Within almost the same time frame Beijing realized there wasn’t the remotest possibility of its carefully cultivated supporting army of podium attackers from Africa and Asia getting within fifty miles of Manhattan for the beginning of the assembly but refused an unthinkable loss of face by asking for a postponement. The impasse was resolved again by UN Secretary-General Ibrahim Saads, who ordered that the complex be evacuated once more. That announcement convinced the already uncertain New York mayor to declare the city closed the following day to all incoming commuters with the advice to residents to leave immediately.
The exodus was only slightly less chaotic than before, and there was almost a familiarity about the aerial television coverage of people in unthinking flight. All the city’s airports, including Newark, closed, although some landings were allowed for refueling. After Canada warned that its East Coast and central airports might not be able to cope with the rerouting, departures from Europe and eastbound from within the United States began to be canceled. Grand Central and Penn Central railway terminals were shut. There was looting and arson. By 3:00 A.M. seven looters had been shot.
The mayor of Washington stopped just short of officially ordering the evacuation of the district, gauging from the migration accounts of an increasingly overwhelmed police commissioner that so many people were already on the move that the advice was unnecessary. Besides, he wanted nothing later to prove an albatross around his already aching neck. The closure of the Mall and all government offices was extended to include the Capitol and all its administrative buildings, and thirty senators and House representatives issued individual declarations that their duty required them to be at home with their constituents in times of national crisis. Other congressmen who weren’t quick enough to think of the reelectorally correct escape were glad they hadn’t, so cowardly facile did the virtually identical statements sound, and left without attempting to justify their hurried abandonment of the as-yet unsinking ship. Dulles and Reagan airports closed down, as well as D.C.’s Union Station. Three blacks died when police opened fire on early-morning looters who started torching shops in Anacostia, just beyond Capitol Hill.
Throughout the long night there were equally frantic efforts made to guard other likely targets through the country. All army, airforce, and naval bases-including the already penetrated, previously and derided Pentagon-were placed on full alert. So were the Kennedy space launch site in Florida, Houston Control, and the Mojave space shuttle landing facility. Disney World and Disneyland announced their closure. After McDonald’s declared it would not be opening until the threat was understood and prevented, all the other fast food franchises shut, too.
With nothing more-no way of predicting more-than a five-line message registered on the federal government’s Internet-accessible home page, the crisis team that assembled within two hours at the White House was limited to Frank Norton, Henry Hartz, the directors of the FBI and CIA, and Peter Prentice, the president’s media spokesperson. Prentice stood by the Oval Office television that was permanently left on, relaying developing frenzy throughout the country.
“I’ve got to say something, but what the fuck is there for me to say!” demanded the president. “If I go on television again with the same speech rewritten the fourth time I’m the dumbest-ass chief executive in history. Which is what I already am in the ratings history.”
“The bureau assessment is that it’s an overreaction,” suggested Leonard Ross. “Cowley sees the Watchmen’s message as some kind of embarrassing disclosure.” Ross had spent the entire journey from his home to the White House on the car phone to the incident room.
“About what?” demanded the president.
“We don’t know,” Ross conceded lamely.
“Thank you for that, Mr. Director! That really tells me how to convince the American people we’ve got everything under control and that there’s nothing to panic about!” He jerked a finger toward the television. “Look at it out there, for Christ’s sake!”
“We don’t have anything to say,” declared Frank Norton, ever mindful that he needed the endorsement of a respected departing president to further his own ambitions and that therefore the man had to be safeguarded from mistimed public appearances. “So it would be wrong to make another personal television address. Even worse to face the press, where you’d have to take questions. The announcement’s got to be in your name but by Prentice. It’s got to make it very clear that you’re still here in the White House, the president who definitely didn’t run-”
“What’s the announcement say?” demanded the man, not needing the paint-by-numbers explanation. “There’s got to be some substance.”
