The Watchmen

9

Six of the families whose husbands and fathers died in the massacre went to the same Baptist church just across the Potomac in Alexandria, and the funerals were combined. One was that of Jefferson Jones. There had been no children from Cowley’s marriage to Pauline, and he had difficulty gauging the ages of the six Jones children. He guessed they tiered down from a boy of ten to a bewildered girl of four. Each-three boys, three girls-were in their Sunday church clothes, stiff-faced with determination to be brave. Grief only very slightly chipped away the beauty of their mother. All the other families were white, maybe ten more children between them. They moved through the ceremony-the churchyard entry from a cavalcade of matching funeral limousines and then the service itself-as a group, some linking hands, all needing the contact of shared sorrow. The Jones family refused to cry.

The priest talked of pointless and savage terror and of the mysteries of God’s ways, and the White House chief of staff included a message from the president in an address in which there was again the personal pledge to track down the perpetrators. It echoed as emptily as it sounded, and Cowley thought, irritated, that the speechwriters should have done a hell of a sight better than virtually repeat what they’d written for the president for his televised address to the nation.

Cowley supposed the official representation justified what one commentator claimed to be the tightest security cordon, this time against an unknown enemy, since the interment of John F. Kennedy. But Cowley wasn’t impressed by the political cynicism of turning the funerals into an even bigger media event than their initial State Department crisis meeting, although the reasoning now was simpler to understand. Acknowledging his own cynicism, Cowley thought that probably for the first time ever the near-hysterical media criticism genuinely reflected the fear-and outrage-of the general public. The television and newspaper attacks had culminated that morning in suggestions that the failure of the president to attend-after it had been officially leaked that he would-was because his safety couldn’t be guaranteed.

As Cowley watched, Frank Norton left the lectern and paused by each family-kissing the women who weren’t crying too bitterly-to rejoin Henry Hartz on the first pew. Next to the secretary of state was Leonard Ross and then the CIA’s John Butterworth. All around them were senators and congressmen. Two rows behind Cowley identified the men, headed by James Schnecker, with whom he’d entered the UN building.

Cowley was glad he hadn’t gone, even though there had been at least three references-one when his bureau-issued picture had been flashed on the screen-to his being too ill to be there. He’d seriously considered attending. From the previous night’s telephone conversation with Pamela Darnley, who’d openly asked if he felt he could make it, he knew the bureau’s public affairs unit would have judged his being there a criticism-deflecting coup. Which was the major reason-and the one he’d given Pamela Darnley-for deciding against it. He would have been the focus of every camera, making it even more of a circus, detracting from-denigrating even-the mostly sincere, nonpolitical mourning.

There was another reason, though: a personal, determined reason. The turban bandaging had gone but there was still a large dressing on the right side of his head. And the double vision had virtually gone: Certainly it wasn’t a problem getting around the hospital room or walking to the bathroom, and he didn’t have any difficulty identifying everyone on the screen before him. And that morning he’d managed to decipher enough from the Washington Post-certainly the attack on the bureau for its total lack of progress in the investigation and the doubt about the president’s safety-to understand what the stories were about.

His problem was the broken rib, particularly if he tried to walk in anything like a proper manner at his usual pace. If he’d gone today, he would have needed a wheelchair to get from a car into the church and would have sat there in front of dozens of cameras like a physically destroyed man who might never recover. And the last impression Cowley wanted to create or allow was that he couldn’t walk or stand, would never be able to get back to work. The total and absolute opposite, in fact. He was sure the chest pain wouldn’t be so bad if he took the prescribed painkillers, but he was refusing them-actually agonizing himself walking too fast in front of the neurologist and hospital staff-and insisting there was scarcely any discomfort. He didn’t believe Joe Pepper was impressed or convinced, but others were.

There were more public displays of condolence from the assembled dignitaries outside the church following the burials, before each hurried away encircled by his personal security, the sight of which immediately prompted a repetition of the presidential safety doubt from the commentators. As soon as the last of the mourners got into their cars-every member of the Jones family still refusing to cry-the program switched to a studio discussion among White House and State Department political correspondents and two men-one Arab looking-introduced as experts on international terrorism.

