The Watchmen

by Brian Freemantle

  “You’re going to need extra jails,” said Cowley. “The car hadn’t been put back in the garage when I withdrew surveillance. I don’t like not being there, actually on the ground.”

  “I’ll get back to you,” promised Danilov.

  It was a full hour before he got a reply from Chelyag’s direct line. The man said, “The footage will be useful after the arrests: show the president’s personal involvement and awareness.”

  “How long?” said Danilov, impatient with the nothing-missed cynicism.

  “Over any minute now.”

  “I’d like to have been told.”

  “It was not considered necessary,” the other man dismissed, stiffly.

  “Let’s hope it wasn’t,” said Danilov.

  When he called Cowley back, the American said, “The guys in the cars already told me. We’re back in position. Jimmy and his guys are going in tonight to finish off.”

  Patrick Hollis timed his break five minutes after he watched Mark Whittier leave his desk. Before he followed, Hollis turned off his computer. The FBI accountant was already at a table when Hollis entered the cafeteria. So was Robert Standing, sharing with three girls on the far side of the room. One was Carole Parker. As Hollis got his coffee, he saw Standing lean forward and say something. All the girls looked in his direction. Two laughed.

  Hollis approached the bureau agent with his customary hesitancy. Whittier smiled a greeting.

  “How’s it going?” Hollis said.

  “Pretty good, I think.”

  “Arrests imminent?” He laughed, to make the question appear a joke.

  “Who knows?” avoided Whittier.

  “That sounds promising,” said Hollis, not laughing this time. He saw Standing leave the cafeteria, putting his hand familiarly against the back of one girl as he held the door open for her.

  “We’ve set a few traps,” said the man.

  “Can you do things like that on a computer?”

  “If you know what you’re doing,” the accountant said condescendingly.

  “So it shouldn’t be long?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Best of luck.”

  “Time I got back to see if I’ve had any,” said Whittier.

  Hollis detoured his return through the open-plan mortgage section to ensure Standing was at his desk. He was, but turned away from his terminal, talking animatedly into the telephone.

  At his own desk Hollis logged on to his own terminal with Standing’s computer pass code to dial the Chicago cybercafé. The e-mail message, addressed to the General, read:

  DO NOT ADD ANY FURTHER TO THE WAR CHEST. ENEMY ALERTED.

  Hollis didn’t add a sender’s name.

  He saw Mark Whittier physically come forward toward his computer screen in the outer office. And smile.

  Stephen Murray was waiting for Pamela Darnley in the security section of O’Hare Airport. She said at once, “Who’s the owner of the cell phone!”

  The Chicago bureau chief said, “A Frederick Porter. Runs a bar in Evanston and reported the phone stolen from his car yesterday. Company hadn’t got around to canceling the number yet.”

  “When in the name of Christ is something going to go according to plan!” Pamela demanded.

  William Cowley and Dimitri Danilov were thinking roughly the same thing, looking through the just-opened door between the two lock-ups. The Oldsmobile’s garage was empty. So was the adjoining one that had been used as a weapons and ammunition store.

  It wasn’t for some time afterward that they even began to suspect that they’d also lost Yevgenni Mechislavovich Leanov. And much later still before Danilov realized there might be some personal protection in the man’s disappearance.

  35

  It was a time of continuing inquests without any conclusive verdicts. The first was, of course, immediate, and back at the American embassy. That night not even Cowley suggested a drink, although he wanted one. Several, in fact.

  None of that day’s motorized observers had seen any vehicle in the alley off Nikitskij Boulevard during the street watchers’ two-hour absence, but each pointed out that the cul-de-sac curved, hiding the door to what had been the storage garage. Cowley’s desperation was obvious in asking them to remember any specific van or truck in such a busy thoroughfare—quite apart from the extra crowds attracted by the president’s walk. Schnecker showed how desperate a question it was by pointing out that only the trunks of two full-size cars were needed to transport everything. Until it was seen the following day with Igor Baratov at the wheel, a lot of hope was attached to the bugged Oldsmobile.

