The Watchmen

10

Cowley took the Tylenol the nurse offered and went to the bathroom to take another from the bottle with which they discharged him. As the bureau car drove downtown from the George Washington Hospital, Cowley gazed out at the White House and across the parks to the needle-like monument and the other memorials. He could see the nipple of the Capitol dome, too, over the far closer Treasury Building, and felt a lurch of despair at so many targets laid out like ducks at a shooting gallery. There seemed to be far more demonstrators than usual outside the White House. One of the banners read “Avenge the Innocent Dead” and the red paint had been allowed to drip, like blood. “Justice not Inaction” was written on another.

The car shuddered over the bureau’s tire-tearing security ramp, jarring Cowley’s chest. Just before he got out of the car he took another Tylenol. It was difficult to swallow without water, and the coughing hurt.

There was a lot of glad-handing in the entry lobby, where Leonard Ross’s personal assistant was already waiting. On the way up in the elevator the man said he looked great, which Cowley knew he didn’t from examining himself in a hospital mirror just before he left. Illogically, his size seemed to make the weight loss more obvious, and instead of minimizing the head injury the smaller dressing drew attention to how much hair had been cut away. Cowley thought that rather than look like a covering, the dressing itself looked like a deformity growing from the side of his head. Which throbbed, as his chest did, despite the Tylenol.

There was coffee and Danish already set out in the lounge area of the director’s suite. Ross came across the room to greet him and afterward personally poured the coffee. Cowley tried to prevent any awkwardness-certainly any facial reaction to the jab of pain-as he came forward to accept the cup. He had wondered if Pamela Darnley would be included and was glad she wasn’t: glad, in fact, that there was no one else except himself and the director.

The no-nonsense former judge said, “You look like shit.”

The tone of the meeting had been quickly established, Cowley accepted. “Surface appearance. I’m fine. I told Pamela I wouldn’t risk this investigation by not being fit enough to go on with it.”

“And she told me,” said Ross. “Your neurologist also told me he would have liked you to have stayed for another week.”

“Every doctor’s worried about his malpractice insurance.” Pepper’s parting words had been that he expected him to be readmitted in two or three days.

“I can’t risk it, Bill. You any idea the sort of heat we’re under? The bureau most of all.”

“I’ve seen the coverage. Which is why I want to get back.” He shook his head against an offered Danish and wished he hadn’t.

Ross took one, crumbling it on his plate. “You want to explain that?”

“OK. I’m still slow, physically. But I can sit at a desk, think things through. You see that half-assed discussion on television after the funeral, some guy suggesting these bastards had frightened themselves so badly they wouldn’t do it again?” He hoped he had properly understood the tone of this meeting.

“I heard about it.”

“That really the guidance from here?”

“No!” Ross said positively. “I’m guessing at political pressure from the White House, although Norton denies it. Necessary for people to feel they can sleep safely in their beds at night.”

“So by how much is the heat going to be turned up on us-you-here at the bureau when the next attack comes, which it surely will, and the fact that we didn’t think another attack would happen is thrown right back at us!” demanded Cowley.

“I’m ahead of you.” The director sighed.

“Doesn’t the fact that I’m making the point prove I’m fit enough to come back here and think of things as a whole and not in panicked isolation?”

Ross smiled fleetingly. “Clever argument.”

“Valid argument,” insisted Cowley. He cautiously waved an arm toward the city outside. “You have any idea how many targets there are out there after the U.N. tower and the trade towers before that!”

“There’s already extra security around all the obvious ones.”

“Which again was leaked, from here, to the Post two days ago. So when the hit comes that’ll be thrown back, too.”

“Providing you’re right.”

“I am,” said Cowley. The headache had gone and his chest was easier, scarcely any discomfort. “But there’s an even stronger, practical reason for my being back here. Pamela doesn’t think she’s getting the cooperation from Moscow.”

“That’s why I agreed to see you today,” disclosed Ross. “I thought there was a special relationship?”

