Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“Let’s consider the positives,” Cowley insisted, briskly. “We’ve got a good lead on how the stuff will be shipped, and we’ve got the Chicago waterfront under wraps. We’ll know from Customs in advance the arrival of any Cidicj line freighter. The cargo manifest has to be declared, so we’ll even know if anything’s specifically consigned to OverOcean Inc. I don’t know how strong we are in Poland, but we could move some people up to Gdansk from the Warsaw embassy. We might have dropped the ball but I think we can pick it up again.”

It was not until Igor Baratov returned the Oldsmobile to its garage the following day that they began seriously to suspect that Leanov was no longer in Moscow. Later that night they were sure. In between Danilov managed meeting with Georgi Chelyag.

“It had better be important!” greeted the presidential aide.

“Judge for yourself,” said Danilov. His irritation ebbed at Chelyag’s visible reaction to the weapons loss.

For once, although briefly, the chief of staff appeared lost for words, initially only saying: “Oh.” Quickly he added, “Definitely while the president was there?”

Into Danilov’s mind came Barry Martlew’s remark and just as quickly the personal protection there might be in it. Maybe, he thought, he was no longer the discardable nobody who’d served his brief purpose. “Absolutely no doubt. The Americans are actually talking of it being a diversion.”

“What!”

“If the surveillance had been in place, we wouldn’t have lost anything.”

“Washington been told that?”

“Yes,” Danilov said, only slightly exaggerating. “If it leaks-not just now but any time in the future-it’ll destroy most of what you achieved, won’t it? It would be easy for the public to believe the president was involved, even. Reignite the whole censure debate.”

From Chelyag’s unblinking concentration Danilov wondered if he’d overemphasized the threat of his personal knowledge. Chelyag said, “What have you done?”

“Dismissed it as ludicrous; stressed the absolute, leader-to-leader cooperation. Problem is, the facts would hardly need manipulation, would they?”

“There could be further direct contact,” suggested Petrov.

“To a suspicious mind, wouldn’t the denial look like a confirmation?” How quickly Danilov had learned and adjusted to the way the chief of staff’s mind worked.

“Will you be able to judge the way the American thinking is going?”

“I think so.”

“I need to know; we can’t be caught out.”

“The greater danger would be for the leak to emanate from here.”

“Yes?” encouraged the older man.

“Which can’t happen.” Danilov smiled. “I’m the only Russian who knows.”

Chelyag didn’t smile back. “That is very fortunate.”

“Very,” agreed Danilov.

The proof of Leanov’s disappearance-agonizingly vague about the man, illuminating about others-emerged after Igor Baratov arrived in the bugged car to collected his sister from Pereulok Samokatnaja. Cowley and Danilov were already waiting in the embassy’s bureau offices, alerted by the pursuit car from the garage. The conversation actually began with Naina Karpov asking about the Oldsmobile’s flat, which Baratov said his garage had been unable to find. There was some conversation about educating their children-hers as well as his-abroad (“we can certainly afford the fees”) before Baratov said, “Heard from Yevgenni?”

“I don’t expect to.”

“Long drive?”

“Worth it.”

“He going to deal with Gavri?”

“He’s going to see how he finds things.”

“I think we should. It’s undermining our position here.”

“You heard from Petrovka?”

“A week ago. Osipov is definitely being dismissed as a turf war killing and Lasin’s death as part of it. Ashot Yefimovich is handling it all. Insisting the brigade’s disbanded.”

The woman laughed. “You can’t believe how easy it is to operate here, can you!”

Baratov laughed in return. “What about the presidential nonsense yesterday! There we were, right under the stupid bastard’s nose, and none of them had a clue!”

The warning crackled from the following vehicle that the route didn’t seem to be to the Golden Hussar.

Naina Karpov said, “Mizin’s a good man. Needs looking after.”

“I’m doing it,” assured Baratov. “You and Yevgenni seem to be close?”

“I like him. It’s good.”

“Permanent?”

“It’s an idea.”

“How would it work? If we decided on a move, he’d have to replace Gavri in America, wouldn’t he?”

“Too early to say. You want your kid educated abroad, what’s wrong with America?”

“Nothing,” said Baratov.

The restaurant was one of the latest on the current fashion list, out beyond the inner beltway. Called the New York Grill, it actually was run by an American. Cowley decided against his watchers going in to eat. For the first time in several days he and Danilov went to the Savoy bar to fill in the time. Over their third scotch Danilov nodded toward the American’s glass and said, “You seem to be enjoying it?”

“I always have.”

“I know.”

“That supposed to mean something?” Cowley demanded, defensively.

“Just talking.” The Russian shrugged.

“You think it’s a problem?” There was an edge to Cowley’s voice now.

“You know that better than me.”

“It isn’t.”

“Good.”

“Something been said?”

“No,” said Danilov. He missed another two rounds and insisted they skip a third to get back to the embassy for Naina Karpov’s return from the restaurant. They had to wait almost an hour, which Cowley occupied drafting an account for Washington and speaking directly to Terry Osnan. Nothing of significance was said during Naina Karpov’s homeward journey. Baratov played Billie Holiday all the way back to Nikitskij after dropping his sister off. Cowley said, “We need to keep this up much longer, I’ll buy them a new fucking tape.”

Pamela Darnley’s first full day in Chicago, which had only just ended, had been one of inquests and frustrations, too, only lifted at its very end by the news of Robert Standing’s Albany arrest and learning that she’d been right about another illegal entry through the Pentagon. Her concern at hearing from Terry Osnan that Cowley and Danilov had lost the arms shipment and the man seemingly on his way from Moscow went beyond the professional. Secure now in her own permanent appointment, she was worried about Cowley, well aware the scapegoat vacancy was available if there were many more mistakes or failures.

Protected herself-wishing there was something she could do to help Cowley-she insisted that Steven Murray write an official, case file explanation for the failure to provide a scanner and ordered six top-of-the-range devices from bureau headquarters, both analog and digital, against the contact being made to Bay View Avenue the same way again.

She’d seized the Albany identification of the computer cafe, Cyber Shack on Halsted Street, as a major, potentially case-solving breakthrough, particularly when she saw how much concealment there was among the milling students from the Illinois University campus less than a block away. She carried with her Patrick Hollis’s anonymous first cable and the second he’d sent that morning, again using Robert Standing’s computer ID and also addressed to the General. It read:

WAR CHESTS ARE LOCKED.

It was 12:32 P.M. and crowded inside and out when Pamela arrived, with Stephen Murray and a five-man backup, with a SWAT team on standby. They’d already established that the cafe was owned by brothers Herbie and Jason Montgomery, both former computer science students at the university who had no criminal convictions, no civil court orders against them, no posted debts, and permanent addresses in the city. Pamela said, “This is letterbox rental: We go straight in and identify ourselves?”