The Watchmen

12

It had become routine since the beginning of the investigation for Dimitri Danilov to keep his office television on and tuned permanently to CNN, so he learned of the Washington Monument bomb within seconds of arriving at Petrovka, for once earlier than Pavin. Danilov had slept badly on the couch and left the apartment before six, to avoid encountering Olga. She’d been snoring when he eased the door closed behind him. He put a call in to Cowley but was told both he and Pamela Darnley were in conference.

There was an overnight log note that Anatoli Sergeevich Lasin, one of the two men who had provided the alibi for the murdered mobster, had been arrested during the night at his last known address, an apartment on Pereulok Ucebyi, in bed with a boy of fifteen. Both were being held, separately, in basement cells.

Danilov at once saw the advantage, which was why he decided to leave them there, wanting first to read the case file of the Osipov mafia brigade to which Anatoli Lasin belonged. It had become instinctive to look for names that would personally mean something to him from Larissa’s murder, but very quickly, sighing in weary professional recognition, he saw the obvious tampering and accepted the pointlessness. The last criminal records photograph of the godfather-the brigadier himself, Mikhail Vasilevich Osipov-had been taken twelve years earlier, when he’d been bearded and heavily mustached. There wasn’t any explanation for there being no updated picture to accompany the two subsequent arrests. The beard and mustache would have long gone, and Osipov would be unrecognizable from the only image they had on file. There had been insufficient evidence-due to loss, also unexplained-to prosecute on either subsequent arrest, and there was even an assessment, unsigned, that the brigade was fragmenting under pressure from other, more powerful mafia families upon whom more attention should be focused. From which Danilov at once knew it wasn’t breaking up at all but that after the territory wars to which Pavin had referred-quoted in the assessment as evidence of the family’s demise-it had probably emerged one of the strongest in the city.

Who, wondered Danilov, was the well- but discreetly paid officer within his Organized Crime Bureau ensuring that the Osipov family remained protected from any irritating official intrusion? He was at once annoyed-embarrassed-at asking himself the question. Shouldn’t he know? It was his department, and he’d taken up the appointment as its director after exposing the corruption of the previous commanders with the burnished shield and sworn determination to cleanse it from the bottom as effectively as he’d cleansed it from the top. And done what? Gotten rid of two of the most obviously bribed inspectors, earned the obstructive animosity of practically every other one, and after Larissa, in his swamp of selfpity and disinterest, allowed everything to go on-get worse, maybe-as it had before.

What about the other self-imposed determination, his supposedly always being honest with himself? The so-far avoided question. Which it was time to confront. His unease wasn’t at his failure to correct the crookedness of others. It was at the thought-the vaguest, seductive wisp of an idea-of the only way he could maintain two homes and support Olga if she carried out her threat, which he had little doubt she would vindictively do.

But how could he? Danilov demanded of himself. Everything was totally different now from how it had been when he’d gone along with the accepted system. Which (excuse-seeking, he at once accused himself) in his case had not been dealing with the organized crime families. The reverse. He’d protected the small shopkeepers and businesses and independent entrepreneurs in the district he’d commanded as a uniformed militia colonel, facing down-arresting and prosecuting-the gangs who’d tried to extort protection money. For which those shopkeepers and businessmen and entrepreneurs had been grateful. He’d never exacted a levy or asked for any tribute. Whatever had been given had been offered freely: not once had he treated differently someone who had never given him a gift from someone who had.

But he wasn’t any longer a uniformed militia officer with a comparatively small suburb of the city to administer, no longer the policeman who could take an offered apple from the stall. He was at the absolute center now-and at the pinnacle. What would his worth be to the brigade whose file was on the table in front of him or any of the other mafia groups who’d sliced the Moscow cake between them? Incalculable. Whatever car he demanded, whatever retainer he suggested, whatever rent-free apartment he chose.

Yuri Pavin’s arrival broke the reverie, and Danilov was glad, actually embarrassed at the entry of one of the few truly honest men in the department while he had even been thinking as he had.

Pavin nodded toward the volume-reduced television. “Seems minor, thank God.” Pavin was devoutly religious, a regular communicant at the new cathedral, sometimes stopping there on his way to Petrovka on weekdays as well as Sundays. The invocation of God was genuine, not blasphemous.

“I spotted Bill.”

“So did I. You called him yet?”

