The Watchmen

8

There were a lot of officers and detectives who became distressed, vomited even, when confronted with the victim of violent death. Dimitri Danilov never had been, apart from Larissa, whom he’d had to identify from her belongings and which hadn’t been an uninvolved professional duty.

A dead body mattered to him only for the clues it might scientifically provide to catch its killer. Beyond that it was a lifeless thing, of no interest or emotion. He felt absolutely none as he stood beside Pavin in the police mortuary, staring down at the naked gray flesh, following the pathologist through the external medical findings. The testes of both victims were ballooned from torture before they died. There were also whip marks across their backs and the round marks of cigarette burns on both faces, which no longer had eyes. There was severe restraint bruising to the ankles and wrists, which the pathologist guessed to have been caused by metal handcuffs, not softer rope, and the doctor also thought from the testicle damage that they had been tortured over a period of several hours-as much, even, as an entire day. The head shots had been what killed them, the teeth-shattering mouth wounds following, for symbolism. Medically Nikov had been suffering gonorrhea and Karpov ulcers, for which antacid medication was among the man’s effects.

Pavin had met Danilov in at the airport that morning and brought with him the recovered pocket contents of each victim, but they’d spent the journey to the mortuary discussing Gorki.

Pavin identified ownership by placing the appropriate plastic evidence sacks at the foot of each body on its adjacent gurney. As Danilov picked up the bag marked with Nikov’s name, his deputy said, “The other one’s more intriguing.”

Danilov said, “I want to keep my head in sequence. All I’ve heard about for the past three days is this man.”

Viktor Nikolaevich Nikov had come to Moscow to be murdered carrying $1,470 in American currency, a gold cigarette case containing ten now-soaked Marlboro cigarettes, and a gold Zippo lighter. The watch was gold, too, a Cartier, and the gold signet ring had an onyx setting. The only other jewelry was a gold, unengraved identity bracelet. There was a passport, showing two American visa entries and two driver’s licenses, one in his own name, the other in that of Eduard Babkendovich Kulik. They reminded Danilov that he’d forgotten the previous day to check for a vehicle or a garage that might have belonged to the man’s apartment. Carelessness was obviously contagious in Gorki.

Danilov said, “Like they always say, crime pays.”

“Until you get shot in the head and mouth,” said Pavin. “Now try the other one.”

Valeri Alexandrovich Karpov had been carrying $420, again in American currency. There was a gold, Swiss-made watch, which had stopped at 12:40, and a wedding ring. All the contents had been removed to dry from a new leather wallet. There were curling photographs of a blond woman, from the background standing on the bank of the river into which Karpov had been thrown untold years later, one of a much younger Karpov with the same woman, and two more of the man with smiling children, both girls. There was only one driver’s license. As Danilov put it aside for the next item Pavin, beside him, said, “And finally the interesting part.”

It was an official pass, on yellow cardboard kept dry by its laminated plastic case, and contained a photograph of the dead man, whose job description was given as stores supervisor. Reading the cover page imprint, Danilov said, “Do I need to ask what’s manufactured at Plant 43, Moscow provincial area?”

“Chemical as well as biological,” confirmed Pavin. “It’s some way out of Moscow, to the northwest. Actually on the Skhodaya River, in the Tushino region.”

“Which connects with the canal and the Khimkinskoy Reservoir,” recognized Danilov. “I wonder if anyone ever worries what would happen to Moscow if there were to be a leak, like there was at Chernobyl?”

“Of course they don’t,” said Pavin, responding seriously to Danilov’s cynicism. “Our appointment there is for three this afternoon.”

“Did you tell them why?”

“I didn’t need to. Did you see the television coverage of what happened in America?”

“Some. What did the factory say?”

“That we needed authority from the Ministry of Science as well as the Ministry of Defense. So I called Chelyag’s secretariat at the White House. We got permission an hour before you landed.”

“Thank you,” said Danilov. It hadn’t been a mistake at all to leave Pavin in Moscow.

“We’ve got time to check out Pereulok Samokatnaja,” Pavin pointed out.

“The wife been informed yet?”

“You told me to wait,” reminded Pavin.

Which might have been a mistake, thought Danilov-not putting any family there under protection at least. “I think we should.”