“There is, between Danilov and myself,” said Cowley, deciding that to succeed he had to go as far as he could and exaggerate as much as was necessary-knowing the conditions in Moscow, there was hardly cause to exaggerate. “Moscow isn’t Washington and their Organized Crime Bureau isn’t like us.” He hesitated. The director set the tone, he reminded himself. “Here the only corruption is ambition, which I guess is how it should be. At Ulitza Petrovka virtually everyone from the janitor upward is on the take: Capone’s Chicago was a kindergarten by comparison. More people-politicians as well as his own organization-are working against Dimitri than with him.”

“You’re saying you’re indispensable,” cut in the director.

“Yes,” Cowley said unashamedly. “It’s nothing personal against anyone here. But it’s very personal with me. He’s five thousand miles away, virtually unable to trust anyone within five yards of him in his own building. He needs to speak to someone he knows as a friend when he talks to us.”

“A very, very clever argument,” said the haphazardly dressed director, smiling longer this time.

“Very, very valid,” echoed Cowley. He wished there was more facial reaction from Ross-something he might have been able to read.

“Pepper also told me he had you sign a specific waiver against premature discharge. Which he thinks this is.”

Told me! Cowley picked up the phrase belatedly: The director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation personally talking to the physician of an injured agent! Could he have been working his ass off for a purpose that had already been decided? If he was reading the runes correctly, he was back! “The federal insurance people want me to sign the same exoneration?”

“Yes,” admitted Ross.

“Why did we go through all this then?” chanced Cowley.

“I needed to be sure.”

“Are you?”

“I think so.”

“Am I still case officer?”

“Initially under the strictest-and personal-operational control. And I’ve agreed with the incident room being established here for that reason.”

“You want me to sign the insurance waiver?”

“No.”

“That makes it your personal decision.”

“You feel competent to lecture me on law?”

“I wanted to make it clear that I understood the legal implications.”

“If there was an alternative to bringing you back I’d have taken it. At this moment I wish there had been.”

This really was trousers-down, ass-in-the-air time, thought Cowley. “I’m glad there wasn’t.”

“I want you to convince Danilov that Pamela Darnley can be trusted just as much as you can,” demanded the director.

“In case I can’t cut it?”

“You don’t need me to explain what I’m saying.”

“Thank you.”

“This isn’t for your career benefit. I don’t want you imagining that this meeting gives you any special privilege, either.”

“I don’t. And won’t. What about authority?”

“I appointed Pamela Darnley acting case officer. I’ll tell her you’re back.”

“She’ll be disappointed.”

“I hope I’m not.”

It was the first time he’d seen Pamela Darnley with total, unblurred clarity, and Cowley decided she was remarkably attractive: close, he supposed, to being beautiful. He tried to avoid the physical comparison with Pauline but couldn’t. Like Pauline, she was richly auburn haired, although heavier busted-heavier altogether-which was compensated for by her height, which had to be at least five ten, maybe more. There was an elegance about the tunic dress without the edge-to-edge precision of Pauline the previous night, and worn with the insouciance of someone who either didn’t care or knew she didn’t have to try too hard. He suspected the latter. The heavy-framed glasses that had registered indistinctly during the hospital visit outlined deeply blue or maybe black eyes in an oval face spared, with the same insouciance, anything more than base makeup and pale lipstick. There was no wedding ring. Cowley was abruptly discomfited by an analysis-and most definitely by the comparison with Pauline-that was totally irrelevant. The incident room had been created from a small lecture hall, and Terry Osnan said it was good to see him back.

“It is good to see you back,” Pamela said, settling into her chair in the cramped side office-surrendering the desk position to Cowley-and feeling the opposite.

“No, it’s not, as far as you are concerned,” Cowley replied at once. “You know I’ve just had a one-to-one with the director. I’m working the same rules now. And they’ll apply in whatever the future is. You’re not at all pleased to see me back. You saw this as your big chance-which it was and still is-but now you’re thinking my being here screws everything. It doesn’t. I’m not back here to watch my territory or my ass. We’re not in competition. We don’t have the time or the luxury to be. Any day now the bastards are going to hit again and we’re going to be under more pressure than you ever thought possible. You are going to be glad I’m back then, to take some of the heat.” Cowley paused. Then he said, “That’s it, for openers.”

