The Watchmen (42 page)
“Maroon,” said the brothers, in unison.
“I tell you what I want you guys to do,” said Pamela. “I want you to come down to the bureau offices with us and take all the time in the world to work with an artist on an e-fit of the General and the others, if you can remember enough about them. And we’ll look through every make of jeep there’s ever been until you recognize the one they had.”
“What the hell’s this guy done!” demanded Herbie.
“Caused a lot of trouble,” she said.
On their way back out to the car, Murray said, “It’s good.”
“Not good enough,” Pamela said.
When she got back to the office, there were call-back messages from the director and Terry Osnan.
Osnan said, “The navy has a navigation satellite in geostationary orbit over the Pacific. It had been put out by two degrees. Would have put everything off course.”
The director said, “I’m not sure how many more commendations I can award. Looks to me like you might be heading for a presidential medal.”
What about a deputy directorship? wondered Pamela.
Robert Standing had been led away from the building in handcuffs, with virtually every window occupied by watching bank staff. Hollis was sure Standing had been crying; certainly two or three girls inside had been weeping. Carole Parker had been one of them.
The most intense inquest was obviously long distance, from Washington. Leonard Ross insisted on a written, detailed account to which Cowley had to add two further responses to the director’s subsequent queries. In addition there were repeated, tense-voiced telephone conversations. Ross actually echoed Barry Martlew’s diversion cynicism, which Cowley answered by quoting Igor Baratov’s intercepted ridicule of clearing the lock-up garage under the Russian president’s nose. The protection-seeking Danilov had already decided to keep the recorded ridicule—the entire tape and its contents—from Georgi Chelyag.
From the “long drive” remark on the recording, they guessed the man had left Moscow by road, most likely with the arms shipment. Nevertheless, they checked passenger lists of Aeroflot’s U.S. flights and of all the American carriers for the preceding two days. They found no record of Yevgenni Meckislavovich Leanov leaving Moscow by air.
“Viktor Nikov had two passports,” reminded Danilov. “The KGB printed genuine documents. Leanov’s farewell present from the Lubyanka could have been as many as he wanted.”
Cowley spent a long time on the telephone to the FBI office at the Warsaw embassy—which had already received independent priority instructions in the director’s name from Washington—and wired all the available photographs, including Leanov’s from his KGB dossier. The Polish-based agent in charge apologized for not having any useful contacts within the Gdansk port.
“And we can’t risk approaching Cidicj direct, can we?”
“No,” agreed Cowley.
“You’ve no idea what sort of vehicle—or vehicles—will be delivering the stuff? Just that it’ll most likely be Russian registration but that’s not definite?”
Cowley squeezed his eyes shut in exasperation. “I don’t need reminding!”
“Don’t hold your breath that we’ll get anything,” said the other man.
Pamela Darnley was still in Chicago when Osnan relayed the request for Customs authorities there to post an “instant advise” watch for incoming Cidicj freighters. When she spoke to the Washington incident room, Osnan said, “We’re also circulating Leanov’s photograph with a detain order to all airports, harbors, and border crossings.”
“What’s the atmosphere like?”
“Deeply unhappy. You coming back?”
“Albany first, to hear all that Robert Standing has to say.” The case-closing breakthrough might only have been delayed, not lost. The three-D digitized computer drawing of the General looked good—like an identifiable living person—and the physical description was far better than most she’d known, with the bonus of the eagle tattoo. And the Montgomery brothers were positive about the maroon Toyota Land Cruiser. All she had to do was break Standing; in the euphoria the heat would be taken off Cowley. Her sudden desire to do that—help him however she could—surprised her. Then she thought: Why not? They were level-grade colleagues now, no longer with a superior-to-subordinate barrier. And it would be her choice, just like in a singles’ bar.
Pamela went cautiously into the interview at Albany police headquarters, warned by Anne Stovey (“thanks for the commendation”) of her initial arrest interrogation.
“He won’t shift,” said the local FBI agent.
“He been Mirandaed?” queried Pamela. It didn’t matter how many people she had to teach to suck eggs, she didn’t intend getting screwed by a legal technicality like failure to advise the man of his legal rights.
