Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

It was when the man was taking them through the unloading and dockside collection procedures that the opportunity became obvious to Cowley.

“A six P.M. arrival?” he pressed.

“Approximately,” confirmed the man. “It won’t be earlier. Add an hour, maybe.”

“Unloaded immediately?”

“That’s what I said.”

“But held in a bonded warehouse until clearance the following morning? No dockside clearance or collection after six?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ve got search specialists?”

“Rummage officers.” The man frowned.

“Could they breach a container and reseal it without OverOcean being able to tell?”

The man smiled, understanding the conversation. “No problem at all.”

Cowley turned to Pamela, smiling as well. “We can fix what we weren’t able to in Moscow.”

The police commissioner hosted that night’s dinner in a private dining room of Le Perroquet, on East Walton Street. Cowley wished Pamela had been next to him, although acknowledging the social need for them to separate. Besides the police division chiefs, Stephen Harding, the local bureau head, the Customs chief and his four most senior officers, and the commanders of the SWAT teams were invited. Cowley had one scotch for an aperitif and one glass of wine with the meal. He’d forgotten the publicity of his televised entry into the United Nations tower and the brief recorded appearances in Moscow, that concentrated the attention on him. Twice he caught Pamela smiling tolerantly toward him.

They’d booked separate rooms for propriety but ensured they were adjoining and used his. He wasn’t nervous anymore, and he hadn’t thought it could be any better than it had been the first time but it was. Afterward, in mock rebuke, Pamela said, “That wasn’t just great, it was reassuring. Guys are supposed to hit on me, not you.”

“If anyone had tried, I’d have torn their heads off.”

“Bit soon for jealousy, isn’t it?” She was still surprised at how fast everything had happened between them and how good she felt about it.

“You’ve got a lot to learn about me.” He waited for her to remark about his near abstinence but she didn’t. “I hadn’t expected to be able to get into the container. We’re safe now.”

“I’ve been thinking about their Pentagon access.”

“You got both of them.”

“That’s what I’m nervous about: that there might be a third but that the sweeps might start getting relaxed.”

“Talk to Carl Ashton.”

“We’ve got a couple of days and we’re going back to Washington anyway. Think I might just go over the river and satisfy myself no one’s laying back.”

“If you think you should,” he accepted.

“I know we’re looking good but we’ve got a hell of a lot of loose ends,” she pointed out. “We still don’t know by whom or from where the Pentagon entry is being made. We’ve run a blank on the General. We know there’s a Russian mafia man loose somewhere in America, and two others aren’t doing a thing wrong in New Jersey, and there’s a legal bar up against us sweating Robert Standing like he should be sweated. I don’t think we had much cause for all those toasts tonight.”

“I don’t need the reminder,” said Cowley. Which wasn’t true. With the speed with which everything seemed to be coming together in Chicago, he had put the other unresolved things to one side. Brought together, as Pamela had just brought them together, the mountain suddenly seemed much higher and steeper.

They were back in Washington by midday. Pamela remained only long enough for them to lunch together, leaving Cowley to brief Ross on the Chicago preparations and ask James Schnecker to complete the sabotage that he and his group had started, even though germ or biological weapons weren’t involved any longer.

Pamela had to drive around the Lincoln Memorial to get to the Arlington Bridge. As she did she added to her depressing list of things they still didn’t have their total unawareness of the Watchmen’s next target. There was a slight reassurance in telling herself that the net around it was going to be so tight they weren’t ever going to get the chance to use it.

Pamela had intentionally not notified anyone of her visit. Carl Ashton arrived flushed and frowning at the gatehouse to authorize her admission.

“Why didn’t you call?” he demanded.

“Driving back from the airport,” said Pamela. “Decided to drop in on my way into D.C. A bad time?”

“No, of course not.”

“How’s it going?”

“Scoring two out of two should win us the big doll on the back row.” Ashton smiled.

They were relaxing, Pamela decided at once. “You need three-four maybe-to get that sort of prize.”

Ashton stopped smiling. He stood back for her to enter his office ahead of him, and as he followed her into the room he said, “We’re keeping at it.”

She shook her head against the offer of tea or coffee and said, “Give me the overview.”

It sounded impressive. According to Ashton, they’d swept and confirmed clean all terminals at the four topmost levels of Pentagon security and changed all access codes. Checks on all satellite positional and operational programs would be completed by the week’s end. All silo and missile arming systems had been totally reprogrammed. The sweeping of the National Security Agency and NASA had been completed and every system recoded.

“So what’s left?” asked Pamela.

“Seaborne missiles, automatic submarine guidance systems, and the undersea tracking systems: We’re liaising with the navy at Annapolis. And some AWAK reconnaissance systems are outstanding.”

“It seems-” Pamela began but then stopped at the sound of the door opening behind her. She turned as Bella Atkins started into the room.

The woman stopped and said, “I’m sorry … I didn’t know-” Then: “Hi! You got something on Roanne?”

Pamela later congratulated herself on the smoothness with which she picked up her supposed role as D.C. homicide, not bureau. She rose, offering her hand to give herself a few seconds, and said, “That’s our problem, getting anything at all. That’s why I’ve come back. Running things by Carl again to see if there’s something we’ve missed.”

“Is there?”

“Doesn’t seem to be.”

“So what’s it look like?”

“As it looked from the start: burglar with a rape opportunity who took it.”

“Poor kid.” She looked at Ashton. “Funny thing, I was coming to talk about Roanne’s replacement, but it’ll hold. I’ll come back. Nice to see you again,” she said to Pamela from the door.

“And you.”

“I was about to say that you do seem to be on top of it,” resumed Pamela. “We’re making progress elsewhere. But not enough. It’s from here-or from one of the linked agencies-that the spectacular will come. It’s all our heads, Carl. We don’t want to lose any innocent ones.”

“I know. And I’ll remind everyone I think needs reminding.”

Pamela drove easily back toward Washington, deciding it hadn’t been a wasted journey. Ashton-and maybe too many others- had relaxed, sure they’d found everything. There was even a satisfied glibness about the security man’s recitation of all the precautions that had been taken. Pamela wished … It was as far as her reflection got. Her mind blocked abruptly, and she actually experienced a physical sensation, a tingling numbness that lasted almost all the way back to downtown Washington and the J. Edgar Hoover building.

She’d alerted Cowley and Osnan from the car, and both men were waiting for her. So were a team from the bureau’s Technical Division, who had already set up the recording apparatus in the office beside the incident room. They all backed out to give Pamela room when she dialed and was connected immediately to the extension she asked for. Pamela talked looking out of the small room, toward the forensic technicians. After little more than two minutes, one of the men began making throat-cutting gestures, indicating they had enough.