Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“We’ll get in place ahead of them,” said New York agent in charge Harry Boreman, who didn’t like what he considered Pamela Darnley’s unnecessary intrusion on his turf on her way back from Albany to explain the importance of the Brooklyn-Chicago monitor, which they understood every bit as much as she did.

A surveillance team did establish itself in the bar ahead of Orlenko, but other observer cars got in place as before along the seaside approach roads, keeping the couple constantly in view as a precaution against their going somewhere else. Mary Jo had refused to change her shoes and was hobbling before they got on to Riegelmann Boardwalk. It took them forty minutes, Orlenko constantly searching around, staging pauses to look for pursuit.

“Funny thing, but he seems more nervous than he was the day we blacked out the area, when he had more reason to be suspicious.”

“Agreed.”

The voices of two separately motorized observers, both of whom had watched the earlier public telephone routine, echoed into the Manhattan incident room. Pamela made a conscious effort to dismiss her irritation, acknowledging the unprofessional stupidity at it. She’d too rigidly made her mind up that the break was going to come from Chicago-which it still might-and wasn’t paying sufficient attention to alternatives. Such as why, without any apparent summons of which they were aware-certainly nothing involving the telephone or discussed between Orlenko and his hooker wife in the totally wired house-the couple was seemingly on their way to another contact. Or why Orlenko was behaving more apprehensively.

“It’s the same titty bar,” came an observer’s voice.

“We’ve got enough people inside. Let’s not overcrowd the place,” ordered the agent in charge.

“Spoilsport,” came the same voice.

The search for a table closer than the previous occasion to the public telephone was obvious, inside the Bare Necessities. They ordered the same drinks, straight vodka martini for Mary Jo, beer for the Russian. Mary Jo seemed more interested in the stage show, two black girls needing a lot of body touching helping each other to undress, than Orlenko whose attention alternated between his watch and the use of the boxed-in telephone. Without saying anything to his wife, he got up from his chair at 6:25 to claim the booth. Once inside he took a notepad from his pocket, followed by two pens, exposing both ballpoints and testing each.

Again the incoming call was precisely at 6:30. After what could only have been the briefest of identification Orlenko began to write, painstakingly slowly-as if he were printing the words, according to one observer later-and just as pedantically reading each line back once he’d completed it, visibly stabbing the pen from word to word. It took a full ten minutes for the dictation to be completed.

Once more Orlenko didn’t sit down when he rejoined Mary Jo, urging her to finish her drink. They appeared to be arguing as they left the bar, although Orlenko at once hailed a cab back to Bay View Avenue.

“You promised blinis at the Odessa again!” were the first shouted words that echoed into the FBI’s Manhattan office.

“Shut up! I’ve got to make a call first. Alone. Go and clean up the shit in the kitchen.”

“I can’t understand what the fuck you’re talking about anyway.”

There was the sound of a receiver being lifted, numbers being punched. The FBI operator at the front of the electronic equipment said, “One zero seven is the Russian country code. Nine five’s Moscow.”

The Manhattan agent in charge snatched up his own phone and said, “I’ll tell Cowley,” ignoring Pamela.

A woman answered, on the second ring. She said: “Yes?”

“Arseni,” identified Orlenko.

“You’ve had a call?”

“Yes.”

“I knew he would. He had to. How was he?”

“Like he always is. Where did you get the American rocket?”

“They’re everywhere.” She had a throaty voice, deep.

“He was impressed about us keeping our side of the bargain.”

“Pity for him and his great big cause that he didn’t keep his. He say anything?

“Most of the time talked a lot of shit about battles and wars.”

“Let him talk about what he likes.”

“You have any problems?”

It was a dismissive laugh. “Not good, working with outsiders. Not ones who think they know it all, arrogant cunts. Didn’t even have transport. And when it came to it they couldn’t hit the embassy building itself.”

“Going on to Russian government websites in Russian was a good idea, though.”

“Our idea, from here.”

“He wants us to be very careful.”

“Like he should be, in future. All he’s got to worry about is the money and realize no one can do better than us.”

Orlenko hesitated. “He says he doesn’t want what happened last time happening again. That he hopes everyone got the message.”

“He tried the side deal!”

“He meant the missile not detonating.”

“There was an obvious answer to that: It didn’t come from us. But you didn’t remind him of that, did you?” The contempt in her voice was obvious.

“He reestablished contact, came to us . He was admitting his mistake doing that.” Orlenko hesitated again. “I’m sorry, incidentally.”

“It was business-only ever business.”

“Still unfortunate.”

“What does he want?” Now the tone was impatient.

“Quite a lot. Certainly another microbiological missile: one that will detonate this time. A conventional rocket, if you can get one. More than one, if possible. That’s why I asked about the embassy rocket, although it’s American manufactured. Antipersonnel mines. Semtex. And detonators and timers.”

“Quite a lot,” she echoed.

“I know.”

“They shouldn’t have used everything on the memorial.”

“It would have been spectacular.”

“Except that it wasn’t and they lost everything. He admit that was a mistake?”

“Talked about it being an unfortunate battlefield loss.”

She snorted in disgust. “They’re mad, you know? Him and his group.”

“He thinks it’s working in America. Says there’s a lot of anti-Russian feeling, particularly after the intelligence revelations,” said Orlenko. “Told me to ask what the real political feeling was there: whether the Duma move against the president would come to anything.”

“I’m not interested in politics, revolutionary shit. I’m only interested in business.”

“So, can you meet the order?”

“Of course.”

“How long?”

“What about the money?” she countered.

“He said it would be ready.”

“Would,” she qualified. “Not is ?”

“No.”

“The bastard’s got to be fined for what he was prepared to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“A germ warhead will be a million. Rockets a quarter each. We’ve already got most of everything else. A half a million for that.”

“Two million, two million plus?”

“Depends on how many missiles and rockets I can get. I thought you said he wanted everything we could get hold of?”

“I need to check with him. And tell him the price. What if he says no-to the price, I mean?”

“If he had another supplier he wouldn’t have come back like he has. He’s created the momentum; he’s got to keep it up. Hasn’t got time to come all the way here again, start from scratch.”

“Gavri gave him a coup with the intelligence identities. Maybe, with his contacts, Gavri could introduce him to someone else?”

“The intelligence deal was separate. Just Gavri. If Gavri had a different source they would have used it, wouldn’t they? But they didn’t. They came to us, ” insisted the woman.