Karpov’s apartment block was comparatively new and therefore, by that definition, prematurely old and decaying. It had been one of the last developments under the Brezhnev diktat promising a home of their own for every Russian family. The limited success of the program had been secondary to the million-plus kickbacks Brezhnev and his immediate family received from prefabricated material suppliers, incompetent architects, and cowboy builders. Some of the average-size rooms were smaller than the alloted space, and chicken coops at the rear of each apartment allowed the occupants some self-sufficiency in meat and vegetables they’d never been able to buy because Brezhnev and his ministers had run the country’s food supply and distribution as a private enterprise, too.

Karpov’s apartment was a surprising exception when Naina Karpov admitted them. In the living room there was a matching suite of two chairs and a sofa and a glass-fronted cabinet displaying a set of matching goblets. As they passed the open-doored kitchen, Danilov had seen an impressively large refrigerator/freezer, and the television looked new and had a very good picture: It was a cartoon program for the girl of about ten who whined in protest at being told to turn it off and go and read in another room. It was only when Danilov turned to see the child open a linking door that he realized that it was not, in fact, one apartment but two, connected by what must have been a later, additional door.

“What’s happened?” she demanded at once as the door closed behind the girl.

“It’s serious,” said Danilov. Naina Karpov, the woman in the photographs the man had been carrying, was neatly dressed in uncreased skirt and sweater. She wore no makeup or jewelry, and she had about her an uncaring resignation that reminded him of Olga, which was scarcely fitting because if she had been made up and dressed differently Naina Karpov still might have been an attractive woman. The incongruous reflection reminded Danilov that he hadn’t bothered to call Olga from Gorki the previous night or telephoned today to tell her he was back. He didn’t imagine she’d be interested. There was still plenty of time.

“What?” said the woman.

“I’m afraid your husband has been killed,” said Pavin.

“He didn’t come home last night,” declared the wife, as if it was a contributory fact.

“It happened yesterday,” said Pavin.

“How?”

Pavin looked at Danilov, who nodded, watching the woman curiously. Pavin said, “He was shot. With another man.”

Naina Karpov nodded without any obvious emotion. “I told him.”

“Told him what!” demanded Danilov.

“That it had to be wrong, what he was doing.”

Danilov suppressed the sigh. “What, exactly, was he doing?

“Selling stuff from the factory,” she declared bluntly.

“What sort of stuff?” coaxed the more patient Pavin.

She frowned. “Metal, of course. That was his job, ordering a lot of the metal they use there: making sure there was always a supply. Keeping a proper account of it. Which made it easy. He ordered more than they needed and sold the surplus. Said it was easy. That he’d never be caught.” She made a vague gesture around the connected apartments. “That’s how …”

“Who’d he sell metal to?” queried Danilov.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. He said other factories who didn’t have their supplies organized like he did. And garages. Places like that who always needed metal.”

“He told you all about it then?” said Pavin.

The shrug came again. “Not really. Not like I’m telling you. It just came out, in bits and pieces.”

“So he’s been doing it for a long time?”

“I suppose so.”

“How long would you say?”

“Two or three years.”

“Which?”

“Three, I suppose.”

“And you warned him to stop?”

“I told him I was frightened.”

“Why-and of what-were you frightened?”

“I didn’t like the friends he was making.”

“So you met them?” seized Danilov.

“No. That was the problem. I never met any of them. He said it was business-his business-but there wasn’t any socializing. He said the men he dealt with only liked dealing with other men.”

“You weren’t surprised when he didn’t come home last night?” challenged Danilov.

“He said he might be late.”

“Late?” qualified Pavin. “Not that he wouldn’t be coming home at all?”

“No.”

Danilov said, “Were there many nights he didn’t come home at all, Mrs. Karpov?”

The woman didn’t answer for several moments. “A few times.”

“Once or twice a week?”

“About that.”

Danilov said, “You’re sure you never met any of Valeri’s friends?”

“I asked, in the beginning. Wondered why we didn’t go out together. That’s when he told me it was business, but I didn’t believe him. Not that it was entirely business.”

Despite the denial, Danilov took the Gorki police file picture of Nikov from his briefcase and offered it to her. “Do you know this man?”

She dutifully studied it. “No.”

“Did he ever speak about any of his friends by name?”

