Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“No one can be allowed back in until engineers confirm it’s safe,” decided the international diplomat. “If it gives way at that level, the entire tower could collapse into the river. Which means the river will have to be closed, too, I suppose. Until we’re sure.”

The picture abruptly switched to a boat and seaplane marina identified in the caption as Asharoken, on Long Island. The caption also named the fair-haired seaplane commuter pilot as Arnold Payne. He’d been coming in to land at the downtown terminal, bringing in his regular four Wall Street traders, when he’d been attracted by a flash. It appeared to have come from a cruiser, and his initial thought was that there had been an explosion on board. At once the side of the United Nations’ building had exploded. By the time he’d circled, it had been possible to see how much had been ripped from the side of the Secretariat Tower, although there was no sign of the fire or smoke that he’d expected. There had been at least seven vessels-three of them cruisers-in the East River vicinity, all heading toward Long Island Sound. None, certainly not any of the cruisers, showed any smoke or was firing distress signals, which he thought they would have done if there’d been an explosion to account for the flash he’d seen. He realized now, of course, what he’d seen had been the ignition of a missile he hadn’t seen in flight.

Cowley made a note of the man’s name and seaplane base and added a reminder to himself to check with the New York Port Authority and however many other official bodies existed for the identification of as much river traffic as possible. He also made a note to discover what other seaplane taxis might have witnessed something.

Watching at Cowley’s shoulder, Saads said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d like a drink.”

“Scotch would be good,” accepted Cowley, as the other man went to an expansive cabinet on the other side of the room. Just one, Cowley told himself. Maybe two, if a second was offered. It wasn’t a problem anymore. Never had been. Stopped it before it became one. Too late to prevent some difficulties, but the job had never been endangered. Not true. Endangered but he’d gotten away with it, with a lot of help from a special friend.

The diplomat was walking back across the room, glass in hand, when Brokaw announced the presidential address.

There had, that day, been committed another outrage against the city of New York that only a miracle had prevented becoming a catastrophic disaster, declared the president. Had the missile, fitted with a combined chemical and biological warhead, detonated, hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives would have been lost. The missile had been recovered intact and was already safe in a specialized U.S. government installation. The emergency, although not the disruption, was over. The United States of America regarded what had occurred as an attack upon the international community represented by the United Nations and was inviting international cooperation. Already, in these first few hours, there were important investigatory lines of inquiry, the most important being Russian markings on the warhead. The State Department was already in contact with Moscow. His thoughts and sympathy were with the relatives of those who had died as a result of the incident. The president personally praised Secretary-General Ibrahim Saads, who knowingly accepted the risk of agonizing and certain death to remain at his post, first to clear the UN buildings themselves and then to alert all emergency services to evacuate Manhattan and the surrounding New York boroughs. He acknowledged the bravery of the specialist American unit that, together with a senior FBI official, went into the Secretariat Tower to retrieve the warhead and render it harmless.

At that point in the live transmission the picture briefly split to show Saads and Cowley walking from the building with the Fort Meade scientists carrying the warhead to the waiting helicopter.

The president’s face filled the screen again. “No one, no group, should imagine they will go unpunished for mounting the attack that was attempted today. No matter how long it takes, wherever they try to hide, they will be sought out and brought to justice. Of that, my fellow Americans, you have my solemn pledge.”

Saads said, “They would have intended the warhead to detonate. To kill as many people as they could.”

“Yes,” agreed Cowley.

“So if they’ve got another warhead-or access to one-they’ll try again.”

“And succeed the next time,” predicted Cowley. “Miracles don’t happen twice.”

Although a general in title, Dimitri Danilov was outranked in authority by everyone else in the baroque office of Interior Minister Nikolai Gregorovich Belik. Even the place accorded him was the lowest, close to the separate secretarial bank. It was a passing acceptance. The more important awareness was that he was physically between men representing the new Russia and those of the old, stillresistant regime. As the president’s chief of staff, Georgi Stepanovich Chelyag was the spearhead of the new in the sanctum of the old. The deputy defense minister, General Sergei Gromov, and Viktor Kedrov, chairman of the Federal Security Bureau, the intelligence service that replaced the KGB, were publicly known to be Belik disciples. Only Deputy Foreign Minister Yuri Kisayev was a reformist.

Where did that place him? wondered Danilov. Possibly between a rock and a hard place, he decided, calling upon an American axiom he liked. Once, when his career had been important, it would have been a worrying realization. Since the personal disaster, little mattered anymore. As he usually did these days, he felt an uninvolved observer, a one-man audience to a performance of others.

“This is a crisis for the country, not of ideology,” opened Chelyag, at once moving to establish Russian White House control. “Our decision must be totally bipartisan.” Chelyag was a squat man of few facial expressions, least of all approval or condemnation.

There were nods and mutterings of agreement around the table.

“Let’s establish facts,” Chelyag continued briskly. “Is there a Plant 35 at Gorki?”

“Yes,” said the already prepared deputy defense minister. He was a bull-chested, mottle-faced man who’d worn his uniform as a reminder of the importance of military support to a Russian government.

“What’s its function?” persisted the presidential aide.

“It’s a defense research establishment,” defended Gromov. “Against biological or chemical weapon attack.”

There was a silence, which Yuri Kisayev hurried to fill to distance the Foreign Ministry. “If it is still operating, Russia has abrogated an international nonproliferation treaty to which it is a signatory.”

Danilov glanced at the industrious note-takers, recognizing how effectively the outnumbered reformist faction was bureaucratically establishing potential responsibility.

“ Is it still operating?” demanded Chelyag.

“I have no information about that,” the army general said uncomfortably.

“The Defense Ministry is well aware of the terms of the biological and chemical weapons treaty, though?” pressed the blank-faced presidential chief of staff.

“My understanding is that stockpiles were in the process of being destroyed, under the terms of the agreement,” said Gromov, in another prepared response.

“We need that positively and provably confirmed,” declared Chelyag. “If necessary to open the facility to American inspection.”

The announcement caused the second silence, longer this time. Viktor Kedrov said, “From which I presume there is to be every cooperation with America?”

It was a protective qualification, but Chelyag threw it back at the intelligence chief, a sallow-featured man whose receding hair and round-rimmed glasses gave him a remarkable resemblance to Lavrenti Beria, Stalin’s reviled pogrom-organizing security head. Chelyag said, “Do you know of any reason why we shouldn’t?”