“We’ll speak later,” said Danilov. “I’ve waited for you before seeing Lasin. What about the other one, Baratov?”

“Not at the last known address we have.”

Danilov nodded to the Osipov dossier in front of him. “It’s been doctored.”

“I know.”

“Who’s their friend here in the building?”

“There’s a lot to choose from.”

“I’ve let things slip here,” Danilov confessed abruptly.

“Maybe when this is over?” suggested the other man.

“Definitely,” said Danilov. “Maybe today could be the beginning. And I want you to start making up a suspect list, OK?”

“OK.” The deputy smiled.

As he stood Danilov said, “We don’t have time to fuck around. We’ll hit Lasin hard. I want results.”

They heard the shouting long before they reached the cell in which the man was held. Danilov slid aside the peephole of the adjoining one holding the fifteen-year-old Vladimir Fedorin. It wouldn’t, Danilov knew, be the boy’s real name. His hair was long, almost to his shoulders, and richly dark. He was very slim, in a silk shirt and second-skin trousers. He’d been crying and the mascara was smudged. He looked up, unspeaking. Danilov said, “You’re in serious trouble,” and slammed the shutter closed. It would be very easy to use the terrified boy if it was necessary.

Lasin actually tried to leave the moment his cell door was opened and would have done so if Pavin hadn’t put a spadelike hand against his chest, pushing him back inside.

“Who the fuck do you think you are that you can do this!” demanded the man. “I want a lawyer now! Some fucking desk sergeant took all my belongings: watch, rings, bracelet. I’ll never get them back. I want everything accounted for. I don’t get them back, I’m going to sue.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pavin said, calmly. “Sit down.” He and Danilov did, leaving Lasin standing. He was a small, wire-thin man who nevertheless conveyed an unsettling impression of coiled-up strength. He, too, wore trousers as tight as his lover’s next door, and the sweater was silk. The hair was very obviously dyed, a yellow blond. Danilov decided it was too good to have been done by Olga’s hairdresser lover.

“What can you tell us?” demanded Pavin.

“About what?”

“Nikov’s murder. And about Valeri Karpov.”

“Nothing. There’ll have been things stolen from my apartment, too. I’ll sue for that, as well!”

“I told you to stop being ridiculous,” said Pavin.

“The arrest sheet lists four handguns-two American Smith and Wessons-found in your apartment,” said Danilov.

“Not an offense,” said Lasin.

“Nikov and Karpov were shot. You think we might find the bullets came from one of your guns if we did a ballistics test?”

“Wasting your time.” The man sneered.

“Maybe we should extend the tests: compare the bullets recovered in other murders and shootings? There was a lot when the Osipov brigade fought for control of the Vnukovo Airport area.” Pavin spoke to Danilov, not the gangster.

“That’s a good idea,” accepted Danilov. “We’ll do that.”

“All right!” said Lasin with impatient bravado. “What do you want? However much it is, call Vladimir Leonidovich and he’ll pay you.”

“Shouldn’t we negotiate through someone here in the building?” Danilov asked casually.

For the first time Lasin regarded them warily. “Who are you?”

The recognition was obvious when Pavin identified them. Lasin sat down. He said, “I want a lawyer.”

“You’ve been seeing too many American films,” said Pavin. “The only rights you have are those we allow you, and we’re not allowing you any.”

“What am I being held for?”

“Suspicion of murder, until we complete all the ballistics tests on those guns,” said Pavin. “Could take a long time.”

“Weeks,” agreed Danilov. “Not safe, leaving your apartment empty for weeks. Not in a place like Moscow.”

“I don’t know anything about Viktor Nikolaevich’s killing,” said the slightly built man.

“But you knew he was in Moscow?”

“He was often in Moscow. He dealt in cars. So do I.”

“Cars stolen in the West?” said Pavin. “We’ll check out the ones you’ve got, see if there’s anything we can make a case on. That’ll take even longer.”

“I don’t know anything!” protested the man. “Viktor Nikolaevich arrived two weeks ago. We did a bit of business-car business. I thought he’d gone back. I haven’t seen him for more than a week.”

“What did he tell you he was doing?”

“Looking at cars.”

“What else?”

“He said he had some people to see. He didn’t say about what.”

“Selling weapons?” pressed Pavin.

“I don’t know anything about selling weapons.”

“You knew he did. You alibied him before.”

“I didn’t do anything with him.”