“No, never.”

“Does the name Viktor Nikolaevich Nikov mean anything to you?”

“No, nothing at all.”

“Did he ever talk about Gorki?”

“No.”

“Go there?”

“Never, as far as I know.”

Pavin looked to Danilov for guidance. Danilov said, “Is there a desk anywhere where Valeri kept his papers? Bills, official letters, things like that?”

“A box in the bedroom.” Without being asked she led the way into a room off the entry hall of the apartment that they were in. Again the suite matched and there was a fitted, silklike cover over the bed. The box was at the bottom of the closet. When she opened the closet Danilov saw there were three good-quality suits-one with the familiar sheen-with a separate pair of shoes neatly arranged beneath each. The box wasn’t locked. There was the couple’s marriage certificate and birth certificates of both girls and some photographs. The leases for the two apartments were pinned together, and at the very bottom there were photographs of an elderly couple-the man in uniform-and old, tattered food allowance books.

The woman said, “They’re Valeri’s parents. His father fought in the Patriotic War. He said he kept the ration books as a reminder: that he’d never let himself be as poor as they were.”

“There’s no bank statements?” said Pavin.

“Who trusts banks in this country!” she said almost indignantly. “Valeri certainly didn’t.”

“Or letters?”

She shrugged. “Who’s there to write to us? Both our parents are dead. Valeri always dealt personally, face to face, with anything official. There’s no point in writing.”

“Have you got a car?” asked Pavin.

“Foreign. An Audi. He was very proud of it.”

“They’re not easy to get in Moscow. And they’re expensive,” said Danilov.

“Valeri said they were easy to get when you had friends like he did. I told you, he sold metal to garages.”

“Did he drive it last night?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t like using it at night. Leaving it. Too easy to get it stripped.” She pointed toward the dressing table. “There are the keys.”

Danilov led the way back into the main room. As they reached it, Naina Karpov blurted suddenly, “Was it a fight over a woman?”

“No,” said Danilov. “It was a gang murder. Mafia.”

For the first time she reacted, eyes widening. “Mafia! How could it be mafia?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said Pavin. “And we’re going to have to ask you formally to identify the body. Not today. Possibly tomorrow or the day after.” It would take at least until then for the postmortem to be completed.

“All right,” the woman agreed, retreating into resignation again. Then she said, “I know there was a woman. That there had to be. But”-she looked around the room-“I don’t have anywhere else. Anyone else. And now I don’t have him, do I?”

“I’m sorry,” said Pavin.

“Can you find out who did it? Have …” She stopped, groping. “People who saw it … witnesses …?”

“No,” admitted Danilov. “But we’re going to try very hard. It’s very important that we do. We’d like to look inside the car. Can you take us down to the garage?”

At the apartment door Naina called out to her daughter that she would only be a few minutes, and they rode in silence to the ground floor. The garage, like the car, was immaculate. Danilov sniffed apprehensively, but there was no overperfumed deodorizer, just the smell of newness. The tachometer registered just over 1,500 kilometers. There was nothing in the glove box or side pockets-not even the car’s documentation-and only a forgotten doll, which the woman retrieved, on the backseat. The trunk was empty, apart from a quilted jacket.

She said, “He kept it very tidy.”

“I can see he did,” said Danilov. He handed her a card. “If you remember anything you think might help, will you call this number? Ask for me or Colonel Pavin?”

“Yes,” she said emptily. “Yes, of course.” She paused. “If you find who the other woman was, will you tell me?”

Neither man replied.

“No,” she accepted. “No, there wouldn’t be any purpose in that, would there? It’s all over.”

As he picked up the first of the two highways to take them back to Moscow Pavin said, “He told her he sold metal to garages. And Nikov had three garages in Gorki, from what you’ve told me. What better place to get a foreign car than a mafia garage?”

“I made the connection,” said Danilov. “Not actually distraught, was she?”

“She’d accepted the marriage was over. A lot of people-husbands and wives-go on doing that when they’ve nowhere else to go. Which she said she didn’t.”

“There is-or had been-a lot of money,” judged Danilov. “I’ve never seen two apartments connected like that before. And nothing in it was cheap.”

“Why torture them?” demanded Pavin. “I can fit everything else together, but I can’t see the reason for doing what they did to them before killing them. No one was coming to us with information. We don’t know anything more now than when we started.”

