The Watchmen cad-3

by Brian Freemantle

  “Initially under the strictest-and personal-operational control. And I’ve agreed with the incident room being established here for that reason.”

  “You want me to sign the insurance waiver?”

  “No.”

  “That makes it your personal decision.”

  “You feel competent to lecture me on law?”

  “I wanted to make it clear that I understood the legal implications.”

  “If there was an alternative to bringing you back I’d have taken it. At this moment I wish there had been.”

  This really was trousers-down, ass-in-the-air time, thought Cowley. “I’m glad there wasn’t.”

  “I want you to convince Danilov that Pamela Darnley can be trusted just as much as you can,” demanded the director.

  “In case I can’t cut it?”

  “You don’t need me to explain what I’m saying.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This isn’t for your career benefit. I don’t want you imagining that this meeting gives you any special privilege, either.”

  “I don’t. And won’t. What about authority?”

  “I appointed Pamela Darnley acting case officer. I’ll tell her you’re back.”

  “She’ll be disappointed.”

  “I hope I’m not.”

  It was the first time he’d seen Pamela Darnley with total, unblurred clarity, and Cowley decided she was remarkably attractive: close, he supposed, to being beautiful. He tried to avoid the physical comparison with Pauline but couldn’t. Like Pauline, she was richly auburn haired, although heavier busted-heavier altogether-which was compensated for by her height, which had to be at least five ten, maybe more. There was an elegance about the tunic dress without the edge-to-edge precision of Pauline the previous night, and worn with the insouciance of someone who either didn’t care or knew she didn’t have to try too hard. He suspected the latter. The heavy-framed glasses that had registered indistinctly during the hospital visit outlined deeply blue or maybe black eyes in an oval face spared, with the same insouciance, anything more than base makeup and pale lipstick. There was no wedding ring. Cowley was abruptly discomfited by an analysis-and most definitely by the comparison with Pauline-that was totally irrelevant. The incident room had been created from a small lecture hall, and Terry Osnan said it was good to see him back.

  “It is good to see you back,” Pamela said, settling into her chair in the cramped side office-surrendering the desk position to Cowley-and feeling the opposite.

  “No, it’s not, as far as you are concerned,” Cowley replied at once. “You know I’ve just had a one-to-one with the director. I’m working the same rules now. And they’ll apply in whatever the future is. You’re not at all pleased to see me back. You saw this as your big chance-which it was and still is-but now you’re thinking my being here screws everything. It doesn’t. I’m not back here to watch my territory or my ass. We’re not in competition. We don’t have the time or the luxury to be. Any day now the bastards are going to hit again and we’re going to be under more pressure than you ever thought possible. You are going to be glad I’m back then, to take some of the heat.” Cowley paused. Then he said, “That’s it, for openers.”

  Pamela didn’t respond immediately because she couldn’t. Neither did she show any facial surprise-any reaction whatsoever-to the pronouncement. Finally she said, “So I wasn’t glad. Pissed, in fact. Now I’m not sure.”

  “Then you’ll have to learn to be.”

  “OK,” she accepted doubtfully. She hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t a conversation like this.

  “What did you think of the suggestion that we don’t expect any more attacks?”

  “Total shit. Of course there are going to be. I wasn’t asked an opinion until now.”

  Cowley smiled. “Now you’re going to be asked; we’re going to be asked. Before we are you’d better bring me up to date.”

  It only took minutes. The second forensic search in New Rochelle (“they even sexed the worms”) had found nothing. In the intervening days since the disaster, they’d hit every known, possibly traceable and self-proclaimed radical group, from those that expected the world to end next week, through those that believed there was life on Mars, to those (“the freedom-of-expression Constitution’s got a lot to answer for”) that built shrines to Hitler and Satan, or both, and wanted to kill all the mentally ill, disabled, homosexuals, Jews, blacks, Catholics, and Protestants on the planet. There was no provable paramilitary group or organization in the area of the massacre, and the marina checks at New Rochelle and Norwalk had not produced a single sighting of any obvious reconnoiterer. The military hadn’t come up with anything.

