The Watchmen

41

Bella Atkins called in sick at 8:45 the following morning, two hours after Cowley and Pamela got back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building. They’d driven directly from the airport to coordinate the scheduled 9:00 A.M. seizures and stood listening to Bella’s croaked explanation that she had the flu.

Leonard Ross answered his home phone on the second ring. Cowley said, “Just give me a few more hours! See what she’s going to do!”

“What if she is sick? We know what they are going to do and we haven’t got any way of stopping it.”

“We might find out if we wait a little longer.”

“And we might not, and by waiting a little longer we give the bastards time to commit more mass murder.”

“Midday,” pleaded Cowley. “There’s got to be a reason for her staying at home, and whatever it is we’ll hear it. If there’s nothing by noon we’ll round them up. Just three hours is all.”

“You haven’t forgotten what I told you last night?”

“No, sir.”

“I meant it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Noon,” agreed Ross.

Cowley replaced the receiver to see-and hear-Pamela replaying Bella’s call to the Pentagon. Pamela said, “She’s trying to sound sick. It’s the sort of voice she used for the New Rochelle call.”

“And sixteen guys died,” reminded Terry Osnan, immediately wishing he hadn’t from the look on Cowley’s face. “Sorry.”

Cowley shook his head against the apology. “We’ve got a postponement.”

“Flu would keep her off for more than a day,” Pamela pointed out.

Cowley said, “Let’s get people out to Reagan and Dulles. And to Union Station if it’s a train, not a plane.”

“Including females,” said Pamela. “If she goes into a washroom, we need to go with her.”

“I’ll wake Schnecker; maybe we’ll need his input,” said Cowley. The Fort Detrick team had returned from Chicago on the same Bureau plane and gone straight to the Marriott where Dimitri Danilov had stayed.

“We’ve got Bella under a microscope. If this is prearranged, why didn’t we hear the conversation?” queried Pamela. She was probably under the same threat from the director as Cowley, and she was damned if she was going to lose everything. They-she-had to second-guess everything.

“They’ve had the shipment for six days; we’ve only had Bella for two days,” reminded Osnan. “They’ve had plenty of time.”

“If she’s going anywhere she’s not going far,” estimated Cowley. “In those six days they could have driven that stuff anywhere in America. And if it was Midwest or West, they’d have offloaded it in Chicago. It’s East Coast.” To Osnan he said, “Go sit on that telephone monitor.”

As Osnan moved into the incident room, Pamela said, “You all right?”

“What’s that mean?” Cowley regretted the stiff scotches he’d had in front of her after the Chicago debacle, although everyone had gone to the improvised Customs bar-including Pamela-and he hadn’t by any means had too much.

“It means are you all right.”

Now Cowley regretted the defensive sharpness. “I’m impatient and I’m nervous: He’s given us three hours. If there’s nothing by then, we move.”

Pamela shrugged. “What the hell can we do in three hours, even if there is some contact! You know what you’ve done! You’ve made yourself the scapegoat for anything that goes wrong.”

Cowley recognized she was probably right. So he’d hammered yet more nails into his own coffin. But there were so many already it hardly mattered anymore. “If we get a lead we can get another extension. I want the Watchmen as well as the rest.”

He personally called the FBI chiefs in Trenton and Manhattan, explaining the delay. In New York Harry Boreman said there’d been no movement from Bay View Avenue, but it was early for them. Everyone was in place, ready to go.

“We’ve got them boxed,” he guaranteed.

In New Jersey John Meadowcraft said they hadn’t heard any movement from inside the Kabanov home, either. Usually the Russian was up by now. Kabanov’s car was in the driveway. Guzov’s was still in the station parking lot. From Albany Anne Stovey said the state attorney was still objecting to any requestioning of Robert Standing. The bureau lawyer was considering an application to a judge in chambers.

It was nine-twenty when Cowley finished all the calls. He told Pamela, “I think you’re right. There wasn’t any point in my arguing the postponement.”

“Don’t wait then,” she urged at once, seeing escape for both of them. “Whatever happens after the arrests won’t be your fault. You’ll be following Ross’s instructions.”

Terry Osnan began waving exaggerately from the incident room. As they hurried into it he said, “Bella’s got a caller. So has Orlenko, in person! Brooklyn surveillance has positively IDed him as Yevgenni Mechislavovich Leanov!”

“We’re sure where everybody is?” demanded Georgi Chelyag.

“Absolutely,” said Danilov.

