Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

His immediate, apprehensive concentration was on the obviously American William Cowley, and his suspicious eyes flickered between Cowley-whom he also dwarfed-and the plastic-wrapped missile launcher that Pavin had collected from the Petrovka forensic department on his way to escort the embassy guard from the vestibule.

Danilov said, “We want you to tell us about the attack.”

“I acted correctly picking up that thing. It was evidence,” the man said at once, defensively.

“You’re not here to be accused of anything.”

“Nothing much to tell,” said the guard. “It was raining. Hard. I was in the hut, trying to keep dry. Heard a car but didn’t see it, not at first. No cars around, not even on the ring road, that late. Looked out and saw it had stopped, although the engine was still running. Then someone got out, bundled up. I saw him bring something up to his shoulder but it was too thick to be a rifle. Suddenly there was an explosion and a flash, as if something was blowing up, and then I heard a crash from farther down the alley beside the embassy and a very big explosion. I didn’t see him drop that thing, but when the car drove off I realized something was lying where the car had been. I pressed the alarm button and picked up the frame from the road. I knew it was important so I put it inside the shelter and didn’t give it to the Americans who came out. I waited for a militia colonel to arrive and gave it to him. He said I’d done the right thing. That’s all. A lot more officers came then. Took over.”

“Were you wearing gloves when you picked it up?” asked Cowley.

“Yes. It was cold. Wet.”

“What about the officer you gave it to? Was he wearing gloves?”

“I don’t know.”

Maybe-just maybe-the chance of a fingerprint if the officer could be eliminated, thought Danilov, following the direction of the questioning. “Tell me about the car. What make was it?”

“Foreign. American,” said the embassy guard at once.

“You sure about it being American?” demanded Cowley.

“I worked for two years with GIA: traffic.”

The man’s size alone would have terrorized motorists into handing over the expected bribes rather than be issued fabricated tickets, Danilov thought. He wondered whom the man had failed to bribe to keep the job. “Do you know the make?”

“It was big: bigger than a Zil. It went up at the back. The design, I mean.”

“Fins?” suggested Pavin.

“Yes.”

“Mercedes are foreign. So are BMWs. There are a lot of those in Moscow?”

“Mercedes and BMWs don’t go up at the back, like this car did.”

“What about a number?” pressed Pavin.

“I didn’t get a number. It was over too quick. And it was raining. And I thought he had a special gun.”

“What about a color?”

“Dark colored, not light.”

“There’s sodium lighting on that road!” insisted Pavin.

“It was two o’clock in the morning. Raining. I couldn’t make out a proper color.”

“What about the man who fired it?” urged Danilov.

“I didn’t see him. Just a shape.”

“Was he wearing a coat? A hat?” said Cowley.

“Both. A coat and a hat. And I thought at first he was very tall, but he wasn’t, not really. It was the gun thing he was pointing upward like you hold a rifle upward.”

“You mean like a soldier holds a rifle properly?”

“I suppose so,” the man said doubtfully.

“How did he fire it? Simply stand upright and put it against his shoulder? Or did you get the impression he was doing it in a special way, again like a soldier would have properly done it?”

The man didn’t immediately respond. “I don’t know how these things are supposed to be fired. Maybe he was crouched a little.”

“How many people were in the car?” said Pavin.

“I couldn’t see. Two, certainly. The man who fired got out of the rear seat and got back into the rear afterward.”

“Was anything said between the man who fired and whoever was in the car?” said Danilov.

“Not that I heard. It was a long way away.”

“You think you could recognize the car again?” asked Cowley.

“Maybe,” said the man, again doubtfully.

As the man left, again escorted by Pavin, Danilov said. “American car, American bazooka, American embassy.”

“And the weapon held correctly, as a trained soldier would have held it,” completed Cowley.

The American was standing beside the bagged-up rocket launcher when Pavin reentered. He said, “According to our forensics, it’s clean.”

“That’s what Lambert was frightened of,” remarked Cowley.

There were four of them.

The intention was to go directly from the funeral to confront Lasin at his Pereulok Ucebyi apartment, so it was convenient for Cowley to have come with him, but Danilov hadn’t expected the American to suggest it. He was glad he had. It was Cowley who’d reminded him about flowers, which they’d stopped on the way to buy. He’d never needed reminding about flowers for Larissa’s grave, which was in another part of the Novodevichy Cemetery. He couldn’t see it from where they were but knew exactly where it was. If Cowley hadn’t been with him he would have gone there afterward, but he wouldn’t now.

Danilov hadn’t told Igor, who stood on the other side of the open grave, head bowed for the end of the interment oration, but he guessed that Irena had. Irena’s hair appeared as haphazardly streaked as Olga’s had been. Danilov supposed Igor was Irena’s hairdresser, too. The bearded priest was promising that Olga was going to a happier life. Danilov hoped it was true, because she probably hadn’t been very happy for much of the one she’d just left. He wondered if there were better hairdressers in Olga’s heaven. He hesitated when the priest offered him the trowel but then bent and tossed some earth on to the coffin. Instead of handing the trowel back to the priest, he offered it directly to Igor. As he threw earth into the grave, Igor began to cry. Irena did, too. They backed away to let the gravediggers complete the filling in but remained separate. Danilov couldn’t think of anything to say to the other two so he nodded.

It was Igor who spoke, brokenly. “I’m sorry.”

Danilov wondered what, exactly, the man was apologizing for. “No one was with her. That’s sad.”

“I didn’t know. She didn’t tell me.” His voice caught, from his crying.

So Igor was the father. How many children did he have by his legal wife? “There are some photographs,” Danilov offered.

“That would be,” started the man. Then he said, “Thank you. I …?”

“I’ll send them to Irena.”

“Thank you,” Igor repeated. His voice caught again.

As they walked toward their car Danilov said: “Larissa’s buried over there.”

“I know,” said Cowley. “I came to her funeral, too.”

Danilov waited for the question, but it didn’t come.

Yuri Pavin, who’d been sent ahead to establish that Anatoli Sergeevich Lasin was at Pereulok Ucebyi and keep the man there if he was, opened the apartment door to them.

Danilov said, “How is he?”

Pavin said: “Going through the routine. He says a bracelet was stolen when he was at Petrovka. I’ve told him he was lucky that was all and to have survived the turf war, but he needs to shout a little longer.”

“He can shout as long as he likes providing he tells us something. He alone?”

Pavin nodded. “I was surprised about that.”

“Is he frightened?” asked Danilov.

“Concealing it well, if he is,” said Pavin.

The wire-thin, blond man was wearing the same sort of second-skin trousers and silk sweater-both in complimentary shades of blue-as he had during their first encounter but this time all the jewelry-with the possible exception of the missing bracelet-was glitteringly in place. Lasin’s immediate concentration was on William Cowley.