Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

As you are straining to do, thought Danilov. “There’s going to be a lot more conversation tonight. I’ll talk it through as much as I can.”

“Could it all be over by tonight?” asked Chelyag.

“It’s possible,” said Danilov.

In Chicago the approaching Cidicj Star was being pointed out to Cowley and Pamela on a radar screen.

They saw it as a ship, although indistinctly, through binoculars from the top of the Customs tower, a black smudge at first, gradually forming into a recognizable vessel. Cowley had imagined everything would be in the holds but when it was clearly in view he saw a lot of containers were strapped on the deck, making the freighter appear top heavy.

They were back in the converted conference room, with its closer view of the dockside, for the arrival of the shipping agents. The two from OverOcean were identified by the two FBI agents who followed them from the importer’s office. Neither was Ivan Guzov or Yevgenni Leanov.

Pamela said, “This is clerks’ stuff. They don’t need to show until tomorrow.”

It took a long time to reach the OverOcean shipment. It wasn’t part of the deck cargo, which had to be cleared before the holds could be opened, and it wasn’t in the first of those. It was sevenfifteen, although still light, before the containers were finally swung clear, already identified by a Customs officer inside the ship. Forklifts driven by bureau men materialized and were loaded. Other agents dressed as stevedores and dock workers watched the two importers briefly inspect the shipping documents. One agent was close enough to hear the arrangements made to collect from the bonded warehouse by eleven the following morning. Neither of the OverOcean clerks showed particular interest in either of the containers, apart from ensuring their storage.

It was another hour before they ventured into the warehouse. They used the rear corridor entrance. Schnecker implacably refused the police chief’s protests (“It’s live and dangerous and I’m responsible for everyone’s safety”) and limited those present at the container opening to just the two Customs officers who were going to do it without detection in addition to Cowley.

Schnecker also insisted on hand testing the heat of the steam gun intended to sweat off the container seals and ensured that no electrical drill would be used. He also made the two men wear face shields and body armor.

To Cowley’s unasked question the bearded team leader said, “We didn’t have time in Moscow. Here we work by the book.” He handed Cowley his protection. “It’s the biggest we’ve got.”

They all waited until the last-minute warning from the rummage team that the first container was about to be opened before putting on the protective gear.

Neil Hamish said, “If it’s the right one, we’ll be upstairs partying in an hour.”

It wasn’t. Each compartment inside the container held genuine American-manufactured engine parts for overhaul and reconditioning. The Customs experts were already working on the second container with their steam-hissing gun before Schnecker’s team completed their fruitless search.

“If at first you don’t succeed,” said Hamish, turning to the other container. He didn’t finish.

“They’re not in here, either,” declared Schnecker, who was directly in front of the crate.

The only noise was the shuffling forward of the encumbered Cowley. “They must be!”

Schnecker stood back for Cowley to see fully inside. The container was packed exactly like the first. Cowley said, “It’s hidden under all the other stuff! Has to be!”

It took another hour to search each interior compartment before he accepted it wasn’t. As he reentered the upstairs conference room, Pamela said, “Neither Peter nor Jake Barrymore has been seen in the area in which they live for the past four days. Each drove away packed as if he was going on a trip.”

The OverOcean container had been offloaded in Toronto during a three-hour, 1:00 A.M. to 4:00 A.M. stop five days earlier and collected later that same day. The delivery note was signed in the name of Ivan Guzov. All the official documents were in perfect order. Canadian Customs had released the shipment-again described as engine parts-without examination.

It took Cowley only a few minutes and one telephone call to the Toronto harbor authorities to establish all that. Pamela, on another telephone, took longer trying-but failing-to trace the container’s entry into America through any of the Lake Ontario ports or across the Welland Canal and Niagara River land routes.

Throughout the recriminations and attempted avoidances swirled around the room, Samuels insisted he’d ordered liaison with the Canadian authorities to prevent just such a thing happening but the Chicago office chief claimed no knowledge-or written proof-of any such instruction. On the telephone from Washington Leonard Ross said, “I didn’t think it was possible for anything more to go wrong.”

Cowley said, “Neither did I.”

“What leads we got left?”

“Brooklyn, Trenton, and Bella Atkins.”

“And you’re going to tell me we can’t bring any of them in?”

“Yes.”

“No,” refused the director. “I want everyone we’ve still got a trace on picked up-carefully orchestrated seizures. Lose just one more and the bureau loses you.”

Bella Atkins called in sick at 8:45 the following morning, two hours after Cowley and Pamela got back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building. They’d driven directly from the airport to coordinate the scheduled 9:00 A.M. seizures and stood listening to Bella’s croaked explanation that she had the flu.

Leonard Ross answered his home phone on the second ring. Cowley said, “Just give me a few more hours! See what she’s going to do!”

“What if she is sick? We know what they are going to do and we haven’t got any way of stopping it.”

“We might find out if we wait a little longer.”

“And we might not, and by waiting a little longer we give the bastards time to commit more mass murder.”

“Midday,” pleaded Cowley. “There’s got to be a reason for her staying at home, and whatever it is we’ll hear it. If there’s nothing by noon we’ll round them up. Just three hours is all.”

“You haven’t forgotten what I told you last night?”

“No, sir.”

“I meant it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Noon,” agreed Ross.

Cowley replaced the receiver to see-and hear-Pamela replaying Bella’s call to the Pentagon. Pamela said, “She’s trying to sound sick. It’s the sort of voice she used for the New Rochelle call.”

“And sixteen guys died,” reminded Terry Osnan, immediately wishing he hadn’t from the look on Cowley’s face. “Sorry.”

Cowley shook his head against the apology. “We’ve got a postponement.”

“Flu would keep her off for more than a day,” Pamela pointed out.

Cowley said, “Let’s get people out to Reagan and Dulles. And to Union Station if it’s a train, not a plane.”

“Including females,” said Pamela. “If she goes into a washroom, we need to go with her.”

“I’ll wake Schnecker; maybe we’ll need his input,” said Cowley. The Fort Detrick team had returned from Chicago on the same Bureau plane and gone straight to the Marriott where Dimitri Danilov had stayed.

“We’ve got Bella under a microscope. If this is prearranged, why didn’t we hear the conversation?” queried Pamela. She was probably under the same threat from the director as Cowley, and she was damned if she was going to lose everything. They-she-had to second-guess everything.

“They’ve had the shipment for six days; we’ve only had Bella for two days,” reminded Osnan. “They’ve had plenty of time.”