“How did you know him?”

“We grew up together in Gorki.”

“You got a resident’s permit to be here in Moscow?” said Pavin. “You could be sent back if you haven’t. You could have a lot of problems, one way and another.”

“The only dealings I had with Viktor Nikolaevich were about cars.”

“What about Igor Baratov?” demanded Danilov.

“I don’t know. Ask him.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“He do business with you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Dealing in cars?”

“Yes.”

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

“Not weapons?”

“No.”

“Osipov deal in weapons?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you know?” Pavin cut in. “You work for him.”

“I don’t know all of what Mikhail Vasilevich does.”

“But you do work for him?”

“I look after-service and maintain-the cars he uses in his businesses.” All the bombast had gone. Lasin was sweating, even though it wasn’t hot in the cell.

“So you must know what his other businesses are?” Danilov came back into the questioning.

“No! People come to me, say they work for Mikhail Vasilevich and he’s told them to bring their car to me. I check and if Mikhail Vasilevich says he knows them, I do the car.”

“You must see a lot of people,” encouraged Pavin.

“A few.”

“Hear a lot of interesting things?”

Lasin didn’t reply.

“You ever hear about other brigades dealing in weapons?”

“There’s a lot of weapons around, now the army’s been reduced.”

“Special weapons? Like germ warheads?”

Lasin shook his head. “Don’t know about special weapons. Warheads.”

“What about ordinary weapons?”

“No.”

“How long have you and Vladimir been together?” demanded Danilov, nodding toward the adjoining cell.

Lasin blinked at the abrupt change of direction. “None of your business.”

“You choose him that young so he wouldn’t have AIDS?”

“That’s nothing to do with you, either.”

“I don’t like you,” Danilov said conversationally. “I don’t like your attitude, and I think there’s a lot more you could tell us that you think you don’t have to. So here’s how I see it. We’ll hold you while we check out those guns against the Nikov and Karpov murders. And the other killings during the turf wars. I’m sure we’ll be able to make a case against Osipov for having some stolen cars in that fleet you look after for him. No need to hold your boyfriend, though. We’ll let Vladimir go. Tell him why we’re keeping you, so he’ll know you’re being cooperative. Won’t have to worry you’re being roughed up in here at least.”

“I haven’t helped you with information about stolen cars!”

“You ever been to Lefortovo?” Pavin broke in. “Hell of a prison. That’s where you’ll be held while we’re checking all this out. They don’t use condoms. That’s how AIDS got so bad there in the first place. You watch yourself, Anatoli Sergeevich. It won’t be easy but try to choose your partners. Whatever happens, don’t get gang raped.”

“No,” pleaded the man in a soft voice. “Please, no. You can’t. You do this I’m dead, either way.”

“You recognized our name,” said Danilov. “So you know about us. Know we do our jobs properly, mean what we say. Have to check out information we get. I don’t see any other way ….”

“Osipov has got someone here, someone inside. I don’t know who but I’ll find out-tell you.”

“I’m not investigating internal corruption.” Danilov dismissed his offer. “This is more important.”

“Outside!” blurted the man. “Outside bulls. That’s the story going around. Brought in specially to make the hit on Nikov and the other man.”

“Brought in from where?” asked Pavin.

“I don’t know. I honestly, genuinely don’t know. What I’ve told you is all I know. About the killing, I mean.”

“What did Nikov tell you?” demanded Danilov.

“He was meeting people. Setting up a deal.”

“With a germ warhead?”

“I think so.”

“Did he have one when he was here?” Danilov asked urgently.

The man shook his head. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so. He said there was a lot of money involved and that he’d cut me in for that alibi. That all I’d have to do was drive up and down to Gorki a few times. I assumed he meant to transport something.”

“Did he see Baratov while he was here?”

“He said he was going to. I don’t know if he did.”

“Where’s Baratov live?” said Pavin.

“Ulitza Krasina 28. Third floor.”

“Where did Nikov live, when he was here in Moscow?”

“This time at the Metropole. Said he wanted to impress the people he was going to meet.”

“You sure you don’t know who they were?” said Pavin.

“No!”

“Who do you think they might have been?” pressed Danilov.

“I don’t know! I’ve helped you all I can.”

“For the moment you can stay safely here and not in Lefortovo,” Danilov decided.

As they walked back toward their offices, Pavin said, “How much do you believe?”