“And the spetznaz are in place?”

“They have been for two hours.”

“Briefed?”

“Fully.”

“No risk of a leak?”

“My deputy is personally going to arrest Mizin-had already summoned him for a conference, about the murder he’s supposed to be investigating.”

“Were you surprised at the American openness?”

“No,” said Danilov. “I always expected it to be this way.” Cowley had sounded crushed when they’d talked the previous night from Chicago. With every reason. There wasn’t any germ or bacteriological danger, but the explosives could still cause a catastrophe.

“There’s no way the Americans can turn the loss of the shipment into a Russian mistake?”

“No,” agreed Danilov. It was the third time the chief of staff had asked the same question.

“You think there’s any likelihood of Ivan Guzov trying to get back here? If we got him we’d be clearing up American’s mistakes, wouldn’t we?”

“If the terrorists have got the weapons, Guzov’s got the money. Some of it at least. It wouldn’t make sense his trying to get back here after the publicity there’s going to be.”

“I want to hear the moment we make the last arrest. The announcement will be in the president’s name, with another televised address to follow.”

As the recognizable voice of Bella Atkins’s caller echoed into the totally silent Washington incident room Pamela said, “It just might work.”

Cowley said, “Fuck! I didn’t tell Dimitri!”

The man said, “Ready?”

Bella said, “And waiting. How’d it all go?”

“Looks like there’s changes. A new Russian.”

“What about Gavri?”

“Disposed of. Seems he cheated with the money. Tried to cut Moscow out for a new supplier.”

“That going to be a problem?”

“Theirs, not ours. Our problem is that son of a bitch of a bank guy. Won’t respond.”

“What can we do?”

“Hit the banks he gave us access to a second time.”

“Where’s Jake?”

“With me. And the missile.”

“So we’re hearing Peter. Peter’s the General,” breathed Pamela. She looked sideways at Cowley’s return.

Cowley said, “I can’t reach Dimitri. He’s going by the old time.”

Before Pamela could respond Osnan declared, “He’s using a cell phone. We’re getting a scan intermittently. So they’re moving, like they did in Chicago.”

“But somewhere in D.C.!” seized Cowley. “Surely we couldn’t pick it up outside the district!”

“Affirmative,” confirmed Osnan.

“Get guys out to the obvious places. The monuments and memorials again. White House. Emphasize the maroon Land Cruiser.”

“What are you going to do about Dimitri?” asked Pamela.

“Nothing I can do.”

“It going to go off this time?” Bella was saying.

There was a muffled exchange away from the mouthpiece and the sound of laughing. Peter Barrymore said, “The detonator pins are intact. Jake says something that big, a monkey could hit it. He’s going to get a window, like before.”

“We going to be OK?”

There was another laugh. “Of course I checked. Wind’s southwest. Property’s going to be as cheap as hell in Crystal City and Arlington by tonight.”

“Where are you?”

“In traffic, on the bridge. You leave now, it should work out fine.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

The line went dead.

“Windows!” seized Cowley. “Not a monument.”

“The White House!” said Pamela. “It’s going to be the White House!”

“From around Lafayette Square, with the wind behind them,” said Osnan.

“Switch from the monuments. Concentrate on the White House. Bring in the SWAT teams. Use Bella as a marker ….” There was a general movement throughout the room, and Cowley turned to see Leonard Ross entering.

The director said, “I overheard enough. We need to evacuate?”

“The missile’s empty,” reminded Cowley.

“What about the explosives?”

“We’re not hearing anything about those,” admitted Cowley.

Ross found James Schnecker. “The stuff’s still got explosives in it, right?”

The bearded expert moved forward. “It’s the timers, detonators, and the fuses we’ve fixed. It can’t be rigged and left.”

“What happens if they don’t try until they get to the target? Nothing sophisticated like the Lincoln Memorial: just a crazy car bomb?”

“It’ll go at the first attempted connection. That was all we could do in Moscow, anticipate their trying to assemble a lot in advance, like they did for the memorial.”

“We get the president out,” decided Ross, hurrying from the room.

“Bella’s moving, on foot,” came the voice of an observer. “Walking nice and easy down York. We’re by the Civic Center.”

“It’s a straight line to Lafayette,” said Pamela.

“Everything’s in place around the White House: virtually sealed,” reported Osnan. “She’s going directly to us. Everyone’s watching for a maroon Land Cruiser.”

“They could get at least half the explosives in a vehicle that big,” estimated Schnecker. “But there’s got to be more than just two of them.”

