The Watchmen (18 page)

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Authors: Brian Freemantle

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

BOOK: The Watchmen
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“Yes, sir,” Carl Ashton said at once.
“So what do I tell the president?” prompted Norton.
Cowley set out the material—and its catastrophic potential—recovered from the memorial and said, “The people who did this are specialized soldiers. That—hopefully—could narrow down who we’re looking for.” He looked at the two Pentagon officials. “Which won’t, I don’t think, come
directly
from the Pentagon. The men who attacked the UN and set the monument charges are active field people—operational soldiers.”
“You suggesting a conspiracy?” demanded the general.
“I would have thought that was already established.” Cowley frowned. “What I’m suggesting is a link between an active service unit—and it would have needed several men to rig the Lincoln statue—and someone, maybe only one man, with access and knowledge of the Pentagon communications and computer systems. And I’m not restricting the profile to men. It’s probably too soon to judge from just one message, but I’d guess that message to be from the most extreme of hard-right extremist terrorist organizations. So far we’ve failed to locate any group calling itself the Watchmen. Psychologically—bear with me on the use of that word—they’ve already proved themselves people determined to commit mass murder. If they’re ever confronted as a group—cornered with no chance of escape—their last act will be to destroy themselves, causing as much damage and harm to anyone else as they do it. Waco and suicide plane hijackers all over again.”
“Russia.” The president’s chief of staff stopped, not needing to provide any further prompt.
Cowley was conscious of the particular attention with which Pamela Darnley was concentrating on him, enjoying it. “I still need to liaise properly with Moscow’s Organized Crime Bureau. The Watchmen obviously have a Russian source. Since the end of the Cold War the country and some of its former satellites have been awash with every conceivable sort and type of weaponry. The trade is Russian mafia controlled. If it isn’t in this case, it’s a linkup between a fanatical far right group here and an equally extreme body of people in Russia who want to go back to the old, confrontational days of the Cold War.”
The CIA director voiced disbelief. “That’s totally and utterly absurd! We’ve got nothing to suggest—”
“Believe me, sir, no one hopes more strongly than I that you’re right and I’m wrong,” said Cowley. “Because if I’m right we’ve got an escalation I don’t think we want to contemplate.”
“I certainly don’t,” said Henry Hartz.
“I
won’t
!” insisted Frank Norton. “But the computer message fits that analysis.”
“The Watchmen have a worryingly substantial supply up to and including biological weaponry from a Russian or Eastern bloc source,” Cowley reminded. “So, whatever their motivation—politically, psychologically, or philosophically—they’ve got access to a great deal of money. Millions, even. Terrorist groups normally finance themselves through crime, frequently making political claims in doing so. I’m not aware of any singular criminal activity in the last few months I’d put down to terrorist financing—”
“There hasn’t been,” insisted Pamela. “I ran a check. And I’ve circulated the query to all the field offices.”
“I don’t recall anything, either,” said Ross.
“I don’t like this Doomsday scenario,” complained Norton.
“There is a slight upside,” Cowley pointed out. “The Lincoln Memorial bombing
was,
quite obviously, planned as a spectacular: something they wouldn’t have needed to repeat. We’ve recovered an enormous amount of materiel and know what they used before. They might just have exhausted their arsenal. Which could give us two things! a respite and the chance, through Moscow, of discovering their source or supply line.”
“What if they’ve got another biological warhead?” demanded David Frost.
“They’d have fired it,” Cowley judged flatly. “Capitalized on Manhattan. Today would have been bad enough. To have released a germ warfare device would have been worse.”
“What we now need to discuss—and decide—is as much public reassurance as we can create,” declared Norton. “Which the Lincoln Memorial gives us. We beat them. That’s got to be our message, and I’m going to suggest to the president that he give another television address to deliver it.”
“I’d certainly endorse that,” said Henry Hartz.
“It’ll also be a challenge to them,” cautioned Cowley. “If I’m wrong, if they have got another warhead, they’ll definitely use it.”
“You arguing against the idea?” asked Norton, genuinely asking an opinion.
“No,” said Cowley. “They don’t have to be told we beat them. If they’ve got something else they’ll use it, whatever we do or say.”
 
