The Watchmen (25 page)

Authors: Brian Freemantle

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Espionage

BOOK: The Watchmen

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The female army sergeant had a month to serve of her court-martial sentence in a stockade in Virginia. Her sexually harassing counterpart was an instructor in a health club in Baltimore, where he lived. The accident-prone chauffeur had a home in Frederick, where she now worked in a haberdashery shop. And according to the welfare agency details—she’d only left the Pentagon a month before and hadn’t gotten another job—Roanne Harding, the references forger, had an apartment actually in D.C., off Lexington Place close to Stanton Square.

Almost at once it emerged that her Pentagon references weren’t the only variable documents in Roanne Harding’s thirty-two-or sometimes twenty-eight-year life. She was only Roanne Harding on her Pentagon personnel records, which gave her age at twenty-eight and her birthplace as Roanoke, Virginia. The date on her birth certificate issued there made her thirty-two and included the middle name of Roland, which had been her mother’s maiden name. The computer-copied photograph accompanying the logged details of her Washington, D.C. driver’s license matched the Afroed, light-skinned black woman whose matching digitized picture had been supplied by the Pentagon. The license photograph of Joan Roland, from the same address in Roanoke as that of her parents, was of a woman with the same facial features but with long, straight, almost shoulder-length hair. Duke Lucas’s photograph of the girl who’d descended with them from the Washington Monument showed only the back of her head. Pamela decided at once the hair could be the same held back in a pony tail. She dispatched two agents to find Lucas and Piltone, she hoped at their motel, and three to Roanne Harding’s Lexington Place address—with instructions to make discreet neighbor inquiries but not make any direct approach. She also got Leonard Ross’s authority to brief a bureau lawyer for a search warrant and wire-tap application to a judge.

Piltone and Lucas were brought into the J. Edgar Hoover building and immediately—although separately, to avoid one influencing the other—identified the Roanoke picture of Joan Roland as the girl who’d been in their party.

The report from Lexington Place was that Roanne Harding hadn’t been seen for at least a week. Her mailbox hadn’t been cleared, and the janitor had had complaints of a gas leak smell from other residents.

William Cowley was patched from the Manhattan office to take part in the conference call discussion with Leonard Ross and Pamela Darnley. Cowley pleaded against immediately exercising the warrant, arguing that the woman was a more direct link to the Watchmen whom they should follow, not arrest. But he was overruled by the director, who insisted the publicity would have warned Roanne Harding and her group and that there was sufficient evidence to bring her in for questioning.

Pamela went to Lexington Place with the bomb disposal team and ordered no one clearing the apartment block and three immediately adjacent buildings to disclose it was an FBI operation before she authorized the entry. The door and its frame were X rayed for explosive devices or connections before the bureau locksmith even began to work, which he did with painstaking slowness and encased not only in protective armor but from behind a thicker, armored shield.

There was no booby trap but the smell of leaking gas was so overpowering that the coughs of two of the bomb disposal team turned into choking. Pamela, armored like the rest of the agents she was leading, wished they had nose clips. From the doorway where she was waiting, she could see that the main room had been trashed.

From another unseen room the bomb squad leader called: “It’s not leaking gas. In here.”

Roanne Harding was naked and on her back, legs splayed on a bed wrecked like the rest of the room. She had been shot twice in the head, and there were already maggots in the decomposing body.

In Brooklyn an electrical power cut followed at once by a surge totally distrupted the appliances in fifteen streets—including Bay View Avenue—in the Norton Point district. Deep freezers died, televisions blew, fire and burglar alarms went off, and a lot of home computers crashed.

The maintenance director of Con Ed said to Cowley, “You satisfied with that?”

“Completely,” said Cowley.

“I wish to Christ I was,” said the man. “And knew what it was all about.”

“If you did you’d be proud of the help you’ve given,” promised Cowley.

It was Dimitri Danilov’s idea (“if they’re worried and they’re both Russian that’s what they’ll speak in front of strangers”) to go into the Bay View Avenue house as part of a supposed repair team. There was confirmation from the surveillance vehicles that some genuine electric company vans were already in the Norton Point area and a lot of people were in the streets, Orlenko one of them, talking to neighbors on both sides. He’d hurried inside when a local news television crew had appeared. On the way to Brooklyn in the repair truck that was their necessary cover an enthusiastic professional linesman, Peter Townley, rehearsed Danilov and a bureau electronics technician, Jack Harrison. The technician, a lean-faced would-be stand-up comic, insisted he’d done this sort of thing a dozen times and didn’t need to be told how to appear as if he knew what he was doing, because he did know: All he needed was for them to distract the people so he could get his bugs in “to make the place one great big sound box.”

Townley said to Danilov, “You’re supposed to be my supervisor, OK? I’m doing the work, you’re making sure I do it right. I’ll throw in a lot of technical crap means nothing. If I ask your opinion about something, I’ll keep my left thumb on the piece of equipment or the wire it’s the correct one to choose. How’s that sound?”

“Fine,” said Danilov.