  “Zilch!” the woman declared. “We also went through the Russian ghettoes at Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach, where the links are to the mafias back home. No one expected to be knocked over by the rush of volunteers-a whisper would have been good. Nothing, not even for money and immunity. There was some copy-cat stuff, of course, from the crazies. One-a U.S. Army grenade-in Des Moines, two, both industrial dynamite, in St. Louis. No one got hurt, thank Christ.”

  Everything that should have been done according to routine, acknowledged Cowley. “Moscow?”

  “The Moscow murders switched the attention from us yesterday and so far today. But all we know is what Danilov let us have. We haven’t been able to add to it from here-establish a connection that makes sense, any more than he can.” Pamela paused heavily. “Or any more than he’s prepared to tell me he can.”

  “Or is allowed to tell us he can,” Cowley picked up. “This was a Russian missile. And the mines that killed seventeen Americans were Russian, too, according to the metallography findings. You weren’t actually expecting the key to the store, were you?”

  The woman made a vague, almost embarrassed gesture. “I hoped for more.”

  Cowley guessed Pamela Darnley was about thirty, thirty-five tops: a fast-track contender to be this high this young. He decided it was too soon to repeat the near lecture he’d delivered earlier to the director about the environment in which Danilov existed, quite irrespective of the political straitjacket into which the man was probably strapped, whatever public declarations there might be about full and frank openness. “I know it seems like forever but it’s only been a few days.” Exactly six, he realized, surprising himself.

  “You want to convince the great American public they shouldn’t be so impatient?”

  “I’m not sure I could.”

  “I’m sure you couldn’t. After September, 2001, and the anthrax outbreaks that followed there’s a lot of frightened people out there.” She consciously made her smile into a grimace. “A lot of frightened people in here, too. So what’s our way forward?” Did he mean what he said about not cutting her out?

  “I need to speak to Dimitri.”

  “Special friends?”

  “Necessary friends,” Cowley said, unconcerned by the cynicism. “Which brings it all back to us. I’m case officer as well as outranking you in seniority. But I’m not interested in playing that game. All I’m interested in is getting this wrapped up, whatever it takes. I want your total, unconditional input. You make the breakthrough, I won’t steal it from you. Additional rules, OK?”

  Pamela looked steadily at him for several moments. “OK,” she agreed. If he wasn’t sincere he had to be the world’s best bullshitter. She’d go along with it because initially there wasn’t any alternative. But only as long as it took her to decide if he was genuine or not. And if he wasn’t, she’d have to do something about it. She wouldn’t get another opportunity like this, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let it be taken away from her.

  Why, wondered Cowley, had he made a commitment to Pamela Darnley that it hadn’t occurred to him to make to her predecessor? Reminded, he said, “What’s the news of Burt Bradley? He taking visitors? Able to talk?”

  There was another long look. “I thought the director might have told you. He died early this
morning.”

  CNN made a news flash of the deputy foreign minister’s arrival at the American embassy. Yuri Kisayev insisted on entering the building from the front, directly off Ulitza Chaykovskovo, personally carrying one of the awkwardly shaped packages, trailed by his more heavily laden driver. He paused at the babble of questions, refusing to identify what he was passing over but insisting it proved the Russian intention to cooperate.

  Cowley said, “I’m guessing warheads.”

  “Very obviously a staged photo opportunity,” said Pamela.

  “Dimitri say anything about it?”

  “I couldn’t get him yesterday and he didn’t call back,” said the woman. “Nothing when we last spoke.”

  Only when he recognized Dimitri Danilov’s voice did Cowley slot the receiver into the conference relay box. He began speaking in Russian. It was Danilov who switched immediately into English.

  “How are you?” demanded the Russian. Cowley was back!

  “Like shit on a plate, according to the director.”

