The Watchmen

4

William Cowley was discomfited by so many still and television cameras, particularly when he was recognized as the man who had gone into the UN building with the germ warfare scientists and became the filmed and question-shouted focus of the gathering. He tolerated the cameras but studiously ignored the questions. Most of the other public figures around him were self-consciously posing to appear unposed, irritated that Cowley’s sudden fame was deflecting attention-and the cameras-away from them.

For the benefit of daytime newscasts and evening newspapers, Henry Hartz, the guttural-voiced, German-born secretary of state, stressed to the assembled journalists that the official status of everyone present showed the importance America was giving to what he referred to as “this appalling near atrocity.” He held up what he claimed to be a personal assurance from the Russian president of complete cooperation, which in fact it wasn’t. It was notification from the Moscow ambassador that such a guarantee had been promised by the Russian Foreign Ministry. Hartz concluded with the promise of a longer statement at the end of the meeting.

Cowley didn’t think, from an earlier breakfast discussion, that Leonard Ross had fully absorbed the horror of what might have been postponed only by a fluke. Even more certainly Cowley didn’t believe the bureau’s twitchingly eager, nervously laughing antiterrorist chief had, either. Burt Bradley was the first director of the bureau’s specially dedicated unit. There’d been the New York World Trade Center attacks and Oklahoma and before that the Beirut U.S. Embassy bombing, but the unit’s primary function had otherwise been liaising with other more frequently attacked European countries. Cowley’s impression wasn’t that Bradley was overawed, as he initially had been. He thought Bradley was positively frightened. And from his just completed personal analysis, he couldn’t condemn the man for it. Any more than he criticized anyone else in the room for what he regarded as performance warmup time, practicing posterity phrases and photo-shoot postures.

“I want a complete update,” opened Hartz, without introducing people he expected already to know each other. His German birth precluded Hartz from ever running for the presidency, which he coveted, but he considered being secretary of state the next best political role and ran his Foggy Bottom fiefdom as he would have run a White House administration, with unquestioned, unchallenged autocracy. He knew-and didn’t mind-that he was referred to within the department as the Fuhrer. Looking between Cowley and Schnecker he said, “Let’s have the scientific thinking first.”

Unencumbered by his protective suit and domed helmet, James Schnecker was a surprisingly small man with an even more surprising tendency to squint, as if suffering unexpected pain twinges. He coughed, clearing his throat, and said professorially, “One warhead contained sarin, a known nerve agent produced in either liquid or vapor form. As liquid it’s absorbed through the skin or mucous membranes; as vapor it’s inhaled, obviously. In both states it attacks the respiratory and nervous systems. You’ll remember it was released on the Tokyo Underground in 1998 by a fanatical religious group. It’s a well known and long-standing weapon, first produced in Germany in 1937. The other warhead contained anthrax which you’re all familiar with after the events of September, 2001. Bacillus anthracio is again a pulmonary complaint. Biologically it’s most commonly found in cattle-although to a much lesser extent in sheep-and in Africa, where it is endemic, humans contract it from tics. It’s produced as a biological weapon as a plasma-encoded toxin by combining three bacillus proteins. Separately none of the proteins has a biologically harmful effect. Combined they create edema, the pathological accumulation of fluid in the body tissues and pulmonary collapse. There’s acute and agonizing swelling and hemorrhaging from all body openings. It attacks the spleen and causes splenetic fever. In weapon form, as it was in this warhead, it infects through inhalation. It’s almost invariably fatal to humans after an incubation period of between one to five days.”

“So it was both a chemical and biological attack?” broke in Frank Norton. The president’s chief of staff was a former Pentagon general on the short list for when the present White House incumbent completed his second term of office. He’d already decided that the outcome of what had been thrust upon him now could determine whether there needed to be anyone else in the race. It had been Norton, who cultivated for its political appeal the appearance of the rawboned marine officer he’d once been, who’d proposed the media invitation. The concentration on the goddamned FBI man had been unexpected and annoying.

