Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“Nice,” she said. “And sorry.”

“What for?”

“The presumption.” She encompassed the apartment with a wave. “There could have been someone …?”

“There isn’t,” he said. “I’ve only got scotch.”

“Scotch is good,” she accepted. She stayed by the window, watching as he took the bottle from the cabinet and poured her drink.

He turned on the television as he passed it to get water and ice from the kitchen. The address was timed to coincide with the evening news, which was still running. The air exclusion had been lifted, and from the helicopter camera there was a startling contrast between the emptiness of the Mall and the surrounding government buildings against the gridlocked chaos in the rest of the city. There was a lengthy interview with Commissioner Frost during which he claimed the Lincoln Memorial discovery to be entirely due to the vigilance of the police.

“Asshole,” said Pamela.

Cowley said, “Look at that concentration of traffic and people. It’s a target that couldn’t be missed if they’ve got another warhead. Or anything else, for that matter.”

“What’s the answer?”

“I don’t have one.”

Opening the presidential speech with a long shot, clearly to show the man in control and in the Oval Office, was the obvious political and reassuring necessity that Frank Norton had talked about at that afternoon’s meeting but at the same time through the window and beyond the Rose Garden the TV shot showed the desertion of the Mall. The president at once declared that the terrorists, who called themselves the Watchmen, had been beaten. An intended atrocity had been foiled and a great deal of vital information and intelligence gathered from what had been recovered from the Lincoln Memorial. The terrorists were now hunted men, frightened men. In their desperation they probably would attempt another outrage. The public had to remain vigilant. When the killers were caught, which would be soon, they would face the maximum penalties prescribed by American justice.

“What vital information and intelligence?” demanded Pamela as the speech finished with the customary presidential blessing upon those watching.

“All part of the reassurance,” said Cowley. “At least it was a damned sight better than last time. But it was too much of a challenge, claiming they were beaten. Everyone knows they’re not beaten!” He leaned over to where she was sitting and topped off her glass as well as his own.

“How’s it going to fit the next attack?”

“He covered himself with a warning for vigilance.”

“What’s going to cover the bureau?”

“Shit, after it hits the fan,” said Cowley. He used the remote to turn off another studio analysis featuring the two men who’d earlier talked of the New Rochelle massacre frightening the group against another attack. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful down there. I’m not. Thanks for the concern.”

“It’s been a busy day. You’re allowed. And I’ve got an agenda.”

“Shouldn’t the patient know a little about his nurse?”

Pamela looked directly at him. It all fit the change of mind, she decided. “Thirty-two. Divorced. Unattached at the moment and not concerned about it. MA in psychology. Headquarters transfer from Miami two years ago. Determined to run with the big career chance until I drop.” He wouldn’t be able to accuse her of lying, deceiving him in any way.

“That what they call a potted biography?”

“As potted as it gets. Your turn.”

“Forty. Divorced. Unattached. Director of the bureau’s Russian desk for three years. Consider this the worst nightmare imaginable and, to coin Paul Lambert’s telling phrase, I’m frightened shitless.”

She nodded toward his drink. “Not sure scotch mixes well with Tylenol.”

“We’ll soon see.”

“That was presumptuous, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Pissed at me?”

“No.”

“You didn’t eat lunch. What have you got?” Would this be another mistake? She hoped not.

“I’m not sure.”

She carried her drink to the kitchen. “Eggs and ham,” she called. “I do great omelettes.”

“How about omelettes?” Cowley said. He had no idea where this was going but he was enjoying the ride. Ensuring Pamela was out of sight, he refilled his glass.

Pamela said, “By the time you set the table, they’ll be ready.”

They were. She’d found garlic he’d forgotten he had and lightly fried the ham with it before adding it to the omelette, which really was great, he told her.

“We screw up on this, maybe I’ll open a restaurant. Think you could be a waiter?”

“That’s all I seem to be doing at the moment, waiting.”

She looked away, not speaking for a moment. “Seems to be my night for saying sorry but I’m sorry, too, for resenting your coming back so soon. I wouldn’t have got the Lincoln Memorial, and I’m supposed to be the psychologist.”

Cowley grinned at her. “Psychology was my major, too.”

“Am I trying too hard?”

“No.” He actually thought she was, but it didn’t upset him.

“I meant what I said, about running as hard and as long as I can with this: It is my chance.”

“OK,” Cowley said doubtfully.

“So don’t misunderstand.”

“What?”

“I want to stay over.”

Now Cowley was silent for several moments. “I’m not sure-”

“That a sofa bed?” she stopped him, pointing to where she had been sitting.

“Yes.”

“You look dreadful. That’s why I want to stay over, not to screw the boss. Who couldn’t anyway, because of a busted rib. Quite apart from the bad psychology of it all. I want to because I need you: The moment I’m up to your speed, I’m on my own, but I’m not there yet. What you’ve done today would exhaust a fit man and you’re not fit, whatever you say. So I think it’s a good idea for someone to be around: my own agenda, remember?” Could she be sexually attracted to him? In other circumstances-other jobs, other places-perhaps. But there were too many obvious barriers even to contemplate the question. Pamela was actually curious about her own sexuality, unsure of a criteria. She liked sex but hadn’t slept with anyone for the past six months, a mistaken weekend visit from an airline navigation officer trying to keep alive an already dying affair. Now, she supposed, she was repressing sex with her job determination. Sometimes she thought she would have enjoyed the singles’ bar era, able to make her own unencumbered, uninvolved choice. She added, “I’m not at all sure that came out in the right order, but I think you understood.”

“I think I did,” said Cowley.

“So?”

“I don’t know how comfortable it is.” All he did feel was exhaustion, but he liked the idea of her being in the apartment.

“One condition. I get the shower first.”

“OK.” Her night for apologies, his for agreeing to everything.

“Can I go on being presumptuous and give you some advice?”

“What?” he said.

“Shoot that sweater and those jeans: It’s the humane thing to do.”

Cowley awoke to the smell of coffee and a note from Pamela that she’d be back to pick him up by eight, which she was.

“I made it through the night,” he said.

“Loudly,” she said. “You snore.” She accepted the offered coffee. “And I’m glad I wasn’t needed.”

“Thanks just the same.” He wasn’t sure now why he’d agreed so readily to her staying and felt vaguely discomfited.

“The start of the routine slog,” she declared.

“It’s what solves crime, according to all the manuals.”

“Let’s hope they’re right.”

There was an attempt to ease the rush-hour congestion caused by the Mall and Arlington Bridge remaining closed by introducing a contraflow across the Roosevelt and George Mason bridges, but not enough commuters had heard the police announcement and the jams were worse than they might otherwise have been. They got to Pennsylvania Avenue only minutes before the Washington Monument guides and initially split, Pamela checking the incident room for overnight developments-which there hadn’t been-and Cowley escorting the guides to an interview room.