  Danilov laughed. “But you’re there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And OK?” demanded Danilov.

  “Good enough,” dismissed Cowley. “This is a conference call. I’ve got Pamela Darnley with me.”

  “We’ve spoken. Hello.”

  “Hello,” said the woman.

  “CNN has just shown your deputy minister at our embassy.”

  “It’s the duplicate warheads we spoke about before you got hurt,” the Russian cut in.

  Cowley hesitated. “That’s good. Our forensic people are anxious for them.”

  “I can understand that.” In his Moscow office Danilov smiled, relieved that Cowley was understanding, too.

  “How closely do you think your murders are connected?” Cowley saw Pamela, on the other side of the desk, frown at the question.

  “Perfect fit, I’d say. There are still some things to sort out here before I can come over. Will a delay be a problem for you?”

  “Not at all,” said Cowley without any hesitation this time. “How long do you think?”

  “A day or two. Three maybe. Anything I should know from your end?”

  “One or two useful-looking leads but nothing positive,” said Cowley. “If there’s a definite development I’ll tell you at once. Otherwise I’ll bring you up to speed when you get here.”

  “That sounds good. What about your not expecting another attack?”

  Cowley hesitated. “You read that?”

  “Had it suggested to me.”

  “Your side?”

  “No.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Thought you might find it so. True?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Didn’t sit comfortably with me, either.”

  “Pamela and I are working closely on this,” said Cowley. “I’m going to be office bound for a few days, but if you come through and I’m not here, she’ll have the handle on everything.”

  “Look forward to working with you, Pamela,” said Danilov.

  “And I with you,” said the woman. Pointedly she added, “Finally.”

  Cowley supposed she was allowed the complaint. The frown had gone but there was a weary-faced resignation. He sat initially unspeaking after replacing the telephone, looking across at the woman. When she stayed equally silent he said, “Well?”

  She shrugged. “I guess I got security clearance. I just wish we had been told something that needed it.”

  Cowley smiled at her. “We were. Welcome to the land-and the need-of double-speak.”

  Her face remained expressionless while Cowley sketched the difficulties under which Danilov operated. “The arrangement is that if I initiate the call we speak in Russian. If he calls me, it’s in English. A switch, like today, indicates he’s got a problem-is being blocked or misled. Whatever, he can’t speak freely. We never spoke, before the boat blew up, about his supplying duplicate although obviously empty warheads. Nor did we make-discuss even-any plans for his coming here. He was telling me a lot by seeming to tell me nothing. And if anyone was listening at his end, they wouldn’t have understood a word.”

  Pamela’s face relaxed at last. “Very Hollywood.”

  “Hollywood couldn’t make it up.”

  Danilov was relieved at reestablishing his direct and very necessary link with Cowley. He felt a confidence he hadn’t until now realized had been missing since the catastrophe in which the American could have died with all the rest. There was an excitement, too, at the thought of getting away from a dull, gray existence in a dull, gray Moscow to where there always seemed enough electricity to charge the people as well as all their neon and flashing lights. It might, also, temporarily resolve the immediate problem toward which he was driving, unsure what to expect when he got there.

  Olga was at Kirovskaya, which Danilov half expected. What Danilov hadn’t anticipated was the condition of the apartment itself. Or of his wife. The flat was tidier-cleaner-than he could ever remember it being. There were no discarded clothes anywhere, the couch and seat coverings were neatly arranged and looked freshly pressed, and the bed was made. Olga herself was in an unstained dress and wore a cardigan he didn’t know she possessed, without elbow holes and with all the matching buttons still attached. Her hair was neatly arranged, although still in its several shades of blond.

  “Can I get you something?” she offered.

  “I’ll do it myself,” said Danilov. The stalagmite of dishes had gone and there was food in the refrigerator and ice for his vodka.

  “I stayed with Irena,” Olga announced before Danilov asked about her previous night’s absence, which he hadn’t intended to do. “We had a long talk.”

  Danilov nodded, with nothing to say.