“Russia,” said Hartz, as the idea came to him. “Call the Russian president personally. Maybe invite the Russian foreign minister here to talk to me. It’s positive. High level. And shows you’re standing up against the demands the Watchmen made in their first message, protesting the detente between the two countries.
“That’s good,” Norton agreed.
“Yes,” said the president more slowly, digesting before regurgitating. “Yes, that’s good. You following this, Peter? Put out something right away on the wires: that there’s soon to be an important announcement. Promise each of the majors personally-tell them I told you to-it’ll be in time for their late news. But insist I’m too occupied-occupied’s the word, not “too busy,” as if I don’t know what I’m doing-to do anything on camera myself.” The man began to make rolling motions with his hand. “We’re refusing to give in to terrorism …” He looked at the FBI director. “You say that Russian guy’s arrived?”
“Earlier today,” said Ross.
“Good,” said the other man, picking up the briefing. “Senior Russian investigators already here … combined, highest-level cooperation … nowhere to hide … that sort of stuff, got it?”
“I think so, Mr. President,” said the public affairs spokesman, a mop-haired man who talked a lot with his hands. “I think we should have a picture I can issue. You on the telephone to Moscow … world leader to world leader?”
“It’s building well,” congratulated the politician. “The pose will be important. Shirt sleeves and loosened tie, president hard at work in a crisis? Or jacket and tie, calm, refusing to be panicked? Which do you think?”
“Difficult one,” said the media specialist, frowning at the seriousness of the decision. “Shirt sleeves, I think. But maybe not loosen the tie, like you’re anxious.”
“Any thoughts?” the president invited generally. “This has got to be exactly right.”
“Shirt sleeves,” said Norton, the other White House professional.
Hartz and Butterworth nodded in uncomfortable agreement. Leonard Ross refused to become involved.
Prentice said, “I think we should stress, too, that it’s we who initiated the direct approach to the Russian president. Puts the pressure on Russia to respond after whatever the attack is. Spread the pressure.”
“Perfect!” agreed the president. “Get to it. You’ve only got an hour. And Peter?”
“Mr. President?”
“Change that tie. It’s too bright. We don’t want a happy mood image. People could die.”
Cowley woke Danilov in time to watch Peter Prentice face the White House press corps on his hotel room television. Cowley and Pamela saw it from the incident room. It was followed immediately by a roundup of the intended evacuations and closure precautions, the footage on every channel that of miles-long head- and-taillighted streams of fleeing, going-anywhere vehicles. When they talked again Cowley told Danilov he was going to use the office cot, but there wasn’t any practical reason for the Russian to come from his hotel simply to sit around and wait: He could get to the bureau from 14th Street five minutes after the Watchmen carried out their threat, whatever it might be.
“This is clever,” said Danilov. “Psychological. Military. Professional insurrection training. You thought of extending the disgruntled search beyond the Pentagon to the CIA?”
“Not until now,” admitted Cowley. It was a valid but numbing suggestion.
“There was a lot to learn-and be taught-from Vietnam. Africa before that. And Latin America: Chile particularly. That’s the time-and the attitude-reflected in that first Watchmen message.”
Pamela decided to go home, which Cowley discovered for the first time was north, a condo in Westminster. He was surprised that he actually slept and for so long, from just after midnight to five. He thought it was the sound of a telephone that woke him, but the night operator came on asking what he wanted when Cowley snatched it off his desk.
There were no fresh towels or soap in the mess washroom where Cowley went to shower, and to shave he had to try to lather the sliver he did find. He managed without cutting himself and was glad there wasn’t any discomfort from his rib or head. He spent several minutes studying his lopsided appearance in the mirror and decided it might look less ridiculous if he had the rest of his hair cropped much shorter than it was. Would Pamela judge a crew cut as a better fashion statement? The coincidence of the new threat had wiped away any embarrassment at her dinner rejection, but he’d clearly and badly misjudged a situation. Which she was right about, he further accepted. They couldn’t allow the intrusion of even the most basic of social relationships, which it hadn’t seemed as if she would have welcomed in other circumstances. What about himself? Hardly a rebound reaction from Pauline’s marriage announcement, after almost three years of divorce. He’d been flattered, he acknowledged, at someone-not just someone, but an attractive, intelligent woman-seeming to show some interest in him. And got it wrong. Been naive. Laughably so. Lucky to have gotten away with it. No risk of it happening again.