“There’s one thing I’m anxious to establish from the Tushino plant,” said Danilov. As the new question came to him he said, “More than one, in fact. Several.”

Plant 43 was almost-but not quite-a clone of its Gorki progenitor, which Danilov acknowledged to be hardly surprising in view of the centrally controlled, centrally designed, centrally dictated, early 1960s, Cold War fridgidity of communist collectivism. The Tushino installation was smaller than the enclaves at Gorki, and each of its three divided factories were connected by an internal road, which by security-separating standards was a waste of time in the first place. They took the publicly designated turnoff to the centrally located Plant 43 itself. There was still the combination of control tower and private road checkpoint, but the tower appeared unmanned and there was only one yawning man at the gatehouse who waved away their offered proof of official authority because their names were already on his approved entrants’ list.

They were early by fifteen minutes and kept waiting a further thirty minutes by the plant director. Vladimir Leonidovich Oskavinsky was an emaciated, imperiously mannered man who was so obviously surprised by their authorized visit that he insisted upon telephoning the Science and Defense ministries extension to reaffirm the permission and still seemed to disbelieve the confirmation. He coughed a lot, and Danilov wondered if his earlier cynicism about a leak had been as rhetorical as he’d intended.

“Of course I know why you’re here,” said the man, ahead of any explanation. “I’ve seen the pictures from America. It’s Gorki, not here. How do you imagine I can help you?”

Instead of answering Danilov, just as impatient, offered the mortuary photograph of Valeri Karpov. The plant director’s face twisted in disgust. He came back up to them and said, “What’s this! Why are you showing me this?”

Pavin said, “Don’t you recognize him?”

“Why should I?”

“He worked here. As a stores supervisor. Valeri Karpov.” Pavin put Karpov’s official pass beside the photograph.

Oskavinsky frowned down again at both. “Over two hundred people are employed here.”

“Don’t you recognize him?” asked Pavin.

“I think so. Vaguely. What happened to him?”

“I would have thought that was rather obvious,” said Danilov. He offered a second photograph, of the dead man’s balloon-size genitalia, and said, “He was working with organized crime: selling materiel from here.”

“That’s absurd! I refute that absolutely.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Danilov, allowing his annoyance at official condescension to return. “You know-because you’ve just checked-the authority with which we are here. If you’re wrong you’ll be dismissed. As it is, I could have you suspended. I don’t want-won’t have-your arrogance. I want your total cooperation.”

Momentarily Oskavinsky, king of his own tiny castle, was dumbstruck by the ramparts being breached. The coughing became more pronounced. Humbly he said, “How can I help?”

“By not trying to avoid-or lie to-a single question,” bullied Danilov. Who didn’t think from then on that the cadaverous man did.

After checking with his operational manager, Oskavinsky stated that there were 102 ineffectually designed double warheads at Tushino, conceding at the same time that while Valeri Karpov had no authority to go anywhere near the biological or chemical facility, it was conceivable that he knew the way to enter every facility.

The director’s collapse continued when Danilov pedantically counted the racks of the identically stored weapons in their identically uniform racks in an identical subterranean cavern-at the fourth basement level once more-and only got up to ninety-eight. The side stenciling matched the size and print of Gorki but none of the numbering-for which Oskavinsky gave the same explanation-had the same sequence as the UN missile. Danilov didn’t even ask permission to scrape the lettering and base paint from a warhead into one of the unused envelopes he still had from the Gorki hotel. Oskavinsky insisted on again calling the Science Ministry before allowing Danilov to take possession of an empty warhead.

Back in the director’s office, Danilov said, “I want to talk about the metal that is used to make both the warhead and the delivery systems. Is it specially forged-made-whatever the technical expression is?”

“Yes,” Oskavinsky replied at once.

“One metal? Or an alloy?”

“Alloys, for both,” said the man, eager now to help. “There has to be a tensility to the missile base, to allow for the brief but extreme launch heat. If there weren’t it would melt, exploding the contents at source. The launch mechanism is basically nothing more than a disposable frame. Because the one we’re talking about was intended to be shoulder-mounted, it was made of lighter alloy-mostly aluminium, bronze, and copper. The faceplate, to protect the operator from the initial intense blast-back, was a laminate of heat-rejecting plastics with a bauxite infusion.”

