The Watchmen

3

Although slightly built, Ibrahim Saads, the secretary-general, was a tall man whose prematurely graying hair added to the ambiance of easily worn authority. At the moment of re-entry, however, both he and Cowley remained slightly uncertain. Saads said, “I’m glad there wasn’t an accident.”

“Yes,” agreed Cowley. They hadn’t expected to find Saads when they emerged into the vestibule, the unguarded warhead still tentatively suspended in its sling between Schnecker and Hamish. The diplomat hadn’t known they were in the building, either, although it had been the noise of their arriving helicopter that brought him to the ground level. Cowley didn’t think the surprise would have been sufficient to startle Schnecker and Hamish into dropping the device but was still glad it had been Pointdexter who’d first confronted the UN chief, who clearly realized there had been a danger. It was his third reference to an accident being avoided.

“There’s no contamination whatsoever?” asked Saads, another repetition.

“None,” confirmed Cowley.

“I’ve got calls to make,” said the diplomat.

“So have I,” said Cowley. “I’d appreciate a phone.”

This time Saads did use his own suite, gesturing for Cowley to take his pick from the immediately adjoining office and leaving the linking door open in invitation.

The FBI director’s demand was immediate. “No doubt it’s Russian?”

“The lettering certainly is,” Cowley said cautiously. “It was a design no one’s seen before.”

“You know anything about a chemical or biological weapon facility at a Plant 35 at or near Gorki?”

“I’ll start a records check when we’ve finished talking. We also-”

“Need to check the CIA,” anticipated Ross. “I’ll speak to the director personally. And State and the White House.”

“The secretary-general’s here. He’s making calls, too.”

“Which have to be duplicated,” insisted Ross. There had been a period when he’d regretted leaving the New York bench, where he’d been the senior judge, for the FBI directorship, but he had become more comfortable after mastering what he considered all the necessary internal and external political footwork. “There’ll be meetings I’ll need you back here for.”

“The city’s in chaos but the trains should work sometime later today. I’ll get the Metroliner.”

“You got any thoughts so far?” asked Ross, knowing it was a question he was going to be asked as he climbed the political ladder.

“Terrorist,” Cowley said shortly. “If it is there should be a claim for responsibility soon. Or a demand.”

There was another momentary silence. “We’re going to need a task force,” decided the director. “Antiterrorism, scientific, you and your division … liaison, too, maybe, with the Agency and Customs. And diplomatically it’s going to be a bitch, so I guess State will be involved ….”

Through the open door Cowley saw the secretary-general talking animatedly on the telephone, gesturing with his free hand, and thought they’d need the General Assembly chamber to accommodate the sort of task force Leonard Ross was imagining. Who, Cowley wondered, would be left to conduct the actual investigation while everyone else publicly made meaningful statements and promises? He said, “I need to start things here.”

“Be back by tomorrow.”

It would not have been politically correct to ask his director to transfer him. Cowley disconnected and immediately redialed his own department to research a Plant 35 anywhere in the Gorki area. He also asked for an independent bureau comparison of the warhead from TV freeze-frame pictures against anything similar in their files and for checks to be extended to all Washington-based technical publications and sources. He insisted the inquiry be spelled out in the greatest possible detail to their office at the Moscow embassy. There was no reply from the New York FBI office on Third Avenue, and the answering machine hadn’t been switched on.

Ibrahim Saads saw Cowley hovering at the door and beckoned him in to the river-view suite. The Egyptian switched on a television preset to a scheduled NBC program, with Tom Brokaw promising a live telecast from the White House.

The anchorman continued a voice-over commentary on earlier footage, initially of the car-abandoned, still-deserted Manhattan streets and then of the Secretariat Tower viewed from the river. Papers continued to flow in a slow stream from the hole torn into the side of the building. From the outside the hole looked far bigger than Cowley had imagined from the inside. It was more a horizontal, three- or four-meter tear than a direct hole, as if the initial shattering of the outer glass and fabric had rippled sideways in some seismic aftershock, buckling and distorting the metal and reinforced concrete frame. There were what appeared to be hundreds of fissured splits, a giant spider’s web, emanating from the main damage to the floors above and below.

“No one can be allowed back in until engineers confirm it’s safe,” decided the international diplomat. “If it gives way at that level, the entire tower could collapse into the river. Which means the river will have to be closed, too, I suppose. Until we’re sure.”

The picture abruptly switched to a boat and seaplane marina identified in the caption as Asharoken, on Long Island. The caption also named the fair-haired seaplane commuter pilot as Arnold Payne. He’d been coming in to land at the downtown terminal, bringing in his regular four Wall Street traders, when he’d been attracted by a flash. It appeared to have come from a cruiser, and his initial thought was that there had been an explosion on board. At once the side of the United Nations’ building had exploded. By the time he’d circled, it had been possible to see how much had been ripped from the side of the Secretariat Tower, although there was no sign of the fire or smoke that he’d expected. There had been at least seven vessels-three of them cruisers-in the East River vicinity, all heading toward Long Island Sound. None, certainly not any of the cruisers, showed any smoke or was firing distress signals, which he thought they would have done if there’d been an explosion to account for the flash he’d seen. He realized now, of course, what he’d seen had been the ignition of a missile he hadn’t seen in flight.

