The Watchmen (40 page)
“Stay with the car,” ordered Cowley.
“Done!” declared Hamish. “Everyone out while I reconnect.” He did so remarkably quickly and was panting when he got to the connecting door. To the forensic burglars he said, “You guys mind doing the rest? I’m fucked.”
“Olds is off the jack,” came the commentary. “And Baratov’s getting in. Countdown time. Took twelve minutes to get here. And we’re moving. Twelve … .”
The second lock clicked into place in the linking door. Schnecker and his team had stripped off their body armor and bagged it. Their coveralls beneath were sodden black by sweat. Crowded as they were at the entrance, waiting to emerge the moment the lights were extinguished, the smell was overwhelming.
“Eight … seven …” timed the following observer.
“Give it a minute left open,” said Cowley, as the door lifted. “No one could miss the stink.” To everyone except the two behind them he said, “Everyone else out of the alley.”
“Five … four … here’s luck. Lights against us.”
“Close it,” said Cowley.
The two men were rehearsed now, each working at opposing ends, securing the tripwire, then kneeling before the locks.
“Lights are green … .”
“Done,” said one man, in the darkness.
The two pickup cars pulled up beyond the alley toward Vozdvizenka. Cowley got into the front of the vehicle already carrying Schnecker’s team. As he did so the voice from the Oldsmobile pursuit car said, “Why isn’t he coming the most direct way, for the alley turnoff?” Then: “Would you believe it! He’s not coming back to the garage. He’s going to his own garage, turning in there now. Sorry, guys. You needn’t have left after all.”
Cowley turned to the men in the back, but before he could speak Schnecker said, “No, we’re not going back.” He extended a tremoring hand. “We’re bushed. There’s five we haven’t fixed. Next time it’ll be easier.”
Schnecker and his people declined the drink, and Cowley and the others only stayed for two—the second at Cowley’s insistence— before going back to the bureau’s embassy offices. Waiting there for Lambert from his Washington laboratory was the tone-deciphered number Yevgenni Leanov had dialed from his mobile phone that morning.
Danilov said, “It’s back on file at Petrovka, but from memory it looks like the direct line into the office of Vladimir Leonidovich Oskavinsky, the director of Plant 43.”
“Why bother with the storeman when you can get your stuff from the boss?” said Cowley.
“And who exactly is the boss there?” demanded Danilov, after they had listened to the interception of the Brooklyn telephone call.
“Sounds like a question they’re asking themselves,” agreed Cowley.
“Leanov’s personally carrying the shipping details with him,” Danilov pointed out. “Cuts down our chances of overhearing them.”
“Which we might have if he and Naina had used the Olds to get home tonight,” said Cowley. “Maybe letting the tire down wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
“If there hadn’t been the delay, we wouldn’t have gotten out of the garage in time,” reminded Danilov. “I think we need to think about the conversation in the car on their way
to
the restaurant.”
to
the restaurant.”
“Which brings us back to who’s in charge,” agreed Cowley. “I’m reading it that Ivan Gavrilovich Guzov is the American boss and deals direct with the terrorists. But that Yevgenni Mechislavovich, his former KGB buddy, is on his way to take over. So if we join ourselves at the hip to Gavri, we could be led exactly where we want to go.”
“That’s how I see it,” agreed Danilov. “I also think it’s safe to assume there’s only one cache. And that there don’t appear to be any immediate plans to do anything else here in Moscow.”
“The money dispute could be important,” suggested Cowley. “If they haven’t got enough and keep hitting the banks, we’ll still have a chance of tracking them that way, too.” He paused. “In fact, the intercept has thrown up a lot to be organized in America.”
Pamela had instantly recognized that as she’d listened to the tape three hours earlier and was already making plans. So, too, was Patrick Hollis in the security of his locked den. He’d already cracked into the web address and confirmed it was a cybercafé. He was impatient for eleven o’clock the following morning to send a warning.
Pamela Darnley had concluded that Ivan Guzov headed the Russian arms smuggling organization in America before Cowley’s Moscow message and was glad she had the previous night memoed the director on the urgency for an immediate tap on Guzov’s and Kabanov’s homes from the Trenton exchange. She’d also ordered the Trenton agent in charge, John Meadowcraft, to convene a 9:00 A.M. conference of every agent not specifically involved in that morning’s surveillance on the Russians and was in Trenton by eight personally to address it. She took with her copies of Yevgenni Leanov’s photograph, the man’s KGB file, and transcripts as well as duplicates of all the telephone intercepts upon which Leanov featured. Also there by eight o’clock were the ten additional agents she’d drafted in overnight to supplement the surveillance teams.
From Meadowcraft’s greeting Pamela guessed she’d been preceded by the gossip couriers and was glad of that, too. It saved a lot of time—and ensured that what she wanted done was done properly—for everyone already to know she stood up to piss like they did.