“Read out, in full, in front of his lawyer—the top guy here in Albany—to whom he was granted immediate access before being asked a single question,” confirmed Anne. “Everything recorded on tape.”
Pamela looked up from the transcript of the first interrogation. “He got a mental problem?”
“Those are his answers,” said the other woman.
“Let’s try again,” said Pamela.
Robert Standing was unshaven and unshowered, the underarms of his shirt sweat-rimed, and he was red-eyed. There was a smell. In total contrast, the lawyer beside him was immaculate in pinstripes, with a mustache and goatee in a miasma of after-shave and cologne. He insisted on a formal exchange of cards, identifying himself as Albert Lang, which she already knew. Pamela had to search through her purse for a card to return.
He looked pointedly at the recording apparatus, waiting for it to be turned it on. As soon as Anne Stovey did so, the man said, “My client has cooperated fully with your investigation. Having done so, he has the right to refuse this second interview, but I have advised him to continue to cooperate. I want to place on record, at this juncture, that it is my client’s intention to sue the Federal Bureau of Investigation for harassment and illegal arrest.”
“Thank you. Your cooperation and future intentions have been noted,” said Pamela. Textbook testosterone, she decided. Not difficult to understand how Anne Stovey had been steam-rollered. It would be interesting how long the pomposity would last under different questioning by someone from out of town. Pamela slid a printout of the General’s e-fit across the table toward Standing and said, “Who is this man?”
Standing studied it for several moments. “I have never seen or met anyone like him before.” His voice was strong but he was moving one hand over the other, as if he were washing them.
“For the benefit of the tape, I would like this image identified,” intruded Lang.
“The General,” said Pamela, still talking to Standing. “The man—the pseudonym—to whom you sent two messages at the Cyber Shack on Halsted Street, Chicago. I’d like you to tell me his real name.”
“I do not know anyone who calls himself the General. Or of the Cyber Shack on Halsted Street or anywhere else in Chicago,” replied the man. “I have never been to the city.”
“I am showing the suspect an electrically generated depiction of an American eagle,” said Pamela, doing so. “Who do you know who has this type of tattoo within a scroll?”
“I don’t know anyone. Or what you’re talking about.”
“I consider this questioning technique irregular,” said the lawyer.
“A protest that can be made in open court to test admissibility,” dismissed Pamela. To Standing she said, “What’s a Land Cruiser?”
“This is preposterous!” said Lang.
“Sir, your objections do not concern points of law, they are intentionally diverting interferences which I am objecting to, on record, for later consideration by the court.” She went to Standing, who had begun to sweat again. “Will you answer, Mr. Standing?”
“A car?” The man frowned.
“Who do you know who owns a maroon Toyota Land Cruiser?” To the tape she said, “I am showing the suspect a dealer’s photograph of such a vehicle.”
“No one.”
Copies of the Cyber Shack messages were added to the exhibit pile, identified by Pamela as she offered them. She said, “What do those mean?”
Standing again took several minutes. “I don’t have the slightest idea.”
Pamela pushed over another piece of evidence, conscious that the lawyer’s interruptions had stopped. “Is this your personal computer log-on that identifies you, by name, to your bank’s computer system?”
“Yes,” confirmed Standing.
“Both messages I have just shown you were sent to the Cyber Shack in Chicago from
your
branch on
your
computer log-on.”
your
branch on
your
computer log-on.”
“Not by me.”
Another sheet of paper went across the table. “Do you recognize this photocopy to be that of your current bank statement?”
“Yes, but I don’t know anything about the deposits you’re talking about.”
“What deposits are those, Mr. Standing?”
“The ones she asked me about before, that come to $3,400,” said Standing, nodding toward the silent Anne Stovey. He was sweating more heavily now, soaking his shirt anew.
“That amount, in total, was stolen from client accounts in branches of your bank in Schenectady, Rochester, and Rome, and your computer ID has been traced to those illegal withdrawals,” Pamela set out. “How do you explain that?”
“Somebody else must have done it.”
“No one else has—or should have—access to your personal computer identification, should they?”
Sweat was leaking from the man now. “No.”
“Have you shared or given your personal ID to an unauthorized person?” Her warmth was frustration.