“Absolutely.” Schnecker frowned, surprised at the question. “We’d never encountered a delivery system like it before at Fort Detrick. It seems to be a modification of a Russian missile known as the Grail or SA-7: two warheads attached to the body of a rocket intended to carry just one. Which probably prevented the catastrophe. It’s top-heavy, quite out of balance. All the forensic examinations we’ve carried out so far point to it spinning, top over bottom, instead of traveling in a proper trajectory. And to it, incredibly, striking glass through which it passed virtually unobstructed. The fins and the body sustained all the impact damage and in doing so snapped the detonation mechanism, which was extremely crude: percussion pins intended to shatter the containers to release their contents.”

“Thank God for a bad design,” said Hartz.

“An almost too obvious bad design,” Burt Bradley broke in quickly. “Bad enough to have been realized from its first test firing. Accepting that it’s Russian, what’s the chances of the warhead being put together here, by unqualified people?”

“All our ferroalloy tests haven’t been completed yet,” the scientist said doubtfully. “So far all the metal is provably Russian. If it was a hybrid cobbled together here, there’d be some American components. I don’t think we should overlook the possibility that we’ve never seen anything like it before because it was a design that didn’t work and was abandoned after preliminary or failed tests. The date on the casing was 1974.”

Cowley saw the overly ambitious antiterrorist chief wince at the rejection in front of the FBI director, a carelessly fat, carelessly dressed man. If Ross saw it as a rebuff he gave no indication.

“Guide us here,” demanded the CIA director, John Butterworth, a retired navy admiral anxious to counteract criticism of naive amateurism from intelligence professionals at his Langley appointment. “What would have happened if the missile had missed the tower? Flown on?”

Schnecker frowned at the hypothesis. “I can’t itemize every one, but there are quite a few skyscrapers after the UN building it could have hit. Had it done so, there probably wouldn’t have been the miracle of it going through window glass. Or tailfirst. If it missed all the high buildings, I guess it would have gone on into New Jersey. The single payload of the SA-7 is fifteen kilograms, with a range of ten kilometers, or 6.2 miles. This double warhead weighed twenty-two kilograms. That would have shortened the range, which would also have been affected by the top-over-bottom instability. And there was the crosswind. You want a ballpark guess, draw a line down from Newark to Trenton.”

“And how likely would it have been that the warhead would have burst simply by impact against the ground, whether it hit nosefirst or not?” asked Butterworth, a bald, angularly featured man.

Schnecker continued frowning. “It’s another hypothesis, but I would say a rupture of some sort, if not an actual detonation, would have been inevitable.”

“What about the combined effect of both warheads, if they’d exploded?” asked Norton.

“I’m not aware of any research that’s mixed the two. Scientifically it’s not possible to combine them. I think the idea was a double delivery of two separate agents.”

“Are there antidotes, treatment?” said Ross.

“There’s treatment for isolated cases, if it’s immediate. The casualty rate yesterday, if they’d activated, would have been overwhelming.”

“How many?” demanded Norton, seizing the headline question. “The president guessed at a thousand dying.”

Schnecker hesitated. “It could have been more than a thousand.”

“How many more?” demanded the man. “Tens or hundreds?”

“It could have gone as high as five, conceivably higher still,” estimated the scientist. “It wouldn’t have simply been the sarin or anthrax. It would have accelerated existing medical conditions from which people were already suffering. The vapor could have gotten into hospitals through the air conditioning.”

“Jesus!” said Norton, the only sound in a long silence.

Breaking it-and remembering his conversation with the UN secretary-general the previous day-Cowley said, “They meant to kill. Dramatically and hugely. Next time they will. And people this determined will do it again, if they have a missile. Or a way to get another one.”

“How’s an SA-7 fired?”

“Shoulder-held portable launcher,” replied Schnecker.

“All the statements aren’t in yet, but it’s obvious it was fired from a moving boat,” said Cowley. “Assuming that the UN tower was the target, which I think we must, the fact that it was hit at all from a shoulder-held rocket launcher fired from a moving boat-to some extent against the wind-surely indicates whoever did it has some military experience of missiles.”