For the benefit of the ten newcomers, Pamela had Guzov’s photograph mounted on the display board beside that of Yevgenni Leanov. She circulated the remainder of those she’d brought through the room for each individual team leader and promised the man’s KGB file—as well as Guzov’s—would be made available as soon as it was translated and duplicated. So would English translations of all the telephone conversations. In advance of their getting that, Pamela recounted the Moscow ordnance discovery—with the assurance that it was being made safe—but insisted that their Russian targets were their best chance of being led to the Watchmen terrorists. That, she said, would probably be in Chicago, where they’d had bad luck that wasn’t going to be repeated.
“There will be no screw-ups,” she said, pedantically spacing her words. “That’s what I’ve come personally to tell you. You’re going to live in their back pockets—Leanov’s when he gets here—and they’re not going to know that you’re there. You’re going to know—and tell me, when I ask—what they eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; the color of their underwear; and how many times they blink per second.”
When Pamela said she expected Leonard Ross’s personal pressure—the White House’s, if necessary—to obtain the phone taps before noon, a black female agent near the front said, “Guzov uses a mobile phone a lot. Our surveillance pictures show two different handsets.”
“We got the numbers? listening in?” Pamela demanded at once. The cell phone information hadn’t been in any report from Trenton, for fuck’s sake!
“Not yet,” said Meadowcraft.
“Why not!”
“It wasn’t thought necessary to have the homes as well as the office bugged until today,” Meadowcraft pointed out defensively. He was a large, untidy man who reminded Pamela of Al Beckinsdale in age as well as stature. And now in attitude.
She said, “It’s nine-thirty. I want us plugged in by noon, and I want the billing records for the last three months, to know the numbers he’s called. I’d like those, at the Washington incident room, by this time tomorrow. Noon the latest. Don’t screw around with any official obstruction or objection. Come straight on to Washington and it’ll be resolved. Anything unclear?”
There were a lot of exchanged looks. The same black girl who’d mentioned the mobile phones said, “What about the other guy, Kabanov?”
“Just as tight and the same goes for mobiles, if we’ve got evidence of his using one,” instructed Pamela. “Leanov’s coming to make changes—at least he thinks he is—and we might be able to manipulate whatever they are if we get some idea what they might be. There might even be a hit.”
“Why don’t we get inside their houses some way, wire the places like we’ve done in Brooklyn?” asked one of the drafted-in agents.
“
Because
we wired Brooklyn,” said Pamela. “We daren’t risk spooking them.”
Because
we wired Brooklyn,” said Pamela. “We daren’t risk spooking them.”
“What about state-line jurisdiction, courtesy to local forces?” queried Meadowcraft.
“Wherever they go, you go,” insisted Pamela. “I’ll do the telling, if it’s necessary. I don’t want local shitkickers getting in the way.”
“Chicago liaison?” asked the agent in charge.
“Direct, if speed’s involved. Everything copied to me in Washington.”
Pamela’s arrival back in D.C., by 11:30, coincided with the Trenton judge’s approval of the tap on the homes of Guzov and Kabanov. Determined against another Chicago foul-up, she spent an hour on the telephone to the bureau office there assuring herself there were sufficient agents at the telephone exchange and in readiness in various parts of the city to respond when the number was picked up from the impending call to Brooklyn’s River Café. As soon as she’d finished doing that, she repeated the process with Manhattan.
It was midafternoon before she reviewed everything with Terry Osnan. The man said, “We shouldn’t be overwhelmed like we were last time. Orlenko being in the café, waiting, gives us the specific time. His conversations average out at five minutes. The longest so far has been ten, from the topless bar at Coney Island.”
“The telephone engineers reckon they can run a trace in under sixty seconds,” said Pamela.
Osnan extended both hands, each index finger crossed over its next digit. “This really could be it, couldn’t it?”
“This really could be it,” echoed Pamela. A bureau helicopter was on standby, to take her to Chicago.
The impeachment debate in the Duma collapsed, televised for all to see. There was a desperation about the communists’ attack from the outset, the speakers repeating themselves instead of coming to the podium with the criticism apportioned between them. It didn’t help them that the censure was predicated upon the economy and the unsuccessful reforms to reduce inflation and stabilize the ruble. The terrorist attack and apparent American intrusion into Russian law enforcement had too obviously been tacked on at the last minute, which made the debate as disjointed as its hurriedly rearranged planning.
By comparison, the Russian White House organized itself superbly. The presidential decree to put the country’s early-warning system on standby was leaked overnight, forcing Washington to confirm that the precaution had been discussed and agreed during undisclosed president-to-president discussions. Both White Houses refused to give a reason for the move. By the time the Duma debate began, the speculation had settled on an attack of far greater proportions than that on the U.S. Embassy. It was seized on as fact by the president’s parliamentary supporters. Their procession to the podium to talk of the man’s strength and foresight, in defending the country and its people, swamped the stumbling criticism so much that the economic crisis appeared to be forgotten. Twenty-three communist votes were recorded against the censure motion.
Danilov watched most of it on his set at Petrovka, not hurrying to tell Georgi Chelyag of the ordnance sabotage he’d planned with equal cleverness. It still took three attempts—his first two calls not returned, despite promises—for Danilov to reach the chief of staff.
