Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“We’ve nothing to connect your husband to the crime group, only the man who was killed at the same time,” said Danilov. “And we haven’t been able to find out how they knew each other.”

“But it wasn’t another woman, was it?”

Danilov had forgotten her persistence at their first meeting. “No. We’ve found nothing about another woman.”

She looked at Pavin. “You said you had things to return to me?”

“Your husband’s belongings,” said the colonel. “Wallet and what was in it. His watch, although it’s stopped. And your wedding ring.” He offered the plastic container.

Naina Karpov looked briefly away, apparently composing herself, before reaching out to accept it. “Thank you.”

“We didn’t think you’d want anything else … clothes …?” said Pavin.

“No,” the woman said sharply. “Certainly not that. This is all I want.”

“We’re sorry to have troubled you,” apologized Danilov. “If-”

“I know.” she stopped him. “I’ve got the card.”

“It’s her,” said Pavin, back in the car.

“I know,” said Danilov. “And that’s only the half of it.”

“Do you think she believed two supposed detectives couldn’t have made more progress than we said we had?”

“Easily,” said Danilov. “This is Russia.”

The technician hadn’t exaggerated. It hurt like hell when he pulled off the tape holding the wire in place.

“How!” demanded Cowley. He’d insisted on opening the whiskey in his suite and given Lambert and the technician a drink before they returned to the embassy. Now only he, Danilov, and Pavin remained. They were on their second, and now the bottle was less than half full.

“It was clearing up Olga’s things,” said Danilov. “I’ve kept our marriage certificate. And a photograph. In a box. Which was how Naina Karpov kept her things: She showed them to us when we saw her the first time. Then we were trying to find her husband’s connection to Viktor Nikov: find anyone who might have met Nikov when he arrived from Gorki. We had been told one might have been Igor Baratov, a name I thought I’d come across searching for Larissa’s killers-”

“Wait!” stopped the American, holding up his hand. “I’m totally lost!”

“It didn’t consciously register with me that I was keeping things in a box, the same as Naina Karpov. Not until this morning. It was only the coincidence, at first. Then I remembered her voice. But more important what I’d read on her marriage certificate.”

“What?” Cowley frowned.

“Baratov,” Danilov said simply. “It was Naina’s name before she married.” He paused. “She’s related to a man-a brother, I’d guess-who knew Nikov and who admits talking to him after he arrived from Gorki. But says he didn’t want to get mixed up in a deal he thought involved American cars. His full name is Igor Ivanovich Baratov, and he was a bull for the now supposedly broken up Osipov Brigade, before he almost got killed and quit to run a legitimate car business.”

Cowley was smiling now. He topped off all their glasses and said, “Now the pieces are really fitting!”

“If it’s proved scientifically to be Naina Karpov’s voice, which I think it will,” said the careful Pavin.

Danilov said, “It took me a long time to realize it. Which was a mistake I shouldn’t have made.”

“For Christ’s sake!” protested Cowley. “We’ve only had a voice to compare for forty-eight hours! Less.”

“I meant the Baratov name. I shouldn’t have missed that.” His fixation with Larissa’s death clouding everything, he thought.

“We’ve caught up now.”

“Have we?” challenged Danilov. “None of us doubt it, so let’s work on the assumption it is Naina Karpov. We know, from the Golden Hussar tape, she can get another warhead. Who from, now that her husband, who worked at the plant, is dead?”

Cowley stopped smiling. “We also know, from the tape, that there was a double cross. What if Valeri Karpov wasn’t his wife’s supplier?”

“And she had him killed?” questioned Pavin, disbelievingly.

“It was supposed to be someone from America,” reminded Danilov.

“‘It was business: only ever business’” quoted Cowley, in reply. “Not heartbroken if she didn’t actually take out the contract.”

Danilov looked at his deputy. “Do we know, definitely, that the Osipov Brigade broke up after his killing?”

“No,” Pavin admitted immediately. “Like so much else, it came from Ashot Mizin.”

“So it’s a lie,” dismissed Danilov, at once. To Cowley’s frown, Danilov said, “We know Mizin’s on the payroll, and I’m very glad I did nothing about it. You think it’s too much to speculate that Naina Karpov has become head of what was the Osipov family?”

“It wouldn’t take a lot to convince me,” accepted the American.

“It isn’t the most important question,” said Pavin. “We still don’t know who her supplier is.”

“Or how to find out,” completed Danilov.

Pamela Darnley immediately realized the leads made possible linking the two Russians with OverOcean Inc., the most obvious and important being the name of a consignee to whom anything might have been shipped from Russia.

Yet another telephone tap was granted, after a bureau lawyer applied-and explained-to a judge in chambers. By the time that happened Frank Norton, at the White House, had invoked presidential authority to sweep aside the traditional obstructive hostility between the FBI and the IRS to get the company’s tax returns made available to one of the bureau’s few remaining auditors not involved in the embezzlement investigation, which had spread to sixty-four branches of four different banks operating in four eastern states.

OverOcean’s accounts were immaculate and all its taxes fully paid up. Its complete financial returns provided a detailed record of the company’s operations over the preceding two years of its incorporation, from which a list was compiled of every shipping company it had ever used, particularly any with obvious connections with Eastern Europe. Very quickly it was seen that although there was no direct Russian trading during those two years, OverOcean had six times shipped cargo from the Polish port of Gdansk aboard freighters operated by the Cidicj line. The last had been one month before the attack upon the United Nations.

With dates to work from, Pamela assigned four agents freed from the Lake Shore Drive public telephone tap to trace the cargo manifests declared to U.S. Customs on arrival. In every instance the cargo had been containerized and described as farm equipment returned for refurbishment. According to Customs’ records, no container had ever been opened for examination. Each had been marked for Chicago dockside collection, for onward delivery by OverOcean itself.

A disappointed Pamela Darnley exclaimed, “As easy as that!”

“Not next time,” promised Terry Osnan. “Now we know how to put the stopper in the bottle.”

“We hope,” said the unconvinced woman.

In his Moscow hotel suite, Cowley replaced the telephone and smiled at Danilov. “It’s definitely Naina Karpov’s voiceprint. Congratulations.”

“There are two garages that we know about,” Pavin set out. “The larger is on Nikitskij Boulevard-that’s Baratov’s outlet for Mercedes. The other one is on Ulitza Kazakova. Mostly Zils from there.”

“Selling or repairing?” asked Cowley.

“Both,” said Pavin.

“Stock?”

“Seemed a lot available. I only went once to each place.”

“And everything’s legit?”

“Looked like it,” said Pavin. “But it wasn’t in any detail-not like the need is now.”

“If he has a lot of stock, he’ll have other places to keep it,” guessed Cowley.