“I would say so, yes,” agreed Schnecker. “From which a working knowledge of missiles naturally follows.”

Looking to the antiterrorist chief, Cowley said, “There are files on known or suspected terrorists, right?”

“Yes?” Bradley frowned.

“Anyone specifically listed with a knowledge of missiles would be worth publicly posting.”

“The check’s already being made,” the younger man said impatiently.

Then it would have helped if you’d mentioned it at the breakfast meeting, thought Cowley. To Schnecker he said, “What about something as practical as fingerprints on the missile?”

Schnecker shook his head. “Clean.”

“Knowingly to set out, as these people did, to kill thousands of people is fanaticism. Zealotry. Or total homicidal madness,” said the terrorist chief, who had a degree in forensic psychology. “Zealous fanaticism fits Islamic fundamentalism, which we’re all familiar with from the past.”

Bradley had shared the breakfast meeting with the FBI director but hadn’t offered any opinion about anything, remembered Cowley. Now Bradley seemed to be trying too hard. Leonard Ross appeared to have the same impression, looking curiously sideways at the man. Cowley said, “Don’t we have the same problem if we’re dealing with a bunch of homicidal maniacs?”

Bradley shook his head. “They wanted to hit and run. So they’ll want to boast, claim responsibility.”

“Why haven’t they, after more than twenty-four hours?” asked Cowley.

“What’s your point?” the younger man demanded belligerently.

“Simply that at this stage, this early, we don’t know enough to speculate about anything and certainly not to exclude any group,” said Cowley.

“The obvious essential is to prevent a repetition,” declared the CIA director. “I suggest we make it immediately public that the missile is a flawed design that won’t work. If the terrorists have another, it might prevent them from trying to use it.”

There were frowns at Butterworth from around the table.

“Sir,” said Schnecker. “The missile that hit the UN building didn’t detonate because it went in backward and through practically unresisting glass. A fluke. If it had hit the concrete of the building, it would have gone off. As would another-bad design or not-if it hit a hard and solid object.”

“How many eyewitnesses do we have?” Hartz broke in quickly, to spare the agency chief.

“Three who seem reliable,” Cowley responded at once. “Another seaplane commuter pilot in addition to the one from Asharoken. And the captain of a trash barge that was going downriver. All were attracted by the firing flash but none was looking directly at the cruiser. They all agree it was motor, not sail, but we’ve got three different descriptions of size, color, and potential make. None of them saw the missile or the launcher, and when there wasn’t any obvious fire or distress signal all three dismissed it.”

“We’ve got nothing, in fact?” demanded Butterworth, too eager again.

“I’ve moved thirty agents up to the New York office,” said Ross. “There does seem to be agreement that the cruiser had a flying bridge. The uncertainty is the color: whether it was totally white or had some blue at the waterline. Quite obviously we’re tracing the owners of every flying-bridged cruiser in every marina, yacht basin, and mooring between New York and Boston as well as Long Island. We’re not, in fact, imposing a territorial limit: I’ve gone south as far as the Chesapeake. But we’re talking thousands of boats. We’re also, again obviously, checking any cruiser thefts or cruiser hire.” He looked invitingly back to Cowley.

“None of the three we’ve traced so far talk of anyone on the cruiser dressed unusually for a boat.”

“What did they see?” broke in Butterworth.

“Two people-the second commuter pilot thought one was slim enough to have been a woman-both in unmarked bill caps and boat anoraks, again unmarked, no distinguishing color: dark blue or black maybe.”

“I can’t understand if they looked in the direction of the flash why they didn’t see one of the two still with the rocket launcher,” protested Hartz.

“The missile hitting the UN tower appeared practically simultaneous with the flash,” said Cowley. “All three witnesses say they thought that was what caused the flash. They virtually ignored the cruiser after the initial seconds.”

“How many more potential witnesses could there be?” demanded the CIA director.

“We’ve got from the New York Port Authority the names of three cargo barges that were on the river at the time.” Cowley paused, looking at Peter Samuels, the Customs and Excise director who had been silent so far. “And Customs is checking reported yacht and cruiser arrivals in the East River back five hours from the time of the attack.”

