The Watchmen (36 page)
A disappointed Pamela Darnley exclaimed, “As easy as that!”
“Not next time,” promised Terry Osnan. “Now we know how to put the stopper in the bottle.”
“We hope,” said the unconvinced woman.
In his Moscow hotel suite, Cowley replaced the telephone and smiled at Danilov. “It’s definitely Naina Karpov’s voiceprint. Congratulations.”
“There are two garages that we know about,” Pavin set out. “The larger is on Nikitskij Boulevard—that’s Baratov’s outlet for Mercedes. The other one is on Ulitza Kazakova. Mostly Zils from there.”
“Selling or repairing?” asked Cowley.
“Both,” said Pavin.
“Stock?”
“Seemed a lot available. I only went once to each place.”
“And everything’s legit?”
“Looked like it,” said Pavin. “But it wasn’t in any detail—not like the need is now.”
“If he has a lot of stock, he’ll have other places to keep it,” guessed Cowley.
“They’d suspect something if we openly approach him so soon after seeing the woman,” said Danilov. “We’ll have to split the Leanov surveillance.”
“If they’ve taken over the Osipov Brigade, Anatoli Lasin would know about it,” Pavin pointed out.
Cowley shook his head. “I don’t think we can risk going anywhere near anyone. It’s a bastard that even now, we still haven’t got anything
legal
we can move on spread like this between America and Russia!”
legal
we can move on spread like this between America and Russia!”
“Sometimes,” said Pavin, “the law gets in the way of enforcing it.”
The other two men took it as truism, not cynicism. Neither smiled.
Pamela Darnley wasn’t smiling, either, because the development that should have been to her credit ended, in her opinion if no one else’s, in more frustration than the unqualified success it should have been.
Because there was no precedent, it had been impossible to predict the volume of calls from or to the limited number of public telephones on the contact list from Bay View Avenue.
It was so great that it overwhelmed every physical monitor; within two hours that had to be abandoned for duplicated sound recordings. The delay in reading the transcripts built up to three hours before one of the Washington technicians listening to the targeted D.C. phone heard what they were waiting for. By then the conversation—between the Washington telephone and that on Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive upon which Pamela had reduced physical surveillance—was three hours and seven minutes old.
Pamela wasn’t satisfied that the Washington voiceprint proved to be that of the woman who’d made the booby-trap call from New Rochelle. Or that they had a new voice trace from the man who’d spoken from Lake Shore Drive, who was obviously a leader—maybe
the
leader—of the Watchmen. And they’d lost him.
the
leader—of the Watchmen. And they’d lost him.
Once again there was no identification. The man said, “Any problem?” It was a deep bass voice. American. No discernible accent.
“They haven’t got a clue.” Her voice was deeper than how she’d distorted it from New Rochelle.
“They won’t find anything?”
“No way they can until it’s too late. More surprises than they can ever guess.”
“We’re going to mount another operation first.”
“What?”
“A warhead. One that works this time.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because we showed them last time what happens if it doesn’t.”
“United Nations?”
“Not decided yet. There’ll be some other stuff, too. I’ve got a lot coming in.”
“Separate, you mean?”
“One after the other, bang, bang, bang.” He laughed. “That’s good: bang, bang, bang!
She laughed obediently. “I’ve been working my ass off getting the money.” There was another laugh. “Kinda fun, helping ourselves.”
“How much
are
you taking, for yourself?”
are
you taking, for yourself?”
There was a pause. “Cab fare is all.”
“That’s OK. And we’ve all been working at it.”
“We got enough?”
“Whatever we’re short I’m going to fine the asshole for going AWOL.”
“What’d he say?”
“He had a virus.”
“You think it’s true?”
“He got chicken: changed his mind.”
“You want me to go on having fun and helping myself?”
“Gotta get a price from the Russians yet; maybe put it on hold for a coupla days.”
“Any hard feelings there?”
“I guess but so what? We’re the buyers, they’re the sellers. What choice they got, they want to make money?”
“We would have been there by now, that fucking thing gone off like it should have.”
“It will next time. And maybe we’ll do something else in Moscow. That worked better than we expected.”
“What?”
“Need to speak to them there: See what ideas they got.”
“America taking over the Moscow investigation was good.”
“You see the speculation there could be government changes there—the president even?”
“I saw it. Be good to claim credit. Prove our strength.”
“We
will
claim credit. We’ll deserve it.”
will
claim credit. We’ll deserve it.”
“When do you want me to call?”
“Friday. Same time. But not this number.”
“Security change?”
“It’s time. You got the next number?”
“Of course. What about an announcement on the Net like before?”
“Need to finalize the target first. Might even do Moscow before here. We’ll talk about that on Friday, too.”
“Take care, brother.”
“And you, sister.”