“She’s changed direction!” the observer said urgently. “Made a left on Massachusetts … now she’s hailing a cab, going toward Union …”

“Surely it’s not a train,” said Cowley. He looked toward Osnan. “We still got people there?”

“Withdrew them to the White House,” the other man replied.

“Get them back,” said Cowley. He was sweating but dry-throated.

“Windows,” Pamela said quietly. “The Capitol’s got windows. Hundreds of them. And it’s as easy to reach down Massachusetts as the railroad terminal. And a far more dramatic target.”

“She’s getting out at North Capitol …” said Osnan, maintaining the commentary. “ … going away from Union Station … Jesus! She’s taken a park bench on Louisiana … sitting there, waiting.”

“Let’s go!” said Cowley. “Keep the White House covered. Move one SWAT team up to Union forecourt …. Tell our guys with her not to approach. We want the brothers …. Talk to me in the car before moving, even if they arrive.” Both Schnecker and Pamela moved with him. Cowley paused momentarily, then continued on with both of them following.

Orlenko: You should have called.

Leanov: I wanted to surprise you.

Orlenko: You have.

Leanov: I surprised Gavri, too.

Orlenko: Where is he?

Leanov: In a wood, with a bullet through the mouth for not telling the truth.

Orlenko: Yevgenni, I want to say-

Leanov: You haven’t told the truth either, have you, Arseni?

Orlenko: Gavri said-

Leanov: That we could be cut out in Moscow? I know. He told me he was sorry about that. And he was, in the end. Are you sorry, Arseni?

Orlenko: Yevgenni, I want to explain.

Leanov: You don’t have to, Arseni. I know all about it now from Gavri. You’re superfluous now, just like Gavri.

The crash of intrusion thundered onto the tape and a megaphoned voice echoed: “Down! FBI! Down on the floor! Down!”

Cowley drove. Pennsylvania Avenue was arrowlike ahead of them, rising up the hill to the domed seat of government.

Pamela said, “Anyone see anything that looks like a maroon Land Cruiser?”

“Too far to see,” dismissed Cowley.

“The missile will misfire, but if they’re Special Forces they’ll have a lot more besides,” said Schnecker.

“We’re armed,” said Pamela.

“Body armor?”

“No.”

“What about the guys who followed her?”

“I doubt it.”

“We’re going after guys trained for any reversal. There’ll be a lot of casualties. Wait for the SWAT team,” urged Schnecker.

The traffic was slow moving. Cowley beat his hands against the wheel in frustration.

Pamela said, “Capitol security should be warned.”

“They’d try to intervene, become casualties,” rejected Cowley.

“That’s wrong, Bill! That’s not a decision you can make.”

“They’d fuck it up.”

“You going to take the responsibility for that?”

“I’m not asking you to-not endangering your career.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, and it was a cheap shot!”

Cowley hammered the wheel again. “Any sign of a Land Cruiser? Of anything?”

“Negative,” Osnan crackled into the car. “Manhattan has got Orlenko and Leanov. Where are you?”

“Third,” reported Pamela.

“SWAT team is behind you,” said Osnan. “They say to wait.”

“I’ll tell the Barrymores that,” said Cowley.

They finally came to a complete halt.

“Shit!” said Cowley. He pulled out, then made a tight left across the horn-protesting traffic line, forcing his way through the downward flow to go up 2nd Street and out on to Louisiana. As he did so Pamela ducked out of sight behind the dashboard.

Osnan said, “Our guys have made a maroon Toyota Land Cruiser moving down from Union Station!”

“Got it!” responded Cowley.

The vehicle was already parked, two men in fatigues walking away across Taft Park. They were close together, with what had to be the missile between them, draped in a tan tarp with a makeshift rope handle. Without any recognition between them Bella Atkins was walking parallel with the road, easing herself into the driver’s seat of the Land Cruiser.

Cowley dragged on an FBI armband and spoke into Pamela’s cell phone. “Everyone identified. Go in to my command. NOW!”

Cowley emerged bent, running, Colt.45 muzzle upward with the safety still on. He was aware of the two agents from the pursuit vehicle seemingly a long way to his left. He was almost at the Land Cruiser before Bella turned. Immediately she slammed her hand flat on the horn. Her two brothers turned.

Cowley shouted, “Put it down! Go down! Down! FBI!”

