Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“What Americans?” Danilov demanded, eagerly.

Baratov shook his head. “He didn’t talk names. He said he’d made this great contact with some Americans, that there was a lot of money in it and that he was setting himself up and did I want to come in with him. I told him no, that all that was over for me and that there was no point in our meeting. So we didn’t.”

“What did you think setting himself up meant?” asked Pavin.

“Going independent from the Myagkov Brigade he was with in Gorki, setting himself up here in Moscow.”

“Doing what?” pressed Danilov.

“Cars. That’s why I didn’t want to know. I thought he was setting up some deal to bring in American cars and wanted to use my garage as the outlet. There’s a big market for American vehicles.” He spread his hands. “You know the system: I’m not telling you anything. I pay to operate. It’s the way. It works. I didn’t want any jealousies, any big increase in my cash-only premiums.”

“What do you think now?” asked Pavin.

“Now I think I’m even more glad I said no, otherwise I might have been floating in the river with a bullet in my mouth.”

“Who are the Moscow brigades dealing in weapons?”

“I don’t know. I got out more than a year ago. Didn’t know even then.”

“You expect us to believe you’re reformed?” demanded Danilov.

The man spread his hands palms upward. “I can’t make you believe anything. I drove for Osipov, OK. That’s no secret. But that’s all I did. Drove. The money was good and there was respect.” He rolled up his left trouser legs. Where his calf should have been there was a huge, scooped-out indentation. “It was a shotgun. I almost bled to death. Thought I was going to lose my leg at least-probably would have if Svetlana hadn’t been my nurse at the Kliniceskaja hospital. Hell of a way to fall in love. Great way to decide how to go on living, though.”

“You don’t have any connections anymore?”

“No,” said Baratov.

“You still see Anatoli Lasin?”

“I trade cars with Anatoli Sergeevich, that’s all.”

“He ever tell you what’s going on?” Pavin tried hopefully.

“I don’t want to hear about what’s going on. All I want to do is go home to my wife and baby. I was lucky to escape. That’s how I want to stay, lucky. And out of it.”

“It all checks out,” assured Pavin. “Even to Svetlana Dubas being his nurse at Kliniceskaya.” When Danilov didn’t respond his deeply religious deputy said, “Sinners do repent.”

“What about the ballistics check on Lasin’s guns?”

“There’s nothing left from the turf wars,” said Pavin.

“The paint samples we gave to forensic?”

“Nothing back yet.”

“Who volunteered to deliver the warheads and mine casings to the foreign minister?”

“Senior Colonel Investigator Ashot Yefimovich Mizin. You want him under any special observation?”

“No,” decided Danilov. “You release Baratov and the boy. I’ll deal with Lasin.”

“You want any sort of surveillance on them?”

“I don’t think so. For the moment I want everyone to imagine I’m totally confused. Which isn’t too much of an exaggeration.”

Lasin stood almost respectfully when Danilov reentered the cell, drained of all bravado.

Danilov said, “It’s important that you listen and understand what I am going to tell you, Anatoli Sergeevich. We’re going to keep all your handguns and we’re going to run ballistics on all the turf killings. And when we get a match”-Danilov smiled-“even, perhaps, if we don’t, I’m going to arrest you again and we’ll go on with that conversation about Lefortovo.”

“What more do you want from me?” wailed the man. “I’ve answered all your questions.”

“Not quite,” said Danilov. “I’m going to let you go for a reason. You’re going to find out the name of the officer here who’s on Osipov’s payroll and you’re going to have it ready when I ask. And if you don’t have it-the right one, no bullshit-we’re going to prove that a bullet that killed someone in the Osipov turf war came from one of your guns. You understand all that?”

“Yes,” said Lasin. He kept his mouth so tight the word hissed from him.

“That’s good,” said Danilov. “You really wouldn’t like Lefortovo.”

Anatoli Sergeevich Lasin said nothing.

When they were finally connected that day, Danilov told Cowley the Watchmen had no significance for him but promised to check it out as fully as he could.

“There’s a lot to talk about,” said Cowley.

“When I get there.” Danilov stopped.

What would he do when he found Osipov’s militia source inside Petrovka, Danilov wondered as he drove home. Purge the man or ask him to arrange an introduction?

Patrick Hollis knew Carole had never intended him to make love to her. It had all been an obscene joke, set up by Robert Standing. That day, knowing he was watching, Standing had made an exaggerated gesture with a limp forefinger, and everyone at their table, including Carole, had laughed.

He’d punish them, Hollis decided. He didn’t know how he’d do it, just that he would. Hurt them, humiliate them, as much as they’d humilated him.

Tonight would be the start, cracking into the online main branch of the bank from another hideaway system before entering their branch and accessing Standing’s personal account details. From Standing’s regular payments Hollis knew he could get other information, like his medical records through his insurance. And the man’s log-in password code with which Standing himself accessed the branch’s computer.

He was going to find out everything there was to know about Robert Standing. And then use it.

It was the uneven surface of the parking lot that caused Cowley to stumble. He wouldn’t have fallen but Pamela was immediately at his side, cupping his elbow.

He said, “It was the loose gravel.”

“Sure. I’ll see you up.” It had been her idea to give him a lift home to Arlington. Helping him up to his apartment was a spur-of-the-moment decision. She had things to learn, experiences to absorb. Ambition-even an ambition as absolute as hers-wasn’t enough. It had to be supported by the sort of forward-thinking and analysis that Cowley had demonstrated that day. In fact, in an almost complete reversal of her earlier thinking, Pamela decided that she actually needed the man.

“I’m not an invalid, for Christ’s sake!”

“Sure,” she said again.

There were some other residents barbecuing in the pit in that part of the landscaped garden area just before the communal pool. One group, none of whom he knew, recognized him and waved. Cowley gave a halfhearted response. He said, “This is a pain in the ass.”

Pamela said, “It could be if your address becomes known. What do you think about a security detail, like there was at the hospital?”

“No,” he said positively.

“You’re hardly in shape to look after yourself. You’re not even carrying a weapon.”

“No,” he repeated. She held the apartment block door open for him and Cowley said, “Stop it!”

“Enjoy the service.”

“I’m not.” He waited for her to enter the elevator first.

“Grouch.”

He smiled back at her. “It really was the gravel. I’m OK.”

“We’re on our way up now. And the president’s address is in five minutes. Mind if I watch from your place?”

“Not at all.” Cowley couldn’t remember how he’d left the apartment. He couldn’t actually remember leaving it, whatever day it had been. He was surprised how tidy it was. Pamela didn’t appear to notice, going at once to the window that overlooked the river.