He tried-and failed-to lever himself up on one elbow and thanked Pamela for helping him.
She said, “I was worried. It took a hell of a lot to wake you. I thought you’d collapsed.”
“What’s happened? What time is it? What …?”
“It’s a quarter after two.” She turned briefly to his desk, coming back with a disposable razor, a toothbrush, toothpaste and a can of shaving foam. “I went shopping for you.”
“What’s happened?” he demanded, swiveling his legs off the cot, pleased there wasn’t any pain from his rib.
“You just won gold.” She smiled. “They found enough explosives packed in and around the Lincoln Memorial to blow it all the way to California. It’s going to take at least another hour to defuse it all, so you’ve got time to clean up before we go take a look-see.” She turned back to the desk. “I have salt beef on rye-a pickle’s optional-coffee, Tylenol, and water to take it with.”
“I’ll pass on the Tylenol,” he said.
“That’s a good sign.”
So was this personal attention, thought Cowley.
The bank manager regarded Anne Stovey with roughly the same surprise although none of the cynicism of the metro detective to whom Snelling had earlier complained, shaking his head in expectation of something more. “It’s computer error,” he said. “What else can it be?”
“Aren’t you worried about it?”
“It’s pennies,” dismissed the man. “It’s not uncommon. We’ve always credited Mr. Snelling.”
“No other customer complaints?”
“Not a one.” He smiled invitingly. “The fact is that Mr. Snelling is the sort of man whom banks don’t particularly welcome as customers.”
“Because he keeps such a close eye on his account and expects it to be in order?”
The smile went. “He’s a pedantic man.”
“How long have you been in banking?” asked Anne.
“Twenty years.” The man frowned.
“I really thought you would have heard of one of the most successful computer scams ever directed against a bank,” said the woman.
The man was completely serious now. “What scam?”
“Happened very soon after banks were computerized,” said Anne. “It’s lectured about at Quantico, the bureau’s training academy. Can’t, for the moment, remember the bank, although it was certainly in New York State. A teller calculated that most people had a good idea of the dollar balance in their checking accounts but never knew to within ten to fifteen pennies how many cents they had. So he opened his own account, under a fictitious name, in a branch in a nearby town and creamed off a few cents from the most active accounts. In a year he had a country house in Westchester, with a pool and a tennis court, to which he stupidly invited people from the bank for weekends. Just as he stupidly drove a new Cadillac into work every morning. When anyone asked he said there’d been an inheritance from a rich aunt, only when there were a few isolated complaints-like the ones you’re getting from Mr. Snelling-bank security couldn’t find any rich aunt.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked the man, completely serious now.
“Check to see if there are any more accounts from which pennyante amounts seem to have disappeared, like they have from Mr. Snelling.”
13
The president had been helicoptered to Camp David from the White House, which had been evacuated. So had all the buildings in the federal triangle down to the Agricultural Department and every government office farther along Constitution Avenue, at Foggy Bottom, which included Henry Hartz’s State Department and went up as far as the Kennedy Center. The barricading of Pennsylvania Avenue, to provide a clear route for emergency vehicles, began at the FBI building. Cowley and Pamela walked on the outside of the fencing behind which people were jammed ten deep. Cowley was recognized long before he reached the television and press pen in front of the Willard Hotel and walked a gauntlet of name-shouting and cameraclicking. It became a flash- and strobe-light dazzling clamor at the media enclosure. Cowley walked carefully, shaking his head against the interview demands, grateful there was no sudden burst of pain.
Abruptly they were alone in another moonscape more desolate than the emptiness into which he’d flown in Manhattan. This clearance had been organized and orderly, and there were no haphazardly abandoned vehicles. The only movement was far away at the memorial itself, a seething of black, antlike activity in which the figures did not become recognizably human until they had passed the nowignored Washington Monument.
Pamela said, “I don’t know why we couldn’t have used a car, if they’re sure there’s no risk of a vibration setting something off. You sure you’re OK?”
“I keep telling you I’m fine,” insisted Cowley. He was. There was no headache and he didn’t have any difficulty going along the avenue, although Pamela was, considerately, walking quite slowly. The tightness to his chest was caused by the strapping, nothing more.
At that moment a car carrying the police commissioner swept by without stopping.
“Truculent bastard!” accused Pamela. “Just because you realized the danger and he didn’t.”
“He’s a political policeman among politicians.”
“He’s certainly not a policemen’s policeman. There’s a couple of calls logged from Dimitri.”
“We need to talk; see if ‘Watchmen’ means anything to him.”
“We’ve drawn a blank from everyone else we’ve run the name by.”
Cowley saw that the monument scanner had been moved to the closed off half-circle in front of the Lincoln shrine and was drawn up alongside three additional vehicles, one the commissioner’s car. David Frost was standing by the main control vehicle, flanked by the two other uniformed officers from that morning’s suspended meeting. As Cowley and Pamla arrived, a yawning Nelson Tibbert emerged, stretching, from a van. He still wore his body armor, although it was unbuckled. Paul Lambert came at the same time from the Doric-columned re-creation of the Greek temple in which the Lincoln statue sat. Cowley realized both men had been summoned by the commissioner.
