danilov replied, a decision forming in his mind.

“The lettering-and where it was manufactured-was on the side of the damned thing!” attacked Gromov, with forced impatience. “That’s identification.”

“No, it’s not,” replied Danilov. “The only apparent proof is the name of Gorki itself.” He pause. “Which is why I’m hoping you can help us, General.”

The soldier’s face clouded at the sudden switch of attention. “Me! How!”

“Control and distribution of these warheads was centralized. The letter and numbered designation was strictly controlled from your ministry here in Moscow. So it’s from here that the source will be positively established for the missile used in the UN attack.”

The older man’s face blazed. Chelyag smiled very slightly.

Gromov said, “What evidence-authority-do you have for saying that?”

“The principal of the Gorki factory, confirmed yesterday by the professor in charge of Plant 43 here in Moscow,” Danilov stated flatly.

“What’s the importance?” demanded Gromov.

“From what I understand from both plants, this particular weapon-despite not working-was manufactured in their thousands, not just in Russia but in several of the republics that were part of the Soviet Union. Knowing that the canisters would survive, it would make every sense to mislead by stenciling the name of a Russian city from which it did not come, wouldn’t it?”

The presidential chief of staff looked directly at Gromov. “But with everything being centralized, under military control, you should easily be able to find out from the numerical markings where it came from, shouldn’t you?”

Gromov started to speak, changed his mind, and said on the second attempt, “From what Dimitri Ivanovich says, it was a long time ago.”

“But the White House expects you to do it,” insisted Chelyag.

“Perhaps there is something else your central records could help with?” pressed Danilov. “That emergency number, 876532. It’s Moscow. But the telephone authorities say it’s out of service and they can’t trace to whom or to what it was originally allocated. But your records should tell us that, too, shouldn’t they?” He was appearing almost too obviously to align himself with the new against the old.

Gromov’s face was white now, not red, in his fury at virtually being questioning by someone he considered a subordinate. “I’ll make it part of the inquiry,” he said, recognizing that he had no alternative.

“And I’ll raise it from the White House with the telephone authorities,” Chelyag said.

Danilov had a professional detective’s ear for false notes in a rehearsed performance and located an undertone among the anti- White House group. To test the impression he had to appear to be opposing them, a chance he had to take because it was directly relevant to his ability to do his job properly. Confident he couldn’t be caught out with the lie, Danilov said, “The Americans have asked for an undamaged warhead, if one exists. I brought one back with me from Gorki … obtained another from Plant 43 yesterday-”

“No!” interrupted Gromov, before Danilov finished. “That’s admitting we’ve breached the chemical weapons agreement.”

Too quick, too defensive, judged Danilov. “With respect, I don’t believe it is. Everyone in this room knows we have breached it. I saw hundreds still stored both here and in Gorki. But the ones I am talking about are empty. We could relieve the diplomatic and political pressure by publicly announcing that by responding to the American request, we’re proving our compliance with the disposal treaty: that this is a museum example of a weapon created too long ago for the current government to be held in any way responsible and just as long ago abandoned.”