The Watchmen (39 page)

Read The Watchmen Online

Authors: Brian Freemantle

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

BOOK: The Watchmen
13.02Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Not if it risks his making you,” said Cowley, into his handset. “We’re hearing him loud and clear.”
There was an interruption of the Billie Holiday tape while it reversed itself.
Cowley said, “Where’d you get the shooter’s name?”
“Old KGB files. His unit was attached.”
“Address?”
“
Spetznaz
barracks.”
“Didn’t expect it to be all easy.”
“We’re on the M10,” reported one of the American pursuers.
“Which becomes the M11 and leads right up to Tushino,” said Danilov.
“It’s Plant 43,” accepted Cowley.
“Turning off,” came an American voice.
“Losing our traffic cover,” came the second voice.
“Dropping back,” said the first. Then: “We’re almost at once in the boondocks: open as hell.”
“Second car abort,” ordered Cowley.
“There’s a sign,” said the observer from the first car. “Timiryazev.”
“It’s all country. A huge park,” identified Danilov.
“Only one car between us on the road,” came the warning. “I think he’s slowing.”
“Abort,” ordered Cowley, for the second time. “Let him go.”
“Sorry,” said the observer.
“Nobody’s fault,” said Cowley. “Don’t try to pick up on the return journey.”
Inside the car Leanov turned off the tape. There was a faintly discernible sound they couldn’t recognize but the noise of the engine seemingly revved intermittently. Lambert said, “We’re hearing rough ground. He’s turned off, driving over bumps. Ruts.”
The engine died, the click of a door opening, Leanov’s voice shouting a greeting. Then the mumble of conversation they couldn’t hear.
Martlew said, “Shit! They’re outside the car.”
Lambert said, “We can probably enhance what they’re saying. Not here, though. Washington.”
Two, maybe three doors slammed. There was the more solid sound of a trunk lid going down. A click, some more unheard talk, then a closer
whump.
“Something’s gone into the Oldsmobile trunk,” said Cowley.
“So we know where it’s going back to,” said Danilov.
Words floated from the monitoring speaker like leaves in a wind: “Idiots … as much as … told you … no worry … dollars … soon …” The door opening, closer, the squash of Leanov sitting and for the first time the clear sound of his saying good-bye and a reply, in a man’s voice.
Ella Fitzgerald sang all the way back to Moscow, ruined by Leanov’s backing. The surveillance reported his arrival back at the garage. Leanov lowered the up-and-over door after him when he put the car away and didn’t emerge for thirty minutes. He was carrying nothing when he did.
Cowley said, “Jimmy Schnecker and his guys arrive in three hours.”
“What about the empty warheads?” asked Danilov.
“Diplomatic baggage, coming to the embassy separately.”
 
Pamela Darnley read for the fourth time the official notification from the director of her second commendation, which had come with the equally formal confirmation of her appointment as permanent head of the antiterrorist unit. The satisfaction was a warm, comforting feeling.
“Congratulations,” said Terry Osnan.
Pamela had told him not to boast, although there had been an element of that, but because the promotion wouldn’t be circulated throughout the bureau until the end of the month, and he would have thought it odd if she’d kept it to herself until then. She was looking forward to telling Cowley. She realized abruptly that she would have liked to have done it personally rather than over a five-thousand-mile telephone link and was surprised at the awareness. “I had a lot of help, you at the top of the list,” she said. She could afford to be magnanimous.
“I’d put Bill and Dimitri higher,” said the man, who’d just listened with her to the Oldsmobile trip that had been relayed from Moscow. “It’s happening fast there.”
Which meant she had to work faster, Pamela accepted. Nothing of which she was in charge or controlled was going to end inconclusively, most certainly not that part of an investigation with which she was so personally identified. In two weeks’ time everyone in the bureau would know she headed antiterrorism. Which would only be a start. Pamela wanted everyone else to know it, too. And they would when she emerged the principal witness in a prosecution in what would be one of the most sensational trials in American legal history.
It was, of course, too much to fantasize about breaking the tradition of the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation always having to be male—they were invariably outside political appointments anyway—but she didn’t see any reason in these days of sexual equality why the immediate deputy couldn’t be female. Not something to discuss with anyone else.
Nor, by the same token, getting ahead of herself by thinking about it too much. Back to earth time. The River Café, at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge, was the obvious new focus. The tap was already in place, but it wouldn’t produce until Arseni Orlenko made another outing. And there was no way she could tighten the surveillance on Orlenko’s two Russian landlords in New Jersey, whose existence seemed ordinary to the point of boredom. Would Carl Ashton and his sweepers be working with the same intensity after locating the
Challenger
tampering? Their success—or failure—would be
her
success or failure.
 