He knew they wouldn’t have heard over the sound of the horn. It stopped abruptly as the woman fumbled beside her. He wasn’t aware of Pamela until she appeared beside him, her gun outstretched in both hands. She fired, intentionally sideways, blowing out the rear passenger window. That momentarily halted Bella, who was still swinging a MAC 10 machine pistol across when Pamela jammed her gun into the side of the woman’s head so hard the skin broke.

“LET IT GO! YOU DON’T LET IT GO, BELLA, I’LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF! NOW!”

Just as loudly Cowley shouted again for the two men to drop the missile. They did, but not to obey. Their movements were practically choreographed, in perfect unison. One discarded the tarpaulin while the other smoothly took up the missile and its launcher and came up with it into a kneeling launch position. The first snatched another MAC 10 from inside their improvised carrying case as one of the FBI men who had followed Bella yelled something Cowley didn’t hear. The man with the pistol responded to the sound, scything the weapon crossways on automatic, virtually cutting both running agents in half. He continued the sweep toward the Land Cruiser.

“Down!” screamed Cowley.

He felt himself hit, from his left, and couldn’t stop himself falling. He landed on his side, his head protruding beyond the front wheel. A woman was screaming, but it wasn’t Pamela’s voice. Cowley had a perfect view of the two men in the middle of the park, as one of them had a head-and-shoulders view of him and began to aim the rapid fire weapon. Cowley tried to get his own gun up from under him but knew he wouldn’t be in time. Something was heavy, unmoving, beneath his feet, stopping him from crawling back. He tried to lever himself up, to get behind the vehicle, but then there was a blinding eruption of yellow fire and he saw the flame-out of the missile launch engulf the intended protective shield and then the man’s head behind it. There must have been a scream, because the second man turned in time to see what Cowley and Pamela were seeing, the brief unreal moment when a man remained totally upright but completely without a head before toppling backward.

From somewhere farther along the cruiser, Schnecker said, “We switched the heat shield. Put highly flammable plastic in its place.”

Cowley was up, using the hood of the car to steady his gun arm. As the man swung the pistol back toward them, Cowley fired, missed, and hit the second time, spinning the man back on top of the corpse. The wounded man rolled as he fell, keeping hold of the gun. Cowley stopped running toward him, firing and hitting again.

The man was still trying to move when Cowley reached him, kicking the MAC 10 away from the scrabbling hand. Cowley said, “You make a move for anything you might be carrying and I promise to God I’ll kill you. Your war’s over, asshole. You lost.”

They told Bella Atkins the same thing, several times, in their urgency to find the rest of the arms shipment. The second of Cowley’s two shots had punctured Peter Barrymore’s right lung, and he couldn’t be interviewed.

They interviewed her only after she had been read her Miranda rights and every other legal requirement had been complied with. When she rejected an attorney, Cowley ensured every utterance was recorded. Bella Atkins responded to the machine but not in the way they wanted, providing an indication of how she and her brother were later to use their trial, as a platform for the entire spectrum of far right bigotry. Her only sneering admission was that Roanne Harding had been totally duped, a sacrifice to mock her Black Power commitment.

In their desperation, Cowley and Pamela several times suspended the interview for legal guidance from the attorney general herself. They even suggested-and were refused-a plea bargain in return for being told the whereabouts of the explosives.

It was during the breaks that they learned of Harry Boreman’s initiative in Manhattan, ordering the SWAT team entry into Bay View Avenue when it became obvious that Yevgenni Leanov intended to kill Arseni Orlenko. And of the Russian president’s pronouncement, without the supposed prior consultation with Washington, of the roundup of everyone involved in Moscow and Gorki.

It was the media that answered the question Bella Atkins was refusing and by what was quickly labeled another miracle without the potential carnage. There were program-interrupting news bulletins on local radio and television stations within fifteen minutes of the Taft Park shootout and the harmless landing of the empty warhead in the Capitol parking lot. The only two maimed survivors of the eight-strong former Delta Force bombers said much later the attack was to avenge the capture of their leader-whom both respectfully referred to as the General-that they’d started to rig the explosives in a Maryland forest shack. They wanted to prepare to blow up the control tower and as much of the terminal buildings at Dulles Airport as possible. Two of the terrorists who died were engulfed in phosphorous fire from one incendiary device that James Schnecker and his team hadn’t managed to booby trap in Moscow.

It was from the late-night news coverage that Patrick Hollis finally discovered the identity of the General. His mother, who was watching with him, said, “Can you imagine the evilness of such people?”

“No, I can’t,” said Hollis.