They passed a proper repair truck on West 37th Street, and Danilov spotted the FBI surveillance vehicle parked not in Bay View itself but on the corner of Seagate. In Danilov’s opinion the area wasn’t so much rundown as wind- and sea-swept, fronting on to Gravesend Bay: great in the summer, not so good in winter. He wondered what rent the Trenton company was charging. Arnie Orlenko certainly didn’t appear short of money: according to the LaGuardia taxi driver, he’d dropped a $20 tip on top of the fare.

They parked visibly but some way away from 69, and they didn’t go to it immediately. A man in the first house they called at said he’d already talked to his lawyer and was getting all his appliances checked by an independent firm and intended to sue for any that couldn’t be put right. A woman in the next said what could they expect, so close to all those Coney Island illuminations. It shouldn’t be allowed.

Arnie Orlenko opened the door. He was wearing the same shirt and jeans of his morning arrival but his hair was wet and he was barefoot. There was a heavy smell of cologne. His accent was quite pronounced when he asked what the hell was going on. Danilov, who’d studied linguistics at the university with the original intention of using a natural talent before deciding on a police career, guessed English was a comparatively new language for the man. Danilov easily adopted his supervisory role. It was, he apologized, a major breakdown they didn’t yet know the reason for. Although the power was restored, they needed to check for line faults to prevent it happening again. The whole area had been affected and so far a cause hadn’t been found.

The woman met them in the hallway. She’d changed from the arrival picture. The bulging breasts were straining a halter top that left her midriff bare, and she wore tight, knee-length shorts. Like the man, she was barefoot. The blond hair was a bubbled explosion around a surprisingly freckled, ready-to-smile face. She wasn’t smiling now. She said, “Everything’s gone. The television went bang.”

Danilov decided there was no foreign intonation in the voice. She smelled freshly showered, too. Conscious of the FBI man’s need, he said to Townley, “Maybe we could specifically look at the TV, try to help.”

“You’re the boss, so if it’s all right with you,” said the man. “Right now or shall I look at the boxes first?”

“I can do the boxes,” offered Harrison, on cue. To Orlenko he said, “You want to show me where they are?”

The living room had an odor of a place stale and unused and was untidy, which was useful because Danilov immediately recognized the Cyrillic print of two discarded newspapers as well as the English of that morning’s
Chicago Sun Times.
As he passed, he saw the Russian newspaper was
Moskovsky Vedomosti.
He was aware that Orlenko had remained with Harrison. So far there was none of the hoped-for Russian between the man and the woman and after hearing her speak Danilov didn’t expect it.

Townley had the back off one of the largest television sets Danilov had ever seen—much larger than his indulgence at Petrovka—with separate speakers on either side. The woman was leaning across from the other side, showing an appreciative Townley a deep cleavage valley.

Townley unclipped a circuit board and went through the charade of testing it with a power meter. He said, “This could be it.” He allowed himself a cleavage glance and called, “Sir. Sir, can I see you? And Jack …?”

The FBI man, carrying his toolbox, came in just moments after Orlenko. Townley gestured to Harrison with the microchip board and said, “You think this could be it? It doesn’t give a reading.” To Orlenko he said, “You get the set locally or in the city? You might have to go back to them.”

“Rented locally,” said the man.

Harrison almost had his head inside the set. Emerging, he said to Danilov, “Don’t you always say go for the most obvious?”

“Always,” agreed Danilov, following the lead.

“Then why don’t we check the plug fuse?” Harrison shuffled on his knees to the wall socket, dragging his box, and within seconds turned triumphantly holding up a blackened fuse. “And I’ve got another one with me! Why don’t you put the circuit board back, Pete?”

Danilov said, “That’s a helluva set: never seen one that big. Shouldn’t you check for overload?”

“Not a bad idea,” agreed the FBI man. “I’ll do that. Wouldn’t mind you running over the boxes. I think they’re all right but we need to be sure, don’t we?”

“Can you show us?” Danilov asked the hovering Orlenko.

The electrical boxes were in a closet by the stairs, and it was a tight squeeze for two of them, with an attentive Orlenko wedged half in as well, to see what they were doing. Danilov responded to a lot of left-thumb guidance from Townley, who attached a variety of meters to a variety of wires for the needles to rise and fall impressively.

“Looks like Jack did all he had to here,” said Townley. “This where all the boxes are as far as you know?”

“As far as I know,” said Orlenko, looking back in the direction of the living room in which he’d left Harrison. “This going to take long?”

“Gotta be sure,” said Townley. “No point in rushing it and getting it wrong.”

It was fifteen minutes before they returned to the main room overlooking the bay. Neither Harrison nor the women were there, but there were voices from the kitchen. Townley said, “Better see if Jack needs a hand.”

As Orlenko moved to follow, Danilov pointed to the pulled apart
Moskovsky / Vedomosti
and said, “Foreign, right? What’s the language?”

Orlenko stopped uncertainly, aware Danilov wasn’t going with them. “Russian.” He looked back and forth between Danilov and the kitchen. There was a laugh from the woman.

“You from there!” demanded Danilov, emphasizing the interest. “How long in this country?”

“Coupla years,” said the man.