  “So how dangerous are the five things that aren’t fixed?” demanded Cowley.

  Neil Hamish, the ballistics experts, spread his hands in an open gesture. “Nothing’s been defused; it’s the detonation and timing we’ve rigged. So technically it’s all dangerous. The five untouched are two antitank mines made to shatter thick armor and three phosphorous incendiaries. If they’re connected with any of the other stuff, we’ll be OK. If all five were used separately and for one incident—and that’s very unlikely—you’ve got a major explosion and an inferno at the target scene, not before. Explode them in a crowded environment, a shopping mall for instance, and you’ve got a catastrophe.”

  “I think it’ll be judged that we’ve already got one,” said Cowley.

  Barry Martlew said, “For someone claiming to be on the side of the good guys, the president staged a hell of a diversion, didn’t he?”

  Danilov, who’d been waiting for the accusation, gave them Chelyag’s explanation. Voicing everyone’s exasperated disgust, Martlew said, “Jesus Henry Christ!”

  “Let’s consider the positives,” Cowley insisted, briskly. “We’ve got a good lead on how the stuff will be shipped, and we’ve got the Chicago waterfront under wraps. We’ll know from Customs in advance the arrival of any Cidicj line freighter. The cargo manifest has to be declared, so we’ll even know if anything’s specifically consigned to OverOcean Inc. I don’t know how strong we are in Poland, but we could move some people up to Gdansk from the Warsaw embassy. We might have dropped the ball but I think we can pick it up again.”

  It was not until Igor Baratov returned the Oldsmobile to its garage the following day that they began seriously to suspect that Leanov was no longer in Moscow. Later that night they were sure. In between Danilov managed meeting with Georgi Chelyag.

  “It had better be important!” greeted the presidential aide.

  “Judge for yourself,” said Danilov. His irritation ebbed at Chelyag’s visible reaction to the weapons loss.

  For once, although briefly, the chief of staff appeared lost for words, initially only saying: “Oh.” Quickly he added, “Definitely while the president was there?”

  Into Danilov’s mind came Barry Martlew’s remark and just as quickly the personal protection there might be in it. Maybe, he thought, he was no longer the discardable nobody who’d served his brief purpose. “Absolutely no doubt. The Americans are actually talking of it being a diversion.”

  “What!”

  “If the surveillance had been in place, we wouldn’t have lost anything.”

  “Washington been told that?”

  “Yes,” Danilov said, only slightly exaggerating. “If it leaks—not just now but any time in the future—it’ll destroy most of what you achieved, won’t it? It would be easy for the public to believe the president was involved, even. Reignite the whole censure debate.”

  From Chelyag’s unblinking concentration Danilov wondered if he’d overemphasized the threat of his personal knowledge. Chelyag said, “What have you done?”

  “Dismissed it as ludicrous; stressed the absolute, leader-to-leader cooperation. Problem is, the facts would hardly need manipulation, would they?”

  “There could be further direct contact,” suggested Petrov.

  “To a suspicious mind, wouldn’t the denial look like a confirmation?” How quickly Danilov had learned and adjusted to the wa
y the chief of staff’s mind worked.

  “Will you be able to judge the way the American thinking is going?”

  “I think so.”

  “I need to know; we can’t be caught out.”

  “The greater danger would be for the leak to emanate from here.”

  “Yes?” encouraged the older man.

  “Which can’t happen.” Danilov smiled. “I’m the only Russian who knows.”

  Chelyag didn’t smile back. “That is very fortunate.”

  “Very,” agreed Danilov.