The television commentaries this early were all replays from the previous night and very early morning, so he turned the sound down. The footage was virtually all repeats, too, although there were some new but familiar shots of an empty New York and Washington. The voice-over reporter added that the volume of early-morning commuter traffic was averaging less than fifty percent of normal in every major American city. Over the previous night’s still photograph of the serious-faced, shirt-sleeved president on the telephone to Moscow came the promise of a response during the day from the Russian White House.
Pamela included Danilov in the coffee and Danish that she brought when she got back at six-thirty, which was fortunate because the Russian arrived only five minutes behind her. She would have been earlier, Pamela apologized, but her normal coffee shop and the one after that were closed. There was virtually no conversation while they ate, watching the repetitive newscast. The only fresh item was the worldwide stock market slump, with overnight panic selling in Tokyo triggering a plunge in London, Paris, Frankfurt, and Hong Kong. There was speculation that trading on Wall Street might be suspended even before its opening in an effort to break the cycle.
Pamela said, “This is driving me nuts!”
Danilov said, “That’s what it’s meant to do! Drive everyone nuts. It’s called psychological warfare-as infectious and as deadly as anthrax or sarin.”
Cowley said, “Makes a change from everything moving so fast we can’t keep up.”
Leonard Ross came on to Cowley’s direct incident room line at seven demanding a complete update in time for an eleven o’clock presidential briefing. When he learned the Russian was in the building, he asked that Danilov come along, as well. Seizing that as an excuse-in reality as impatient as Pamela by the inactivity and needing to move-Danilov borrowed her car to drive along deserted streets to the Russian embassy. The head of chancellery accepted at once there was no point in a meeting with the ambassador if there was nothing positive to advise the man about. Ivan Obidin came to the foyer himself to escort Danilov to the Security Bureau’s communications center, and Danilov decided that ironic and rare though it might seem, there was sometimes benefit from operating in the cesspit of Moscow deceit. This was actually amateur by Petrovka standards.
On their way to the communications facilities, the nervous intelligence chief hoped the previous day’s difficulties had been totally resolved. He certainly hadn’t intended any personal offense or obstruction and wanted to make his own office available. Danilov came close to feeling sorry for the man.
Obidin’s office was remarkably large and comfortable-almost as expansive as the ambassador’s suite-and very much the man’s own territory. Obidin’s various promotion testimonials and commendations were framed on the walls and on a low bookcase. There was an official, full face portrait of the man at a citation ceremony. Next to it was an official group photograph of what Danilov assumed to be the rest of the rezidentura. On the desk was a photograph of a plump woman flanked on either side by two boys in their early teens. St. Basil’s Cathedral in Red Square was in the background.
Seeing Danilov’s look, Obidin said, “They’ve already gone back. My tour ends in three months.”
The system on Obidin’s desk appeared to be an ordinary fivetelephone console, the security route through which the lines were channeled-and to the sort of soundproof booth in which Danilov knew he should actually have been shown-in another part of the complex. Danilov wasn’t surprised his conversation was being monitored, in the hope they could achieve the sort of control they’d imagined possible the previous day. He would have eavesdropped in the same circumstances, with the same facilities.