“As a stores supervisor, would Valeri Karpov’s job have been to order such metals?”

“Various department requisitions would have been passed on to him, yes.”

“Would the amounts he ordered have been cross-checked against the requisitions passed down after delivery?”

Oskavinsky shifted uncomfortably. “That’s the system. Cost control.”

“Was it observed?” persisted Danilov.

“To the best of my knowledge, yes.”

“By regular, specific audit.”

“No, not by specific audit,” conceded the man. “By comparing the department request against the suppliers’ delivery figure.”

“Which effectively put Karpov in total control of what he ordered?”

“I suppose so, yes,” the scientist admitted. There was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

“Is any of the metal alloyed here?”

“No. It’s a precise process, needing specific expertise and a controlled environment quite different from anything we have here.”

“These specifically produced, controlled environment alloys?” said Danilov. “Could they be used for anything else? Cannibalized for use in body repair work in garages, for instance?”

Oskavinsky looked at him incredulously. “Of course not! It would be like”-he waved his arms, seeking a comparison-“like trying to attach soft curd to hard cheese. They wouldn’t mix. In laymen’s terms, they wouldn’t stick together.”

“What do your other connected plants manufacture?” persisted Danilov.

“Basic high-explosive artillery shells.”

“Mines?”

“Yes.”

“Land? Or water?”

“Both.”

“What about the metal used in those? Could they be utilized in other industries? Car repairs particularly?”

“No!” said Oskavinsky, exasperated.

“I didn’t think so,” said Danilov. “I want empty mine casings-land and water-as well.”

“I didn’t think so, either,” said Pavin, as they drove back along the M11 toward Moscow. “I also don’t think any of that takes us very far.”

“Parts of a picture,” said Danilov. “A picture we can’t yet see. Which isn’t what worries me the most at the moment. What worries me is that we’ve no way of knowing just how many of these things-how many warheads or bombs or whatever else-have disappeared from these plants. Or where they are now.”

It was a worry that increased an hour later when Pamela Darnley told him the metal of what was now estimated to be the four antipersonnel mines from New Rochelle had tested positive to be Russian.

The conversation with Pamela Darnley lasted for more than an hour. This time Danilov was more forthcoming than he’d been from Gorki. He said he was wiring details and photographs of the two Moscow murders as well as summaries of his inquiries in Gorki and Moscow. There was some forensic evidence he wanted analyzed under superior FBI techniques that might confirm a source for the UN missile, one sample in particular he intended personally bringing to America.

“What’s keeping you?” demanded the acting head of the bureau’s terrorism unit.

“The need to get it right,” said Danilov. “I’ve more to do here first.” With the authority he had from the White House, he scarcely had to worry about legality. Which wasn’t a consideration anyway. The need was to make people feel complacent.

“We’re under a hell of a lot of pressure here,” admitted the woman. She was sure the chauvinistic bastard was holding out on her.

Danilov remembered that he had to report to the presidential committee the following day. “How’s Bill?”

“Pretending to be getting better faster than he really is, according to the doctor.”

“He is going to get back, though?”

“Is our cooperation dependent on that?” Pamela demanded outright. She needed to get this man in her pocket if she stood any chance of properly using the opportunity she had.

“You’ve got all I’ve got. Which doesn’t give us anything except my feeling that a lot more stuff could be missing.”

“That’s what we’re terrified of here,” said the woman.

“That’s what we’re terrified of here, too,” said Danilov.

It was only when he pulled up outside their Kirovskaya apartment that Danilov realized he still hadn’t told Olga he was back. Wednesday, he remembered. Wednesday was Olga’s night at the movies with Irena. It was a fleeting thought, washed away by another, more personally surprising awareness. It hadn’t occurred to him to go to Larissa’s grave. He turned back to the car and then away again. Enough. It had to stop and now was as good a time-the right time-as any. It was maudlin. Ridiculous, actually talking to her by the graveside: a pretense for no purpose. Larissa was dead and he was alive, and he had to learn-was learning-to live with the emptiness. He wouldn’t stop going completely-that would be a pretense in reverse-but he’d mourn properly.