Pamela didn’t respond immediately because she couldn’t. Neither did she show any facial surprise-any reaction whatsoever-to the pronouncement. Finally she said, “So I wasn’t glad. Pissed, in fact. Now I’m not sure.”

“Then you’ll have to learn to be.”

“OK,” she accepted doubtfully. She hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t a conversation like this.

“What did you think of the suggestion that we don’t expect any more attacks?”

“Total shit. Of course there are going to be. I wasn’t asked an opinion until now.”

Cowley smiled. “Now you’re going to be asked; we’re going to be asked. Before we are you’d better bring me up to date.”

It only took minutes. The second forensic search in New Rochelle (“they even sexed the worms”) had found nothing. In the intervening days since the disaster, they’d hit every known, possibly traceable and self-proclaimed radical group, from those that expected the world to end next week, through those that believed there was life on Mars, to those (“the freedom-of-expression Constitution’s got a lot to answer for”) that built shrines to Hitler and Satan, or both, and wanted to kill all the mentally ill, disabled, homosexuals, Jews, blacks, Catholics, and Protestants on the planet. There was no provable paramilitary group or organization in the area of the massacre, and the marina checks at New Rochelle and Norwalk had not produced a single sighting of any obvious reconnoiterer. The military hadn’t come up with anything.

“Zilch!” the woman declared. “We also went through the Russian ghettoes at Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach, where the links are to the mafias back home. No one expected to be knocked over by the rush of volunteers-a whisper would have been good. Nothing, not even for money and immunity. There was some copy-cat stuff, of course, from the crazies. One-a U.S. Army grenade-in Des Moines, two, both industrial dynamite, in St. Louis. No one got hurt, thank Christ.”

Everything that should have been done according to routine, acknowledged Cowley. “Moscow?”

“The Moscow murders switched the attention from us yesterday and so far today. But all we know is what Danilov let us have. We haven’t been able to add to it from here-establish a connection that makes sense, any more than he can.” Pamela paused heavily. “Or any more than he’s prepared to tell me he can.”

“Or is allowed to tell us he can,” Cowley picked up. “This was a Russian missile. And the mines that killed seventeen Americans were Russian, too, according to the metallography findings. You weren’t actually expecting the key to the store, were you?”

The woman made a vague, almost embarrassed gesture. “I hoped for more.”

Cowley guessed Pamela Darnley was about thirty, thirty-five tops: a fast-track contender to be this high this young. He decided it was too soon to repeat the near lecture he’d delivered earlier to the director about the environment in which Danilov existed, quite irrespective of the political straitjacket into which the man was probably strapped, whatever public declarations there might be about full and frank openness. “I know it seems like forever but it’s only been a few days.” Exactly six, he realized, surprising himself.

“You want to convince the great American public they shouldn’t be so impatient?”

“I’m not sure I could.”

“I’m sure you couldn’t. After September, 2001, and the anthrax outbreaks that followed there’s a lot of frightened people out there.” She consciously made her smile into a grimace. “A lot of frightened people in here, too. So what’s our way forward?” Did he mean what he said about not cutting her out?

“I need to speak to Dimitri.”

“Special friends?”

“Necessary friends,” Cowley said, unconcerned by the cynicism. “Which brings it all back to us. I’m case officer as well as outranking you in seniority. But I’m not interested in playing that game. All I’m interested in is getting this wrapped up, whatever it takes. I want your total, unconditional input. You make the breakthrough, I won’t steal it from you. Additional rules, OK?”

Pamela looked steadily at him for several moments. “OK,” she agreed. If he wasn’t sincere he had to be the world’s best bullshitter. She’d go along with it because initially there wasn’t any alternative. But only as long as it took her to decide if he was genuine or not. And if he wasn’t, she’d have to do something about it. She wouldn’t get another opportunity like this, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let it be taken away from her.

