The Watchmen

38

The aerial surveillance docking estimate of five days was confirmed by the Cidicj Star’s cargo manifest filed with Chicago Customs. It gave the fifteenth as the arrival date and listed three containers of tractor and engine parts for OverOcean portside collection. With so much time to prepare, William Cowley had the uneasy impression that he was returning to a vacuum, an impression heightened by all the necessary planning already under way. Worryingly, Leonard Ross’s diary was too full to see him on his first day back.

Terry Osnan had installed a large map of the eastern seaboard of the United States, extending up to include the east coast of Canada and the St. Lawrence Seaway entrance to the Great Lakes. On it he marked the progress of the Cidicj Star-appropriately designated by a red stick pin-constantly updating from Coast Guard aerial reports. Pamela had organized three SWAT teams and fixed at twenty the number of extra agents needed in Chicago to maintain the necessary surveillance on the containers once they were unloaded, to lead them to the terrorist group and the General for whom the military hadn’t offered any identification. Neither had the General made any further approach to the now totally FBI firewalled Cyber Shack.

Although the contact between Washington and Moscow had been absolute, Cowley and Pamela reviewed every development in his absence. Pamela began to regret the meeting halfway through, because it came out like a litany of her achievements, which she hadn’t intended. She thought Cowley looked drained-worse, he looked distracted.

She was even more discomfited when, at the end, he said, “Quite a success story! Congratulations!”

“You already said that, from Moscow,” Pamela reminded him curtly. “I got a couple of lucky breaks and you had a bad one. From which we’ve recovered. We’re still in good shape.” Her ex-husband had drunk too much-it was as much that as her career determination that wrecked the marriage-but she couldn’t recognize any of the signs in Cowley, although there was perhaps the vaguest hand tremor.

“Can’t think of anything you haven’t already got in hand,” he said. There was something like condescension in Pamela surrendering the desk chair to him. The irritation came at once. That was self-pity-or something like it-and went way beyond any remorse he needed to feel. Unless, perhaps, the uncertainty wasn’t remorse at losing the cargo-which she’d pointed out they’d found again-but something else. Back on base now. Time to get a grip on himself.

“What about going there ourselves?” Pamela said.

Cowley considered the question. “Chicago’s going to be the focus. Nowhere else we need to be.”

“Together.”

Cowley wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “There’ll have to be split-second coordination between us and Dimitri in Moscow. I can do that as easily from Chicago as from here; better, even, actually being on the spot.”

“I think we should be together,” stated Pamela.

“So do I.”

“How’s Dimitri taking the death of his wife?”

Cowley had forgotten Pamela had known. “OK.”

“What was it?”

“Routine operation that went wrong,” avoided Cowley. “Don’t know the details.”

“Your hair doesn’t look as if it’s sliding off the side of your head anymore. How have you been?” She couldn’t talk about what she wanted to in official surroundings like this. When-how-could she talk about it?

“OK,” he said, leaning sideways to his briefcase. “I brought you a present.” It was a joke matroyshka set; the one-on-top-of-the-other doll representing Boris Yeltsin had a red nose and a glass of vodka in its hand.

Pamela smiled her thanks and said, “I haven’t been anywhere to justify bringing back a gift. I could buy you dinner if you’re not one of those old-fashioned guys who thinks a man always has to pay.” Was this how it was done in singles’ bars? Not that the intention was sex. She wanted a different setting for a quite different sort of intimacy, and this was the best she could think of.

Cowley appeared as surprised as Pamela was at herself. He said, “That would be a nice welcome home.”

They went to Georgetown again. It was Cowley’s suggestion to stop for a drink at the Four Seasons, and Pamela chose a martini to his scotch. She changed to mineral water at Nathans and because that meant a half bottle Cowley fit in a second whiskey while she finished it. After walking aimlessly along M Street, they decided on the restaurant in which they’d eaten with Danilov. Again they were early enough not to need a reservations. Cowley had another scotch while they considered the menu and chose a French beaujolais to go with the meal.

Pamela said; “I’ve forgotten who’s to be the host.”

“So had I. Sorry. Want me to cancel the wine?”

“Shouldn’t you?” she asked, taking the opening.

He was caught by her seriousness. “Have I missed part of the plot here?”

“I hope not.”

“Why don’t you sketch it out for me?”

Pamela did, in seconds, knowing nothing beyond what Osnan had told her the day she returned from Albany. Anticipating the question, she said, “I tried to get a name but couldn’t.”

“I drink,” Cowley declared flatly.

“I’ve noticed.”

