Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

Arnie Orlenko opened the door. He was wearing the same shirt and jeans of his morning arrival but his hair was wet and he was barefoot. There was a heavy smell of cologne. His accent was quite pronounced when he asked what the hell was going on. Danilov, who’d studied linguistics at the university with the original intention of using a natural talent before deciding on a police career, guessed English was a comparatively new language for the man. Danilov easily adopted his supervisory role. It was, he apologized, a major breakdown they didn’t yet know the reason for. Although the power was restored, they needed to check for line faults to prevent it happening again. The whole area had been affected and so far a cause hadn’t been found.

The woman met them in the hallway. She’d changed from the arrival picture. The bulging breasts were straining a halter top that left her midriff bare, and she wore tight, knee-length shorts. Like the man, she was barefoot. The blond hair was a bubbled explosion around a surprisingly freckled, ready-to-smile face. She wasn’t smiling now. She said, “Everything’s gone. The television went bang.”

Danilov decided there was no foreign intonation in the voice. She smelled freshly showered, too. Conscious of the FBI man’s need, he said to Townley, “Maybe we could specifically look at the TV, try to help.”

“You’re the boss, so if it’s all right with you,” said the man. “Right now or shall I look at the boxes first?”

“I can do the boxes,” offered Harrison, on cue. To Orlenko he said, “You want to show me where they are?”

The living room had an odor of a place stale and unused and was untidy, which was useful because Danilov immediately recognized the Cyrillic print of two discarded newspapers as well as the English of that morning’s Chicago Sun Times. As he passed, he saw the Russian newspaper was Moskovsky Vedomosti. He was aware that Orlenko had remained with Harrison. So far there was none of the hoped-for Russian between the man and the woman and after hearing her speak Danilov didn’t expect it.

Townley had the back off one of the largest television sets Danilov had ever seen-much larger than his indulgence at Petrovka-with separate speakers on either side. The woman was leaning across from the other side, showing an appreciative Townley a deep cleavage valley.

Townley unclipped a circuit board and went through the charade of testing it with a power meter. He said, “This could be it.” He allowed himself a cleavage glance and called, “Sir. Sir, can I see you? And Jack …?”

The FBI man, carrying his toolbox, came in just moments after Orlenko. Townley gestured to Harrison with the microchip board and said, “You think this could be it? It doesn’t give a reading.” To Orlenko he said, “You get the set locally or in the city? You might have to go back to them.”

“Rented locally,” said the man.

Harrison almost had his head inside the set. Emerging, he said to Danilov, “Don’t you always say go for the most obvious?”

“Always,” agreed Danilov, following the lead.

“Then why don’t we check the plug fuse?” Harrison shuffled on his knees to the wall socket, dragging his box, and within seconds turned triumphantly holding up a blackened fuse. “And I’ve got another one with me! Why don’t you put the circuit board back, Pete?”

Danilov said, “That’s a helluva set: never seen one that big. Shouldn’t you check for overload?”

“Not a bad idea,” agreed the FBI man. “I’ll do that. Wouldn’t mind you running over the boxes. I think they’re all right but we need to be sure, don’t we?”

“Can you show us?” Danilov asked the hovering Orlenko.

The electrical boxes were in a closet by the stairs, and it was a tight squeeze for two of them, with an attentive Orlenko wedged half in as well, to see what they were doing. Danilov responded to a lot of left-thumb guidance from Townley, who attached a variety of meters to a variety of wires for the needles to rise and fall impressively.

“Looks like Jack did all he had to here,” said Townley. “This where all the boxes are as far as you know?”

“As far as I know,” said Orlenko, looking back in the direction of the living room in which he’d left Harrison. “This going to take long?”

“Gotta be sure,” said Townley. “No point in rushing it and getting it wrong.”

It was fifteen minutes before they returned to the main room overlooking the bay. Neither Harrison nor the women were there, but there were voices from the kitchen. Townley said, “Better see if Jack needs a hand.”

As Orlenko moved to follow, Danilov pointed to the pulled apart Moskovsky / Vedomosti and said, “Foreign, right? What’s the language?”

Orlenko stopped uncertainly, aware Danilov wasn’t going with them. “Russian.” He looked back and forth between Danilov and the kitchen. There was a laugh from the woman.

“You from there!” demanded Danilov, emphasizing the interest. “How long in this country?”

“Coupla years,” said the man.

“Is it as bad as they say it is? Nothing in the shops, lotta crime?”

“It’s better here. What’s your accent?”

“German,” said the linguistically able Danilov, prepared and able to speak it if the other man spoke it, too, and tried to test him. “Came here as a kid but my parents spoke it at home. Useful. Gave me a second language. Your English is good.”

“How much longer you going to be?”

“Almost through now. Always wanted to go to Russia. What part you from?”

“Moscow.” There was an impatience in his voice and he looked again toward the kitchen.

“You think I should go to Moscow? See for myself?”

Orlenko made a half move toward the other voices. “Your choice. What are your guys doing in there?”

“Their job,” said Danilov. “Company don’t like things like this happening. Bad for customer relations.”

“It’s certainly pissed me off.”

The woman led the other two men back into the room, smiling. “Jack fixed the toaster and the stove.”

“Just fuses,” said the bureau technician. “You were lucky.”

“What about bedrooms?” demanded Danilov, wanting to see as much as he could. “Anything electric there? Blankets? TV?”

“TV and it’s OK,” said Harrison. “Mary showed me.”

“I’d better cast an eye over it,” said Danilov, maintaining his supposed role. Everyone trailed behind him, like a tour party, into the kitchen, where he feigned an examination of Harrison’s appliance guidance. There were dirty breakfast plates and two cups in the sink, but Danilov decided the couple still had a lot to learn from Olga. He wondered how far Olga had gotten with her intended divorce settlement. He wasn’t looking forward to returning to Moscow.

“You finished?” Orlenko demanded truculently.

“Not quite,” said Danilov. The suit bag and carry-on were on the unused bed. “You going on a trip?”

“You want to hurry up and get this over with?” insisted Orlenko. “I’m busy.”

“Sorry,” said Danilov. If the woman had been able to speak Russian, there’d have been an exchange by now.

Silently he completed the examination performance and said on the doorstep they were sorry to have troubled them. Orlenko said he was sorry, too, and remained at the door, watching them. They hadn’t intended to leave immediately anyway. They went through a similar charade in three more properties in the avenue, so their van could remain in sight for almost another hour, before Townley summoned a regular relief team and made a show of handing over the check. Orlenko had gone back inside but Danilov was sure the man was watching from behind the net-curtained window.