Why, wondered Cowley, had he made a commitment to Pamela Darnley that it hadn’t occurred to him to make to her predecessor? Reminded, he said, “What’s the news of Burt Bradley? He taking visitors? Able to talk?”

There was another long look. “I thought the director might have told you. He died early this morning.”

CNN made a news flash of the deputy foreign minister’s arrival at the American embassy. Yuri Kisayev insisted on entering the building from the front, directly off Ulitza Chaykovskovo, personally carrying one of the awkwardly shaped packages, trailed by his more heavily laden driver. He paused at the babble of questions, refusing to identify what he was passing over but insisting it proved the Russian intention to cooperate.

Cowley said, “I’m guessing warheads.”

“Very obviously a staged photo opportunity,” said Pamela.

“Dimitri say anything about it?”

“I couldn’t get him yesterday and he didn’t call back,” said the woman. “Nothing when we last spoke.”

Only when he recognized Dimitri Danilov’s voice did Cowley slot the receiver into the conference relay box. He began speaking in Russian. It was Danilov who switched immediately into English.

“How are you?” demanded the Russian. Cowley was back!

“Like shit on a plate, according to the director.”

Danilov laughed. “But you’re there?”

“Yes.”

“And OK?” demanded Danilov.

“Good enough,” dismissed Cowley. “This is a conference call. I’ve got Pamela Darnley with me.”

“We’ve spoken. Hello.”

“Hello,” said the woman.

“CNN has just shown your deputy minister at our embassy.”

“It’s the duplicate warheads we spoke about before you got hurt,” the Russian cut in.

Cowley hesitated. “That’s good. Our forensic people are anxious for them.”

“I can understand that.” In his Moscow office Danilov smiled, relieved that Cowley was understanding, too.

“How closely do you think your murders are connected?” Cowley saw Pamela, on the other side of the desk, frown at the question.

“Perfect fit, I’d say. There are still some things to sort out here before I can come over. Will a delay be a problem for you?”

“Not at all,” said Cowley without any hesitation this time. “How long do you think?”

“A day or two. Three maybe. Anything I should know from your end?”

“One or two useful-looking leads but nothing positive,” said Cowley. “If there’s a definite development I’ll tell you at once. Otherwise I’ll bring you up to speed when you get here.”

“That sounds good. What about your not expecting another attack?”

Cowley hesitated. “You read that?”

“Had it suggested to me.”

“Your side?”

“No.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Thought you might find it so. True?”

“Of course not.”

“Didn’t sit comfortably with me, either.”

“Pamela and I are working closely on this,” said Cowley. “I’m going to be office bound for a few days, but if you come through and I’m not here, she’ll have the handle on everything.”

“Look forward to working with you, Pamela,” said Danilov.

“And I with you,” said the woman. Pointedly she added, “Finally.”

Cowley supposed she was allowed the complaint. The frown had gone but there was a weary-faced resignation. He sat initially unspeaking after replacing the telephone, looking across at the woman. When she stayed equally silent he said, “Well?”

She shrugged. “I guess I got security clearance. I just wish we had been told something that needed it.”

Cowley smiled at her. “We were. Welcome to the land-and the need-of double-speak.”

Her face remained expressionless while Cowley sketched the difficulties under which Danilov operated. “The arrangement is that if I initiate the call we speak in Russian. If he calls me, it’s in English. A switch, like today, indicates he’s got a problem-is being blocked or misled. Whatever, he can’t speak freely. We never spoke, before the boat blew up, about his supplying duplicate although obviously empty warheads. Nor did we make-discuss even-any plans for his coming here. He was telling me a lot by seeming to tell me nothing. And if anyone was listening at his end, they wouldn’t have understood a word.”

Pamela’s face relaxed at last. “Very Hollywood.”

“Hollywood couldn’t make it up.”