“Right now!” Frost said briskly. “What have we got?”
Lambert ignored the police chief, talking instead to Cowley. “Word is it was you who thought this might be set up.”
The commissioner’s face became tight. Cowley wondered who had told the head of the bureau’s forensic team. The normally fresh-faced Lambert was hollow-eyed and sag-shouldered from fatigue, and Cowley thought how much better he felt after being able to sleep and to shave. He said, “Lucky guess.”
“Deductive guess,” contradicted the scientist. “Thank God you made it.” He nodded behind him. “We’ve deactivated everything but we’re leaving it all in place to get it on film. None of my people-or Nelson’s-has ever seen anything like it before. It’ll be a visual training manual.”
“You sure that’s safe?” demanded Frost.
“Yes, sir,” Tibbert said wearily. “If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”
“What is it?” asked Pamela.
“Semtex, mostly,” said Lambert. “Haven’t weighed it yet, but provisionally I’d say over a thousand pounds. So we’re talking about half a ton-”
“And rigged like a firecracker,” Tibbert broke in, rubbing the sleep from his face. “The way it was set it would have destroyed the entire thing.” He led the way up the steps toward the huge sculpture.
Standing in front of the statue, Tibbert pointed to the folds fashioned in the marble of the frock coat. “Look. Two separate charges there alone, with fragmentation antipersonnel mines on top. The funnel effect of the carving would have acted like a gun barrel. The mines are shrapnel-packed but in addition the marble would have splintered like razors.”
“And our estimate is that we cleared over three hundred people from in and around this area alone, not counting those lining Constitution Avenue,” supplied Frost, in shocked awareness.
Lambert said, “Those who didn’t die-and most of t
hem would have-would have been mutilated.”
“How many mines?” asked Cowley.
“Six,” said Lambert. “All Russian made. I’ll confirm it in a day or two, but I’d say identical to the ones used in New Rochelle. They weren’t just set here around the statue. The wires link on to the North and South Halls. All the plaques and inscriptions of Lincoln’s Gettysberg Address and his second inaugural speech would have been blown away. And the Guerin murals, of course.”
“I’d say the crater would have been eight, maybe ten feet deep. That’s all that would have been left, one damned great big hole,” said Tibbert, yawning hugely. “If the Arlington Bridge hadn’t been destroyed outright, the foundation structure would certainly have cracked. Whole thing would have needed to be rebuilt.”
Cowley gestured toward the White House. “What about that?”
“There wouldn’t have been a pane of glass left,” said Tibbert. He pointed to some more charges to the left of the statue. “They’re funneled again. The shock and the shrapnel is directed straight toward the White House. There would probably have been some structural damage, as well as just glass breakage. If the president had been in the Oval Office or in his side office he’d have been hurt from the glass alone. State Department would have been wrecked, too.”
“We’d like the ten-dollar tour,” said Cowley.
Every conceivable place in the statue or the chair upon which it was carved was packed with Semtex or a mine or both. Where the space was too shallow for the explosive to have been completely hidden, it had been painted the same off-white color to merge with the Colorado marble. So, too, had all the connected detonating wires and the clamps holding it virtually invisibly in place. All the detonators had been removed. Where they’d been was marked with bright red clips.
Pamela said, “How was it all going to go up?”
“Simple timers,” said Lambert. “Again I’ll need a day or two, but I think they’ll match what set off the Washington Monument charge. Here there were twelve in all. Russian. Standard design, according to our ballistics guy. Most of it prewired and connected in a safe house somewhere before being brought here. Each set to explode precisely at six tonight.”
“The time when a lot of home-going workers would have joined the rubberneckers already here,” mused Cowley. “And when the Arlington Bridge is at its rush-hour busiest.”
“I told you it was training manual material,” said Lambert.
These guys got jungle training for sure, Cowley thought. “Who the hell are we up against here?”
“People good enough to train professionals,” stressed Lambert. “This genuinely is state-of-the-art insurgency expertise. Although a lot was prepared elsewhere, they’d have to set all this up at night, unseen by any park guards or police despite the lights that are kept burning. Look at the way the wire’s hidden! Always tight into the crease or bend, never awkwardly left to become obvious. Since it’s all been made safe we’ve gone over every inch. There’s not a fingerprint or an indentation in the Semtex or a stray hair or a single piece of fiber. We’ve even tested the floor for detergent traces or cleanser: I’m sure we’ll find they actually cleaned the floor before they left.”
Pamela said, “Jesus!”
“It scares me shitless, too,” said Lambert. “I like being better than the bad guys. This time I think they’re better-cleverer-than us.”
“I don’t want that opinion spread about too much,” warned Cowley.
“Bill!” exclaimed the scientist, his face pained. “In just fifteen hours we’ve had a decoy bomb go off in the Washington Monument, just avoided half a ton of explosives destroying another, killing or maiming hundreds-one possibly the president-had to evacuate the White House and hundreds more people, reducing the capital of this great and good country to a helpless standstill! You really think I’m the only guy likely to realize we’ve got a serious problem with some very serious people?”
