Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“Dimitri Ivanovich?” prompted Belik.

“I appreciate your guidance,” Danilov said emptily, needing more time. Uncertain, he thought again. It hardly mattered whether this telephone conversation was deniable or not. Nikolai Mikhailovich Belik was taking an astonishing-desperate-risk approaching him like this, scarcely bothering anymore with clumsy innuendo.

“It’s important that you take it,” said the politician. “I accept you already have arranged commitments with the Americans. What’s a good time in your schedule for us to meet?”

The word “desperate” echoed in Danilov’s mind again. No longer demanding. Accommodating. “I’ll need to get back to you.”

There was yet another pause, the longest yet. “Make sure you do, Dimitri Ivanovich. Make sure you don’t make a mistake you could very easily and very soon regret.”

Danilov had a joint schedule with William Cowley, but he moved on to it distracted, unsettled by the choice demanded of him.

If the obvious comparison between the technology-controlled and gleaming FBI building on Pennsylvania Avenue and the cracked Bakelite and the unswept corridors of Petrovka registered with Cowley, the American didn’t show it. But then, remembered Danilov, he’d been there before, knew what to expect. Or rather was not to expect. Danilov was still glad of the improvements to his own office: His television was actually bigger than Cowley’s. He’d left it on CNN while he’d gone down to greet the American, and when they reentered that day’s renewed demonstrations outside the Ulitza Chaykovskovo embassy were on the screen. The voice-over commentary claimed the crowd was larger than the previous day, despite Henry Hartz’s televised assurance of full cooperation with the Russian foreign minister, and Cowley said that was very definitely the impression from inside the building. To avoid running the gauntlet he’d come directly to Petrovka from the hotel. Immediately after the television report of an intended meeting between Hartz and the Russian president, there was a live interview with an English-speaking communist deputy from the Duma insisting that the resolution criticizing the president would definitely become an impeachment debate.

His mind still very much upon the conversation with the interior minister, Danilov said, “What do your State Department people traveling with the secretary say about that?”

“Haven’t discussed it with anyone in detail.” Cowley shrugged. “Takes a hell of a long time to impeach a president, either here or at home.”

“Unless they’re forced out by the threat, like Nixon was,” reminded Danilov.

“Then it comes down to how hard-assed your guy is,” said Cowley. “A political problem, not ours.”

“Yes,” agreed Danilov, wishing it were true. Should he talk to the American about the Belik conversation: ask Cowley to circulate the question of the Russian president’s survival among Hartz’s support staff? There would be an exaggerated show of confidence from the Russian White House in front of Hartz and his people, so any playback would be misleading. And apart from the sort of television pictures on at that moment, the Americans had little way to gauge the parliamentary opposition’s strength or weakness.

Cowley held up his hands against the reunion with Yuri Pavin becoming too effusively bear-hugging, and the Russian avoided any reaction to the American’s hair ditch along one side of his head. The greetings were quickly over.

“So how was dinner at the Golden Hussar?” demanded Danilov.

“The food was better than the chances of recognizing anyone-which I didn’t-but it definitely has the smell of a new brigade location,” Pavin said at once. “A lot of available women, men in their favorite shiny suits and just slightly more Mercedes than BMWs. Accepts every Western credit and charge card and the menu’s priced in U.S. dollars.” Danilov nodded to the gesture toward his desk, and Pavin unrolled a white tube of paper he was carrying, pinning the edges open with the telephone and pen holder. “Architect’s drawings of the restructuring work carried out less than a year ago. No record of their being approved but they’ve been carried out, so someone paid someone.” As Danilov and Cowley came to either side, Pavin moved his finger in explanation and said, “And here’s our problem. Long bar, immediately after the main entrance. Restaurant, supposedly for sixty people, directly beyond that. Kitchens, closed off obviously, halfway down the left-hand side and from them, leading out into an alley quite separate from an adjoining road, are two doors.” The finger traced on. “And here’s what’s listed as office and administration space. See, here, here, and here are three more doors, designated fire exits, but in fact closed off from the restaurant itself by this full-length wall.” He looked to each man. “Two of them lead again into separate roads. Five different ways by which people can come and go, unseen, unless we’re going to surround the place by what would need to be a squad of at least twenty observers.”

“If I was a cynical FBI investigator, I’d say the Golden Hussar was a custom-designed mob place,” said Cowley. “Lambert’s photographer went through four rolls of film last night, although he’s worried about the light and the quality. Thinks they can get prints to put against your criminal records by the end of today.”

“All of people going in through the front door,” reminded Pavin. He took a colored booklet from his inside pocket, laying it on top of the plans. “The official pictorial brochure, handed out with the bill. Gives you some idea what it looks like.”

There were a lot of long-leafed plants, small trees almost, around the walls, and in the very center there was more jungle-type greenery around an ornamental, fountain-fed pond.

Pavin said, “The pond has real fish.”

“What about telephones?” demanded Danilov.

“Two public, to the side of the bar. Neither is the number listed on the Bay View Avenue billing account. That has to be somewhere in the back, in one of the offices.”

“What about a tap from the exchange? Any problem getting a court order for that?”

“A bigger problem would be finding someone here who’d put it on without telling the Golden Hussar with his hand out,” said Danilov. Who, he wondered, would the homosexual Anatoli Lasin name as the mafia source within Petrovka?

“Lambert’s got a bunch of guys sightseeing and buying matroyshka dolls in the Arbat,” said Cowley.

Danilov had lowered the sound but kept the television on: The banner-carrying crowd seemed to have increased since he’d last looked. He said, “If your people installed it, the monitor would have to be from inside your embassy.”

Cowley followed Danilov’s look, toward the screen. “We’re wired at the Brooklyn end. Maybe it’s not a good idea to try to connect up here after all.”

“What about continuing the surveillance?” asked Pavin.

“I think we need to know how many people-and get identification if that’s possible-use the rear doors,” said Danilov.

“Let’s hope the identification isn’t of Americans doing it,” said Cowley, accepting the unasked request.

Pavin opened a farthest, functional flap of the restaurant brochure still lying on Danilov’s desk. “The bill. We both had goose. It was excellent, like I said. But very expensive.”

At the height of the KGB’s all-pervasive, all-intrusive power, the supposed militia guards on Moscow’s foreign embassies had all been KGB-America’s more heavily covered than any other. With the diminishment of the organization, the concentration had been scaled down although not completely abandoned. Danilov recognized at once that the bearded man, so big he dwarfed Pavin, was not just basic street-level but basic street-mentality militia. The uniform was soiled, shining from grease and wear, and the felt of his regulationissue winter boots, which he was still wearing in early summer, was scuffed through to the canvas lining. He smelled.