Danilov was relieved at reestablishing his direct and very necessary link with Cowley. He felt a confidence he hadn’t until now realized had been missing since the catastrophe in which the American could have died with all the rest. There was an excitement, too, at the thought of getting away from a dull, gray existence in a dull, gray Moscow to where there always seemed enough electricity to charge the people as well as all their neon and flashing lights. It might, also, temporarily resolve the immediate problem toward which he was driving, unsure what to expect when he got there.

Olga was at Kirovskaya, which Danilov half expected. What Danilov hadn’t anticipated was the condition of the apartment itself. Or of his wife. The flat was tidier-cleaner-than he could ever remember it being. There were no discarded clothes anywhere, the couch and seat coverings were neatly arranged and looked freshly pressed, and the bed was made. Olga herself was in an unstained dress and wore a cardigan he didn’t know she possessed, without elbow holes and with all the matching buttons still attached. Her hair was neatly arranged, although still in its several shades of blond.

“Can I get you something?” she offered.

“I’ll do it myself,” said Danilov. The stalagmite of dishes had gone and there was food in the refrigerator and ice for his vodka.

“I stayed with Irena,” Olga announced before Danilov asked about her previous night’s absence, which he hadn’t intended to do. “We had a long talk.”

Danilov nodded, with nothing to say.

“I don’t know why I did it. Here, I mean.”

“Does it make any difference? Has it ever?”

“I want to try again.”

Danilov looked blankly at her, not understanding what she was saying.

“I mean you and me. Try to put our marriage back together.”

“Olga! Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t have a marriage. There’s nothing to put together.”

“Please, Dimmy.”

“Olga, there’s no point. No possibility. You know that.”

“I’m trying to say I’m sorry. That I’ll never do anything like it again. Ever. I’ll do anything!”

“Stop it, Olga! I’ve already decided I’ll get another place.”

Her face began to harden. “So you’re throwing me out?”

“I said I’ll find somewhere else.”

“Like the place you found with Larissa!”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“That’s what she said,” blurted Olga, the bitterness overflowing, her voice shrill. “That I wouldn’t be abandoned: that she’d always see I was looked after. She said that to me. Like she was doing me a favor! Making it all all right.”

Larissa had insisted on that, Danilov remembered. Meant it, because of the sort of woman she had been, knowing there was going to be an upheaval and trying to do everything she could to cause as little hurt as possible. “She wasn’t taking me away from you. You drove me away from you years ago. It was stupid, bothering to stay together. We both know that.”

“You know what I did when she got killed?”

“I don’t want to.”

“I laughed.”

“Don’t, Olga! This isn’t achieving anything.” It was, he conceded. It was the only way she could hurt him, which she’d known. He wasn’t going to argue-couldn’t be bothered to argue. All he could do was hear her out-or rather try not to hear her out-closing his mind and his feelings to whatever or however she wanted to avenge herself.

“You’ll pay!

“I have already.”

She snorted a laugh too heavily, so that her nose ran. She didn’t try to wipe it. “So romantic! So touching!”

“I’m going to America,” he announced, trying to stop her. “I’ll start looking around when I get back. Until then, for the next two or three days, let’s just try to be civilized. I’ll only be here at night. Let’s try to endure that as best we can.”

She wiped her nose finally. “No!” she said. “You won’t move out. I will. I’ll find somewhere else while you’re away. Somewhere nice, better than this rathole. And I’ll see a lawyer, make sure I get all the money and support that a loyal, loving wife deserves when she’s abandoned. You’re going to regret the day you ever met me.”

“I’ve been doing that for years,” said Danilov. “You want to get into a competition about who betrayed whom first, you’re welcome. I’m not interested.”

“You’ve got more to lose than me,” threatened Olga. “You’ll become the joke, I won’t.”

Patrick Hollis had been physically sick. Even now, hours later in his locked den, he still felt nauseated. On the keyboard of his for once ignored computer lay the drawing that had been waiting for him, mixed in with that morning’s mail. It showed a limp penis, the head drawn as a bespectacled, weeping face. Written beneath, in capital letters, was SORRY.

The explosion that blew away three of the tiered steps running from the top to the bottom of the Washington Monument came at 1:00 A.M. the following morning.