Chelyag said at once, “We won.”
“I know.”
“He’s very pleased. Grateful. I’m to tell you. We’re going to build on it.”
“There’s an update.”
“I’m very busy. Can’t meet. Tell me now.”
Danilov did so, feeling a sink of apprehension. When he finished Chelyag said, “Good! It’s going well. Keep in touch.”
“I—” Danilov started but stopped, realizing he was talking into a dead phone.
It rang again, almost at once. Cowley said, “What the fuck’s going on!”
Mary Jo had her usual martini, Orlenko his beer. They had their drinks on the outside deck, admiring the Manhattan skyline. It put them directly in view of the two bureau agents who’d arrived before them and got seats at the bar. The pursuit car from Bay View Avenue had already reported their arrival. There was a line permanently open from the exchange monitoring team to the FBI’s Third Avenue Manhattan office and from there to the Washington incident room.
Orlenko brought his wife back into the restaurant ten minutes ahead of schedule and ordered her a second martini while she studied the menu. One of the agents followed Orlenko on his way to the telephone, continuing on to the men’s room to warn the waiting listeners from his pocket-concealed microphone.
“A call’s incoming,” said the exchange listener.
“Tracing,” confirmed the engineer at his elbow.
“Hello,” said Orlenko.
“Got him!” anticipated Pamela, to Osnan.
It was the same recognizable voice—American—as before. “You tell Moscow what I said?”
“It’s got to be a million and a half, all up front.”
“Too much.”
“Then it’s off.”
“I don’t like threats.”
“Neither do my people in Moscow.”
“Gavri know?”
“He’s being told by Moscow.”
“I’ll still talk to him.”
There was fade on the line, the sound almost lost on one occasion. Pamela said, “Why’s that happening?”
Osnan shook his head, not knowing.
The volume dipped again. Pamela only made out: “ … when you are.”
Pamela said, “They promised a trace by now.”
Osnan didn’t respond, leaning forward toward the speaker. There was a mumble from the exchange and then, much louder: “Shit!”
“What?” demanded Pamela, into her voice link with Manhattan.
The reply was from the exchange, not the New York incident room: “It’s a mobile phone. The bastard’s driving—being driven, I guess—around Chicago. Chicago got a scanner ready?”
She hadn’t made the provision, Pamela realized. Before she could repeat the question, Stephen Murray, the Chicago agent in charge, said, “We thought it would be a land line.”
“Is there a scanner?” demanded Pamela.
“Afraid not.”
“Do we have the mobile number?” It wouldn’t appear her mistake, Pamela decided.
“Yes,” said the New York monitor.
“ … usual way,” Orlenko was saying. “And cash, of course.”
“I’ll talk to Gavri about that,” said the fluctuating voice.
She’d still go to Chicago, Pamela decided. It wasn’t a total disaster. By the time she got there they’d have the name from the cell phone records. She could personally supervise the surveillance; be there, too, when Ivan Gavrilovich Guzov arrived, which he’d have to if he were collecting the money. So, too, would Yevgenni Leanov.
The intercept totally faded. Orlenko said, “Hello! hello! I’ve lost you?”
“ … delivery …?”
“I couldn’t hear. Say again.”
“What’s the delivery?”
“Immediate. A week, upon payment.”
“Tell them to ship it.”
“I can tell them you have the money?”
“It’ll be ready when the stuff gets here.”
“When do we speak again?”
“We don’t. I’ll speak to Gavri.”
“That’s not how … hello? You there?” There was the click, of Orlenko hanging up.
Pamela said, “I’m still going.”
Osnan nodded. “They’re certainly falling out.”
“Let’s hope there’s some way we can use it.”
“Unfortunate about a scanner.”
“Which Chicago will have to explain when I get there.”
“It’s a goddamned meet-the-people presidential parade, all the way around Nikitskij Boulevard and Leanov’s place on Kalasnyj,” protested Cowley. “Television and still cameras everywhere. I’ve withdrawn everyone on foot, to prevent their accidentally being photographed and recognized from the arrival pictures with the secretary. Trying to cover by car but it’s too loose.”
“I wasn’t told,” said Danilov.
We’re going to build on it
, he remembered. “You want me to back up with people from here?”
We’re going to build on it
, he remembered. “You want me to back up with people from here?”
“Even more risk of recognition by your guy on the payroll, isn’t there?”
“The number Leanov called from the car is definitely Vladimir Oskavinky’s line at Plant 43,” identified Danilov.
“You’re going to need extra jails,” said Cowley. “The car hadn’t been put back in the garage when I withdrew surveillance. I don’t like not being there, actually on the ground.”
“I’ll get back to you,” promised Danilov.
It was a full hour before he got a reply from Chelyag’s direct line. The man said, “The footage will be useful after the arrests: show the president’s personal involvement and awareness.”
“How long?” said Danilov, impatient with the nothing-missed cynicism.
“Over any minute now.”
“I’d like to have been told.”
“It was not considered necessary,” the other man dismissed, stiffly.
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