“But it doesn’t-will never-screw up how I work a case. Booze had nothing to do with my lifting the street surveillance in Moscow.”

“I accept that. But I’m not the person you’ve got to convince if these stories build.”

“How can I stop them? The stories, I mean?”

Pamela shook her head. “I don’t know. It was important that you knew they were circulating.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Were there any problems in Moscow?”

She couldn’t have heard of the previous occasion with the hooker. Only Danilov knew that. She was talking about now. “There were a couple of sessions: a celebration when we found the arms cache. Other people drank more than I did.”

“I just wanted you to be warned,” Pamela said. She supposed there had never been a right time but decided that her moment had been wrong. Until at least halfway through the meal Cowley toyed with just one glass of wine before deciding-and declaring-that it was a stupid reaction and began sharing it properly with her. It was an improvement and each relaxed a little, but what she’d said hung between them. Finally he said, “Was that what this was all about? Warning me?”

“Partly, I guess.”

“What’s the other part?”

Pamela shrugged, bemused by her difficulty. “Maybe an apology.”

“For what?”

“Being such a tight-ass before.”

“Got you what you wanted.”

“So let’s make another part a celebration,” she said. “For you as well as me. I did get some breaks. You prevented the Lincoln Memorial catastrophe. If we’re scoring points, we’re about even.”

Cowley finished the bottle between their two glasses. “So here’s to us.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Pamela.

Once more he was caught by her seriousness. “Is there another part we haven’t covered yet?”

“I’m not sure. I think there could be.” Wasn’t that the way of single bars, always up front, in your face?

“So how we going to cover it?”

“My taking control ends with my buying the meal.”

Cowley was very nervous, frightened at first that he was going to fail, which made him even more nervous. He tried to cover his difficulty with foreplay, which she seemed to enjoy and matched him, stroke for stroke, tongue for tongue, hand for hand, and it began to happen. They joined hurriedly and came hurriedly together, but he didn’t need to stop. Their second orgasm took longer but was again together, Pamela bucking and crying out and then arcing under him.

It was a long time before they spoke. Cowley said, “You were right. If we’d tried that the last time you stayed over, it would have killed me.”

“You believe me when I tell you I had no idea this was going to happen?”

“Easily. I had no idea it was going to happen, either. Sorry?”

“No. You?”

“No.”

“We don’t need to analyze anything, do we?”

“No,” he agreed again.

There was another long silence before he said, “I can handle it, you know. Booze.”

“I’m here now. We can handle it together.”

Dimitri Danilov had the same time during which to organize the simultaneously coordinated swoop the moment the Americans were led to the terrorist group but was confronted with the difficulty of Petrovka security, particularly now that Ashot Mizin had been positively identified as the eyes and ears of the other intended targets. He considered and rejected going to Gorki, not wanting prematurely to confront Reztsov and Averin. He continued using the U.S. Embassy facilities to produce enlarged, identifying photographs he personally distributed to the commanders of the three spetznaz units selected for the seizure operation upon the personal authority of Georgi Chelyag. Danilov spent most of one day with the three men, all colonels, a lot of it convincing them that such a level of cooperation really did exist between Moscow and Washington.

Yuri Pavin reached the end of an inquiry that had begun while Danilov had still been in America, folding back layer upon layer of company concealment finally to discover that the ownership of the Golden Hussar was joint between Naina Karpov and Igor Baratov. Naina also turned out to share ownership of both of Baratov’s garages.

The watch was maintained on the Oldsmobile’s garage, but during the one outing there was nothing of any significance in the overheard conversation between brother and sister, apart from Baratov wondering what the terrorists planned to hit, to Naina’s dismissal that she didn’t know. Intriguingly she added, “We’ll probably find out soon.”

It was during another cleaning visit to Larissa’s grave that Danilov began reflecting on the militia corruption that her husband had so epitomized and how his determination to eradicate it at least from Petrovka had been overwhelmed by her death.

He summoned Pavin as soon as he got back to militia headquarters and said, “How many detectives on your suspect list?”

“Six,” replied his deputy. “Seven including Mizin.”

“Who’ll tell us everything we want to know to save his neck,” judged Danilov. “And I want it all. Every name, every brigade or organization. We’ll put Mizin in court as a prosecution witness against those he knows about and in turn use what they know to get the others. I’ll clear the whole damned place out.” It would be sensational, Danilov recognized. But at that precise moment he was in a strong enough position to initiate such a purge. Which wasn’t entirely the altruism of an honest policeman. Quite a long way from it, in fact. He was following the cynically discovered-and practiced-rules of survival. There were few more effective ways of bringing himself to the attention of the newly installed interior minister as well as publicly demonstrating the declared aim of the president.