“But our records would only be of incoming boats reporting their arrival,” qualified Samuels. “There’s no legal requirement for a yacht or cruiser to do that if it merely came down from an upriver mooring and turned back before exiting the river. At least half the craft that leave the river to go up and down the coast don’t report their return anyway.”

“The missile is Russian, whether it had one or two warheads,” said Bradley. “And by sea is the likeliest way of smuggling it into the country.”

“There’s something like four thousand miles of U.S. coastline, and that’s a straight measurement, not including about a million creeks and inlets and navigable rivers,” said the Customs director. “Of course I’ve issued watch orders at every major port, but the reality is that’s about as practical as trying to check every yacht and cruiser between Boston and Washington. It’s being done, because it’s got to be done, but no one should expect a quick result. No one should expect a result at all, unless the miracles continue.”

Once again there was silence. This time it was the CIA director who broke it. Butterworth said, “We don’t have enough to make a row of beans.”

“Everything that can be done has been done to initiate the most comprehensive investigation in the bureau’s history,” Ross said defensively.

Hartz concentrated on the CIA chief. “What about Plant 35, at Gorki?”

The bald man shifted uncomfortably. “Throughout the Cold War Gorki was a closed city. We know there were extensive armament and weapon facilities there but we have nothing specific about a Plant 35.”

“We have,” announced Ross, to an immediate stir around the table. “Our files have it as a conventional weapons facility at which production began to be wound down in 1994.”

Butterworth’s face blazed at what he regarded as territorial intrusion. “I was under the impression that this was a totally shared investigation.”

“It is,” said the disheveled Bureau director. “I’ve just shared.”

There was a ripple of forced laughter. Flushed because of it and trying to recover, Butterworth said, “If the Russians still possess the sort of warheads fired yesterday-which they clearly do-they are in provable breach of the Chemical Weapons Convention that was internationally concluded, with them as signatories, in 1993.” He answered Hartz’s look. “Are we making diplomatic representation about that?”

“I don’t think our two countries need to get into that sort of exchange at this stage,” the presidential chief of staff warned sharply.

“I agree,” said Hartz just as quickly and as diplomatically rehearsed. “I spent an hour with the Russian ambassador last night and spoke to him again on the phone before this meeting. They’re as concerned-as frightened-about this as we are. We need to cooperate, not confront.”

“As we’ve done before,” reminded Ross, indicating Cowley by his side. “And as we need more than ever to do again now.”

The connection an hour later between the FBI headquarters on Washington’s Pennsylvania Avenue and the Moscow Militia building on Ulitza Petrovka was immediate. Dimitri Danilov said, “On television it looked as if you’d put on weight.”

“I’m already losing it,” said William Cowley.

“I’m glad it’s you,” said the Russian. He was, genuinely. It made a change for him to have anything like a personal feeling about anything.

“And I’m glad it’s you.” Having been in Moscow when Larissa had been killed and knowing the other man’s devastation, Cowley said, “How’ve you been?”

“So-so. You?”

“So-so. You in operational charge?”

“Officially appointed by the White House, with a remit as wide as the Volga itself,” confirmed Danilov.

“The assurance here is total cooperation?”

“Here, too,” said the Russian. From his just-concluded conversation with the Gorki Militia detective chief, Danilov suspected the working relationship was going to be more difficult there than with Washington. He said, “What have you got?”

“Two intact warheads, one containing sarin, the other anthrax. And a smashed up SA-7 delivery system.”

“I’ll need the details.”

“I’ll fax it all now. And wire photographs. What about Plant 35?”

“Includes a facility for defensive chemical and biological weapon research,” Danilov admitted at once.