The new contact number was in a mall again, out on the Cohoes Road. As he drove Patrick Hollis wondered how the General obtained them. It wasn’t important. Not a system he’d copy when his intended changes occurred. Not necessary, if you knew how to use a computer like he did. That’s what his were going to be, a computer army. Enough of them available. Hundreds. Thousands. All out there on the war game sites, combat ready, awaiting recruitment.
Hollis managed to park conveniently close to the buildings, to avoid his having to walk too far. Didn’t want to be breathless: might give the impression of nervousness. It had begun to rain, and he hunched deeper into his coat as he walked the last few yards, hands in his pockets, the pad and pens ready. Although he expected it, Hollis still jumped when the phone rang.
“Quartermaster?”
“Sir!” Hollis felt again the vague embarrassment when the accepted hacking terms were spoken aloud.
“You obeyed orders?” the rasping voice demanded at once.
“I’m here,” said Hollis.
“That isn’t the answer. What about account numbers?”
Hollis took a breath, preparing himself. “You’ve done it wrong. I told you not to take too much. The FBI has got teams in tracing you. It’s not safe anymore.”
Hollis felt warmed, close to being aroused, by the silence from the other end. At last the voice said, “What are they doing? How?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that it’s happening. I’m breaking contact.”
“No! Wait! You’ve got a new assignment. Intelligence. You’ve got to find out.”
This
was
orgasmic! He hadn’t expect the concern—the panic—like this. “It’s too dangerous.”
“You can do it! You have to do it! It’s an order!”
“Just stop. Abort.” He couldn’t appear to capitulate too quickly.
“No! Everything goes ahead.”
“Not like this,” demanded Hollis. “I’ve got to have a way of contacting you immediately.
Warning
you.”
Silence again. Hollis could hear the man breathing heavily from the other end. “You got something to write with?”
“Yes.”
The website address was dictated slowly. “Read it back.”
Hollis did so. Wonderful! A telephone number would have been much more difficult. “Name?”
“You know my rank. Eleven o’clock every morning. I want to talk about money now. The amount I want—”
Hollis didn’t need to hear any more so he replaced the receiver. Even better than wonderful! The stealing would go on, making it all perfect.
He was the commanding officer now. It was a good feeling.
 
James Schnecker tapped the photographs back into their neat order, offering them across the desk to Cowley. With him, from the United Nations entry team, he’d brought Neil Hamish, Richard Pointdexter, and Hank Burgess.
Schnecker said, “And you think you might have to let them run to lead you back to America?”
“Yes,” said Cowley. “Can you make everything safe?”
Schnecker shook his head. “Take three or four days to defuse that much.”
“What then?” demanded Danilov.
“The word you used,” said the expert. “Sabotage.”
“So that they couldn’t be used for another attack,” pressed Cowley.
“Guaranteed,” promised Hamish. “We’re the best in the business to ensure that things don’t go off.”
“Not the way they’re expected,” added Pointdexter.
“If you lose them you’ll want to find them again, won’t you?” asked Schnecker.
“The whole point, if we let it all run, is to find who they’re going to,” said Cowley.
“We’ll see that you do,” promised Schnecker.
“Leanov’s on the move,” reported the man on the Nikitskij alley surveillance. “Naina’s with him.”
“Our cue?” suggested Schnecker.
“From the direction we’re going, it looks like Pereulok Vorotnikovskij and the Golden Hussar,” said the observer in the pursuit car.
“If it’s for a telephone call from Brooklyn, it could be a busy night,” said Barry Martlew.
It was.
 
