Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“I think so, Mr. President,” said the public affairs spokesman, a mop-haired man who talked a lot with his hands. “I think we should have a picture I can issue. You on the telephone to Moscow … world leader to world leader?”

“It’s building well,” congratulated the politician. “The pose will be important. Shirt sleeves and loosened tie, president hard at work in a crisis? Or jacket and tie, calm, refusing to be panicked? Which do you think?”

“Difficult one,” said the media specialist, frowning at the seriousness of the decision. “Shirt sleeves, I think. But maybe not loosen the tie, like you’re anxious.”

“Any thoughts?” the president invited generally. “This has got to be exactly right.”

“Shirt sleeves,” said Norton, the other White House professional.

Hartz and Butterworth nodded in uncomfortable agreement. Leonard Ross refused to become involved.

Prentice said, “I think we should stress, too, that it’s we who initiated the direct approach to the Russian president. Puts the pressure on Russia to respond after whatever the attack is. Spread the pressure.”

“Perfect!” agreed the president. “Get to it. You’ve only got an hour. And Peter?”

“Mr. President?”

“Change that tie. It’s too bright. We don’t want a happy mood image. People could die.”

Cowley woke Danilov in time to watch Peter Prentice face the White House press corps on his hotel room television. Cowley and Pamela saw it from the incident room. It was followed immediately by a roundup of the intended evacuations and closure precautions, the footage on every channel that of miles-long head- and-taillighted streams of fleeing, going-anywhere vehicles. When they talked again Cowley told Danilov he was going to use the office cot, but there wasn’t any practical reason for the Russian to come from his hotel simply to sit around and wait: He could get to the bureau from 14th Street five minutes after the Watchmen carried out their threat, whatever it might be.

“This is clever,” said Danilov. “Psychological. Military. Professional insurrection training. You thought of extending the disgruntled search beyond the Pentagon to the CIA?”

“Not until now,” admitted Cowley. It was a valid but numbing suggestion.

“There was a lot to learn-and be taught-from Vietnam. Africa before that. And Latin America: Chile particularly. That’s the time-and the attitude-reflected in that first Watchmen message.”

Pamela decided to go home, which Cowley discovered for the first time was north, a condo in Westminster. He was surprised that he actually slept and for so long, from just after midnight to five. He thought it was the sound of a telephone that woke him, but the night operator came on asking what he wanted when Cowley snatched it off his desk.

There were no fresh towels or soap in the mess washroom where Cowley went to shower, and to shave he had to try to lather the sliver he did find. He managed without cutting himself and was glad there wasn’t any discomfort from his rib or head. He spent several minutes studying his lopsided appearance in the mirror and decided it might look less ridiculous if he had the rest of his hair cropped much shorter than it was. Would Pamela judge a crew cut as a better fashion statement? The coincidence of the new threat had wiped away any embarrassment at her dinner rejection, but he’d clearly and badly misjudged a situation. Which she was right about, he further accepted. They couldn’t allow the intrusion of even the most basic of social relationships, which it hadn’t seemed as if she would have welcomed in other circumstances. What about himself? Hardly a rebound reaction from Pauline’s marriage announcement, after almost three years of divorce. He’d been flattered, he acknowledged, at someone-not just someone, but an attractive, intelligent woman-seeming to show some interest in him. And got it wrong. Been naive. Laughably so. Lucky to have gotten away with it. No risk of it happening again.

The television commentaries this early were all replays from the previous night and very early morning, so he turned the sound down. The footage was virtually all repeats, too, although there were some new but familiar shots of an empty New York and Washington. The voice-over reporter added that the volume of early-morning commuter traffic was averaging less than fifty percent of normal in every major American city. Over the previous night’s still photograph of the serious-faced, shirt-sleeved president on the telephone to Moscow came the promise of a response during the day from the Russian White House.

Pamela included Danilov in the coffee and Danish that she brought when she got back at six-thirty, which was fortunate because the Russian arrived only five minutes behind her. She would have been earlier, Pamela apologized, but her normal coffee shop and the one after that were closed. There was virtually no conversation while they ate, watching the repetitive newscast. The only fresh item was the worldwide stock market slump, with overnight panic selling in Tokyo triggering a plunge in London, Paris, Frankfurt, and Hong Kong. There was speculation that trading on Wall Street might be suspended even before its opening in an effort to break the cycle.

Pamela said, “This is driving me nuts!”

Danilov said, “That’s what it’s meant to do! Drive everyone nuts. It’s called psychological warfare-as infectious and as deadly as anthrax or sarin.”

Cowley said, “Makes a change from everything moving so fast we can’t keep up.”

Leonard Ross came on to Cowley’s direct incident room line at seven demanding a complete update in time for an eleven o’clock presidential briefing. When he learned the Russian was in the building, he asked that Danilov come along, as well. Seizing that as an excuse-in reality as impatient as Pamela by the inactivity and needing to move-Danilov borrowed her car to drive along deserted streets to the Russian embassy. The head of chancellery accepted at once there was no point in a meeting with the ambassador if there was nothing positive to advise the man about. Ivan Obidin came to the foyer himself to escort Danilov to the Security Bureau’s communications center, and Danilov decided that ironic and rare though it might seem, there was sometimes benefit from operating in the cesspit of Moscow deceit. This was actually amateur by Petrovka standards.

On their way to the communications facilities, the nervous intelligence chief hoped the previous day’s difficulties had been totally resolved. He certainly hadn’t intended any personal offense or obstruction and wanted to make his own office available. Danilov came close to feeling sorry for the man.

Obidin’s office was remarkably large and comfortable-almost as expansive as the ambassador’s suite-and very much the man’s own territory. Obidin’s various promotion testimonials and commendations were framed on the walls and on a low bookcase. There was an official, full face portrait of the man at a citation ceremony. Next to it was an official group photograph of what Danilov assumed to be the rest of the rezidentura. On the desk was a photograph of a plump woman flanked on either side by two boys in their early teens. St. Basil’s Cathedral in Red Square was in the background.

Seeing Danilov’s look, Obidin said, “They’ve already gone back. My tour ends in three months.”

The system on Obidin’s desk appeared to be an ordinary fivetelephone console, the security route through which the lines were channeled-and to the sort of soundproof booth in which Danilov knew he should actually have been shown-in another part of the complex. Danilov wasn’t surprised his conversation was being monitored, in the hope they could achieve the sort of control they’d imagined possible the previous day. He would have eavesdropped in the same circumstances, with the same facilities.