Pamela was glad the director insisted on time to read everything. It gave her the matching space to talk it through with Terry Osnan—lessen her fury at the setbacks that couldn’t have been avoided and the stupidity that could—and read what had come in from Moscow. She also made several phone calls.
When she did finally enter the fifth-floor office Leonard Ross greeted her with “We got a new ball game here?”
“New game plan, certainly,” she agreed. There was no way to avoid some of the responsibility. It might be an idea, maybe, to admit at least to part.
“Talk it through.”
A sudden awareness further dampened her anger. She
had
made it! She’d attended the topmost planning session at the White House—and been acknowledged—and here she was, by herself, being asked for opinions by the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who called her by her first name. Which made today such a bastard, she thought, the annoyance flaring again. She had to think of everything she said before saying it. “After all the effort, the public telephone taps are useless, now they’ve changed their numbers.”
had
made it! She’d attended the topmost planning session at the White House—and been acknowledged—and here she was, by herself, being asked for opinions by the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who called her by her first name. Which made today such a bastard, she thought, the annoyance flaring again. She had to think of everything she said before saying it. “After all the effort, the public telephone taps are useless, now they’ve changed their numbers.”
“What about picking the new ones up from Orlenko’s billing, like we did the others?”
“Maybe, in time. But we don’t know how much time we’ve got. Or if Orlenko will call them, like he did last time. We can’t rely on it.”
“Didn’t we have Lake Shore Drive under physical surveillance? Cameras?”
Careful, Pamela warned herself: Apportion as much blame as possible away from herself. “With the tap in place—and Chicago stretched, checking out OverOcean—I agreed the surveillance could be reduced. I
didn’t
mean—or approve—that reduction in any way including cameras.”
didn’t
mean—or approve—that reduction in any way including cameras.”
Ross regarded her steadily for several moments. “Nothing?”
“I don’t know,” Pamela admitted. “We have the conversation specifically timed. The photographic coverage is estimated. There might be a half hour overlap.”
“
Damn!
”
Damn!
”
“I know.”
“That’s a bad mistake, Pamela. A hell of a bad mistake.”
Pamela said nothing.
Ross waved the transcript at her. “This could be the man in charge!”
“I recognize that.” She didn’t think Damn. She thought Fuck! fuck! fuck!
“What about the taps on OverOcean? And the Trenton company?” demanded Ross. He was only just controlling the anger.
“Everything strictly business. Nothing relevant at all.”
“And the two Russians, Guzov and Kabanov? What the hell we doing about them?”
Still only just in control, judged Pamela. “Both houses bugged from the exchange. We didn’t think we could risk another entry like in Brooklyn.” William Cowley didn’t think, not “we.” Should she have qualified the decision? Too late now. The encounter was far more critical than she’d anticipated. Wanted. Hurriedly she added, “Twenty-four-hour physical surveillance, of course. Including communication vehicles. Nothing so far.”
“I’d like a legal reason to bring the bastards in—cut the thing off at the head.”
Could she risk the argument? She had to, because there was one to make and because there was more than enough in the conversation to stage at least a partial recovery. “We would not be cutting them off at the head. We don’t know who or what that head is.”
“What the hell
do
we know, then? Know that takes us one inch forward!”
do
we know, then? Know that takes us one inch forward!”
Pamela snatched the chance. “We know the New Rochelle trap was baited from Washington, so if we identify the voice, we can consider multiple homicide as the legality you’re looking for. We’ve got positive confirmation that they
are
inside the Pentagon—or have access, at least—and that something’s already been set up that they don’t expect us to find: ‘more surprises than they can ever guess,’” she quoted. “That could mean more than one thing. We know that they intend using a warhead they don’t yet have in two, not one, separate attacks and that the UN could be one of the targets. We know they’re thinking of doing something else in Moscow and from that one remark—‘need to speak to them there: See what ideas they got’—I’d say there’s a contact route we don’t know about, not involving Brooklyn and the Golden Hussar. And I’d say it’s more than likely we’ve confirmed how they’re financing everything—” She straggled to a breathless but intentional stop, worried she had begun to sound too strident.
are
inside the Pentagon—or have access, at least—and that something’s already been set up that they don’t expect us to find: ‘more surprises than they can ever guess,’” she quoted. “That could mean more than one thing. We know that they intend using a warhead they don’t yet have in two, not one, separate attacks and that the UN could be one of the targets. We know they’re thinking of doing something else in Moscow and from that one remark—‘need to speak to them there: See what ideas they got’—I’d say there’s a contact route we don’t know about, not involving Brooklyn and the Golden Hussar. And I’d say it’s more than likely we’ve confirmed how they’re financing everything—” She straggled to a breathless but intentional stop, worried she had begun to sound too strident.
“But what can we do about any of it?”
“The finance guys we’ve got in the banks are setting electronic traps they say could give them a trace.”