Igor Ivanovich Baratov was a thickset, undistinguished man with none of the swagger or bullying confidence of Anatoli Lasin, still in his cell farther along the Petrovka corridor. Baratov’s suit was western but conservative, and there was no flashing diamond and gold jewelry among his belongings. The watch was actually Russian, a Sekonda. There was a picture of a very attractive, dark-haired girl with a tousle-haired baby in his wallet. Aware of how quickly valuables disappeared in Russian militia buildings, it was the only personal item Baratov asked about within minutes of Pavin and Danilov arriving in his cell. Danilov guaranteed its safety because it was valueless. He let Pavin begin the interview, intently studying and listening to the man, unable to lose the feeling that there was a previous encounter, even briefly wondering if there might have been an association—or more likely a confrontation—when he’d been the uniformed colonel in charge of a district. He’d already checked his personal records and knew the man’s name had never emerged during the investigation into Larissa’s death.
“I don’t know anything about anything,” declared Baratov. “I don’t run with the Osipov Brigade anymore. I don’t run with anyone. I’ve got a wife and a child and all I want is to be left alone.”
“We’ve been told Viktor Nikolaevich Nikov came all the way from Gorki to see you,” exaggerated Pavin.
“He called from Gorki,” Baratov admitted at once. “Two, maybe three weeks ago. Said he had a big deal and wanted to cut me in for helping him before. I said I wasn’t interested.”
“Did you see him when he got here?” asked Danilov.
“I told you, I wasn’t interested.”
“What was the deal?”
“I didn’t ask him. Didn’t want to know.”
“Who was it with?”
“Americans,” identified the man without any hesitation.
“What Americans?” Danilov demanded, eagerly.
Baratov shook his head. “He didn’t talk names. He said he’d made this great contact with some Americans, that there was a lot of money in it and that he was setting himself up and did I want to come in with him. I told him no, that all that was over for me and that there was no point in our meeting. So we didn’t.”
“What did you think setting himself up meant?” asked Pavin.
“Going independent from the Myagkov Brigade he was with in Gorki, setting himself up here in Moscow.”
“Doing what?” pressed Danilov.
“Cars. That’s why I didn’t want to know. I thought he was setting up some deal to bring in American cars and wanted to use my garage as the outlet. There’s a big market for American vehicles.” He spread his hands. “You know the system: I’m not telling you anything. I pay to operate. It’s the way. It works. I didn’t want any jealousies, any big increase in my cash-only premiums.”
“What do you think now?” asked Pavin.
“Now I think I’m even more glad I said no, otherwise I might have been floating in the river with a bullet in my mouth.”
“Who are the Moscow brigades dealing in weapons?”
“I don’t know. I got out more than a year ago. Didn’t know even then.”
“You expect us to believe you’re reformed?” demanded Danilov.
The man spread his hands palms upward. “I can’t make you believe anything. I drove for Osipov, OK. That’s no secret. But that’s all I did. Drove. The money was good and there was respect.” He rolled up his left trouser legs. Where his calf should have been there was a huge, scooped-out indentation. “It was a shotgun. I almost bled to death. Thought I was going to lose my leg at least—probably would have if Svetlana hadn’t been my nurse at the Kliniceskaja hospital. Hell of a way to fall in love. Great way to decide how to go on living, though.”
“You don’t have any connections anymore?”
“No,” said Baratov.
“You still see Anatoli Lasin?”
“I trade cars with Anatoli Sergeevich, that’s all.”
“He ever tell you what’s going on?” Pavin tried hopefully.
“I don’t want to
hear
about what’s going on. All I want to do is go home to my wife and baby. I was lucky to escape. That’s how I want to stay, lucky. And out of it.”
 
