“You got any more maybes, mights, and on-the-other-hands?” demanded CIA Director John Butterworth. “We can’t make any sensible decision based on those hypotheses!”
“We can,” insisted Ross, the calmest person in the room. “There’s one very necessary and very sensible decision that’s absolutely essential. It’s that the Russians mustn’t make our Pentagon disaster public. They must limit it, even within their own White House. If the terrorists get the slightest hint of how much we know, they won’t wait. They’ll use their Pentagon intrusion to do God knows what.”
It was Norton who posed the question to the Pentagon officials. “What could they do?”
“Virtually whatever they damned well like,” said General Sinclair Smith, making it an accusation against Carl Ashton, sitting beside him. “Realign-misdirect-satellites. Access operational secrets up to the security level of presidential decision. Send ships and aircraft around in circles with false orders.” He spread his hands helplessly. “Think of your worst-nightmare scenario. Treble it and try to imagine something worse. You’ll be getting there.”
“You’re telling us it’s out of control?” said Norton.
“Is that what I’m saying, Carl?” the general asked the man next to him.
Ashton said, “We’re working-already started-from the top down. All satellite operational and activating codes are being changed. Every password, entry code, and system is being switched and reprogrammed. And not just firewalled but iron-boxed-”
“What the hell’s firewalled and iron-boxed!” Hartz broke in impatiently from Moscow.
“A firewall is a barrier between a cluster of machines and outside use,” said Ashton. “An iron box is an added precaution that’s sometimes better described in hacker-or cracker-jargon as a flytrap. Any unauthorized entry is caught, and if the connection is long enough, it can be traced. Any unauthorized ID-which in this case would be the old entry codes and passwords, all of which we know-will be picked up immediately.”
“A question,” announced Butterworth. “You’ve been tricked, right? Some son of a bitch is still inside the Pentagon-some son of a bitch who really knows how to use a computer and can do what he likes with it. It doesn’t matter a damn how much we keep it all under wraps, hidden from the public. He’ll know, won’t he? But we don’t know who it is so we can’t stop him finding out.”
“All the satellite changes aren’t being made from inside the Pentagon for that very good reason,” said Ashton. “It’s being done by the National Security Agency, and it’ll be completed by midnight tonight. By dawn tomorrow-again by the National Security Agency-everything at presidential level will be reprogramed-”
“What about ballistic missiles?” broke in Norton. “Russia is supposed to have retargeted their intercontinental stuff away from us. We done the same?”
Smith shifted, looking toward the television picture of the secretary of state. “Everything will be by this time tomorrow. That’s a precaution ahead of changing firing codes. And there are two, quite separate, for every one: One, by itself, won’t activate anything until there’s human-which means presidential-confirmation by the second. Without that, they can’t be fired. Those codes are switched every two days, which means there’ve been at least two changes from the time we believe the terrorists have had access. Despite the fact that the firing needs presidential authority, we’re actually deactivating them, making them inoperable.
“What about China?” demanded Hartz, from afar.
The general’s shift was even more discomfitted. “Being changed, too.”
“Deactivated?” pressed Norton.
“That order hasn’t yet been given.”
“Give it,” instructed the chief of staff. “Stand everything down.”
“That would leave the United States of America totally vulnerable,” protested General Smith.
“We can talk-are talking-to Moscow,” said Norton. “We can’t talk to Beijing: We couldn’t trust them not to go public, after the United Nations attack. If they did-and the Watchmen managed to launch something against China-Beijing would retaliate. That’s a greater risk than the United States being, in theory, vulnerable to attack: We’re not; only from terrorists who already think we’re bareassed anyway.”
“I speak on behalf of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” said General Smith formally. “I mean no personal or official offense to you, sir, but the Joint Chiefs will not accept a standdown of this magnitude without the explicit, written authority of the president as commander-in-chief. It’s the required chain of command.”
Norton nodded, unoffended, accepting both the argument and the protective security system. “You’ll get the written order. Going back to an earlier question, we’re not out of control, are we? Badly exposed but recovering.”
“I think there’s more we could do,” urged Hartz, over his link. “They might not wait; certainly won’t if there’s any delay or failure to get their weapons resupply from here. Which we’re doing everything to prevent. They’re into spectaculars. As well as doing everything that’s been outlined-and I’m going to speak directly to the president about deactivating our Chinese missiles-we’ve got to identify the Watchmen’s most likely targets. I’ll order my analysts to do that and suggest you do the same at the agency, John.”
“It’s an ongoing program, from the time we prevented the Lincoln Memorial explosion and expected them to do something else,” assured Butterworth.
She wouldn’t have to make her chance, Pamela recognized, deciding she could even take Ross’s sideways glance as an invitation, whether it was or not. “The space shuttle,” she declared. “It’s an obvious target: It could actually be the explanation for their not having used the Pentagon access yet. There’s a launch scheduled in two weeks, I think.”
Ross’s second look was sharper.
“Could they have gotten into NASA? And the shuttle’s onboard computers?” demanded Norton.