The State Department correspondent disclosed that before leaving Foggy Bottom for the funeral that morning, Henry Hartz had summoned the Russian ambassador for the third time to demand faster and more substantial responses from Moscow. The White House journalist insisted that relations between Washington and Moscow were strained to the breaking point by an apparent lack of cooperation. Which brought Cowley’s mind back to the previous day’s telephone conversation with Pamela Darnley about Dimitri Danilov’s apparent reticence. Despite trying for most of the evening afterward to balance the woman’s complaints against their possible personal advantage to himself when he resumed control, Cowley was still undecided about manipulating his special relationship with the Russian. The unpredictable was the necessary working relationship between himself and a possibly hostile Pamela Darnley. Secondary, he immediately told himself. Maybe, even, less important than that by the official edict of bureau director Leonard Ross. So why, he asked himself, was there reason for any hesitation?

Into Cowley’s reflection broke the voice of one of the terrorism experts on television suggesting that within the FBI there was a growing belief that so badly had the New Rochelle bombers misjudged public outrage that they would never claim responsibility or commit another atrocity.

It wasn’t until he heard the phone ringing in his ear that Cowley realized he hadn’t had any problem picking out the numbers to dial the FBI director’s direct line at the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Danilov didn’t think Olga had been asleep when he went into the bedroom that morning for a fresh shirt and underwear, but he’d gone along with the pretense as if believing she were, treading lightly and making as little noise as possible opening and closing closets and gently pulling the door shut when he left the apartment.

He did it knowing full well he was only postponing an inevitable confrontation, but he simply didn’t know what to say to Olga. How to react at all. Long ago-long before he fell in love with Larissa-Olga’s affairs had reduced their marriage to beyond lack of affection to their scarcely being even friends, so there was no feeling of bitter betrayal or outrage. Nothing, in fact, to be sorry for or about. So it didn’t make sense-he didn’t want for them to go on sharing the same apartment. It hadn’t for years. It had just been convenient: too much trouble to find somewhere else. He didn’t have any attachment to Kirovskaya, so he supposed it would be easier for him to move out. But before he did that he had to find another apartment and agree to some financial support for Olga. Which wouldn’t be easy. His official income as a general was adequate, but it would be stretched maintaining two homes. Olga would be demanding when she realized he was serious about their finally divorcing, even though she was the guilty party. Of one thing Danilov was absolutely determined: He didn’t want-wouldn’t have-a court fight, dragging Larissa’s name and memory through the mud. He’d simply pay, within reason. Get it over with. It wouldn’t have been so difficult if he’d still had the additional income from the favors-for-friends understanding endemic in the Russian militia in general and in the Moscow force in particular. Danilov grew angry at himself-particularly with the reflection of how things had been years before. It was distracting from what should have been his sole concentration, more so because of the impressions that were hardening after Gorki and since his arrival back in Moscow.

He had been treated contemptuously in Gorki, which didn’t make sense in view of the international enormity of what he was investigating. Even as accustomed as they obviously were to unchallenged corruption, Oleg Reztsov and Gennardi Averin had been far too confident. And there was something that didn’t fit-because, in fact, it fit too easily-about the roped-together drowning of the mobster and the germ factory stores supervisor.

Despite the unexpected delay on the inner beltway, there was still enough time before the scheduled Interior Ministry appointment for Danilov to detour to Petrovka. Yuri Pavin was already there. The autopsy report on the two dead men had been promised that afternoon, and he’d arranged for Naina Karpov to be taken formally to identify her husband’s body. Although the woman insisted she’d never met any of Karpov’s friends, Pavin had taken from their criminal record files photographs of the two men who’d provided the arms-trading alibi for Viktor Nikov to be shown to her. The two were Anatoli Sergeevich Lasin and Igor Ivanovich Baratov. Their files-with other photographs-were on Danilov’s desk. Their last known addresses were being checked for them to be brought in for questioning.