“It all checks out,” assured Pavin. “Even to Svetlana Dubas being his nurse at Kliniceskaya.” When Danilov didn’t respond his deeply religious deputy said, “Sinners
do
repent.”
“What about the ballistics check on Lasin’s guns?”
“There’s nothing left from the turf wars,” said Pavin.
“The paint samples we gave to forensic?”
“Nothing back yet.”
“Who volunteered to deliver the warheads and mine casings to the foreign minister?”
“Senior Colonel Investigator Ashot Yefimovich Mizin. You want him under any special observation?”
“No,” decided Danilov. “You release Baratov and the boy. I’ll deal with Lasin.”
“You want any sort of surveillance on them?”
“I don’t think so. For the moment I want everyone to imagine I’m totally confused. Which isn’t too much of an exaggeration.”
Lasin stood almost respectfully when Danilov reentered the cell, drained of all bravado.
Danilov said, “It’s important that you listen and understand what I am going to tell you, Anatoli Sergeevich. We’re going to keep all your handguns and we’re going to run ballistics on all the turf killings. And when we get a match”—Danilov smiled—“even, perhaps, if we don’t, I’m going to arrest you again and we’ll go on with that conversation about Lefortovo.”
“What more do you want from me?” wailed the man. “I’ve answered all your questions.”
“Not quite,” said Danilov. “I’m going to let you go for a reason. You’re going to find out the name of the officer here who’s on Osipov’s payroll and you’re going to have it ready when I ask. And if you don’t have it—the right one, no bullshit—we’re going to prove that a bullet that killed someone in the Osipov turf war came from one of your guns. You understand all that?”
“Yes,” said Lasin. He kept his mouth so tight the word hissed from him.
“That’s good,” said Danilov. “You really wouldn’t like Lefortovo.”
Anatoli Sergeevich Lasin said nothing.
When they were finally connected that day, Danilov told Cowley the Watchmen had no significance for him but promised to check it out as fully as he could.
“There’s a lot to talk about,” said Cowley.
“When I get there.” Danilov stopped.
What would he do when he found Osipov’s militia source inside Petrovka, Danilov wondered as he drove home. Purge the man or ask him to arrange an introduction?
 
Patrick Hollis knew Carole had never intended him to make love to her. It had all been an obscene joke, set up by Robert Standing. That day, knowing he was watching, Standing had made an exaggerated gesture with a limp forefinger, and everyone at their table, including Carole, had laughed.
He’d punish them, Hollis decided. He didn’t know how he’d do it, just that he would. Hurt them, humiliate them, as much as they’d humilated him.
Tonight would be the start, cracking into the online main branch of the bank from another hideaway system before entering their branch and accessing Standing’s personal account details. From Standing’s regular payments Hollis knew he could get other information, like his medical records through his insurance. And the man’s log-in password code with which Standing himself accessed the branch’s computer.
He was going to find out everything there was to know about Robert Standing. And then use it.
 