There probably wouldn’t be any food in the apartment. There often wasn’t even when Olga knew he was coming home. He didn’t feel particularly hungry; could always go out later. At that precise moment he wanted to think through the uncertainties of Gorki and those of today, here, back in Moscow. Which is what they were-uncertainties, nothing more. It would be wrong, a mistake, to misconstrue Gorki and because of it misconstrue-or wrongly read-the two Moscow murders. The stenciling today had appeared identical to that at Gorki, so it would only have been necessary to switch the name if the missile had come from the Tushino installation. And he could be making the cardinal error of allowing personal feelings and attitudes at his being patronized by the Gorki militia chief to influence his thinking. Which was what he had to do tonight: Think, analyze, and be totally objective.

The vestibule and the living room beyond were as Danilov expected, neglected chaos. He dropped his case and coat in the hall and went into the kitchen: He kept the vodka in the refrigerator. That was all there was in it, apart from two slices of curled-edged bread and an unopened can of fish eggs. The stalagmite of dishes had grown in the sink.

It was as Danilov was leaving that he heard the noise. He stopped at once, listening, and heard it again. Nothing positive, identifiable. Just the sound of movement. Carefully Danilov stooped, placing his glass on the floor, and eased the restraining strap off the Makarov on its waistband holster. Why hadn’t he seen the marks of a forced entry-had difficulty with the key-as he entered? The noise came again, twice, louder the second time. The safety came soundlessly off the gun. He tested each step before making it, pausing, weapon ready, at what had appeared the empty main room. It was still empty. There was movement as he got to the bedroom door. He went in low, following his training, gun barrel upward but ready, back immediately and protectively to the wall.

There was no one there. Just the jumbled, unmade disorder there always was. And then the disorder moved and a tousled head-Olga’s head-appeared from beneath the tangled bedding.

She said, “It’s you! But you’re in Gorki!”

Danilov slid the catch back on the Makarov and restrapped it. As he did so another head, a man’s head, eyes staring, appeared beside Olga’s. For a brief moment Danilov’s mind went totally blank, refusing any thought. His first realization, absurdly, was that he must be staring wide-eyed, too. Then he wanted to laugh, which was laughable in itself, but it was the only feeling that came to him and he only just prevented himself doing it.

It became even more difficult when Olga said, almost formally, “This is Igor.”

The man said, “Hello.”

Then Danilov did laugh, unable to stop himself.

Olga said, “Don’t laugh. Igor. My hairdresser.”

Danilov became aware that despite what they’d obviously been doing, the man’s perfectly blond hair, although now disarrayed, would have been a close-fitting coif.

Igor said, “I’m sorry. Don’t hurt me.”

Danilov said, “Get up.”

“We haven’t got any clothes on,” said Olga.

“I know,” said Danilov.

“Bastard!”

“Get up and get out.”

“You fucked Larissa!” she shouted. “Why shouldn’t I fuck who I want?”

Danilov hadn’t known that Olga knew. Inexplicably-ridiculously-he felt embarrassed. He said, “You can fuck who you like, which you always have. With my blessing. But not in my home, in my bed. Get up and get out.”

“I’ve got nowhere to go!” said Olga, quieter now.

Into Danilov’s mind came the memory of Naina Karpov gazing around an apartment far more luxurious than this, protesting she had nowhere else. “Why not go home with Igor?”

“I’m married,” said the man.

Abruptly it no longer seemed absurd or laughable. It was sad and miserable-a fitting part in the mess of his life. Their lives. “Call Irena.”

Danilov went out of the room and picked up his carefully placed drink on his way into the living room. He had to clear a space on the couch, sweeping papers and magazines and discarded clothes on to the floor. Almost at once there was movement and the slamming of the door as the man left.

Olga appeared at the doorway and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Of course you’re not,” Danilov said impatiently. “You made a hobby of being unfaithful from the moment we got married. I’ll sleep here, on the couch.”

“Thank you.”

Danilov didn’t say anything.

“Good night. And thank you again,” said Olga.

Danilov didn’t reply. If Olga’s lover was a hairdresser, why did he let her hair look like it did?