“The suggestion of the hit being organized from outside is intriguing,” judged Danilov. “Not something he would have made up without trying to bullshit us with suggestions of where they might have come from we couldn’t check out. And I’d say the Metropole was the first-choice hotel for westerners-Americans-with a lot of money.”

“You think there’s any point in testing his handguns ballistically?”

“Not for these two killings. He didn’t seem very comfortable when you talked about the turf wars.”

“I doubt any of the forensic or ballistics stuff will have survived.”

“Just check,” suggested Danilov.

“What about the kid?”

“Leave him where he is. He could probably do with the rest. I want you to check out Ulitza Krasina.” He paused at the top of the stairs. “I ever personally investigated Igor Ivanovich Baratov?”

“Not as far as I can remember,” said Pavin, knowing how Danilov-to the neglect of everything else-had tracked every member of the two gangs involved in Larissa’s killing.

“Why do I think I know the name from somewhere?”

Danilov had naturally anticipated the initial concentration being on the overnight Washington explosion, but neither Cowley nor the woman was available when he’d called again just before leaving for the Interior Ministry.

At once Viktor Kedrov, the security chairman, said, “You think they’re stalling, avoiding your calls?”

“No,” said Danilov, ever conscious he was between the rock of the old and the hard place of the new. “I think they’re fully occupied with the latest attack, which perhaps we should be if there’s a trace back to us. I’ll talk to them sometime later today. I intend, incidentally, to go to Washington in the next day or two.”

“Why?” demanded Georgi Petrov.

“Because I need to meet, face-to-face. Until I do it won’t be the joint investigation we’ve undertaken. And it’s more practicable for me to go to them.” He looked to Kisayev. “More visibly what the people are expecting to see, don’t you think?”

“Definitely,” agreed the deputy foreign minister.

“So you don’t believe they’re fully sharing?” persisted Kedrov.

“Something else I won’t be able to assess fully until I get to Washington,” said Danilov, pleased with the direction of the conversation. “Cowley, whom I deal with and trust, only came out of the hospital yesterday. We’ve scarcely had an opportunity to speak to each other … exchange anything.” He looked again to the deputy foreign minister. To get the official attitude on record, he said, “What’s the government guidance on biological weapons being stockpiled?”

Yuri Kisayev said, “I’ve instructed our ambassador in Washington-and told the American ambassador here-officially to assure the secretary of state that we are in the process of complying with the terms of the 1993 agreement but as they will understand from being in the process of dismantling their own, similar weapons, it’s a long procedure that cannot be hurried.”

Georgi Chelyag smiled in open admiration. “An extremely astute diplomatic response.” He turned to the deputy defense minister. “Which brings us to you, General. And the point of this reconvened meeting.”

Sergei Gromov coughed and shuffled some obviously old papers that he’d laid out in front of him while they’d talked. “So far-and I mean so far, because the search is continuing-we have been unable to find any distribution records matching the 19-38-22-0 or the 20-49-88-0 batch numbers on the warhead fired at the United Nations building.” He tapped one of the yellowing pieces of paper. “They were certainly the identifying codes for the joint sarinanthrax weapon. There’s some limited cross-references, confirming the production of this particular weapon in a total of eight different factories-two in Belorussia as well as one in the Ukraine and another in Latvia-but it’s incomplete.” He produced another archival sheet, like a card from an ancient pack. “This is a ministry instruction, dated 1975, that records could be disposed of as well as the weaponry itself following the abandonment of the program.”

The man was the focus of total incredulity from everyone else in the room. Danilov decided that virtually the entire explanation had an element of truth because even in a society destroyed after seventy continuous years of chaos, inefficiency, criminal manipulation, and mismanagement, it would have been impossible to invent such a lame explanation of bureaucratic ineptitude.

It was Chelyag who seized the advantage. “The Ministry of Defense doesn’t know how many such missiles were manufactured or where they are now!”

“No,” admitted Gromov. Desperately he said, “It is a situation we inherited, can’t do anything to correct.”

“It is a total, unmitigated disaster,” said Chelyag. Looking directly at Danilov he said, “Something that can never be admitted to anyone in the West.”

“If there is another attack-more than one attack-using missiles of the same design, there won’t need to be an open admission,” Danilov pointed out. “What about the telephone number?”

“Allocated for this particular production. Dispensed with when the program was abandoned and never allocated to anything else,” said Gromov.