“Yes,” confirmed Ashton.
“That’s the sort of analysis we want,” congratulated the secretary of state.
On their way back to the FBI, Ross said, “Why didn’t you mention the space shuttle to me before the meeting?”
“It didn’t occur to me until Hartz asked for the most likely targets,” Pamela said easily. It was a lie, like her seeming uncertainty about the actual date of the next launch, which she’d checked before leaving for the White House. It was scheduled for exactly two weeks from now, and two Russian astronauts were included in the crew. Pamela had never imagined it would all go so well.
By yet another twist of logic, the way the Pentagon situation unfolded actually sidelined Dimitri Danilov, creating something of a respite. Despite how closely he was working-and was known by the Americans to be working-with William Cowley, there was no question of his being part of the crisis meetings at the U.S. Embassy that followed the Washington alert. And Henry Hartz’s decision-made before the satellite link to the matching Washington meeting-fully to brief the Russian president meant all Danilov had to do was advise Georgi Chelyag in advance, as William Cowley had in turn told him.
In the time before Cowley was summoned by the secretary of state, he and Danilov agreed on their surveillance on Yevgenni Mechislavovich Leanov. Because, in daylight, men wearing easily identifiable American clothes were too much of a risk, they detached the four Russian detectives from the ongoing intelligence archive search to the Krymskij Val apartment, where the instant bonus was establishing that Leanov still lived there, apparently alone. They also agreed the surveillance-more so from its rear than from its front- had to be maintained on the Golden Hussar in the hope of connecting, and picturing, the now-identified former KGB linguist with a woman. And because it would be covered by darkness, that observation should remain an American assignment.
Danilov still felt so underemployed that on his way from the embassy to Petrovka he delivered Olga’s photograph to Irena, whose comparable work shifts he knew, to pass on to Igor. Irena asked him what he
intended to do, which Danilov thought an odd question although he understood its point. He replied that his job was very demanding and occupied most of his time. She told him if she could help in any way, all he had to do was ask. Danilov found that even more odd, considering the woman’s obvious connivance in Olga’s affair with the hairdresser.
Danilov drove on to the Organized Crime Bureau building, his mind more in the past that in the immediate present or future. For a reason he didn’t bother to define he regarded the handing over of Olga’s picture to be the final separation-the end. The final, definite act had been to keep his own single recollection-their wedding photograph and marriage certificate-although again for a reason he couldn’t define. He just had it. Even the need, which he’d never imagined being able to lose-had never wanted to lose-to mourn at Larissa’s grave was over.
Irena’s question presented itself in his mind, demanding more than platitudes. What did he intend to do? Work was the only thing he had left-had been, since Larissa. But for how much longer would he even have that, after the choice he’d made? Not made, he corrected at once: had imposed upon him. Hardly an important qualification. Whether he liked it or not-which he didn’t, because he didn’t want to follow any factional banner-he was in the presidential camp. If that fell, so did he. He was abruptly, deeply, worried by an uncertainty beyond his ability to resolve.
The uncertainty remained while he disclosed the American Pentagon debacle to Yuri Pavin, before going on to talk about the division of the surveillance assignments.
“We’re being stretched very thin of men we can trust,” warned Pavin.
“And still with too many loose ends,” accepted Danilov. “Any lead on the American car used in the embassy attack?”
His deputy shook his head. “We know it’s an old design, from the guard’s description. The brigades-the entrepreneurs-are only interested in status symbols as new as tomorrow. I don’t think the guard saw the vehicle properly: might have recognized it as American and imagined the tail fins.”
“What about Igor Ivanovich Baratov?” remembered Danilov, briefly caught by the man having the same given name as Olga’s lover. “He runs garages but said he didn’t want to get involved in American cars with Viktor Nikov. Why don’t we run the description by him?” He stopped and Pavin waited, curious.
“No!” said Danilov. “No, we won’t.” He laughed. “I know! I know who the woman is from the Golden Hussar.”
Patrick Hollis had established the pattern of joining the FBI auditor in the cafeteria, savoring the cachet of association in front of Carole Parker and Robert Standing and all the others who despised him. Whittier smiled invitingly at his approach, and Hollis eased into the opposite seat. He knew everyone was looking, even though he had his back to the room. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty good,” said the man.
“You’ve certainly been hard at it.”
“That’s the job.”
Hollis jerked his hand vaguely toward the room behind him. “Everyone knows who you are and what you’re doing by now.”
“Inevitable,” accepted the auditor. “Too late for anyone to hide their tracks, though.”
“You got someone?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Of course not. I’m sorry. It was just …” Hollis stumbled intentionally, sure he was acting out the apparent difficulty exactly right.
Whittier held up a hand with the forefinger narrowed within a fraction of his thumb. “I can tell you that we’re that close.”
There was more progress than setback for Pamela Darnley when she arrived in the incident room. Silently Terry Osnan handed her the Chicago printout upon which Ivan Gavrilovich Guzov was listed, together with Arseni Yanovich Orlenko, as a codirector of OverOcean Inc. The Chicago office had already applied to a judge in chambers for a telephone tap.