It was Billie Holiday again but a different tape—
The Unforgettable Lady Day
—without either Leanov’s accompaniment or a lot of conversation inside the car.
Leanov said, “How do you think they’ll feel in America about the changes?”
“Important they know who’s in control.”
“We
do
need to meet the Americans instead of fucking around on telephones like this. It’s ridiculous!”
“You got any problems with the idea?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“Gavri’s the problem. He’ll cheat again, if he gets the chance. Like he did the side deal with the intelligence agents’ names.”
“You want another example made?”
“Let’s see how this goes. Decide afterward. Might prove something to the Americans as well as everyone else.”
“We’re here,” announced the following surveillance car.
Only the two forensic experts who’d broken into the garage and knew the booby traps went with Schnecker’s team and Cowley and Danilov. Barry Martlew remained at the embassy, as the pivotal liaison between the Manhattan eavesdropping, the observers outside the Golden Hussar, and Cowley.
They followed the same routine as before, only the two break-in specialists initially going into the alley. Pavin, included now, drove the lead car carrying the empty warhead and protective equipment—another trusted Petrovka detective at the wheel of the second—but was only halfway down Pereulok Merzijakovskij when the garage watcher radioed that the door was open. Danilov led Schnecker and his team in first.
By the time Cowley joined them, the forensic burglars had picked the locks of the linking door and were groping through the small opening to disconnect the final trip. Cowley immediately saw a rocket mounted with a double warhead that had not been there before. It was lying slightly apart from everything else, like a prize, which Cowley supposed it was. He said, “Now we know what Leanov drove out to Timiryazev to pick up!”
“And what we can do with it,” agreed Schnecker. He did not, however, go immediately to the warhead but instead examined the wiring of the up-and-over door. He said, “Very simple, but very effective.” “I’d say professionally rigged.” He looked at Lambert. “Your guys did well to pick it up.”
Hamish had already followed the door-activated detonating wires into the piled-up explosives. Without looking around he said, “Good job you didn’t play around in here, though. There’s a secondary trigger. It’s all still live, ready to pop.”
A visible stiffening went through everyone except Schnecker’s group.
Lambert said disbelievingly, “I
did
play around with it: took paint samples and tried for fingerprints.”
Hamish turned briefly to the forensic leader. “Then you’ll never be as lucky again. Don’t take any more chances because you haven’t got any left.”
“You want us out of the way?” asked one of Lambert’s technicians.
“Won’t save you being next door, if I get it wrong,” said Hamish, his hands deeply inside the stacked mines, working by feel. “And if they’ve got a vibration detonator somewhere in here, you might even set it off by moving.”
Total silence enveloped the room. Again Danilov became aware of breathing shallowly and knew others were, too. Everyone except the Fort Detrick team was frozen, where and how they stood. Schnecker wasn’t. He crouched over the double warhead, probing between the missile and its launcher. Hamish himself breathed out, heavily, gently withdrawing his arm to flex his fingers before sliding them back in through a different opening. Without looking away from what he was doing, the man said, “I want a breath of tension on two.”
Pointdexter knelt beside the second wire leading from the entry trap. He appeared to do little more than lift it from the floor.
Hamish said, “Bastards! Phony lead. No wonder they didn’t think they had to have guards here.” Then: “Hah! Got it!”
“What?” said Schnecker, without looking around from the warhead.
“Lead attached between the mines. Move the arrangement, bang. Safe now.”
“What
about
vibration?”
“I don’t think so.”
Schnecker rose, stretching the cramp from his legs. To Cowley he said, “Let’s switch the warhead. Get everyone out—one at a time, nice and slow—so we’ve got room to work.”
“How long do you need?”
Schnecker looked back to the piled-up ordnance. “Don’t like the Sneaky Pete stuff. So as long as it takes.”
Martlew’s voice crackled into Cowley’s handset. “Just heard from New York: Arnie’s told his loving wife to go for a walk because he’s got a call to make. Our technical guys are fixing up a simultaneous feed, direct to us here, to warn when the conversation finishes with your restaurant: It’ll give you a little more time if she leaves right away.”
Cowley acknowledged and at once said into his radio, “You hear that, Golden Hussar?”
“Loud and clear,” came a voice from the surveillance car.
“We’d get even more time if the Oldsmobile got a flat,” said Cowley.
“Problem with old cars,” agreed the observer.
“Let’s get rid of the live warhead,” Schnecker said busily.
When Burgess brought it in from the adjoining garage, Danilov saw the improvised container was a cello case. Everyone else realized it, too. Burgess said, “What can I tell you? It works.”
“You think it’ll pass?” Schnecker asked generally, pointing to the marks on the replacement device where Lambert’s scientists had scraped off paint samples.
“There’s no reason for them to think it’s anything but an accidental mark,” judged Cowley.
It was easier getting the empty warhead out than getting the loaded one into the case. The fit was perfect. Cowley used the handset again, to summon the circling car, and said to Danilov: “See you there.” Hank Burgess was carrying the loaded warhead back to the embassy. Before they’d left it had been decided the American needed to be accompanied by a Russian speaker against any eventuality during the journey.
The lights in the first garage were doused for their exit. As they walked up the totally blackened alley, Danilov said, “What would happen if you dropped that thing?”
Burgess said, “Nothing. There’s three inches of packing, so it wouldn’t fracture. And it needs to be armed before it’s fired. If it isn’t, it doesn’t detonate. Still a cockamamie design, though.”
They got to the FBI offices at the embassy in time to hear Naina Karpov say, “Everything arranged?”
 