  The proof of Leanov’s disappearance—agonizingly vague about the man, illuminating about others—emerged after Igor Baratov arrived in the bugged car to collected his sister from Pereulok Samokatnaja. Cowley and Danilov were already waiting in the embassy’s bureau offices, alerted by the pursuit car from the garage. The conversation actually began with Naina Karpov asking about the Oldsmobile’s flat, which Baratov said his garage had been unable to find. There was some conversation about educating their children—hers as well as his—abroad (“we can certainly afford the fees”) before Baratov said, “Heard from Yevgenni?”

  “I don’t expect to.”

  “Long drive?”

  “Worth it.”

  “He going to deal with Gavri?”

  “He’s going to see how he finds things.”

  “I think we should. It’s undermining our position here.”

  “You heard from Petrovka?”

  “A week ago. Osipov is definitely being dismissed as a turf war killing and Lasin’s death as part of it. Ashot Yefimovich is handling it all. Insisting the brigade’s disbanded.”

  The woman laughed. “You can’t believe how easy it is to operate here, can you!”

  Baratov laughed in return. “What about the presidential nonsense yesterday! There we were, right under the stupid bastard’s nose, and none of them had a clue!”

  The warning crackled from the following vehicle that the route didn’t seem to be to the Golden Hussar.

  Naina Karpov said, “Mizin’s a good man. Needs looking after.”

  “I’m doing it,” assured Baratov. “You and Yevgenni seem to be close?”

  “I like him. It’s good.”

  “Permanent?”

  “It’s an idea.”

  “How would it work? If we decided on a move, he’d have to replace Gavri in America, wouldn’t he?”

  “Too early to say. You want your kid educated abroad, what’s wrong with America?”

  “Nothing,” said Baratov.

  The restaurant was one of the latest on the current fashion list, out beyond the inner beltway. Called the New York Grill, it actually was run by an American. Cowley decided against his watchers going in to eat. For the first time in several days he and Danilov went to the Savoy bar to fill in the time. Over their third scotch Danilov nodded toward the American’s glass and said, “You seem to be enjoying it?”

  “I always have.”

  “I know.”

  “That supposed to mean something?” Cowley demanded, defensively.

  “Just talking.” The Russian shrugged.

  “You think it’s a problem?” There was an edge to Cowley’s voice now.

  “You know that better than me.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Something been said?”

  “No,” said Danilov. He missed another two rounds and insisted they skip a third to get back to the embassy for Naina Karpov’s return from the restaurant. They had to wait almost an hour, which Cowley occupied drafting an account for Washington and speaking directly to Terry Osnan. Nothing of significance was said during Naina Karpov’s homeward journey. Baratov played Billie Holiday all the way back to Nikitskij after dropping his sister off. Cowley said, “We need to keep this up much longer, I’ll buy them a new fucking tape.”

  Pamela Darnley’s first full day in Chicago, which had only just ended, had been one of inquests and frustrations, too, only lifted at its very end by the news of Robert Standing’s Albany arrest and learning that she’d been right about another illegal entry through the Pentagon. Her concern at hearing from Terry Osnan that Cowley and Danilov had lost the arms shipment and the man seemingly on his way from Moscow went beyond the professional. Secure now in her own permanent appointment, she was worried about Cowley, well aware the scapegoat vacancy was available if there were many more mistakes or failures.

  Protected herself—wishing there was something she could do to help Cowley—she insisted that Steven Murray write an official, case file explanation for the failure to provide a scanner and ordered six top-of-the-range devices from bureau headquarters, both analog and digital, against the contact being made to Bay View Avenue the same way again.

  She’d seized the Albany identification of the computer café, Cyber Shack on Halsted Street, as a major, potentially case-solving breakthrough, particularly when she saw how much concealment there was among the milling students from the Illinois University campus less than a block away. She carried with her Patrick Hollis’s anonymous first cable and the second he’d sent that morning, again using Robert Standing’s computer ID and also addressed to the General. It read:

  WAR CHESTS ARE LOCKED.