“We know the brigade they are with?” asked Danilov.

“Osipov,” responded Pavin. “Mikhail Vasilevich Osipov. The biggest and best-organized gang centered around Vnukovo Airport. Fought quite a lot of turf wars a few years ago.”

With the pointless Gorki encounter with Aleksai Zotin fresh in his mind, Danilov decided it would be another waste of time interviewing Mikhail Osipov, at least until there was something positive with which to confront the gang leader. “Where are the warheads and the mine casings?”

“Still in the trunk of my car. I thought they were safer there than in here.”

“I think so, too.”

“What do you want done with them?”

“Leave them where they are,” decided Danilov. Would he be able to turn their possession to another, protective advantage? He was going to need something and couldn’t at that moment-that far too impending moment-think what it was.

“This is becoming-might even have become-precisely the situation I made clear should not be allowed to arise!” declared Georgi Chelyag.

The Russian president’s chief of staff spoke looking directly at Danilov, focusing everyone else’s attention. Each man sat in his same assigned seat. So did the stenographers, faithfully recording the eagerness to avoid blame. Danilov accepted that the risk in exceeding his rank or authority was awesome, but he couldn’t think of another way. He was, he realized, the only man in the room whose political allegiance wasn’t known. He was supposed to be apolitical, concerned only in the crime he was investigating, but then the Russian militia was supposed to be made up of honest men. He wished he could decide which faction to back.

Yuri Kisayev said, “The relationship between us and Washington is at a very crucial stage. Our UN ambassador expects China to initiate a formal protest debate about the attack in the General Assembly. And that America is privately going along with the idea, because of the extra pressure it would put on us.”

“Let’s retain some objectivity,” said Danilov’s immediate superior, Nikolai Belik. “America’s made absolutely no progress whatsoever. It’s politically expedient-politically obvious-to try to divert criticism on to us.”

“Tell us, Dimitri Ivanovich,” demanded Viktor Kedrov, personally identifying Danilov for the note-takers, “exactly how far forward is our investigation?”

Easily, prepared, Danilov recounted the previous day’s murders that linked the assassination of an accused weapons smuggler to a man who worked for a chemical and biological weapons establishment on the Moscow outskirts.

General Sergei Gromov said, “From which plant did the warhead come? Surely you’ve been able to determined that!”

“No,” Danilov replied, a decision forming in his mind.

“The lettering-and where it was manufactured-was on the side of the damned thing!” attacked Gromov, with forced impatience. “That’s identification.”

“No, it’s not,” replied Danilov. “The only apparent proof is the name of Gorki itself.” He pause. “Which is why I’m hoping you can help us, General.”

The soldier’s face clouded at the sudden switch of attention. “Me! How!”

“Control and distribution of these warheads was centralized. The letter and numbered designation was strictly controlled from your ministry here in Moscow. So it’s from here that the source will be positively established for the missile used in the UN attack.”

The older man’s face blazed. Chelyag smiled very slightly.

Gromov said, “What evidence-authority-do you have for saying that?”

“The principal of the Gorki factory, confirmed yesterday by the professor in charge of Plant 43 here in Moscow,” Danilov stated flatly.

“What’s the importance?” demanded Gromov.

“From what I understand from both plants, this particular weapon-despite not working-was manufactured in their thousands, not just in Russia but in several of the republics that were part of the Soviet Union. Knowing that the canisters would survive, it would make every sense to mislead by stenciling the name of a Russian city from which it did not come, wouldn’t it?”

The presidential chief of staff looked directly at Gromov. “But with everything being centralized, under military control, you should easily be able to find out from the numerical markings where it came from, shouldn’t you?”

Gromov started to speak, changed his mind, and said on the second attempt, “From what Dimitri Ivanovich says, it was a long time ago.”

“But the White House expects you to do it,” insisted Chelyag.