It was the uneven surface of the parking lot that caused Cowley to stumble. He wouldn’t have fallen but Pamela was immediately at his side, cupping his elbow.
He said, “It was the loose gravel.”
“Sure. I’ll see you up.” It had been her idea to give him a lift home to Arlington. Helping him up to his apartment was a spur-of-the-moment decision. She had things to learn, experiences to absorb. Ambition—even an ambition as absolute as hers—wasn’t enough. It had to be supported by the sort of forward-thinking and analysis that Cowley had demonstrated that day. In fact, in an almost complete reversal of her earlier thinking, Pamela decided that she actually needed the man.
“I’m not an invalid, for Christ’s sake!”
“Sure,” she said again.
There were some other residents barbecuing in the pit in that part of the landscaped garden area just before the communal pool. One group, none of whom he knew, recognized him and waved. Cowley gave a halfhearted response. He said, “This is a pain in the ass.”
Pamela said, “It could be if your address becomes known. What do you think about a security detail, like there was at the hospital?”
“No,” he said positively.
“You’re hardly in shape to look after yourself. You’re not even carrying a weapon.”
“No,” he repeated. She held the apartment block door open for him and Cowley said, “Stop it!”
“Enjoy the service.”
“I’m not.” He waited for her to enter the elevator first.
“Grouch.”
He smiled back at her. “It really was the gravel. I’m OK.”
“We’re on our way up now. And the president’s address is in five minutes. Mind if I watch from your place?”
“Not at all.” Cowley couldn’t remember how he’d left the apartment. He couldn’t actually remember leaving it, whatever day it had been. He was surprised how tidy it was. Pamela didn’t appear to notice, going at once to the window that overlooked the river.
“Nice,” she said. “And sorry.”
“What for?”
“The presumption.” She encompassed the apartment with a wave. “There could have been someone … ?”
“There isn’t,” he said. “I’ve only got scotch.”
“Scotch is good,” she accepted. She stayed by the window, watching as he took the bottle from the cabinet and poured her drink.
He turned on the television as he passed it to get water and ice from the kitchen. The address was timed to coincide with the evening news, which was still running. The air exclusion had been lifted, and from the helicopter camera there was a startling contrast between the emptiness of the Mall and the surrounding government buildings against the gridlocked chaos in the rest of the city. There was a lengthy interview with Commissioner Frost during which he claimed the Lincoln Memorial discovery to be entirely due to the vigilance of the police.
“Asshole,” said Pamela.
Cowley said, “Look at that concentration of traffic and people. It’s a target that couldn’t be missed if they’ve got another warhead. Or anything else, for that matter.”
“What’s the answer?”
“I don’t have one.”
Opening the presidential speech with a long shot, clearly to show the man in control and in the Oval Office, was the obvious political and reassuring necessity that Frank Norton had talked about at that afternoon’s meeting but at the same time through the window and beyond the Rose Garden the TV shot showed the desertion of the Mall. The president at once declared that the terrorists, who called themselves the Watchmen, had been beaten. An intended atrocity had been foiled and a great deal of vital information and intelligence gathered from what had been recovered from the Lincoln Memorial. The terrorists were now hunted men, frightened men. In their desperation they probably would attempt another outrage. The public had to remain vigilant. When the killers were caught, which would be soon, they would face the maximum penalties prescribed by American justice.
“What vital information and intelligence?” demanded Pamela as the speech finished with the customary presidential blessing upon those watching.
“All part of the reassurance,” said Cowley. “At least it was a damned sight better than last time. But it was too much of a challenge, claiming they were beaten. Everyone knows they’re not beaten!” He leaned over to where she was sitting and topped off her glass as well as his own.
“How’s it going to fit the next attack?”
“He covered himself with a warning for vigilance.”
“What’s going to cover the bureau?”
“Shit, after it hits the fan,” said Cowley. He used the remote to turn off another studio analysis featuring the two men who’d earlier talked of the New Rochelle massacre frightening the group against another attack. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful down there. I’m not. Thanks for the concern.”
“It’s been a busy day. You’re allowed. And I’ve got an agenda.”
“Shouldn’t the patient know a little about his nurse?”
Pamela looked directly at him. It all fit the change of mind, she decided. “Thirty-two. Divorced. Unattached at the moment and not concerned about it. MA in psychology. Headquarters transfer from Miami two years ago. Determined to run with the big career chance until I drop.” He wouldn’t be able to accuse her of lying, deceiving him in any way.
“That what they call a potted biography?”
“As potted as it gets. Your turn.”
“Forty. Divorced. Unattached. Director of the bureau’s Russian desk for three years. Consider this the worst nightmare imaginable and, to coin Paul Lambert’s telling phrase, I’m frightened shitless.”
She nodded toward his drink. “Not sure scotch mixes well with Tylenol.”
“We’ll soon see.”
“That was presumptuous, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Pissed at me?”
“No.”
“You didn’t eat lunch. What have you got?” Would this be another mistake? She hoped not.
“I’m not sure.”
She carried her drink to the kitchen. “Eggs and ham,” she called. “I do great omelettes.”
“How about omelettes?” Cowley said. He had no idea where this was going but he was enjoying the ride. Ensuring Pamela was out of sight, he refilled his glass.
Pamela said, “By the time you set the table, they’ll be ready.”
They were. She’d found garlic he’d forgotten he had and lightly fried the ham with it before adding it to the omelette, which really was great, he told her.
“We screw up on this, maybe I’ll open a restaurant. Think you could be a waiter?”
“That’s all I seem to be doing at the moment, waiting.”
She looked away, not speaking for a moment. “Seems to be my night for saying sorry but I’m sorry, too, for resenting your coming back so soon. I wouldn’t have got the Lincoln Memorial, and I’m supposed to be the psychologist.”
Cowley grinned at her. “Psychology was my major, too.”
“Am I trying too hard?”
“No.” He actually thought she was, but it didn’t upset him.
“I meant what I said, about running as hard and as long as I can with this: It
is
my chance.”
“OK,” Cowley said doubtfully.
“So don’t misunderstand.”
“What?”
“I want to stay over.”
Now Cowley was silent for several moments. “I’m not sure—”
“That a sofa bed?” she stopped him, pointing to where she had been sitting.
“Yes.”
“You look dreadful.
That’s
why I want to stay over, not to screw the boss. Who couldn’t anyway, because of a busted rib. Quite apart from the bad psychology of it all. I want to because I need you: The moment I’m up to your speed, I’m on my own, but I’m not there yet. What you’ve done today would exhaust a fit man and you’re not fit, whatever you say. So I think it’s a good idea for someone to be around: my own agenda, remember?” Could she be sexually attracted to him? In other circumstances—other jobs, other places—perhaps. But there were too many obvious barriers even to contemplate the question. Pamela was actually curious about her own sexuality, unsure of a criteria. She liked sex but hadn’t slept with anyone for the past six months, a mistaken weekend visit from an airline navigation officer trying to keep alive an already dying affair. Now, she supposed, she was repressing sex with her job determination. Sometimes she thought she would have enjoyed the singles’ bar era, able to make her own unencumbered, uninvolved choice. She added, “I’m not at all sure that came out in the right order, but I think you understood.”
“I think I did,” said Cowley.
“So?”
“I don’t know how comfortable it is.” All he did feel was exhaustion, but he liked the idea of her being in the apartment.
“One condition. I get the shower first.”
“OK.” Her night for apologies, his for agreeing to everything.
“Can I go on being presumptuous and give you some advice?”
“What?” he said.
“Shoot that sweater and those jeans: It’s the humane thing to do.”
 