“What about the Ministry of Science?” demanded Kisayev. “What about their records?”

Gromov shrugged his shoulders. “There hasn’t been time to extend the search.”

“I’ll do it,” Chelyag decided quickly. “And stipulate the security upon the inquiry.” He looked, almost too theatrically, to each man in the room. “None of you here must ever discuss this, hint it, to another living soul outside these walls. Is everyone clear-absolutely clear-on that?”

There were shuffles and head nodding and mutterings of assent. Danilov wondered how one side-which side? — would try to use the fact against the other. He was sure one of them would try.

“There is no complete documentary evidence about this particular weapon-how many were produced in which countries?” demanded Viktor Kedrov.

“No,” acknowledged the uniformed general.

Chelyag said, “What has been disclosed today amounts to a state secret.”

Which, wondered Danilov, did that knowledge make him: very powerful or very vulnerable? Like so many others, it was a question that could be answered both ways. He didn’t like either.

Pavin followed Danilov into his office the moment he got back to Petrovka. “I’ve got Igor Baratov downstairs in cell three. Guess what he says?”

“What?”

“He’s not involved with Osipov anymore. He’s got married, has a baby, and is a legitimate businessman.”

“Running a garage?” suggested Danilov.

“You guessed it.”

Cowley was aware of his name being called from a long way away and then of the discomfort-although not pain-at being gently shaken before finally emerging into wakefulness, but not immediately recalling where he was. Then he saw Pamela bending over him, frowning and asking if he was all right, and remembered the meeting being suspended and the cot being moved into his office-as well as one into Pamela’s-and of everyone else going to the director’s private dining room for lunch.

He tried-and failed-to lever himself up on one elbow and thanked Pamela for helping him.

She said, “I was worried. It took a hell of a lot to wake you. I thought you’d collapsed.”

“What’s happened? What time is it? What …?”

“It’s a quarter after two.” She turned briefly to his desk, coming back with a disposable razor, a toothbrush, toothpaste and a can of shaving foam. “I went shopping for you.”

“What’s happened?” he demanded, swiveling his legs off the cot, pleased there wasn’t any pain from his rib.

“You just won gold.” She smiled. “They found enough explosives packed in and around the Lincoln Memorial to blow it all the way to California. It’s going to take at least another hour to defuse it all, so you’ve got time to clean up before we go take a look-see.” She turned back to the desk. “I have salt beef on rye-a pickle’s optional-coffee, Tylenol, and water to take it with.”

“I’ll pass on the Tylenol,” he said.

“That’s a good sign.”

So was this personal attention, thought Cowley.

The bank manager regarded Anne Stovey with roughly the same surprise although none of the cynicism of the metro detective to whom Snelling had earlier complained, shaking his head in expectation of something more. “It’s computer error,” he said. “What else can it be?”

“Aren’t you worried about it?”

“It’s pennies,” dismissed the man. “It’s not uncommon. We’ve always credited Mr. Snelling.”

“No other customer complaints?”

“Not a one.” He smiled invitingly. “The fact is that Mr. Snelling is the sort of man whom banks don’t particularly welcome as customers.”

“Because he keeps such a close eye on his account and expects it to be in order?”

The smile went. “He’s a pedantic man.”

“How long have you been in banking?” asked Anne.

“Twenty years.” The man frowned.

“I really thought you would have heard of one of the most successful computer scams ever directed against a bank,” said the woman.

The man was completely serious now. “What scam?”

“Happened very soon after banks were computerized,” said Anne. “It’s lectured about at Quantico, the bureau’s training academy. Can’t, for the moment, remember the bank, although it was certainly in New York State. A teller calculated that most people had a good idea of the dollar balance in their checking accounts but never knew to within ten to fifteen pennies how many cents they had. So he opened his own account, under a fictitious name, in a branch in a nearby town and creamed off a few cents from the most active accounts. In a year he had a country house in Westchester, with a pool and a tennis court, to which he stupidly invited people from the bank for weekends. Just as he stupidly drove a new Cadillac into work every morning. When anyone asked he said there’d been an inheritance from a rich aunt, only when there were a few isolated complaints-like the ones you’re getting from Mr. Snelling-bank security couldn’t find any rich aunt.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked the man, completely serious now.

“Check to see if there are any more accounts from which pennyante amounts seem to have disappeared, like they have from Mr. Snelling.”