The Watchmen (34 page)

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Authors: Brian Freemantle

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Espionage

BOOK: The Watchmen
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At the end of half an hour the only thing Pamela noted was the absence of contact between Trenton and Brooklyn. She noted it on her pad, although she was unsure of its importance or relevance. She was looking too hard, wanting too much, Pamela warned herself. If she was right about the Pentagon, which she was convinced she was, it would be her unqualified, unshared success—probably reaching the president himself, for the earthquake it would cause—and that had to be enough.
Was
enough.
It was probably because earlier she’d looked for the New Rochelle number on Orlenko’s records that Pamela played the Highway Patrol copy tape of the burning cruiser report. She did so absently; for the first few seconds of what lasted less than a minute Pamela only half listened. But then, abruptly, she rewound the tape to the beginning.
There’s what looks like a large fire in the woods by the New Rochelle creek …
Can you give me a name, madam …
It could be a boat with people on board. You’d better get there, check it out.
Madam … .
?
The sound of the telephone being replaced.
She’d heard the voice before. Just as quickly as the certainty came to her, so did the stupidity of it. She found the voiceprint analysis from Osnan’s meticulous indexing, the doubt growing with its first line that an obvious attempt had been made at disguising distortion, although the intonation had been from a Southern, not a northern, state. She listened to it several more times and then to the first eavesdropping on Bay View Avenue, concentrating on Mary Jo’s voice. Mary Jo, she remembered, who had been born in Atlanta, Georgia, but whose Southern accent was not immediately recognizable. There was a similarity, but … Looking too hard, wanting too much, she thought. But there was no record of a scientific comparison being made, when there should have been. Another oversight to be corrected.
It was midafternoon, long after she’d given the voice comparison instructions, when Leonard Ross personally told her the attorney general—and all four district attorneys, even the reluctant New York legal chief—had agreed to the requested taps on all the public telephones.
Carl Ashton’s contact was an hour later. “We found a phony band on a terminal line of one of the Joint Chief’s secretaries.”
“Oh, Jesus!” said Ross, when Pamela called him back.
 
 
Patrick Hollis had been particularly careful that the workstation allocated to the FBI auditor was directly outside his own glass-walled office. Mark Whittier was in his sight line at all times without Hollis appearing constantly to watch the man.
Hollis was sure he detected the physical reaction—a slight, pushed-back-in-his-chair start, then a quick coming forward over the keyboard—when Whittier detected the first intrusion. Because he was so attentive, Hollis saw the beginning of the instinctive glance of triumph toward him from the man and was able to turn away, appearing to look into a drawer, before it was completed. When he stared back into the open plan room, Whittier was already talking animatedly into the telephone.
To have registered as positively as it had with the auditor the transfer would have had to have been exactly what he’d warned against, dollars instead of cents, Hollis knew. What good was a general who ignored intelligence? That was the recipe for losing battles, not winning them.
 
The Pentagon discovery caused the earthquake Pamela Darnley anticipated, the aftershocks rippling from Washington to Moscow—and Henry Hartz—and back again. Crisis meetings were convened at varying levels in both capitals, for people unsure what to do to sound—to themselves, at least—as if they did.
Pamela rode expectantly to the American White House with Leonard Ross but was disappointed by the meeting. Although it established her personal recognition at the highest level, the encounter was chaired by Chief of Staff Frank Norton, not the president himself. She was ready, if a further chance came; prepared to make it, if it didn’t, although aware that she had to be careful of her self-promotion appearing too obvious.
Hartz was patched through—visually, by television satellite, as well as audibly—to announce he was informing the Russian president as a precaution against knee-jerk retaliation to whatever and however the terrorists utilized their access.
“They may not intend to, not immediately,” intruded the FBI director, briefed more completely than anyone apart from Pamela, whose presence was advisory. For the first time Ross outlined the intercepted conversation between Brooklyn and Moscow to the entire group. He said, “They’ve had the Pentagon access we didn’t suspect for a week. Instead of using it, they want more weapons, germ and biological as well as conventional. Which we believe we know how they’re financing. If they’d wanted to use the Pentagon access they could have done so already.”
“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.”

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