The duplicated relay from New York reduced the sound level and there was a hiss from the volume adjustment, but it was still recognizably Arseni Orlenko’s voice. The Russian said, “He’s very angry. Says he can only go to one and a half.”
“Fuck him. He created his own problem trying to get things cheaper. The price stays.”
“He said not to forget what happened last time.”
“Is he buying or not?” the woman demanded impatiently.
“He wants to know how many warheads.”
“One. Already available.”
“So it’s two million?”
“Have they got it?”
“He offered a million deposit. Rest on delivery.”
Naina laughed. “Which he wouldn’t pay, once he’d got it all.”
“I expect not.”
“I know not. That’s why I set the price at the figure I did. When are you speaking again?”
“Tomorrow.”
“So he’s anxious?”
“I suppose so, yes.
“Tell him a million and a half deposit. That’s all we’ll get. If it’s not the full million and a half, the deal’s off.”
Orlenko sniggered. “You’ve really thought it through, haven’t you?”
“Totally. No money up front—full million and a half—no warhead, no nothing. His decision.”
“What if he doesn’t come back anymore?”
“We’ve made $1,500,000. He’s lost a supplier. He say anything about another attack here?”
“Just argued about how much we wanted.”
“Tell him we’re not supplying anything here until we get paid in full, in America, for what we’re sending. And that anything here’s extra, which has also got to be paid for in advance, before it’s supplied.”
“It’s not good dealing with him.”
There was a pause from Moscow. “You’re
frightened
of him!”
“Not personally. They’ve showed what they’re prepared to do. What they
can
do.”
“To amateurs. They come to Moscow again, they don’t get dinner at the Metropole and whores. And he doesn’t know you, does he?”
“He knows Gavri: where to find him.”
“Which is Gavri’s problem. You spoken to him?”
“You want me to?”
“Tell him Yevgenni Mechislavovich is coming over.”
This time the silence was from the American end. “Yevgenni Mechislavovich taking over?”
“He’s coming to see how things are running. Make things clear to Gavri.”
“I see.”
“I hope you do.”
“You want to speak tomorrow?”
“Of course. Tell them everything’s ready to be shipped.”
“What about the arrangements for that?”
“Yevgenni Mechislavovich is bringing all the details. Tell Gavri that, too.”
“Are changes being made?”
“Just do as I tell you. And call me tomorrow.”
 
All but Schnecker’s team were in the empty garage, but the ballistic experts needed extra light—trailing extension cords from the garage as well as using every outlet in the storeroom itself—and it grew uncomfortably hot, everyone sweating.
“We’re not careful, they’re going to smell there’s been people here when they get back,” warned Lambert.
“Forgot air freshener,” said Schnecker. He and his team were in body armor, their faces streaming behind visors. Hamish was numbering each piece as it was handled.
From his embassy pivot Martlew reported the conclusion of the telephone call. Cowley said, “They’ve finished talking. How much longer?”
“Two hours,” said Schnecker, without breaking away from what he was doing. “A little less, with luck.”
It would have been practical for some to leave, but when Cowley thought about it, he realized that the only truly superfluous people there were Lambert and himself. He was the only one who spoke Russian, quite apart from it being unthinkable for the case officer to leave. He would have liked a drink. Not a lot. Just one. Later, he promised himself. Not another party, like last night, although there was as much reason. Maybe more. He’d see how it went. Schnecker and his guys had been damned good—professional—hitting the ground running like this. Right thing to do to offer them a thank you, although they’d probably be exhausted. Maybe, though, they’d be pumped up by adrenaline.
He was sure Pamela would be, ringing the bell like that with the space shuttle. Every reason to be. Would he ever get to know her better, beyond the environment of the J. Edgar Hoover building? A bizarre question in bizarre surroundings. Brought back to where he was, Cowley decided that Lambert had a valid point. The garage and storeroom stank of sweat and people.
Needing something to do, Cowley said, “Anything?” into his handset.
“Nothing” was like an echo from the embassy, the alley mouth, and the restaurant surveillance.
Then, almost at once, from the Golden Hussar watchers came the warning: “There’s movement. They’re on their way out.”
“Let’s wrap it up,” Cowley called to the next room.
“Shit!” complained Pointdexter.
“They haven’t seen the flat,” reported the restaurant commentary. “Getting into the car … firing the engine … starts to … and there’s the bump. He’s out now, kicking the tire. Going back inside leaving Naina in the car … and here’s big brother, Igor Baratov. Hope you guys are hauling ass back there. Both going inside again … . Wait a moment, here’s a cab … . They’re not bothering to change the tire.”
“How’s it going?” demanded Cowley; from the connecting door. Schnecker and Pointdexter were restacking the cache to Hamish’s instructions, read out from his numbered chart.
Hamish said, “Almost done but we’ve got to reassemble the alarms.”
“They won’t have any reason to come here, if they’re not in the Oldsmobile,” Lambert, behind Cowley, pointed out. “Baratov might not get it fixed right away, either.”
“We’re not staying to find out,” said Cowley.
“Cab’s leaving,” reported the observer. “You want us to follow or stay with the Oldsmobile? … Wait … . Some more guys are coming out of the restaurant … . The trunks open, they’re going to change the tire.”

Other books

Circle of Reign by Jacob Cooper
Her Secret Pirate by Gennita Low
Edward M. Lerner by A New Order of Things
Lucky Break by Chloe Neill
Services Rendered by Diana Hunter