Normal voices, conversational voices, Cowley thought: How’s the weather with you, raining here, good to hear everything’s all right with you. Except that nothing was all right. At this very moment, while they were talking, two other cans of topsy-turvey shit capable of killing thousands of people might already be slotted into a delivery system aimed at a building anywhere …. Cowley stopped the drift. Not anywhere. The United Nations complex had been chosen for exactly what it was, the one-the most-internationally attention-attracting target in the world. The next, inevitable attack would be on a similarly focused site. Which could only be Washington itself. Security alerts had gone out throughout the country, but Cowley was suddenly convinced they needed to be concentrated in D.C. “You coming here or am I coming there?”

“Let’s decide the order of priority first,” said Danilov.

“The priority is the priority,” said Cowley, and immediately wished he hadn’t. It echoed like a soap opera sound byte just before the credits ran, to bring viewers back for the next episode. Hurriedly he added, “Whoever, wherever, gets the first break.”

“Let’s hope one of us recognize it,” warned Danilov.

Someone had stolen Larissa’s flowers, which didn’t surprise Danilov. The daffodils he’d brought now would probably go within a day. He cleared the fallen leaves and twigs from the Novodevichy Cemetery grave, unashamedly talking to her as he always did, imagining her replies in his mind.

Remember Bill, the American … big man? That’s right … good to go to America again … get away. Olga’s Olga, just the same …. Of course I miss you-ache for you. Don’t feel like being careful …. All right, of course I will be …. Why couldn’t you have been …. I know, I’m sorry. Not your fault. Yevgennie’s fault-your cheating, bastard militia colonel husband, failing his Mafia masters. Why did you have to be in the car, though? Leave me? I won’t be long …. Wish I could bring you something … see you … be with you. No, I’m all right. No, not all right: able to handle it. Sorry about the flowers. It’s Moscow-Russia. Good night. I love you.

Danilov rose, just as unashamedly staring back at another mourner looking curiously at him. He drove without hurry or interest to Ulitza Kirovskaya, knowing the sound was from his apartment as he stepped out of the elevator. His wife sat in front of the new, blaring set that had been her latest insistence, initially oblivious to his entry. She became aware of it when he went in front of her to reduce the volume.

“It’s too loud!” It was a Russian subtitled Australian series that had been running for weeks. There was a kangaroo that did tricks.

“I like trying to hear the English words.”

“You don’t speak English.”

“Irena says this is a way to learn.”

“She’s wrong.” Irena, who worked in the same ministry office as Olga, claimed to have learned her English from American movies. Danilov, who’d studied languages at the university, reckoned she knew about a dozen words, most of which she mispronounced.

The kitchen sink still had the stalagmite of unwashed dishes that had been there that morning, and on his way to the bathroom to wash Danilov saw the bed was in the upheaval in which she’d left it when she’d gotten up. The Australian soap had ended when he returned.

He said: “What words did you learn?”

“You interrupted me. I couldn’t concentrate.”

“I’m going away.”

“Where!” she demanded, suddenly attentive, turning to him.

“Gorki. What happened to your hair?”

“Igor said I needed this color, while the other tints grew out. What’s in Gorki?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

“Any point in my making a present list?”

“None.”

“That American you worked with was on television before my program. Something about a missile.”

“I spoke to him today.”

Olga’s interest returned. “You’re going to America!”

“Maybe.”

“So I can write a present list!”

Danilov realized for the first time she was wearing a shirt he’d brought back for her the last time. Two buttons were missing and the stain over her left breast looked old and ingrained. Larissa had been wearing the bracelet he’d given her from the same trip. It had been one of the few things that had been identifiable after the bombing of the car.

“It’s the fifth time it’s happened in the last six months!” protested Clarence Snelling.

“The bank’s extremely sorry,” apologized the desk assistant, who’d dealt with the man’s previous complaints. “Computers do make mistakes.”

“No, they don’t!” Snelling replied. “It’s the people who handle them who make the mistakes.”

“It’s twenty-two cents,” the bank official pointed out. “It’s never been more than fifty. And as before, I’ll see that the amount is immediately restored.”

“I want an assurance that it won’t happen again!” insisted Snelling. “And this time I want it kept, which so far you haven’t done.”

“Sir,” said the man, “I promise you we’ll do our very best.”