The Watchmen (31 page)
Mizin shrugged. “Another turf war, like the ones a few years back.”
“Who’s the opposition brigade?”
“I’m not sure, not yet. I doubt we’ll be able to bring a case even if I do find out.”
“I don’t want it written off,” said Danilov. “I want it properly investigated.”
“Trust me,” said Mizin.
“Of course I will,” said Danilov.
The argument was again about walking instead of driving to the Coney Island strip.
“I’m wearing heels!”
“Change your shoes.”
“You’re fucking paranoid!”
“I’m fucking careful.”
“It’ll be the Bare Necessities,” predicted Pamela, to no one in particular. “Fuck it! And fuck the D.A. most of all: He’s going to sleep well when half Manhattan gets wiped out in the next germ attack!” The dispute between Leonard Ross, the New York District Attorney, and the attorney general remained unresolved three days after Pamela had renewed Cowley’s already once refused request to tap the public telephone in the topless bar.
“We’ll get in place ahead of them,” said New York agent in charge Harry Boreman, who didn’t like what he considered Pamela Darnley’s unnecessary intrusion on his turf on her way back from Albany to explain the importance of the Brooklyn—Chicago monitor, which they understood every bit as much as she did.
A surveillance team did establish itself in the bar ahead of Orlenko, but other observer cars got in place as before along the seaside approach roads, keeping the couple constantly in view as a precaution against their going somewhere else. Mary Jo had refused to change her shoes and was hobbling before they got on to Riegelmann Boardwalk. It took them forty minutes, Orlenko constantly searching around, staging pauses to look for pursuit.
“Funny thing, but he seems more nervous than he was the day we blacked out the area, when he had more reason to be suspicious.”
“Agreed.”
The voices of two separately motorized observers, both of whom had watched the earlier public telephone routine, echoed into the Manhattan incident room. Pamela made a conscious effort to dismiss her irritation, acknowledging the unprofessional stupidity at it. She’d too rigidly made her mind up that the break was going to come from Chicago—which it still might—and wasn’t paying sufficient attention to alternatives. Such as why, without any apparent summons of which they were aware—certainly nothing involving the telephone or discussed between Orlenko and his hooker wife in the totally wired house—the couple was seemingly on their way to another contact. Or why Orlenko was behaving more apprehensively.
“It’s the same titty bar,” came an observer’s voice.
“We’ve got enough people inside. Let’s not overcrowd the place,” ordered the agent in charge.
“Spoilsport,” came the same voice.
The search for a table closer than the previous occasion to the public telephone was obvious, inside the Bare Necessities. They ordered the same drinks, straight vodka martini for Mary Jo, beer for the Russian. Mary Jo seemed more interested in the stage show, two black girls needing a lot of body touching helping each other to undress, than Orlenko whose attention alternated between his watch and the use of the boxed-in telephone. Without saying anything to his wife, he got up from his chair at 6:25 to claim the booth. Once inside he took a notepad from his pocket, followed by two pens, exposing both ballpoints and testing each.
Again the incoming call was precisely at 6:30. After what could only have been the briefest of identification Orlenko began to write, painstakingly slowly—as if he were printing the words, according to one observer later—and just as pedantically reading each line back once he’d completed it, visibly stabbing the pen from word to word. It took a full ten minutes for the dictation to be completed.
Once more Orlenko didn’t sit down when he rejoined Mary Jo, urging her to finish her drink. They appeared to be arguing as they left the bar, although Orlenko at once hailed a cab back to Bay View Avenue.
“You promised blinis at the Odessa again!” were the first shouted words that echoed into the FBI’s Manhattan office.
“Shut up! I’ve got to make a call first. Alone. Go and clean up the shit in the kitchen.”
“I can’t understand what the fuck you’re talking about anyway.”
There was the sound of a receiver being lifted, numbers being punched. The FBI operator at the front of the electronic equipment said, “One zero seven is the Russian country code. Nine five’s Moscow.”
The Manhattan agent in charge snatched up his own phone and said, “I’ll tell Cowley,” ignoring Pamela.
A woman answered, on the second ring. She said: “Yes?”
“Arseni,” identified Orlenko.
“You’ve had a call?”
“Yes.”
“I knew he would. He had to. How was he?”
“Like he always is. Where did you get the American rocket?”
“They’re everywhere.” She had a throaty voice, deep.
“He was impressed about us keeping our side of the bargain.”
“Pity for him and his great big cause that he didn’t keep his. He say anything?
“Most of the time talked a lot of shit about battles and wars.”
“Let him talk about what he likes.”
“You have any problems?”
It was a dismissive laugh. “Not good, working with outsiders. Not ones who think they know it all, arrogant cunts. Didn’t even have transport. And when it came to it they couldn’t hit the embassy building itself.”
“Going on to Russian government websites in Russian was a good idea, though.”
“Our idea, from here.”
“He wants us to be very careful.”
“Like he should be, in future. All he’s got to worry about is the money and realize no one can do better than us.”
Orlenko hesitated. “He says he doesn’t want what happened last time happening again. That he hopes everyone got the message.”
“He tried the side deal!”
“He meant the missile not detonating.”
“There was an obvious answer to that: It didn’t come from us. But you didn’t remind him of that, did you?” The contempt in her voice was obvious.
“He reestablished contact, came to
us
. He was admitting his mistake doing that.” Orlenko hesitated again. “I’m sorry, incidentally.”
us
. He was admitting his mistake doing that.” Orlenko hesitated again. “I’m sorry, incidentally.”
“It was business—only ever business.”
“Still unfortunate.”
“What does he want?” Now the tone was impatient.