Cowley made a note of the man’s name and seaplane base and added a reminder to himself to check with the New York Port Authority and however many other official bodies existed for the identification of as much river traffic as possible. He also made a note to discover what other seaplane taxis might have witnessed something.

Watching at Cowley’s shoulder, Saads said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d like a drink.”

“Scotch would be good,” accepted Cowley, as the other man went to an expansive cabinet on the other side of the room. Just one, Cowley told himself. Maybe two, if a second was offered. It wasn’t a problem anymore. Never had been. Stopped it before it became one. Too late to prevent some difficulties, but the job had never been endangered. Not true. Endangered but he’d gotten away with it, with a lot of help from a special friend.

The diplomat was walking back across the room, glass in hand, when Brokaw announced the presidential address.

There had, that day, been committed another outrage against the city of New York that only a miracle had prevented becoming a catastrophic disaster, declared the president. Had the missile, fitted with a combined chemical and biological warhead, detonated, hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives would have been lost. The missile had been recovered intact and was already safe in a specialized U.S. government installation. The emergency, although not the disruption, was over. The United States of America regarded what had occurred as an attack upon the international community represented by the United Nations and was inviting international cooperation. Already, in these first few hours, there were important investigatory lines of inquiry, the most important being Russian markings on the warhead. The State Department was already in contact with Moscow. His thoughts and sympathy were with the relatives of those who had died as a result of the incident. The president personally praised Secretary-General Ibrahim Saads, who knowingly accepted the risk of agonizing and certain death to remain at his post, first to clear the UN buildings themselves and then to alert all emergency services to evacuate Manhattan and the surrounding New York boroughs. He acknowledged the bravery of the specialist American unit that, together with a senior FBI official, went into the Secretariat Tower to retrieve the warhead and render it harmless.

At that point in the live transmission the picture briefly split to show Saads and Cowley walking from the building with the Fort Meade scientists carrying the warhead to the waiting helicopter.

The president’s face filled the screen again. “No one, no group, should imagine they will go unpunished for mounting the attack that was attempted today. No matter how long it takes, wherever they try to hide, they will be sought out and brought to justice. Of that, my fellow Americans, you have my solemn pledge.”

Saads said, “They would have intended the warhead to detonate. To kill as many people as they could.”

“Yes,” agreed Cowley.

“So if they’ve got another warhead-or access to one-they’ll try again.”

“And succeed the next time,” predicted Cowley. “Miracles don’t happen twice.”

Although a general in title, Dimitri Danilov was outranked in authority by everyone else in the baroque office of Interior Minister Nikolai Gregorovich Belik. Even the place accorded him was the lowest, close to the separate secretarial bank. It was a passing acceptance. The more important awareness was that he was physically between men representing the new Russia and those of the old, stillresistant regime. As the president’s chief of staff, Georgi Stepanovich Chelyag was the spearhead of the new in the sanctum of the old. The deputy defense minister, General Sergei Gromov, and Viktor Kedrov, chairman of the Federal Security Bureau, the intelligence service that replaced the KGB, were publicly known to be Belik disciples. Only Deputy Foreign Minister Yuri Kisayev was a reformist.

Where did that place him? wondered Danilov. Possibly between a rock and a hard place, he decided, calling upon an American axiom he liked. Once, when his career had been important, it would have been a worrying realization. Since the personal disaster, little mattered anymore. As he usually did these days, he felt an uninvolved observer, a one-man audience to a performance of others.

“This is a crisis for the country, not of ideology,” opened Chelyag, at once moving to establish Russian White House control. “Our decision must be totally bipartisan.” Chelyag was a squat man of few facial expressions, least of all approval or condemnation.

There were nods and mutterings of agreement around the table.

“Let’s establish facts,” Chelyag continued briskly. “Is there a Plant 35 at Gorki?”

“Yes,” said the already prepared deputy defense minister. He was a bull-chested, mottle-faced man who’d worn his uniform as a reminder of the importance of military support to a Russian government.

“What’s its function?” persisted the presidential aide.

“It’s a defense research establishment,” defended Gromov. “Against biological or chemical weapon attack.”

There was a silence, which Yuri Kisayev hurried to fill to distance the Foreign Ministry. “If it is still operating, Russia has abrogated an international nonproliferation treaty to which it is a signatory.”

Danilov glanced at the industrious note-takers, recognizing how effectively the outnumbered reformist faction was bureaucratically establishing potential responsibility.

“Is it still operating?” demanded Chelyag.

