Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“I don’t know! I’ve helped you all I can.”

“For the moment you can stay safely here and not in Lefortovo,” Danilov decided.

As they walked back toward their offices, Pavin said, “How much do you believe?”

“The suggestion of the hit being organized from outside is intriguing,” judged Danilov. “Not something he would have made up without trying to bullshit us with suggestions of where they might have come from we couldn’t check out. And I’d say the Metropole was the first-choice hotel for westerners-Americans-with a lot of money.”

“You think there’s any point in testing his handguns ballistically?”

“Not for these two killings. He didn’t seem very comfortable when you talked about the turf wars.”

“I doubt any of the forensic or ballistics stuff will have survived.”

“Just check,” suggested Danilov.

“What about the kid?”

“Leave him where he is. He could probably do with the rest. I want you to check out Ulitza Krasina.” He paused at the top of the stairs. “I ever personally investigated Igor Ivanovich Baratov?”

“Not as far as I can remember,” said Pavin, knowing how Danilov-to the neglect of everything else-had tracked every member of the two gangs involved in Larissa’s killing.

“Why do I think I know the name from somewhere?”

Danilov had naturally anticipated the initial concentration being on the overnight Washington explosion, but neither Cowley nor the woman was available when he’d called again just before leaving for the Interior Ministry.

At once Viktor Kedrov, the security chairman, said, “You think they’re stalling, avoiding your calls?”

“No,” said Danilov, ever conscious he was between the rock of the old and the hard place of the new. “I think they’re fully occupied with the latest attack, which perhaps we should be if there’s a trace back to us. I’ll talk to them sometime later today. I intend, incidentally, to go to Washington in the next day or two.”

“Why?” demanded Georgi Petrov.

“Because I need to meet, face-to-face. Until I do it won’t be the joint investigation we’ve undertaken. And it’s more practicable for me to go to them.” He looked to Kisayev. “More visibly what the people are expecting to see, don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” agreed the deputy foreign minister.

“So you don’t believe they’re fully sharing?” persisted Kedrov.

“Something else I won’t be able to assess fully until I get to Washington,” said Danilov, pleased with the direction of the conversation. “Cowley, whom I deal with and trust, only came out of the hospital yesterday. We’ve scarcely had an opportunity to speak to each other … exchange any thing.” He looked again to the deputy foreign minister. To get the official attitude on record, he said, “What’s the government guidance on biological weapons being stockpiled?”

Yuri Kisayev said, “I’ve instructed our ambassador in Washington-and told the American ambassador here-officially to assure the secretary of state that we are in the process of complying with the terms of the 1993 agreement but as they will understand from being in the process of dismantling their own, similar weapons, it’s a long procedure that cannot be hurried.”

Georgi Chelyag smiled in open admiration. “An extremely astute diplomatic response.” He turned to the deputy defense minister. “Which brings us to you, General. And the point of this reconvened meeting.”

Sergei Gromov coughed and shuffled some obviously old papers that he’d laid out in front of him while they’d talked. “So far-and I mean so far, because the search is continuing-we have been unable to find any distribution records matching the 19-38-22-0 or the 20-49-88-0 batch numbers on the warhead fired at the United Nations building.” He tapped one of the yellowing pieces of paper. “They were certainly the identifying codes for the joint sarinanthrax weapon. There’s some limited cross-references, confirming the production of this particular weapon in a total of eight different factories-two in Belorussia as well as one in the Ukraine and another in Latvia-but it’s incomplete.” He produced another archival sheet, like a card from an ancient pack. “This is a ministry instruction, dated 1975, that records could be disposed of as well as the weaponry itself following the abandonment of the program.”

The man was the focus of total incredulity from everyone else in the room. Danilov decided that virtually the entire explanation had an element of truth because even in a society destroyed after seventy continuous years of chaos, inefficiency, criminal manipulation, and mismanagement, it would have been impossible to invent such a lame explanation of bureaucratic ineptitude.

It was Chelyag who seized the advantage. “The Ministry of Defense doesn’t know how many such missiles were manufactured or where they are now!”

“No,” admitted Gromov. Desperately he said, “It is a situation we inherited, can’t do anything to correct.”

“It is a total, unmitigated disaster,” said Chelyag. Looking directly at Danilov he said, “Something that can never be admitted to anyone in the West.”

“If there is another attack-more than one attack-using missiles of the same design, there won’t need to be an open admission,” Danilov pointed out. “What about the telephone number?”

“Allocated for this particular production. Dispensed with when the program was abandoned and never allocated to anything else,” said Gromov.

“What about the Ministry of Science?” demanded Kisayev. “What about their records?”

Gromov shrugged his shoulders. “There hasn’t been time to extend the search.”

“ I’ll do it,” Chelyag decided quickly. “And stipulate the security upon the inquiry.” He looked, almost too theatrically, to each man in the room. “None of you here must ever discuss this, hint it, to another living soul outside these walls. Is everyone clear -absolutely clear-on that?”

There were shuffles and head nodding and mutterings of assent. Danilov wondered how one side-which side? — would try to use the fact against the other. He was sure one of them would try.

“There is no complete documentary evidence about this particular weapon-how many were produced in which countries?” demanded Viktor Kedrov.

“No,” acknowledged the uniformed general.

Chelyag said, “What has been disclosed today amounts to a state secret.”

Which, wondered Danilov, did that knowledge make him: very powerful or very vulnerable? Like so many others, it was a question that could be answered both ways. He didn’t like either.

Pavin followed Danilov into his office the moment he got back to Petrovka. “I’ve got Igor Baratov downstairs in cell three. Guess what he says?”

“What?”

“He’s not involved with Osipov anymore. He’s got married, has a baby, and is a legitimate businessman.”

“Running a garage?” suggested Danilov.

“You guessed it.”

Cowley was aware of his name being called from a long way away and then of the discomfort-although not pain-at being gently shaken before finally emerging into wakefulness, but not immediately recalling where he was. Then he saw Pamela bending over him, frowning and asking if he was all right, and remembered the meeting being suspended and the cot being moved into his office-as well as one into Pamela’s-and of everyone else going to the director’s private dining room for lunch.

He tried-and failed-to lever himself up on one elbow and thanked Pamela for helping him.

She said, “I was worried. It took a hell of a lot to wake you. I thought you’d collapsed.”

“What’s happened? What time is it? What …?”