“Perhaps there is something else your central records could help with?” pressed Danilov. “That emergency number, 876532. It’s Moscow. But the telephone authorities say it’s out of service and they can’t trace to whom or to what it was originally allocated. But your records should tell us that, too, shouldn’t they?” He was appearing almost too obviously to align himself with the new against the old.

Gromov’s face was white now, not red, in his fury at virtually being questioning by someone he considered a subordinate. “I’ll make it part of the inquiry,” he said, recognizing that he had no alternative.

“And I’ll raise it from the White House with the telephone authorities,” Chelyag said.

Danilov had a professional detective’s ear for false notes in a rehearsed performance and located an undertone among the anti- White House group. To test the impression he had to appear to be opposing them, a chance he had to take because it was directly relevant to his ability to do his job properly. Confident he couldn’t be caught out with the lie, Danilov said, “The Americans have asked for an undamaged warhead, if one exists. I brought one back with me from Gorki … obtained another from Plant 43 yesterday-”

“No!” interrupted Gromov, before Danilov finished. “That’s admitting we’ve breached the chemical weapons agreement.”

Too quick, too defensive, judged Danilov. “With respect, I don’t believe it is. Everyone in this room knows we have breached it. I saw hundreds still stored both here and in Gorki. But the ones I am talking about are empty. We could relieve the diplomatic and political pressure by publicly announcing that by responding to the American request, we’re proving our compliance with the disposal treaty: that this is a museum example of a weapon created too long ago for the current government to be held in any way responsible and just as long ago abandoned.”

“I like that argument!” Chelyag declared, at once.

“What possible reason could they want them for?” demanded Kedrov.

“Metal and size comparison,” responded Danilov, the improvised reasoning becoming clearer in his mind. “So we’re giving nothing away: There can’t be any dispute that the UN missile was ours.”

“I think it’s a good idea, a gesture without substance,” said the deputy foreign minister. “It would certainly provide the ambassador with a response.”

“And yourself,” encouraged Danilov. “To achieve the publicity-photographs even-we could announce in advance your personally delivering them to the U.S. Embassy.”

“We’ll do it!” decided Georgi Chelyag, the man of ranking authority.

“I want it officially recorded that I oppose it,” insisted Gromov.

“As I do,” said Kedrov. “It’s a pointless gesture.”

“Which is precisely why it’s so easy to make,” reminded the president’s advisor. To Danilov-but directing the remark to the stenographers-he said, “I want it recorded that Dimitri Ivanovich has made an extremely valuable contribution to today’s discussion.”

Only a few days ago it hadn’t mattered to him whether he was vilified or not, thought Danilov. Now it did. It was like waking up from a sleep that had gone on too long. But still with too many terrifying nightmares.

Yuri Pavin waited until Danilov had finished his account of the meeting before saying “Do you want me personally to deliver the warheads to the Foreign Ministry?”

“No,” said Danilov. “Someone else from the department.”

Pavin frowned. “Is that a good idea?”

“I’m going to make it one,” said Danilov. “Before you hand it over-before you even take it out of your car-I want you to scrape off some paint samples and break off some metal that won’t be obvious. Keep one sample for me. Give the other one to forensics”-he took two envelopes of Gorki samples from his pocket, passing them across to the other man-“with these. I want them very specifically and separately marked and signed for as being from Plant 35 at Gorki, from Plant 43 here, and from the empty warheads going to the Americans.”

Pavin didn’t speak for several moments. “You think it’s that bad?”

“Yes,” Danilov said flatly.

“Then we’ll never get anywhere with this investigation.”

“We will,” insisted Danilov. “People are trying to make me look stupid. I’m going to prove that I’m not.”

“The pathologist says there are definitely two distinct sets of lung hemorrhage lesions,” announced Pavin, moving on. “The worst torture both Nikov and Karpov suffered was to be partially drowned, revived into consciousness, and then brought to the point of drowning a second time.”