Cowley awoke to the smell of coffee and a note from Pamela that she’d be back to pick him up by eight, which she was.
“I made it through the night,” he said.
“Loudly,” she said. “You snore.” She accepted the offered coffee. “And I’m glad I wasn’t needed.”
“Thanks just the same.” He wasn’t sure now why he’d agreed so readily to her staying and felt vaguely discomfited.
“The start of the routine slog,” she declared.
“It’s what solves crime, according to all the manuals.”
“Let’s hope they’re right.”
There was an attempt to ease the rush-hour congestion caused by the Mall and Arlington Bridge remaining closed by introducing a contraflow across the Roosevelt and George Mason bridges, but not enough commuters had heard the police announcement and the jams were worse than they might otherwise have been. They got to Pennsylvania Avenue only minutes before the Washington Monument guides and initially split, Pamela checking the incident room for overnight developments—which there hadn’t been—and Cowley escorting the guides to an interview room.
Regulations required that a tally be kept, so John Barclay, a timid man whose speech hesitation was only just short of a stutter, knew he’d taken fifteen people from the top of the obelisk on the 10:00 A.M. tour. There had been three teenagers—he guessed one at eleven, the other two slightly older—and thought the adults divided between seven men and five women. He couldn’t remember anyone behaving suspiciously during the descent or more specifically at the level where the bomb had gone off. The routine was to lead the party down, so he would have been looking back up at them, pointing out the gift stones, and could be expected to see anything unusual, which he hadn’t. He couldn’t recall how many people carried or used cameras, but most tourists usually did.
Janice Smallbone, who’d conducted the afternoon tour, was in fact a large black woman. There’d been seventeen in her group, all adults, seven women and ten men. She remembered one man wearing the sort of jungle-suit camouflage jacket veterans sometimes wore for their vigil at the Vietnam Memorial. She thought he’d been with another man. Both had short military-type haircuts, but that’s all she could remember and she didn’t think she could identify them again or describe them sufficiently for an artist’s or computer-generated impression. Neither they nor anyone else had acted in any way to attract her particular attention. There would have been cameras but she didn’t know how many and couldn’t remember any being used during the descent. There probably had been.
By noon four people—two men and two women—who had made the monument descent on foot responded to the FBI appeal to come forward. Unprompted, one of the women, a kindergarten teacher from Houston named Hillary Petty, talked of the man in the camouflage jacket. “It seemed such an odd thing to wear, to someone like myself, from Texas. He wore a black beret, too, as if it was part of a uniform.” There had definitely been a second man, who’d carried a satchel from a strap over his shoulder. She was sure they’d been the last of the group to come down because she’d been the next in line, at the rear, but she hadn’t seen either of them do anything to suggest they might have been planting a bomb. She guessed both their ages between thirty and thirty-five. Although both had military haircuts, she didn’t remember more than that to provide enough for a detailed description. She said of course she’d look at the photographs that Cowley was expecting sometime that day from the Pentagon—she wasn’t leaving Washington until the end of the week—but she really wasn’t sure she could identify anyone. She listened several times to the Highway Patrol copy tape of the New Rochelle cruiser fire report but wasn’t able to recognize the voice as being that of anyone she had heard during the tour. She’d taken several photographs herself on the way down and surrendered her film, which was immediately developed. Neither man was shown in any of the prints, but two more people in the afternoon group—a man and a woman—were sufficiently recognizable for the photograph to be published in a renewed plea to contact the bureau.

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