Ross lifted and dropped the transcript. “He just told her to stop.”
“He doesn’t yet know the price Naina Karpov is asking, which we do. We still don’t have a definite figure, but the estimate is that from all the banks we know are being robbed, the total is just over a million. They’re short. They’ll have to start up again.”
Ross smiled at last. “Yes they will, won’t they?”
“And we’ve got OverOcean,” continued Pamela. “Chicago’s
got
to be their entry: their base, even, judging from this intercept.”
got
to be their entry: their base, even, judging from this intercept.”
The FBI director went back to it. “Who’s the asshole who’s got to be fined?”
“Their bank source, obviously.”
“How?”
demanded Ross. “Four banks! That many branches!”
demanded Ross. “Four banks! That many branches!”
“Banks deal with other banks,” said Pamela. “But to have that access he’ll have to be fairly high.”
“‘Brother,’” quoted the director. “‘Sister.’ Black-speak? Roanne Harding?”
“Could be. Copied a lot by Caucasians, though. The voice intonation doesn’t give any indication.”
“Could the limited Chicago photographs be of any practical use?”
“I’m running every one through records here. Been doing that from the beginning. The army still insists any comparison is impossible with discharged personnel.” She paused, creating the division. “I’ve already told Carl Ashton about the conversation. He said it was confirmation he didn’t need. And I’ve sent the entire transcript to Moscow, of course.”
“I talked with Bill,” said Ross.
“He told me. That you’d talked, I mean. Not in any detail.”
“In detail it came down to what we’ve decided: that we still can’t move,” said the exasperated director.
In Moscow neither Cowley nor Danilov had decided they couldn’t move, either separately or together, although they’d both reached the same furious conclusion as the FBI director and of Pamela Darnley before him.
“You had the Watchmen’s leader,” said Danilov.
“And lost him,” agreed Cowley.
Georgi Chelyag’s call anticipated Danilov’s by thirty minutes, and Danilov went directly from the American embassy to the Russian White House. He avoided the continuing protests by using the sidealley route but was reminded by some of the banner slogans of the impending Duma vote of no confidence in the president. That automatically led his mind to the interior minister’s direct threat, after his initial complaint to the presidential aide. In the last twentyfour—or was it thirty-six?-hours he’d consciously avoided thinking about it, but now it forced itself into his mind, demanding attention. Which achieved nothing. What was the point—more important, the protection—in raising it further? The conversation itself was something else about which he had insufficient proof. No proof at all, in fact. So to complain—seek Chelyag’s intervention for a second time—would simply worsen an already irrevocable situation between that familiar rock and that inevitable hard place, with no way out. It really was a shitty expression. He had to stop using it, even in his mind.
He was ushered immediately into Chelyag’s overly ornate, baroque office, which the squat man appeared far too inconspicuous to occupy. Chelyag remained behind the desk, which fit the office but not the man. No note-takers and therefore no records, Danilov realized.
Chelyag began speaking even before Danilov sat down, using a dossier that clearly contained the notes—possibly even the verbatim transcript—of the president’s meeting with Henry Hartz. The recitation took the chief of staff a full fifteen minutes, and it was almost as long as that before Danilov understood why he was being told.
“Well?” Chelyag demanded, finally looking up.
“Nothing was held back, as far as the investigation is concerned,” Danilov confirmed at once.
Chelyag allowed a rare smile. “That’s good. They’re being honest with us then?”
Danilov was surprised—and concerned—at the degree of American openness: It was more than he’d imagined from Cowley’s account of his discussion with the secretary of state. “Quite obviously a lot of it—most of it—can’t be made public.”
“That point was made. And agreed,” said the aide.
“Can I ask how many people were present at the meeting?”
There was a moment’s studied examination from the other man. “You mean Russian?” Chelyag demanded pointedly.
“Yes.”
“The president. Myself. A translator and a note-taker.” The smile came again. “Nothing will leak.”
“You should see this,” said Danilov, offering a translation of the latest intercepted conversation. While the other man read, Danilov gazed around the office, curious why proletariat communism had found the trappings of tsardom so necessary. Because, he supposed, they had been hobnailed and dirty-fingered tsars themselves.
Chelyag’s calm reaction was different from what Danilov expected. The chief of staff said, “Will you be able to prevent another attack here in Moscow? A totally honest answer!”
“Only if we learn of the target from another intercepted telephone call. And that would create a dilemma. To stop it—which we would have to—would alert them we
are
listening: know certainly who Naina Karpov is and that she’s supplying the American terrorists. Who would without question or hesitation use their intrusion into American military headquarters when they realized it.”
are
listening: know certainly who Naina Karpov is and that she’s supplying the American terrorists. Who would without question or hesitation use their intrusion into American military headquarters when they realized it.”
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