The Watchmen by Brian Freemantle

outskirts behind, Dimitri Danilov recognized that his impression from the air was confirmed on the ground. The military manufacturing plants were carefully created individual parts of an entire and composite whole, each factory separated by its perimeter fence and barriered—sometimes tower-dominated—private approach road.
    It was one of several realizations, ranging from the fact that even this close the taiga through which they were driving still appeared black, not green, to the complete reversal in how he was being treated. From the one extreme of his dismissively ignored arrival there hadn’t been a waking moment when he hadn’t been in the watchful presence of either Oleg Reztsov or Gennardi Averin or both, like now. And the plainclothed presence of two men at an adjoining breakfast table that morning had been almost embarrassingly obvious. He wondered if they’d already reported his slipping the side plate knife into his pocket before asking for envelopes at the reception desk.
    Identifying another of Danilov’s already reached awarenesses, Reztsov indicated a service road controlled by both barriers and a tower and said, “See what I mean about the degree of security? Nothing left of these plants that wasn’t intended to.”
    “Exactly,” Danilov replied.
    “I meant officially,” said the stiff-faced police chief.
    “We’re already getting street rumors,” said Averin from the front seat, trying to come to his superior’s rescue. “The gangs are worried about the sudden interest we’re taking in them.”
    Danilov didn’t bother to challenge the ridiculously premature claim or ask why the interest had been so sudden. “What about Viktor Nikov?”
    “The most interesting of all,” said the major. “Not at his home or any of his garages. Hasn’t been seen for several days, apparently.”
    “Why not, do you think?” questioned Danilov. He hadn’t told them of Pavin’s discoveries in Moscow about Nikov’s defense witnesses.
    “Who knows?” Reztsov shrugged.
    “The question we’ve got to answer, along with all the rest,” suggested Danilov.
    According to Danilov’s separate parts-of-a-whole assessment, Plant 35 was at the very edge of the straggling installation. Beyond the barrier and tower checkpoint there were two more manned control points before they reached the gates themselves, where their identities were confirmed for a fourth time.
    Professor Sergei Alexandrovich Ivanov, the director of Plant 35, was a hugely bearded, limp-haired man with the distracted demeanor of an academic and the physical appearance of a Mongol wrestler. The office was a box, like all the boxes—some empty and without lights, most of the others seemingly inactive, despite their being occupied by white-coated or protectively dressed staff—that had preceded it. Ivanov’s white coat was not newly stained but dirtily ingrained by wear. There was so little room that Averin had to remain standing. There was no hospitality prepared for the visit, which Danilov believed the scientist, whom he guessed to be well beyond seventy, had genuinely forgotten. Danilov said, “You know what happened in New York?”
    There was a hesitation before the bearded man said, “Yes. Of course.”
    Danilov offered the FBI photographs of the missile and said, “You recognize it?”
    The frowned hesitation was longer this time, before the director said almost wistfully, “These were a very long time ago. I’d almost forgotten.”
    “But they were produced here!” demanded Danilov, impatient with nostalgia.
    “Before my appointment,” said the man, instantly defensive. “It was a ridiculous idea, trying to improvise a hybrid. The rocket wasn’t designed to deliver it. But in the sixties everything and everybody was paranoid: Everyone’s finger on the red button, no one thinking beyond the official line.” He frowned toward the two policemen, and Danilov identified the never-lost communist legacy of fear of informants and