“Is it as bad as they say it is? Nothing in the shops, lotta crime?”

“It’s better here. What’s your accent?”

“German,” said the linguistically able Danilov, prepared and able to speak it if the other man spoke it, too, and tried to test him. “Came here as a kid but my parents spoke it at home. Useful. Gave me a second language. Your English is good.”

“How much longer you going to be?”

“Almost through now. Always wanted to go to Russia. What part you from?”

“Moscow.” There was an impatience in his voice and he looked again toward the kitchen.

“You think I should go to Moscow? See for myself?”

Orlenko made a half move toward the other voices. “Your choice. What are your guys doing in there?”

“Their job,” said Danilov. “Company don’t like things like this happening. Bad for customer relations.”

“It’s certainly pissed me off.”

The woman led the other two men back into the room, smiling. “Jack fixed the toaster and the stove.”

“Just fuses,” said the bureau technician. “You were lucky.”

“What about bedrooms?” demanded Danilov, wanting to see as much as he could. “Anything electric there? Blankets? TV?”

“TV and it’s OK,” said Harrison. “Mary showed me.”

“I’d better cast an eye over it,” said Danilov, maintaining his supposed role. Everyone trailed behind him, like a tour party, into the kitchen, where he feigned an examination of Harrison’s appliance guidance. There were dirty breakfast plates and two cups in the sink, but Danilov decided the couple still had a lot to learn from Olga. He wondered how far Olga had gotten with her intended divorce settlement. He wasn’t looking forward to returning to Moscow.

“You finished?” Orlenko demanded truculently.

“Not quite,” said Danilov. The suit bag and carry-on were on the unused bed. “You going on a trip?”

“You want to hurry up and get this over with?” insisted Orlenko. “I’m busy.”

“Sorry,” said Danilov. If the woman had been able to speak Russian, there’d have been an exchange by now.

Silently he completed the examination performance and said on the doorstep they were sorry to have troubled them. Orlenko said he was sorry, too, and remained at the door, watching them. They hadn’t intended to leave immediately anyway. They went through a similar charade in three more properties in the avenue, so their van could remain in sight for almost another hour, before Townley summoned a regular relief team and made a show of handing over the check. Orlenko had gone back inside but Danilov was sure the man was watching from behind the net-curtained window.

On their way back into Manhattan Harrison said, “If you guys had spent another five minutes in that closet I’d have had Mary giving me head. Did you ever see tits like that?”

“No,” Townley said. “Should have been cast in stone.”

“What
did
you get?” asked Danilov, impatient at the relief-in-the-front-line camaraderie.

“A fly farts in that place, we hear it,” promised Harrison. “And a lot more besides … . Hey, we made a great team, the three of us. We should all be in movies—the new Marx Brothers.” He erupted into laughter at his own joke, prodding Danilov. “Get it, you being a Russian. Marx Brothers, like … ?”

“I got it,” Danilov said soberly. “It’s very good: very funny.”

Pamela argued essential continuity to have Paul Lambert lead the forensic team, which was enlarged by the inclusion of a D.C. police pathologist, a bald doctor who only just tiptoed beyond being a dwarf and seemed prepared to confront anyone. He had, fortunately, brought nose clips, which everyone was now wearing: having come close to losing her lunch—as well as her credibility in front of men waiting for her to throw up—Pamela would have marked her cross on a ballot paper to elect the man president. The pathologist scarcely had to bend to remove the bullet-split pillow that had been put over Roanne Harding’s face. There were two bullet wounds, one in the center of the forehead, a second that had destroyed her left eye. Both sockets were maggot filled.

Lambert surveyed the room and said, “I’m not happy with this.”

“I shouldn’t think Roanne Harding is, either,” said Pamela. “What’s your point?”

“What do you see?” demanded the scientific examiner.

“Dead woman, maybe sexually violated. Apartment turned over, searching for something … .” She paused. “There is something,” she said.

Lambert called to one of his team, “What’s the count?”

“One,” the fingerprint expert called back. “Hers, I’d guess. No way of getting anything from her, decomposed like that. But her prints are on the personnel file we got from the Pentagon.”

The boyish forensic head raised a warning finger at the approach of the police surgeon and said to the man, “How’s it look to you?”

“Intrusion,” said the pathologist at once. “Guy breaks in to an apartment he thinks is unoccupied, starts to toss it. Girl wakes up, naked. He takes the diversion, rapes her, shoots her through that pillow to deaden the sound. Zips his fly, takes what else he wants. Goes home to watch the
Letterman
show. I’d have said it was all in a night’s work.”

“Except for what?” pressed Lambert.

“For you guys being here. This should be PD, not bureau. She the girl from the Washington Monument you guys been looking for?”

Pamela didn’t answer. Instead, waving her arm around the destroyed room, she said to Lambert, “This is neat, isn’t it! Tidy trashing?”

Lambert smiled broadly. “Right! It’s my job to go through tossed rooms. This stuff has been
put
down.”

Pamela said, “Might help if the Watchmen thought we’d bought it.”

“Give us a little time, at least,” agreed Lambert.