“Quite a lot. Certainly another microbiological missile: one that will detonate this time. A conventional rocket, if you can get one. More than one, if possible. That’s why I asked about the embassy rocket, although it’s American manufactured. Antipersonnel mines. Semtex. And detonators and timers.”
“Quite a lot,” she echoed.
“I know.”
“They shouldn’t have used everything on the memorial.”
“It would have been spectacular.”
“Except that it wasn’t and they lost everything. He admit that was a mistake?”
“Talked about it being an unfortunate battlefield loss.”
She snorted in disgust. “They’re mad, you know? Him and his group.”
“He thinks it’s working in America. Says there’s a lot of anti-Russian feeling, particularly after the intelligence revelations,” said Orlenko. “Told me to ask what the real political feeling was there: whether the Duma move against the president would come to anything.”
“I’m not interested in politics, revolutionary shit. I’m only interested in business.”
“So, can you meet the order?”
“Of course.”
“How long?”
“What about the money?” she countered.
“He said it would be ready.”
“Would,”
she qualified. “Not
is
?”
she qualified. “Not
is
?”
“No.”
“The bastard’s got to be fined for what he was prepared to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“A germ warhead will be a million. Rockets a quarter each. We’ve already got most of everything else. A half a million for that.”
“Two million, two million plus?”
“Depends on how many missiles and rockets I can get. I thought you said he wanted everything we could get hold of?”
“I need to check with him. And tell him the price. What if he says no—to the price, I mean?”
“If he had another supplier he wouldn’t have come back like he has. He’s created the momentum; he’s got to keep it up. Hasn’t got time to come all the way here again, start from scratch.”
“Gavri gave him a coup with the intelligence identities. Maybe, with his contacts, Gavri could introduce him to someone else?”
“The intelligence deal was separate. Just Gavri. If Gavri had a different source they would have used it, wouldn’t they? But they didn’t.
They
came to
us,
” insisted the woman.
They
came to
us,
” insisted the woman.
“I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right.”
“You think Gavri would do another separate deal?”
“Of course he would, if he had something to sell.”
“I didn’t like what he did, cutting us out: saying we had nothing to do with it and didn’t deserve a cut.”
“Maybe we don’t need him anymore,” suggested the woman. “Maybe nobody needs him anymore.”
“If he’s killed it would bring attention to the legit business. And through that to me.”
“I’ll think about it. I didn’t like what he did, either. What’s the arrangement for the next contact?”
“Him to me, as always. But not the topless bar anymore; says we’ve used it enough. I have to go through the routine of getting a new number, to be ready when he calls.”
“Mad, like I said. Playing at being soldiers.”
“With germ warheads and real bombs.”
“I’ll be waiting to hear.”
The phones were put down without any farewells.
The call timed out at eleven minutes forty-five seconds, and it took Cowley and Danilov exactly twenty-three minutes to get from the Savoy to Pereulok Vorotnikovskij. Immediately after alerting them the bureau duty officer, at Cowley’s instructions, had told the telephone-linked surveillance teams—particularly those at the rear—that every woman had, without fail, to be photographed leaving the Golden Hussar.
Danilov, who was driving, parked some way from the restaurant, but that was an unnecessary precaution, too. Vehicles—predominantly Mercedes and BMWs, as Yuri Pavin had reported—overflowed from the parking lot into adjoining streets. As they moved unobtrusively through the crush both men looked for American models. There were some—at least three Cadillacs—but none with upthrust rear fins and none were dark in color. They had, in fact, taken with them to Lasin’s apartment photographs of the three cars—two Oldsmobiles and a Lincoln—the embassy guard thought might have been the vehicle he’d seen, but Lasin claimed not to know of such vehicles in Moscow. Would there be any recognition from the supposedly gang-retired Igor Ivanovich Baratov, who ran a garage? Danilov wondered.
Besides a lot of cars there were a lot of people—not just from the vehicles but on foot. Danilov said, “We’re not going to get photographs of every woman here.”
“I know,” agreed Cowley, and repeated the same acceptance to each of the three surveillance teams as they were located. He also accepted that, by comparison to the brightly lit front of the Golden Hussar—complete with a neon depiction of a plumed and cloaked soldier—the rear of the building was almost too dark even for the fastest of infrared films on the longest of exposures.
Cowley used the mobile telephone of a rear car driver to summon replacement teams. The current ones would return to the embassy to begin developing their prints, then come back afterward with Danilov to the easier concealment of the jammed parking lot.
“There’d be no purpose, even if there wasn’t the risk of our being identified, in our going in there,” said Cowley. “But there’s a woman probably still inside who could tell us all—a hell of a lot, at least—of what we want to know. And there’s no way of knowing or finding out who she is. That’s crazy. Downright fucking crazy.”
“No way
yet,
” qualified the equally frustrated Danilov.
yet,
” qualified the equally frustrated Danilov.
“Manhattan relayed the conversation to a copy tape back at the embassy.”
“No real reason for our hanging around,” said Danilov.
“No real reason for us coming here in the first place,” Cowley said bitterly. “Downright fucking crazy.”
There was a printed transcript and English translation by the time they got back to Ulitza Chaykovskovo, but they still listened, twice, to the recording.
Cowley said, “They’re going for their germ warfare massacre.”
“We knew they would, if they had another warhead. Which they haven’t, not yet,” said Danilov, more objectively. “We’ve got time and we’ve got Bay View Avenue.”
“Which we mustn’t lose.” Cowley checked his watch. “I’ll speak to the director—Manhattan, too—when everyone wakes up in America.” They’d both already given up any idea of sleep for what remained of that night.
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