“I have no information about that,” the army general said uncomfortably.

“The Defense Ministry is well aware of the terms of the biological and chemical weapons treaty, though?” pressed the blank-faced presidential chief of staff.

“My understanding is that stockpiles were in the process of being destroyed, under the terms of the agreement,” said Gromov, in another prepared response.

“We need that positively and provably confirmed,” declared Chelyag. “If necessary to open the facility to American inspection.”

The announcement caused the second silence, longer this time. Viktor Kedrov said, “From which I presume there is to be every cooperation with America?”

It was a protective qualification, but Chelyag threw it back at the intelligence chief, a sallow-featured man whose receding hair and round-rimmed glasses gave him a remarkable resemblance to Lavrenti Beria, Stalin’s reviled pogrom-organizing security head. Chelyag said, “Do you know of any reason why we shouldn’t?”

“Absolutely not.” Kedrov flushed. “I’m simply trying to avoid misunderstandings.”

“There is also to be total cooperation and liaison between the departments assembled here,” ordered the chief of staff. “I want that completely understood and accepted.”

As if in answer, maintaining the every-word-recorded formality, Kedrov said, “Which department or ministry-and who, from that department or ministry-is going to lead the inquiries here in Russia?”

“If it did indeed come from Gorki, the warhead was stolen,” said Chelyag. “Which is a criminal act. And crime is the responsibility of the militia, which is why this meeting was convened here in the Interior Ministry.” The man looked for the first time directly at Danilov. “And you, Dimitri Ivanovich, have worked with American agencies, especially the Federal Bureau of Investigation, on previous occasions?”

At last everyone’s attention concentrated upon Danilov. He said, “Twice.”

“Which uniquely qualifies you to do so again,” decided Chelyag. “More particularly because such a theft would not have been committed by amateurs and you head the Organized Crime Bureau-”

“Here in Moscow,” broke in Danilov.

“You will operate directly and specifically with the authority of the White House,” Chelyag set out. “Everyone in Gorki-and anywhere else it’s necessary for you to go-will be made aware of that.” He paused, looking around the table again. “General Danilov is to get total and unimpeded cooperation.”

“I don’t think there’s any doubt about the degree or extent of support that is being made available,” said Belik, speaking at last.

Or whom the sacrifice would be in the event of a mistake or failure, Danilov realized. Once more he thought how irrelevant that seemed. On his way home he’d change the flowers on Larissa’s grave. He hadn’t been there for four days.

“I think the bank imposes upon you too much,” complained Elizabeth Hollis. She was a tall, stiffly upright woman, close to being gaunt, her iron-gray hair in tightly permed ridges.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” said Hollis.

“You know how you’ve got to be careful.”

Hollis winced at the reminder. Physically he was a complete contrast to his mother, a round-faced, bespectacled man overweight by at least twenty pounds, which he had been from grade school. As he felt about a lot of things in life, Hollis considered his size unfair. Because of it-and for what doctors labeled a weak chest, because it stopped just short of asthma-he’d been judged unfit for the army cadets and later for the National Guard and had long ago abandoned diets, none of which worked. He was still careful about what he ate, though, as he was careful about everything.

“Dinner will be about half an hour. Steak,” said the woman.

“Broiled,” Hollis insisted at once. “Trim the fat.”

“I know how you like it!” said the woman in mock irritation. “What are you going to do?”

“Work on my computer for a while.”

“I don’t understand why you want to spend the time you do on a computer here when it’s all you do at work.”

“It’s like magic, mother,” said the man in the awed voice of a committed cyber nerd. “There’s nothing I can’t do-nowhere I can’t go.” But some places he wouldn’t go again. He could go on playing the war games-retain his rank as the Quartermaster if he chose-but he wouldn’t maintain the telephone contact code worked out with the General through the personal columns of Soldier magazine. It had been a mistake but one easily rectified. Tonight he wouldn’t even go to war. Easily Hollis began cracking into unaware host systems, for them to be charged his usage time, burrowing through three before dialing up the porn channel. He took his time with his selection, too, and when he found the movie he wanted charged it against the credit card number he’d gotten from the issuing bank in Buffalo. The woman was blonde, and it was very easy for Hollis to imagine it was Carole Parker, not an actress.

Clarence Snelling wasn’t enamoured of computers. He didn’t understand them and didn’t want to and thought of them as an enemy, technology that had made him redundant as a clerk, throwing him on the scrap heap on a pension so inadequate he had to scrabble around as a part-time bookkeeper for businesses too small to afford a screen and a keyboard. And those businesses seemed to be decreasing by the day.

To Clarence Snelling a handwritten page of figures was a thing of beauty, art almost. It was nothing at all like the sterile electronically printed sheet he was studying at that moment, comparing it to the ledger into which he was carefully transferring it. He threw the bank statement impatiently aside and called: “Martha! They’ve done it again!”