There was also a report from the audio science department. There was no match between the voice of Mary Jo Orlenko and the woman who had called the Highway Patrol from the New Rochelle shopping precinct.
29
There was too much activity at too high a level at the U.S. Embassy and Petrovka was too porous, so at Cowley’s suggestion they gathered at his suite at the Savoy. Cowley, who’d needed to excuse himself from the continuing embassy preparations for Henry Hartz’s meeting with the Russian president, said, “You sure!”
“As sure as I can be without scientific proof.” It was the first time Danilov had been in Cowley’s room. There was a bottle of Glenfiddich scotch, with glasses, on a tray on a side table.
Yuri Pavin, who had to be included because Cowley couldn’t be involved in the intended confrontation and whose presence was a further reason for their not having met at the American legation, said, “I think so, too.”
“Jesus!” said Cowley. He wondered why, when it began to happen, the resolution of cases invariably seemed mundane compared to the crimes themselves. A premature reflection, he realized. A resolution to an investigation of this enormity was always going to seem an anticlimax, and at the moment they were as far away from concluding it as they’d ever been.
“It could provide a lot of answers,” encouraged Danilov. “Explain the murders. Why Osipov and Zotin got killed. Even double warheads from two separate plants.”
“Valeri Karpov was tortured and killed!” reminded Cowley.
“‘It was business: only ever business,’” quoted Danilov.
“Jesus!” Cowley repeated.
Danilov turned to Paul Lambert and the technician the forensic chief had brought with him. “Will you be able to make positive identification from a telephone call?”
“That’s the level of distortion we’re working on from the Golden Hussar, with the addition of a distance factor,” Lambert pointed out. “It should be enough. A less relayed-less diluted-exchange would be better.”
“We’ll try for both,” decided Danilov. “Advance warning doesn’t matter.”
The technician wired Cowley’s room phone and tested the pickup by calling Barry Martlew at the embassy. The equipment worked precisely as it should have. The technician rewound and wiped the tape. “All set, when you’re ready.”
“You,” announced Danilov, to his deputy. “It would more likely be you, wouldn’t it?”
The telephone table and nearby chair appeared too small for the huge man. From his reaction, the reply at the other end was very quick. Pavin played his role to perfection. He was very sorry. He didn’t intend to intrude. The return was a necessary formality, which he hoped wouldn’t cause any distress. He was sorry he didn’t have any news, but they could talk about that when he got there. He was grateful for the understanding and cooperation. He could certainly be there in an hour. It wouldn’t take very long.
They listened heads bent, attentively, to the instant replay. Danilov realized he was breathing shallowly, as quietly as possible. He thought the others were, too.
Cowley said, “I think you’re right.”
Lambert said, “I do, too.”
“Let’s make sure,” said Danilov. He and Pavin stripped to the waist and stood self-consciously while the sound technician taped them with body wires.
The man said, “I’m afraid it will hurt when we tear the tape off, but I’ve got to put this much on to keep it all as close and as inconspicuously as possible against your skin.”
Danilov was surprised that he had far more body hair than his deputy. Larissa had called him her bear, he remembered. The technician fed the wires and microphones through their clothes as they dressed, standing back to check the concealment, patting each to ensure he’d fixed the wires to avoid their being detectable if either man was touched. The final preparation was to test the recordings and sound levels, which again were perfect.
“How’s it feel?” asked Lambert.
“Like I’m trussed up, ready to be cooked,” said Danilov.
“You’re doing the cooking,” said Cowley.
On their way out to Pereulok Samokatn
aja, Pavin said, “All we need is talk, isn’t it?”
“And to avoid arousing the slightest suspicion,” warned Danilov.
When Naina Karpov opened the door of the converted apartment, he said, “Thank you very much for seeing us like this.”
Naina Karpov was as neatly dressed as before, in a sweater and skirt, and again there was no makeup or jewelry. The attitude of uncaring resignation had gone, though. Today there was no child watching television, either.
Danilov said, “I thought I’d come, too. Just in case you’d remembered something since last time.” She was curious. Understandable: no cause for concern. There was more danger in over- than underreacting.
“You gave me your card to call you, if I did.”
Danilov shrugged his shoulders. “You never know.”
“No,” said the widow. “I haven’t remembered anything since last time. Can I offer you tea?”
Quite calm, unworried, Danilov recognized. How it should be. He refused tea. So did Pavin.
“I’m glad your daughter’s better,” said Danilov.
“It was nothing. What have you found out?”
The voice, which they’d thought on the first occasion to be the huskiness of grief, sounded just the same, deep in her throat. Danilov said, “Nothing at all that helps.”
“You actually think Valeri Alexandrovich was involved in all this other business?”
“He worked for a factory that manufactured weapons,” Pavin pointed out. “But we’ve no proof. It’s embarrassing for us. And the Americans.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t.” Looking to Danilov she said, “I read-or maybe I saw it on television-that you’d been in America?”
“It’s a joint investigation. I’m the liaison.”
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