Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

What was it! Danilov sought desperately. Until he worked it out, he wouldn’t know how to respond!

“The obvious complaint against Russia within the United States is that it was Russian weaponry used in the American attacks or attempted attacks. To reassure the American public, the president intends to announce that all military stockpiles throughout the country are to be placed under far more stringent and direct military control and supervision: no civilian involvement whatsoever. That strict and sole military supervision will, of course, apply particularly at Plants 35 and 43. To reinforce the commitment to that pledge, our chiefs of staff will appear with the president.”

Danilov thought he saw a glimmer of light, almost too faint to recognize. Taking a risk, he said, “Will anyone else appear publicly with the president?”

“Appropriate minister,” said Chelyag. He nodded as if approving Danilov’s question.

“When’s the television appearance to be?”

“Tomorrow,” said the chief of staff. “You do understand the importance of my being fully briefed on every development, particularly over the next two or three days?”

“I think so,” said Danilov, believing he did. The Duma impeachment debate would begin in two days. By which time the as-yet undeclared leaders-and military chiefs most affected by detente between Russia and America-would have been made publicly responsible for preventing the loss of any more Russian weaponry. Too much of which-apart from germ and biological warheads-Georgi Chelyag and the president already knew to be stolen and available for sale. On the pretext of preventing an American catastrophe, the president was going to imply to the American secretary of state that Moscow was prepared to sustain an atrocity to achieve the greater good of destroying a fanatical, international terrorist group. And in so doing, squaring the circle, to destroy the president’s impeachment-seeking opposition.

“Then you’ll also understand how important it was-and even more so is now-for you to continue to report only to me?” This time Chelyag’s smile was much longer.

“I thought I had made clear to whom I was solely reporting,” said Danilov.

“Precisely the reason I thought you might benefit from this meeting,” said Chelyag. “But I don’t think it’s necessary for this conversation to go beyond this room. Or the two of us.”

“No,” agreed Danilov. Was the president’s determination-desperation-to remain in office great enough for the White House to allow a germ warfare attack on Moscow? There was probably another cliche to describe his going from one impossible situation to another, but at that moment Danilov couldn’t be bothered to search for it.

With no reason to return to Kirovskaya, apart from to sleep and change his clothes, Danilov had begun to spend his evenings with Cowley, and because of the time he drove directly from the White House to the hotel. He did so automatically, still trying to digest-but almost not wanting to-the conversation with Georgi Stepanovich Chelyag. There couldn’t be any misunderstanding. So he was … was what? Corrupted wasn’t the word. There had to be one far bigger, stronger, to describe the enormity of what he’d become inveigled in- agreed to become inveigled in. Or had he? Could he, if he knew there was a possibility of a warhead being exploded in Moscow, say nothing, do nothing? Would-could-the Americans? Probably, he answered himself, using the total cynicism to which he’d just been subjected. But that wasn’t the question; it was an effort to avoid it. The question was what was he prepared to do-acquiesce to save himself or do nothing and knowingly let people die? Wasn’t there a depravity-depravity a better word than corrupted, although still not right-in his even having to ask himself the question? What about the words he should be thinking, words like integrity and honesty and morality, words he’d personally paraded like the banners now being waved outside the embassy he’d soon be passing? Not a decision he had to make, not now, not immediately. Hypothetical, even. The unknown man in Chicago had said maybe there’d be something else in Moscow: that he needed to discuss it with people here. He’d wait, Danilov decided, recognizing the avoidance and despising himself for it. Wait and think. Not something that could be decided in minutes.

William Cowley was sitting at what had become his accustomed stool at the corner of the bar. He was alone. He drained his glass when he saw Danilov enter and had two more drinks waiting by the time the Russian reached him. Without any discussion they carried their glasses to a table out of hearing from the bar. Danilov told Cowley he knew about the second meeting between the secretary of state and the Russian president, waiting to be told that the Americans also knew of the planned television address. Instead Cowley said although the Chicago voice had been American, without any discernible foreign intonation, he’d asked that all the Chicago surveillance pictures be wired for comparison against the old Russian intelligence files. To Danilov’s nodded acceptance, Cowley outlined the surveillance and photographic arrangements for that night. And then, frowning, he said, “You OK?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You’re pretty quiet. How did your meeting go?”

Danilov hesitated. “Just passed on your intercept. He told me about the second meeting, like I said. Any idea what it’s about?” How could he say this, behave like this!

“Hoped you might be able to tell me. It’s at your side’s suggestion, according to Hartz’s people.”

Danilov shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

Cowley said, “Spoke to the director again. He’s frightened the Chicago fuckup has skewed everything back home.”

“Pamela in trouble?”

“He didn’t seem very pleased. Says he’s looking for the next break from here.”

“Let’s hope we don’t keep him waiting,” said Danilov, not knowing it would only be a matter of hours.

From his locked den Hollis carefully followed that evening’s chosen, first-time stepping-stones through three consecutive online systems, not just to cut out any trace of his cracking-or of his being caught in a flytrap-but also to ensure the cost of that night’s three- or four-hour surfing would be charged to someone else. Finally online himself-as the Quartermaster-Hollis began a regimented march through the war game sites and found the message on his third entry.

It said

THE GENERAL REQUESTS THE QUARTERMASTER’S REPORT

and was timed that day. The system was to wait a further three days before going to the newly designated telephone he hadn’t used before. Hollis had expected more progress from Mark Whittier by now; perhaps it was time to lead the FBI auditor more positively.

Hollis surfed until he found what he wanted, the mapped and pictorially digitized re-creation of Paulus’s street-by-street siege of Stalingrad. Hollis appointed himself to the Nazi side, attacking the Russians. How incredible it would have been to be there in person in 1942! But this would have to do.

It was the FBI’s Moscow station chief, Barry Martlew, who made the initial identification of the immaculate, dark-blue 1962 Oldsmobile with upswept rear tail fins as it drew up to the rear of the Golden Hussar. And then recognized the driver as Yevgenni Leanov. In the momentary brightness of the opened door to the restaurant the photographer beside Martlew managed six shots of the former KGB linguist and his female companion.

“Got her perfectly,” guaranteed the photographer.

“Like to hear her voice,” said Martlew.

“Could be a long night if there’s to be another call from Brooklyn,” forecast the other man.

But it wasn’t. The couple emerged after only three hours, actually stopping in the lighted doorway to talk to someone unseen behind, which gave the photographer the chance for four more shots. Leonov drove directly to Nikitskij Boulevard, where the woman waited patiently for him to put the Oldsmobile away in one of what appeared to be at least three locked garages in a side alley before walking with him, arm and arm, around the corner to an apartment block on Pereulok Kalasnyj.