Pavin regarded him curiously. “It’s a hell of an undertaking.”

“So’s what we’re doing now.”

“It’ll just be the two of us.”

“That’s enough,” decided Danilov. If Yevgenni Kosov hadn’t been in the pocket of a mob, Larissa would still be alive.

William Cowley’s meeting with the director wasn’t the inquest he had expected, although he was glad of Pamela’s warning. It was Cowley himself who raised the shipment loss, to Ross’s dismissal that it had been found again. And the man listened, without comment, to what had been arranged for the Cidicj Star’s arrival.

It was toward the end of the encounter that Ross said, “How you feeling yourself?”

“Fine, sir,” said Cowley, to the jangle of alarm bells.

“You’ve been working at a hell of a pace after being caught up in that explosion. Maybe too hard.”

“I really am quite all right.”

“Did you ever have a follow-up check?”

“No.”

“Maybe after it’s all over.”

“Maybe after everything’s all over.”

“About as subtle as an avalanche,” Cowley told Pamela as soon as he got back to the incident room.

“Sure you’re not overreacting?”

“Positive.”

“You’re back now, under his and everybody else’s nose. All we’ve got to do is prove them wrong.”

Cowley liked the “we’ve.” “That’s all.”

They flew together to Illinois for a conference with the Chicago police commissioner and his division chiefs. They encountered no resentment from a force clearly more than content for the responsibility to be anyone else’s but theirs. In the office of the local Customs chief there was virtually an identical map of the eastern seaboard showing the progress of the Cidicj Star as the one Terry Osnan was maintaining in Washington.

It was when the man was taking them through the unloading and dockside collection procedures that the opportunity became obvious to Cowley.

“A six P.M. arrival?” he pressed.

“Approximately,” confirmed the man. “It won’t be earlier. Add an hour, maybe.”

“Unloaded immediately?”

“That’s what I said.”

“But held in a bonded warehouse until clearance the following morning? No dockside clearance or collection after six?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve got search specialists?”

“Rummage officers.” The man frowned.

“Could they breach a container and reseal it without OverOcean being able to tell?”

The man smiled, understanding the conversation. “No problem at all.”

Cowley turned to Pamela, smiling as well. “We can fix what we weren’t able to in Moscow.”

The police commissioner hosted that night’s dinner in a private dining room of Le Perroquet, on East Walton Street. Cowley wished Pamela had been next to him, although acknowledging the social need for them to separate. Besides the police division chiefs, Stephen Harding, the local bureau head, the Customs chief and his four most senior officers, and the commanders of the SWAT teams were invited. Cowley had one scotch for an aperitif and one glass of wine with the meal. He’d forgotten the publicity of his televised entry into the United Nations tower and the brief recorded appearances in Moscow, that concentrated the attention on him. Twice he caught Pamela smiling tolerantly toward him.

They’d booked separate rooms for propriety but ensured they were adjoining and used his. He wasn’t nervous anymore, and he hadn’t thought it could be any better than it had been the first time but it was. Afterward, in mock rebuke, Pamela said, “That wasn’t just great, it was reassuring. Guys are supposed to hit on me, not you.”

“If anyone had tried, I’d have torn their heads off.”

“Bit soon for jealousy, isn’t it?” She was still surprised at how fast everything had happened between them and how good she felt about it.

“You’ve got a lot to learn about me.” He waited for her to remark about his near abstinence but she didn’t. “I hadn’t expected to be able to get into the container. We’re safe now.”

“I’ve been thinking about their Pentagon access.”

“You got both of them.”

“That’s what I’m nervous about: that there might be a third but that the sweeps might start getting relaxed.”

“Talk to Carl Ashton.”

“We’ve got a couple of days and we’re going back to Washington anyway. Think I might just go over the river and satisfy myself no one’s laying back.”

“If you think you should,” he accepted.

“I know we’re looking good but we’ve got a hell of a lot of loose ends,” she pointed out. “We still don’t know by whom or from where the Pentagon entry is being made. We’ve run a blank on the General. We know there’s a Russian mafia man loose somewhere in America, and two others aren’t doing a thing wrong in New Jersey, and there’s a legal bar up against us sweating Robert Standing like he should be sweated. I don’t think we had much cause for all those toasts tonight.”

