Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“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.

Cowley was conscious of the particular attention with which Pamela Darnley was concentrating on him, enjoying it. “I still need to liaise properly with Moscow’s Organized Crime Bureau. The Watchmen obviously have a Russian source. Since the end of the Cold War the country and some of its former satellites have been awash with every conceivable sort and type of weaponry. The trade is Russian mafia controlled. If it isn’t in this case, it’s a linkup between a fanatical far right group here and an equally extreme body of people in Russia who want to go back to the old, confrontational days of the Cold War.”

The CIA director voiced disbelief. “That’s totally and utterly absurd! We’ve got nothing to suggest-”

“Believe me, sir, no one hopes more strongly than I that you’re right and I’m wrong,” said Cowley. “Because if I’m right we’ve got an escalation I don’t think we want to contemplate.”

“I certainly don’t,” said Henry Hartz.

“I won’t !” insisted Frank Norton. “But the computer message fits that analysis.”

“The Watchmen have a worryingly substantial supply up to and including biological weaponry from a Russian or Eastern bloc source,” Cowley reminded. “So, whatever their motivation-politically, psychologically, or philosophically-they’ve got access to a great deal of money. Millions, even. Terrorist groups normally finance themselves through crime, frequently making political claims in doing so. I’m not aware of any singular criminal activity in the last few months I’d put down to terrorist financing-”

“There hasn’t been,” insisted Pamela. “I ran a check. And I’ve circulated the query to all the field offices.”

“I don’t recall anything, either,” said Ross.

“I don’t like this Doomsday scenario,” complained Norton.

“There is a slight upside,” Cowley pointed out. “The Lincoln Memorial bombing was, quite obviously, planned as a spectacular: something they wouldn’t have needed to repeat. We’ve recovered an enormous amount of materiel and know what they used before. They might just have exhausted their arsenal. Which could give us two things! a respite and the chance, through Moscow, of discovering their source or supply line.”

“What if they’ve got another biological warhead?” demanded David Frost.

“They’d have fired it,” Cowley judged flatly. “Capitalized on Manhattan. Today would have been bad enough. To have released a germ warfare device would have been worse.”

“What we now need to discuss-and decide-is as much public reassurance as we can create,” declared Norton. “Which the Lincoln Memorial gives us. We beat them. That’s got to be our message, and I’m going to suggest to the president that he give another television address to deliver it.”

“I’d certainly endorse that,” said Henry Hartz.

“It’ll also be a challenge to them,” cautioned Cowley. “If I’m wrong, if they have got another warhead, they’ll definitely use it.”

“You arguing against the idea?” asked Norton, genuinely asking an opinion.

“No,” said Cowley. “They don’t have to be told we beat them. If they’ve got something else they’ll use it, whatever we do or say.”

Igor Ivanovich Baratov was a thickset, undistinguished man with none of the swagger or bullying confidence of Anatoli Lasin, still in his cell farther along the Petrovka corridor. Baratov’s suit was western but conservative, and there was no flashing diamond and gold jewelry among his belongings. The watch was actually Russian, a Sekonda. There was a picture of a very attractive, dark-haired girl with a tousle-haired baby in his wallet. Aware of how quickly valuables disappeared in Russian militia buildings, it was the only personal item Baratov asked about within minutes of Pavin and Danilov arriving in his cell. Danilov guaranteed its safety because it was valueless. He let Pavin begin the interview, intently studying and listening to the man, unable to lose the feeling that there was a previous encounter, even briefly wondering if there might have been an association-or more likely a confrontation-when he’d been the uniformed colonel in charge of a district. He’d already checked his personal records and knew the man’s name had never emerged during the investigation into Larissa’s death.

“I don’t know anything about anything,” declared Baratov. “I don’t run with the Osipov Brigade anymore. I don’t run with anyone. I’ve got a wife and a child and all I want is to be left alone.”

“We’ve been told Viktor Nikolaevich Nikov came all the way from Gorki to see you,” exaggerated Pavin.

“He called from Gorki,” Baratov admitted at once. “Two, maybe three weeks ago. Said he had a big deal and wanted to cut me in for helping him before. I said I wasn’t interested.”

“Did you see him when he got here?” asked Danilov.

“I told you, I wasn’t interested.”

“What was the deal?”

“I didn’t ask him. Didn’t want to know.”

“Who was it with?”

“Americans,” identified the man without any hesitation.