“Serious, yes. Cleverer, no,” said Cowley. “We stopped them blowing this place to hell, didn’t we?”
“You called it luck,” reminded Lambert.
Leonard Ross didn’t. He called it brilliant. So did the secretary of state, followed by Frank Norton. By the third repetition Cowley started to think the praise was as much to reassure themselves as it was to accord him credit. It worsened, too, the obvious discomfort of the police commissioner in front of whose car Pamela had stood, demanding a lift back to the J. Edgar Hoover building. It meant Frost’s two assistants having to walk.
A palpable, horrified disbelief permeated the reconvened meeting by the time Cowley finished recounting how narrowly disaster had been avoided. No one hurried to speak when he stopped, everyone needing their own time to digest it.
“Carnage,” said the president’s chief of staff, finally and in virtual conversation with himself. “Absolute, total carnage … a massacre like the Trade Towers.”
“Quite clearly the president has to remain at Camp David, where security can be guaranteed,” John Butterworth declared positively.
“Absolutely,” agreed the police commissioner, anxious to make a contribution. “We should move some National Guards to Maryland, too. Create a visible presence around the retreat.”
“I don’t think so,” rejected Norton, at once. “The president and commander-in-chief forced to quit the capital! That doesn’t sound the right message to me. In fact, it sounds like the totally wrong one.”
“Definitely,” said Hartz, just as quickly. “We don’t need to give the media anything more to beat us with-they’ve got more than enough already. And it would give the Watchmen almost as great a coup as they’ve been denied.”
“The mistake was underestimating by how much security needed to be increased,” said Cowley, careless of the sharp look from the police chief. “That won’t happen again, not after today, will it, Commissioner?”
“It won’t,” Norton broke in. “I’ll personally brief the Secret Service myself.” He, too, looked at David Frost. “You’ll liaise with all the necessary civic authorities, of course?”
The police commissioner colored further at what amounted to an order. “I spoke with the mayor from the car. It’s already in hand.”
“I’m glad something is,” said Norton, as close as he’d openly come to criticizing the D.C. police department.
“Lambert says there isn’t anything?” pressed Ross.
“Not from the preliminary examination at either scene,” said Cowley.
“Provisionally the whole area will remain closed until tomorrow afternoon, when we’ll review it again,” said Frost.
“How are we going to take this investigation forward!” said Butterworth. He’d intended it to be a critical demand, but to Cowley it sounded more like an admission of defeat. From the shift around the room it was clear others thought so, too.
Looking to the parks authority inspector, Cowley said, “We didn’t finish talking about the Washington Monument. What’s the system for climbing up and down the stairs where the decoy went off?”
“You don’t go up, not normally,” said Michael Poulson. “A climb like that, five hundred and fifty-five feet, wouldn’t be medically safe for a lot of people. Tourists always go up by elevator. Part of the history of the obelisk is the different pieces of marble contributed by various states when it was being built. There are tours twice a day-one at ten in the morning, the other at three in the afternoon-when people can walk down with a guide who points out the gift stones.”
“Only two a day!” seized Cowley. “You’d have the names of yesterday’s guides, particularly the one in the afternoon?”
“They’ll be on the roster,” guaranteed Poulson.
“There any restrictions about taking photographs on the way down?”
“We advise people to buy the official postcard prints,” said Poulson. “But sure, tourists can take their own shots.”
It still wouldn’t be simple, Cowley acknowledged: Tourists at the monument the previous day could be
on the other side of the continent by now. But tracing and questioning everyone who’d used the stairway the previous day-and days before that-about anyone who might have behaved suspiciously was something practical, a recognizable routine, to pursue. Realizing a way to make it even more practical, he looked to General Smith and the computer security official beside him. “These people you’ve listed as being possibly aggrieved at being let go by the Pentagon? Do you have security photographs as well as names?”
“Yes, sir,” Carl Ashton said at once.
“So what do I tell the president?” prompted Norton.
Cowley set out the material-and its catastrophic potential-recovered from the memorial and said, “The people who did this are specialized soldiers. That-hopefully-could narrow down who we’re looking for.” He looked at the two Pentagon officials. “Which won’t, I don’t think, come directly from the Pentagon. The men who attacked the UN and set the monument charges are active field people-operational soldiers.”
“You suggesting a conspiracy?” demanded the general.
“I would have thought that was already established.” Cowley frowned. “What I’m suggesting is a link between an active service unit-and it would have needed several men to rig the Lincoln statue-and someone, maybe only one man, with access and knowledge of the Pentagon communications and computer systems. And I’m not restricting the profile to men. It’s probably too soon to judge from just one message, but I’d guess that message to be from the most extreme of hard-right extremist terrorist organizations. So far we’ve failed to locate any group calling itself the Watchmen. Psychologically-bear with me on the use of that word-they’ve already proved themselves people determined to commit mass murder. If they’re ever confronted as a group-cornered with no chance of escape-their last act will be to destroy themselves, causing as much damage and harm to anyone else as they do it. Waco and suicide plane hijackers all over again.”
“Russia.” The president’s chief of staff stopped, not needing to provide any further prompt.
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