He talked on the assumption that he was being listened to, keeping any deference from his voice when he was connected to Georgi Chelyag to maintain the impression of upper-echelon access and equality. Danilov told the presidential chief of staff there was no indication what the threat could mean or when it might be carried out, although it was expected sometime that day. He hoped later to get some insight into Washington’s genuine political attitudes, and if he did he’d call immediately. It would be helpful-show the required cooperation-to be able to hint what that was in Moscow. The FBI had two suspects for the small explosion in the Washington Monument but the lead was very slender. He believed the bureau was being totally cooperative and wished he was able to contribute more. And he thanked Chelyag for the requested guidance that the American leader’s offer might be accepted, although Moscow wanted a neutral venue to avoid the impression of the Russian foreign minister having to come to Washington to meet the secretary of state.
Danilov went into more detail about the tourist in the camouflage jacket when he was connected to Yuri Pavin, although again for the benefit of any listener he said the likelihood of tracing the man and his satchel-carrying companion wasn’t promising.
“Anything you want me to follow up here?”
If there was he’d call from another phone, Danilov decided: maybe even from the FBI building itself. “What’s there been from Reztsov in Gorki?”
“Promising to come back in twenty-four hours.”
Obidin came from a room farther within the rezidentura-proof that Danilov didn’t need that the security chief had heard him terminate his conversation-as Danilov emerged from the man’s office. As they walked back through the embassy, Obidin disclosed that on Moscow’s instructions, security had been tightened around the building and the compound. Danilov held back from asking how they intended stopping a missile. A clearly alerted Timor Besedin intercepted them in the final corridor before the entrance to ask if everything had gone satisfactorily, volunteering the just-made announcement that Wall Street wasn’t opening. Danilov made his way back to the bureau building unsure if their obviousness was openly to mock him and his belief that he was beyond their control or if they were simply inept.
Cowley had agreed that they should remain vague about the purpose of the forensic tests until what Danilov knew partially to be a fact was fully confirmed. Leonard Ross himself decided not to promise too much from the visa applications or car rental checks on Viktor Nikov’s two American visits. “Everyone’s too eager to clutch at straws: We’ll get the criticism if it comes to nothing.” Cowley told his director that they’d identified and eliminat
ed all ten tourists on the Washington Monument stairs in the morning of the explosion and only had the two male suspects and another man and women on the afternoon visit to eliminate. Anticipating that the Watchmen would make another claim or boast after carrying out their threat, Carl Ashton had assembled a squad of twenty computer specialists at the Pentagon to attempt a source trace, and every available bureau technician at Pennsylvania Avenue had been briefed to do the same, the moment a new message was posted. Others were at the communications centers of all the major telephone companies, whose engineers were mobilized for the hunt. Ross expected that Moscow’s reservations regarding the foreign minister’s visit to the American president had already been sent to Henry Hartz or maybe the American White House direct but thanked Danilov for the guidance.
“We’re doing everything we can-and should-do, but it’s not enough,” summed up the director. “They can carry out whatever threat they damned well like.”
Pamela Darnley was hovering impatiently at the incident room door when Cowley and Danilov returned. “Lambert’s got the forensic results!” she announced. “But he says he doesn’t understand them.”
“Let’s hope I do,” said Danilov.
The forensic scientist had assembled everything in a small conference room off his working laboratory, what had been sent from Moscow and what Danilov had later brought laid out as if for an exhibition but very distinctly separated. Each item was just as distinctly labeled. The now-empty United Nations warhead was on its own table. On another table next to it were the defused mines, Semtex and timers recovered from the Lincoln Memorial, divided from the debris lifted from the Washington Monument. Lambert’s team of specialists were grouped around their supervisor, as if for a lecture.
Lambert said at once, “We’ve got some inconsistencies.”
“I expected there to be,” said Danilov. “Take me through it all.”
Lambert patted the UN missile. “Here’s our attack weapon. We’ve subjected it to every forensic test and examination available in metallography. We’ve also analyzed the paint and”-he paused, looking to Danilov-“made photographic enlargements of the stenciled identification lettering. From each we are able to make a positive comparison with similar weapons, their metal, paint, and lettering.”
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