“No.”
“Then how was it used to withdraw these amounts of money and send messages to Chicago?”
“I don’t know!”
erupted the man, so unexpectedly that both women and the lawyer jumped. Standing began to cry. He let his nose run, uncaringly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happening. I haven’t done any of this. Any of anything. I’m being framed.”
erupted the man, so unexpectedly that both women and the lawyer jumped. Standing began to cry. He let his nose run, uncaringly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happening. I haven’t done any of this. Any of anything. I’m being framed.”
“Why? By whom?” demanded Pamela. She wished he’d wipe his nose.
“I don’t know!”
“Is there anything you
do
know, Mr. Standing?”
do
know, Mr. Standing?”
“No!” said the man, answering the ridicule genuinely as he at last wiped his eyes and nose. “Please believe me!”
“Your problem is that I don’t.” She tapped the bank statement and computer ID. “That’s prima facie evidence of grand larceny.”
“My client is prepared to undertake a polygraph test,” said Lang. There was very little pomposity now.
“That’s a trial defense prerogative,” accepted Pamela.
“I meant now, at this stage of the investigation.”
“Mr. Lang, my investigations concern the attack upon the United Nations building, the massacre of FBI personnel at New Rochelle, the bombing and attempted bombing of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial, and several other matters. I intend charging your client today with grand larceny, pending further investigation, and the government will oppose in the strongest terms any bail application.”
The bearded lawyer sat regarding her open-mouthed, wordless, able only to shake his head.
Robert Standing fainted.
“Clever ploy. Never had it happen before,” said Pamela. At her suggestion they’d gone directly across the street from the police headquarters and sat with coffee and Danish between them.
“The doctor said it was genuine,” reminded Anne.
“Shit scared of medical malpractice,” dismissed Pamela. “Safer to put him in the hospital for observation.”
“Delays the formal charge though.”
“He’s still in official custody. I’ll speak to Washington. I don’t want him copping any medical plea.”
“You going to go along with the polygraph?”
“Washington’s decision, but I don’t see why not. If he sweats while he’s on the lie detector like he did today, he’ll send the needle off the paper.” Her anger at being tricked was going, but only very gradually.
“You think he’s guilty?”
Pamela regarded the other woman disbelievingly over the rim of her coffee cup. “Do I
think
he’s guilty! Come on!”
think
he’s guilty! Come on!”
“Why make stupid mistakes now?” questioned the local agent. “If he’s our man, he’s been doing it for years and could have gone on doing it except for a bookkeeper named Clarence Snelling who literally counted his pennies. And who we still might not have caught on even if the amounts went into dollars. Why, suddenly, does Standing start stealing so obviously and leaving ID traces all over the place—send crazy, war-type messages—and dump over three grand in his own account, in his own bank, where everybody knew there was an FBI audit going on?”
“That’s what I’m going to have him tell me when he gets over the phony stress attack,” promised Pamela. The case-closing break had only been postponed, and not for long. The collapse
had
been phony, when he’d known he was going over the edge: worked once but it wouldn’t work again. Next time she was going to make sure he went over the edge and broke into a lot of little pieces.
had
been phony, when he’d known he was going over the edge: worked once but it wouldn’t work again. Next time she was going to make sure he went over the edge and broke into a lot of little pieces.
It was William Cowley’s idea to return to America, which in the normal circumstances of a normal investigation he wouldn’t have cleared first with the director. He did in these abnormal circumstances, left in no doubt that Leonard Ross held him to some degree responsible for lifting the street surveillance on the Nikitskij cul-de-sac. He made the approach a request to let some of the team he’d taken with him remain in Moscow, with Barry Martlew as supervisor.
“There’s a lot happening here,” agreed Ross. “But you sure there’s nothing else to do in Moscow?”
“Nothing that Martlew can’t handle. Or the Warsaw station.”
“Give it a couple of days,” insisted the director. Ominously he added, “I want your personal assurance we’re covered on all bases. Pamela seems to have things in hand here.”
“I’d like to come with you,” said Danilov, meaning it, when Cowley told him.
“I’d like it, too, but there’ll need to be a lot of coordination between both places,” reminded Cowley.
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