Patrick Hollis had so much wanted to take the Jaguar-so much wanted to impress Carole in each and every way he could-but he changed his mind literally at the last moment. Not yet. Not until he knew her better. A lot of his penny-stolen fortune was deposited in ways to sustain a story of it being an inheritance, but it was still better to be careful. He told his mother it was a major conference of all the bank branches and went to the Italian restaurant Carole had suggested-the place in Albany, she’d said-in his lunch hour personally to reserve and choose the window table and talk through the menu so he wouldn’t be caught out if Carole asked for guidance. On his way back he bought an orchid corsage.

The afternoon heat wilted it by the time he gave it to her, and the purple clashed against her yellow sweater so she didn’t put it on. She named the bar for a drink, and Robert Standing and three others-a man and two girls-from the mortgage department were already there. Hollis was immediately frightened that Carole would expect to join them, but she didn’t. Hollis was sure his casual wave had just the right degree of nonchalance. He wished his breathing was easier, conscious of wheezing. Carole had chardonnay. Hollis chose a martini, for its sophistication. He’d only tried it once before, and it burned his throat as it had the first time, but he resisted anything ridiculous like coughing. Carole asked for another, so he had to have a second and hoped the light-headedness wouldn’t last. He managed another nonchalant wave to Standing as they left.

Carole made him taste her marinated calamari, and he was sure that was what made him feel sick, rather than the chianti. He left most of his veal, which he’d forgotten came in a cream sauce. He didn’t think she saw him swallow back the belch that brought something up to the back of his throat.

Because she’d shown an interest he talked a lot about loans and securities, exaggerating some of the contracts he’d negotiated, and said his influence was sufficient if she wanted a transfer the moment a vacancy arose. Toward the end of the wine he had to grope for words that escaped him.

Carole’s apartment was actually in Albany. As soon as they drew up outside, she got out of the car without saying anything, stopping some way away in apparent surprise that he wasn’t with her.

“Aren’t you coming up?”

He got hurriedly out of the car, fervently wishing he didn’t feel so sick. It was a walkup, on the third floor, and he was wheezing badly by the time he got to her door.

“I have whiskey as well as vodka or gin. But I guess you’d like another martini. You want to mix?”

“I’d better stick with coffee. I’ve got to drive back to Rensselaer.”

Carole frowned. “You’re not staying over?”

“I didn’t … I mean …”

“No reason why you shouldn’t, is there?”

She wanted to sleep with him! Go to bed with him where he could do all the things he’d seen on the porn channels: things that made them groan and cry out. He couldn’t! His mother. She’d stay up-awake, certainly-until he got back. It was already past eleven. She would have already started to worry. “Maybe not tonight. Left some work back at home that I’ll need tomorrow.”

“You want to skip the drink then-end the evening properly?” She smiled.

“Please,” he said, not thinking what he was saying and tried to cough, to cover it, but knew he hadn’t. Her smile was broader when she turned toward the bedroom.

He followed her in and she turned, holding out her arms. “Want to help a girl?”

He didn’t undo the neck buttons of her sweater and had to pull it back on to unfasten them before it would go over her head. When he saw her breasts he said, “Oh my God, you’re so beautiful.”

She was helping him undress and their hands got in the way and the zipper of her skirt jammed and in the end she wriggled out with it only half undone. She kept her panties on and got into bed ahead of him, frowning back at his flaccid nakedness.

“A girl’s feelings could be hurt.”

Hollis got in beside her and reached with a single finger to touch her nipple. She said, “If you’re counting, there’s two.”

Why wasn’t he hard! He’d thought about this so much-fantasized about what it would be like really to do it and not just watch-and now he couldn’t. He said, “I don’t know … I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve changed my mind anyway.”

“No, please. Wait.”

“I’m tired of waiting, darling. Let’s skip it. Maybe you’d better get home.”

On his way back to Rensselaer he had to stop once, because his crying blurred his glasses. His mother was up and said she had been about to call the police. Hollis said he’d had a flat.

“I hope you called out a repair truck. You’re not supposed to do things like that.”

“I couldn’t,” he said.

Virtually everyone in the FBI’s Albany office was permanently seconded to the New Rochelle massacre and the UN attack. Only Anne Stovey was on duty when Clarence Snelling walked in.

The balding, stooped man said, “Bank robbery’s a federal offense, right?”

“Right,” agreed Anne.

“Good,” said Snelling.