  “I don’t know why I did it. Here, I mean.”

  “Does it make any difference? Has it ever?”

  “I want to try again.”

  Danilov looked blankly at her, not understanding what she was saying.

  “I mean you and me. Try to put our marriage back together.”

  “Olga! Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t have a marriage. There’s nothing to put together.”

  “Please, Dimmy.”

  “Olga, there’s no point. No possibility. You know that.”

  “I’m trying to say I’m sorry. That I’ll never do anything like it again. Ever. I’ll do anything!”

  “Stop it, Olga! I’ve already decided I’ll get another place.”

  Her face began to harden. “So you’re throwing me out?”

  “I said I’ll find somewhere else.”

  “Like the place you found with Larissa!”

  “I don’t want to fight.”

  “That’s what she said,” blurted Olga, the bitterness overflowing, her voice shrill. “That I wouldn’t be abandoned: that she’d always see I was looked after. She said that to me. Like she was doing me a favor! Making it all all right.”

  Larissa had insisted on that, Danilov remembered. Meant it, because of the sort of woman she had been, knowing there was going to be an upheaval and trying to do everything she could to cause as little hurt as possible. “She wasn’t taking me away from you. You drove me away from you years ago. It was stupid, bothering to stay together. We both know that.”

  “You know what I did when she got killed?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I laughed.”

  “Don’t, Olga! This isn’t achieving anything.” It was, he conceded. It was the only way she could hurt him, which she’d known. He wasn’t going to argue-couldn’t be bothered to argue. All he could do was hear her out-or rather try not to hear her out-closing his mind and his feelings to whatever or however she wanted to avenge herself.

  “You’ll pay!

  “I have already.”

  She snorted a laugh too heavily, so that her nose ran. She didn’t try to wipe it. “So romantic! So touching!”

  “I’m going to America,” he announced, tryin
g to stop her. “I’ll start looking around when I get back. Until then, for the next two or three days, let’s just try to be civilized. I’ll only be here at night. Let’s try to endure that as best we can.”

  She wiped her nose finally. “No!” she said. “You won’t move out. I will. I’ll find somewhere else while you’re away. Somewhere nice, better than this rathole. And I’ll see a lawyer, make sure I get all the money and support that a loyal, loving wife deserves when she’s abandoned. You’re going to regret the day you ever met me.”

  “I’ve been doing that for years,” said Danilov. “You want to get into a competition about who betrayed whom first, you’re welcome. I’m not interested.”

  “You’ve got more to lose than me,” threatened Olga. “You’ll become the joke, I won’t.”

  Patrick Hollis had been physically sick. Even now, hours later in his locked den, he still felt nauseated. On the keyboard of his for once ignored computer lay the drawing that had been waiting for him, mixed in with that morning’s mail. It showed a limp penis, the head drawn as a bespectacled, weeping face. Written beneath, in capital letters, was SORRY.

  The explosion that blew away three of the tiered steps running from the top to the bottom of the Washington Monument came at 1:00 A.M. the following morning.

  11

  From the initial-but instantly withdrawn-Parks Department inspection they knew the explosion appeared to have separated the stairs that spiral from the bottom to the viewing gallery at the very top of the 555-feet monument, leaving a metal-tangled gap where the 304th, 305th, and 306th levels had been. It would have been impossible for Cowley to contemplate trying to climb that high, but at that moment the entire Mall, from beyond the Lincoln Memorial at 23rd Street up to 3rd Street and between Constitution and Independence avenues, was sealed to anyone on foot except the bomb disposal unit.

  Cowley was as close as it was possible to get, in the team’s control scanner halfway between the monument and the Sylvan Theatre, watching the instant television relay and listening to its accompanying commentary. It was tightly crowded. Besides the normal three liaison men, Pamela Darnley was there with him, together with a Parks Authority inspector with every available plan-as well as personal knowledge-to guide the team on anything that needed explaining once inside the hollow obelisk.