“I don’t need the reminder,” said Cowley. Which wasn’t true. With the speed with which everything seemed to be coming together in Chicago, he had put the other unresolved things to one side. Brought together, as Pamela had just brought them together, the mountain suddenly seemed much higher and steeper.

They were back in Washington by midday. Pamela remained only long enough for them to lunch together, leaving Cowley to brief Ross on the Chicago preparations and ask James Schnecker to complete the sabotage that he and his group had started, even though germ or biological weapons weren’t involved any longer.

Pamela had to drive around the Lincoln Memorial to get to the Arlington Bridge. As she did she added to her depressing list of things they still didn’t have their total unawareness of the Watchmen’s next target. There was a slight reassurance in telling herself that the net around it was going to be so tight they weren’t ever going to get the chance to use it.

Pamela had intentionally not notified anyone of her visit. Carl Ashton arrived flushed and frowning at the gatehouse to authorize her admission.

“Why didn’t you call?” he demanded.

“Driving back from the airport,” said Pamela. “Decided to drop in on my way into D.C. A bad time?”

“No, of course not.”

“How’s it going?”

“Scoring two out of two should win us the big doll on the back row.” Ashton smiled.

They were relaxing, Pamela decided at once. “You need three-four maybe-to get that sort of prize.”

Ashton stopped smiling. He stood back for her to enter his office ahead of him, and as he followed her into the room he said, “We’re keeping at it.”

She shook her head against the offer of tea or coffee and said, “Give me the overview.”

It sounded impressive. According to Ashton, they’d swept and confirmed clean all terminals at the four topmost levels of Pentagon security and changed all access codes. Checks on all satellite positional and operational programs would be completed by the week’s end. All silo and missile arming systems had been totally reprogrammed. The sweeping of the National Security Agency and NASA had been completed and every system recoded.

“So what’s left?” asked Pamela.

“Seaborne missiles, automatic submarine guidance systems, and the undersea tracking systems: We’re liaising with the navy at Annapolis. And some AWAK reconnaissance systems are outstanding.”

“It seems-” Pamela began but then stopped at the sound of the door opening behind her. She turned as Bella Atkins started into the room.

The woman stopped and said, “I’m sorry … I didn’t know-” Then: “Hi! You got something on Roanne?”

Pamela later congratulated herself on the smoothness with which she picked up her supposed role as D.C. homicide, not bureau. She rose, offering her hand to give herself a few seconds, and said, “That’s our problem, getting anything at all. That’s why I’ve come back. Running things by Carl again to see if there’s something we’ve missed.”

“Is there?”

“Doesn’t seem to be.”

“So what’s it look like?”

“As it looked from the start: burglar with a rape opportunity who took it.”

“Poor kid.” She looked at Ashton. “Funny thing, I was coming to talk about Roanne’s replacement, but it’ll hold. I’ll come back. Nice to see you again,” she said to Pamela from the door.

“And you.”

“I was about to say that you do seem to be on top of it,” resumed Pamela. “We’re making progress elsewhere. But not enough. It’s from here-or from one of the linked agencies-that the spectacular will come. It’s all our heads, Carl. We don’t want to lose any innocent ones.”

“I know. And I’ll remind everyone I think needs reminding.”

Pamela drove easily back toward Washington, deciding it hadn’t been a wasted journey. Ashton-and maybe too many others-had relaxed, sure they’d found everything. There was even a satisfied glibness about the security man’s recitation of all the precautions that had been taken. Pamela wished … It was as far as her reflection got. Her mind blocked abruptly, and she actually experienced a physical sensation, a tingling numbness that lasted almost all the way back to downtown Washington and the J. Edgar Hoover building.

She’d alerted Cowley and Osnan from the car, and both men were waiting for her. So were a team from the bureau’s Technical Division, who had already set up the recording apparatus in the office beside the incident room. They all backed out to give Pamela room when she dialed and was connected immediately to the extension she asked for. Pamela talked looking out of the small room, toward the forensic technicians. After little more than two minutes, one of the men began making throat-cutting gestures, indicating they had enough.

“How long?” demanded Pamela, the moment she replaced the telephone.

“Not long,” assured the technician leader. “Quite a simple electronic comparison.”

“How sure are you?” Cowley asked Pamela.

“Eighty-five, ninety percent. Now! Why the hell did it take me all this time!”

The technician returned to the incident room just short of one hour. He said, “Absolutely no doubt. A classic voiceprint, the peaks and troughs fitting perfectly over each other.”

Pamela looked at Cowley. “So Bella Atkins is the Pentagon mole?”

“And the first voiceprint comes from her conversation to Chicago with someone who’s more than likely the General.”