Danilov stared down at the pathologist’s report that Pavin put in front of him, carefully going through the injuries. Looking up to the other man he began, “That doesn’t make sense,” but stopped. “The same!” he started again. “Each was tortured in exactly the same manner and to exactly the same extent.”

“Yes?” Pavin frowned, doubtfully.

“Nikov was a bull, a professional killer. Used to violence,” reminded Danilov. “He’d have tortured like this himself, held out under questioning much longer than Karpov. But if Karpov had been interrogated about some information he had he would have broken, told whoever it was what they wanted to know long before so much was done to him. These were example killings, to warn others.”

“It was good of you to come,” said Cowley.

“I tried yesterday but it took this long to get a security clearance,” said Pauline. “And there’s a guard in the corridor. You really think they might try to get to you here in the hospital!”

“I don’t. The bureau does. There’s a lot the bureau and I don’t seem to be agreeing about.” Her hair was much shorter than she’d worn it the last time they’d met, and it was colored a deeper auburn. He thought she was slimmer, too. And looked terrific in the matching sweater and slacks.

“So how are you?”

“Better. The battle lasted all afternoon, but I compromised with the specialist in the end. I stay overnight and I can discharge myself tomorrow. He wants a waiver though. Which I’m giving him.”

She sniggered, embarrassed. “You look funny with that great pad on your head. And you’re going to look funnier when it comes off. They’ve shaved off half your hair.”

Cowley laughed with her. “I did a deal on the waiver. Tomorrow I get a much smaller, less dramatic dressing. I’ve got a meeting with the director.”

Pauline’s face straightened. “You can’t be well enough to go back to work, William!”

He’d always liked the way she’d called him William, never Bill. “I can see perfectly and my hearing’s coming back. The head’s practically healed and so’s the rib.” He hesitated, seeing the opportunity. “I could just maybe do with a little home help.”

His former wife didn’t pick up on the remark. Instead she said, “I think you’re crazy.”

“I sit in an office and make plans for other people to carry out.”

“You walked into a building that might have been full of fatal germs and escaped being blown to pieces by a fucking miracle!”

“Rare,” he said with attempted lightness.

“Don’t, William. What have you got to prove?”

He felt warmed by the concern. “It’s not proving anything. There needs to be a more experienced case officer: The panic’s percolating down. And there seems to be a problem with Dimitri in Moscow.” They’d met when Danilov had been in Washington the last time.

“I thought you got on well with him. Partners, you said?”

“I do. Others don’t seem to. If there’s a reason he’d tell me, because it’s like partners. He trusts me. Not anybody else. It’s instinctive in Moscow, in his position, not to trust people.”

Pauline nodded to the bedside telephone. “You could call Moscow from here.”

“Not a secure line,” Cowley said glibly. “Let’s stop talking about me. How about you? How’ve you been?”

“Fine. More than fine, I guess. Terrific.”

“That sounds … I’m not sure what it sounds like.”

“I was going to call, suggest we meet, before all this.”

“Why?”

Her shoulders rose and fell. “It might seem funny, us so long over I mean, but I wanted to tell you myself. Not, I suppose, that you’d have heard from anyone else.” She smiled. “I’m getting married again, William.”

“That’s wonderful!” he forced himself to say. “Really great.”

“His name’s John,” she said. “John Brooks. He’s an orthodontist. That’s how I met him, at a dental practice. Can you believe that! He’s just bought into a partnership on the West Coast, San Diego. So we’ll be moving to the sunshine.” She smiled. “Sunshine’s good for people getting older, so they say.”

“So they say,” he agreed. “I wish you all the luck and love.” Cowley had to force that, too.

“I knew you would.”

Hollis had gotten to work intentionally early that morning, to be there when Carole arrived, which he watched her do from his window overlooking the parking lot, and called her extension the moment she reached her station. He’d rehearsed what to say-written it down, against his breath tightening-but she’d said she was busy for the rest of the week and didn’t want to plan the next this early, so why didn’t they take a raincheck and talk later. When he’d gone for coffee, she’d been sitting with Robert Standing and didn’t even acknowledge him.