  It was 12:32 P.M. and crowded inside and out when Pamela arrived, with Stephen Murray and a five-man backup, with a SWAT team on standby. They’d already established that the café was owned by brothers Herbie and Jason Montgomery, both former computer science students at the university who had no criminal convictions, no civil court orders against them, no posted debts, and permanent addresses in the city. Pamela said, “This is letterbox rental: We go straight in and identify ourselves?”

  It was Pamela’s first encounter with nerds. Herbie Montgomery wore thick-lensed John Lennon glasses and looked like a bright-eyed nesting bird peering from inside a tangled hedge of hair that merged with an unclipped beard spread to his chest like a bib. His brother was clean shaven, without glasses, and had the soap-faced pallor of someone who never strayed from the sunless vastness of cyberspace. Both wore bib-and-suspender overalls and work boots. Their back office was a snake’s nest of cables, coils, wires, and blank-eyed terminals.

  When Pamela showed the two men copies of the two messages, Herbie said, “Hey! Guy didn’t take anything that wasn’t his.”

  “Let’s go from the beginning,” said Murray.

  “One cool cracker,” obliged Jason. “Came in last Wednesday, said he wanted to rent page space. Called himself the General, like all hackers and crackers do. Paid fifty dollars up front. Expected him back from time to time: That’s the usual way, not on the web themselves so they use our home page and our terminals. But this guy collects his own mail from outside. Cracked in, downloaded, and was away.

  “But like I said,” took up Herbie, “he paid. He’s still in credit.”

  “OK,” said Pamela. “So let’s go back again. Proper name?”

  Herbie smiled sympathetically. “Cyber gypsies don’t use real names. Surfing you can be who you like, go where you like. Nobody knows you’ve been or gone ’less you want them to. This guy wanted to be the General so that’s who he was.”

  “How’d he pay?” asked Murray, anticipating the answer.

  “Cash. Fifty-dollar bill.”

  “Where is it now?”

  The brother looked at the local bureau chief in astonishment. “How do we know! It was four days ago! Might have banked it, used it in change, spent it. Could be anywhere.”

  “You ever see him before?” persisted Pamela, all expectation gone.

  Herbie shook his head. Jason said, “Nope.”

  “Describe him.”

  Both men thought. Herbie said, “Big guy. Obviously kept himself in shape: no gut. About forty-five. Stood tall, like an army type.” He buried his hand into his bird’s-nest hair. “Had that sort of haircut, too. You know, right up to the top of his head.”

  “And a tattoo,” reminded Jason.

  “What of?
” demanded Murray.

  “Eagle. The American eagle, on his left arm.”

  “How could you see it?” asked Murray.

  “He was wearing a short-sleeved sport shirt, with jeans. New. And combat boots. Like the others.”

  “What others?” demanded Pamela.

  “There were three other guys in the jeep outside—a modern one, not an army type, but the doors were open and he sat with his foot up against the dash, so I saw his boots,” said Jason.

  “What color was the vehicle?”

  “Maroon,” said the brothers, in unison.

  “I tell you what I want you guys to do,” said Pamela. “I want you to come down to the bureau offices with us and take all the time in the world to work with an artist on an e-fit of the General and the others, if you can remember enough about them. And we’ll look through every make of jeep there’s ever been until you recognize the one they had.”

  “What the hell’s this guy done!” demanded Herbie.

  “Caused a lot of trouble,” she said.

  On their way back out to the car, Murray said, “It’s good.”

  “Not good enough,” Pamela said.

  When she got back to the office, there were call-back messages from the director and Terry Osnan.

  Osnan said, “The navy has a navigation satellite in geostationary orbit over the Pacific. It had been put out by two degrees. Would have put everything off course.”

  The director said, “I’m not sure how many more commendations I can award. Looks to me like you might be heading for a presidential medal.”

  What about a deputy directorship? wondered Pamela.

  Robert Standing had been led away from the building in handcuffs, with virtually every window occupied by watching bank staff. Hollis was sure Standing had been crying; certainly two or three girls inside had been weeping. Carole Parker had been one of them.