Brian Freemantle: The Watchmen

“How many eyewitnesses do we have?” Hartz broke in quickly, to spare the agency chief.

“Three who seem reliable,” Cowley responded at once. “Another seaplane commuter pilot in addition to the one from Asharoken. And the captain of a trash barge that was going downriver. All were attracted by the firing flash but none was looking directly at the cruiser. They all agree it was motor, not sail, but we’ve got three different descriptions of size, color, and potential make. None of them saw the missile or the launcher, and when there wasn’t any obvious fire or distress signal all three dismissed it.”

“We’ve got nothing, in fact?” demanded Butterworth, too eager again.

“I’ve moved thirty agents up to the New York office,” said Ross. “There does seem to be agreement that the cruiser had a flying bridge. The uncertainty is the color: whether it was totally white or had some blue at the waterline. Quite obviously we’re tracing the owners of every flying-bridged cruiser in every marina, yacht basin, and mooring between New York and Boston as well as Long Island. We’re not, in fact, imposing a territorial limit: I’ve gone south as far as the Chesapeake. But we’re talking thousands of boats. We’re also, again obviously, checking any cruiser thefts or cruiser hire.” He looked invitingly back to Cowley.

“None of the three we’ve traced so far talk of anyone on the cruiser dressed unusually for a boat.”

“What did they see?” broke in Butterworth.

“Two people-the second commuter pilot thought one was slim enough to have been a woman-both in unmarked bill caps and boat anoraks, again unmarked, no distinguishing color: dark blue or black maybe.”

“I can’t understand if they looked in the direction of the flash why they didn’t see one of the two still with the rocket launcher,” protested Hartz.

“The missile hitting the UN tower appeared practically simultaneous with the flash,” said Cowley. “All three witnesses say they thought that was what caused the flash. They virtually ignored the cruiser after the initial seconds.”

“How many more potential witnesses could there be?” demanded the CIA director.

“We’ve got from the New York Port Authority the names of three cargo barges that were on the river at the time.” Cowley paused, looking at Peter Samuels, the Customs and Excise director who had been silent so far. “And Customs is checking reported yacht and cruiser arrivals in the East River back five hours from the time of the attack.”

“But our records would only be of incoming boats reporting their arrival,” qualified Samuels. “There’s no legal requirement for a yacht or cruiser to do that if it merely came down from an upriver mooring and turned back before exiting the river. At least half the craft that leave the river to go up and down the coast don’t report their return anyway.”

“The missile is Russian, whether it had one or two warheads,” said Bradley. “And by sea is the likeliest way of smuggling it into the country.”

“There’s something like four thousand miles of U.S. coastline, and that’s a straight measurement, not including about a million creeks and inlets and navigable rivers,” said the Customs director. “Of course I’ve issued watch orders at every major port, but the reality is that’s about as practical as trying to check every yacht and cruiser between Boston and Washington. It’s being done, because it’s got to be done, but no one should expect a quick result. No one should expect a result at all, unless the miracles continue.”

Once again there was silence. This time it was the CIA director who broke it. Butterworth said, “We don’t have enough to make a row of beans.”

“Everything that can be done has been done to initiate the most comprehensive investigation in the bureau’s history,” Ross said defensively.

Hartz concentrated on the CIA chief. “What about Plant 35, at Gorki?”

The bald man shifted uncomfortably. “Throughout the Cold War Gorki was a closed city. We know there were extensive armament and weapon facilities there but we have nothing specific about a Plant 35.”

“ We have,” announced Ross, to an immediate stir around the table. “Our files have it as a conventional weapons facility at which production began to be wound down in 1994.”

Butterworth’s face blazed at what he regarded as territorial intrusion. “I was under the impression that this was a totally shared investigation.”

“It is,” said the disheveled Bureau director. “I’ve just shared.”

There was a ripple of forced laughter. Flushed because of it and trying to recover, Butterworth said, “If the Russians still possess the sort of warheads fired yesterday-which they clearly do-they are in provable breach of the Chemical Weapons Convention that was internationally concluded, with them as signatories, in 1993.” He answered Hartz’s look. “Are we making diplomatic representation about that?”

“I don’t think our two countries need to get into that sort of exchange at this stage,” the presidential chief of staff warned sharply.

“I agree,” said Hartz just as quickly and as diplomatically rehearsed. “I spent an hour with the Russian ambassador last night and spoke to him again on the phone before this meeting. They’re as concerned-as frightened-about this as we are. We need to cooperate, not confront.”

“As we’ve done before,” reminded Ross, indicating Cowley by his side. “And as we need more than ever to do again now.”

The connection an hour later between the FBI headquarters on Washington’s Pennsylvania Avenue and the Moscow Militia building on Ulitza Petrovka was immediate. Dimitri Danilov said, “On television it looked as if you’d put on weight.”

“I’m already losing it,” said William Cowley.

“I’m glad it’s you,” said the Russian. He was, genuinely. It made a change for him to have anything like a personal feeling about anything.

“And I’m glad it’s you.” Having been in Moscow when Larissa had been killed and knowing the other man’s devastation, Cowley said, “How’ve you been?”

“So-so. You?”

“So-so. You in operational charge?”

“Officially appointed by the White House, with a remit as wide as the Volga itself,” confirmed Danilov.

“The assurance here is total cooperation?”

“Here, too,” said the Russian. From his just-concluded conversation with the Gorki Militia detective chief, Danilov suspected the working relationship was going to be more difficult there than with Washington. He said, “What have you got?”

“Two intact warheads, one containing sarin, the other anthrax. And a smashed up SA-7 delivery system.”

“I’ll need the details.”

“I’ll fax it all now. And wire photographs. What about Plant 35?”

“Includes a facility for defensive chemical and biological weapon research,” Danilov admitted at once.

Normal voices, conversational voices, Cowley thought: How’s the weather with you, raining here, good to hear everything’s all right with you. Except that nothing was all right. At this very moment, while they were talking, two other cans of topsy-turvey shit capable of killing thousands of people might already be slotted into a delivery system aimed at a building anywhere …. Cowley stopped the drift. Not anywhere. The United Nations complex had been chosen for exactly what it was, the one-the most-internationally attention-attracting target in the world. The next, inevitable attack would be on a similarly focused site. Which could only be Washington itself. Security alerts had gone out throughout the country, but Cowley was suddenly convinced they needed to be concentrated in D.C. “You coming here or am I coming there?”