Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

The priest talked of pointless and savage terror and of the mysteries of God’s ways, and the White House chief of staff included a message from the president in an address in which there was again the personal pledge to track down the perpetrators. It echoed as emptily as it sounded, and Cowley thought, irritated, that the speechwriters should have done a hell of a sight better than virtually repeat what they’d written for the president for his televised address to the nation.

Cowley supposed the official representation justified what one commentator claimed to be the tightest security cordon, this time against an unknown enemy, since the interment of John F. Kennedy. But Cowley wasn’t impressed by the political cynicism of turning the funerals into an even bigger media event than their initial State Department crisis meeting, although the reasoning now was simpler to understand. Acknowledging his own cynicism, Cowley thought that probably for the first time ever the near-hysterical media criticism genuinely reflected the fear-and outrage-of the general public. The television and newspaper attacks had culminated that morning in suggestions that the failure of the president to attend-after it had been officially leaked that he would-was because his safety couldn’t be guaranteed.

As Cowley watched, Frank Norton left the lectern and paused by each family-kissing the women who weren’t crying too bitterly-to rejoin Henry Hartz on the first pew. Next to the secretary of state was Leonard Ross and then the CIA’s John Butterworth. All around them were senators and congressmen. Two rows behind Cowley identified the men, headed by James Schnecker, with whom he’d entered the UN building.

Cowley was glad he hadn’t gone, even though there had been at least three references-one when his bureau-issued picture had been flashed on the screen-to his being too ill to be there. He’d seriously considered attending. From the previous night’s telephone conversation with Pamela Darnley, who’d openly asked if he felt he could make it, he knew the bureau’s public affairs unit would have judged his being there a criticism-deflecting coup. Which was the major reason-and the one he’d given Pamela Darnley-for deciding against it. He would have been the focus of every camera, making it even more of a circus, detracting from-denigrating even-the mostly sincere, nonpolitical mourning.

There was another reason, though: a personal, determined reason. The turban bandaging had gone but there was still a large dressing on the right side of his head. And the double vision had virtually gone: Certainly it wasn’t a problem getting around the hospital room or walking to the bathroom, and he didn’t have any difficulty identifying everyone on the screen before him. And that morning he’d managed to decipher enough from the Washington Post -certainly the attack on the bureau for its total lack of progress in the investigation and the doubt about the president’s safety-to understand what the stories were about.

His problem was the broken rib, particularly if he tried to walk in anything like a proper manner at his usual pace. If he’d gone today, he would have needed a wheelchair to get from a car into the church and would have sat there in front of dozens of cameras like a physically destroyed man who might never recover. And the last impression Cowley wanted to create or allow was that he couldn’t walk or stand, would never be able to get back to work. The total and absolute opposite, in fact. He was sure the chest pain wouldn’t be so bad if he took the prescribed painkillers, but he was refusing them-actually agonizing himself walking too fast in front of the neurologist and hospital staff-and insisting there was scarcely any discomfort. He didn’t believe Joe Pepper was impressed or convinced, but others were.

There were more public displays of condolence from the assembled dignitaries outside the church following the burials, before each hurried away encircled by his personal security, the sight of which immediately prompted a repetition of the presidential safety doubt from the commentators. As soon as the last of the mourners got into their cars-every member of the Jones family still refusing to cry-the program switched to a studio discussion among White House and State Department political correspondents and two men-one Arab looking-introduced as experts on international terrorism.

The State Department correspondent disclosed that before leaving Foggy Bottom for the funeral that morning, Henry Hartz had summoned the Russian ambassador for the third time to demand faster and more substantial responses from Moscow. The White House journalist insisted that relations between Washington and Moscow were strained to the breaking point by an apparent lack of cooperation. Which brought Cowley’s mind back to the previous day’s telephone conversation with Pamela Darnley about Dimitri Danilov’s apparent reticence. Despite trying for most of the evening afterward to balance the woman’s complaints against their possible personal advantage to himself when he resumed control, Cowley was still undecided about manipulating his special relationship with the Russian. The unpredictable was the necessary working relationship between himself and a possibly hostile Pamela Darnley. Secondary, he immediately told himself. Maybe, even, less important than that by the official edict of bureau director Leonard Ross. So why, he asked himself, was there reason for any hesitation?

Into Cowley’s reflection broke the voice of one of the terrorism experts on television suggesting that within the FBI there was a growing belief that so badly had the New Rochelle bombers misjudged public outrage that they would never claim responsibility or commit another atrocity.

It wasn’t until he heard the phone ringing in his ear that Cowley realized he hadn’t had any problem picking out the numbers to dial the FBI director’s direct line at the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Danilov didn’t think Olga had been asleep when he went into the bedroom that morning for a fresh shirt and underwear, but he’d gone along with the pretense as if believing she were, treading lightly and making as little noise as possible opening and closing closets and gently pulling the door shut when he left the apartment.

He did it knowing full well he was only postponing an inevitable confrontation, but he simply didn’t know what to say to Olga. How to react at all. Long ago-long before he fell in love with Larissa-Olga’s affairs had reduced their marriage to beyond lack of affection to their scarcely being even friends, so there was no feeling of bitter betrayal or outrage. Nothing, in fact, to be sorry for or about. So it didn’t make sense-he didn’t want for them to go on sharing the same apartment. It hadn’t for years. It had just been convenient: too much trouble to find somewhere else. He didn’t have any attachment to Kirovskaya, so he supposed it would be easier for him to move out. But before he did that he had to find another apartment and agree to some financial support for Olga. Which wouldn’t be easy. His official income as a general was adequate, but it would be stretched maintaining two homes. Olga would be demanding when she realized he was serious about their finally divorcing, even though she was the guilty party. Of one thing Danilov was absolutely determined: He didn’t want-wouldn’t have-a court fight, dragging Larissa’s name and memory through the mud. He’d simply pay, within reason. Get it over with. It wouldn’t have been so difficult if he’d still had the additional income from the favors-for-friends understanding endemic in the Russian militia in general and in the Moscow force in particular. Danilov grew angry at himself-particularly with the reflection of how things had been years before. It was distracting from what should have been his sole concentration, more so because of the impressions that were hardening after Gorki and since his arrival back in Moscow.