Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“What the hell do we know, then? Know that takes us one inch forward!”

Pamela snatched the chance. “We know the New Rochelle trap was baited from Washington, so if we identify the voice, we can consider multiple homicide as the legality you’re looking for. We’ve got positive confirmation that they are inside the Pentagon-or have access, at least-and that something’s already been set up that they don’t expect us to find: ‘more surprises than they can ever guess,’” she quoted. “That could mean more than one thing. We know that they intend using a warhead they don’t yet have in two, not one, separate attacks and that the UN could be one of the targets. We know they’re thinking of doing something else in Moscow and from that one remark-‘need to speak to them there: See what ideas they got’-I’d say there’s a contact route we don’t know about, not involving Brooklyn and the Golden Hussar. And I’d say it’s more than likely we’ve confirmed how they’re financing everything-” She straggled to a breathless but intentional stop, worried she had begun to sound too strident.

“But what can we do about any of it?”

“The finance guys we’ve got in the banks are setting electronic traps they say could give them a trace.”

Ross lifted and dropped the transcript. “He just told her to stop.”

“He doesn’t yet know the price Naina Karpov is asking, which we do. We still don’t have a definite figure, but the estimate is that from all the banks we know are being robbed, the total is just over a million. They’re short. They’ll have to start up again.”

Ross smiled at last. “Yes they will, won’t they?”

“And we’ve got OverOcean,” continued Pamela. “Chicago’s got to be their entry: their base, even, judging from this intercept.”

The FBI director went back to it. “Who’s the asshole who’s got to be fined?”

“Their bank source, obviously.”

“How?” demanded Ross. “Four banks! That many branches!”

“Banks deal with other banks,” said Pamela. “But to have that access he’ll have to be fairly high.”

“‘Brother,’” quoted the director. “‘Sister.’ Black-speak? Roanne Harding?”

“Could be. Copied a lot by Caucasians, though. The voice intonation doesn’t give any indication.”

“Could the limited Chicago photographs be of any practical use?”

“I’m running every one through records here. Been doing that from the beginning. The army still insists any comparison is impossible with discharged personnel.” She paused, creating the division. “I’ve already told Carl Ashton about the conversation. He said it was confirmation he didn’t need. And I’ve sent the entire transcript to Moscow, of course.”

“I talked with Bill,” said Ross.

“He told me. That you’d talked, I mean. Not in any detail.”

“In detail it came down to what we’ve decided: that we still can’t move,” said the exasperated director.

In Moscow neither Cowley nor Danilov had decided they couldn’t move, either separately or together, although they’d both reached the same furious conclusion as the FBI director and of Pamela Darnley before him.

“You had the Watchmen’s leader,” said Danilov.

“And lost him,” agreed Cowley.

Georgi Chelyag’s call anticipated Danilov’s by thirty minutes, and Danilov went directly from the American embassy to the Russian White House. He avoided the continuing protests by using the sidealley route but was reminded by some of the banner slogans of the impending Duma vote of no confidence in the president. That automatically led his mind to the interior minister’s direct threat, after his initial complaint to the presidential aide. In the last twentyfour-or was it thirty-six? — hours he’d consciously avoided thinking about it, but now it forced itself into his mind, demanding attention. Which achieved nothing. What was the point-more important, the protection-in raising it further? The conversation itself was something else about which he had insufficient proof. No proof at all, in fact. So to complain-seek Chelyag’s intervention for a second time-would simply worsen an already irrevocable situation between that familiar rock and that inevitable hard place, with no way out. It really was a shitty expression. He had to stop using it, even in his mind.

He was ushered immediately into Chelyag’s overly ornate, baroque office, which the squat man appeared far too inconspicuous to occupy. Chelyag remained behind the desk, which fit the office but not the man. No note-takers and therefore no records, Danilov realized.

Chelyag began speaking even before Danilov sat down, using a dossier that clearly contained the notes-possibly even the verbatim transcript-of the president’s meeting with Henry Hartz. The recitation took the chief of staff a full fifteen minutes, and it was almost as long as that before Danilov understood why he was being told.

“Well?” Chelyag demanded, finally looking up.

“Nothing was held back, as far as the investigation is concerned,” Danilov confirmed at once.

Chelyag allowed a rare smile. “That’s good. They’re being honest with us then?”

Danilov was surprised-and concerned-at the degree of American openness: It was more than he’d imagined from Cowley’s account of his discussion with the secretary of state. “Quite obviously a lot of it-most of it-can’t be made public.”

“That point was made. And agreed,” said the aide.

“Can I ask how many people were present at the meeting?”

There was a moment’s studied examination from the other man. “You mean Russian?” Chelyag demanded pointedly.

“Yes.”

“The president. Myself. A translator and a note-taker.” The smile came again. “Nothing will leak.”

“You should see this,” said Danilov, offering a translation of the latest intercepted conversation. While the other man read, Danilov gazed around the office, curious why proletariat communism had found the trappings of tsardom so necessary. Because, he supposed, they had been hobnailed and dirty-fingered tsars themselves.

Chelyag’s calm reaction was different from what Danilov expected. The chief of staff said, “Will you be able to prevent another attack here in Moscow? A totally honest answer!”

“Only if we learn of the target from another intercepted telephone call. And that would create a dilemma. To stop it-which we would have to-would alert them we are listening: know certainly who Naina Karpov is and that she’s supplying the American terrorists. Who would without question or hesitation use their intrusion into American military headquarters when they realized it.”

Chelyag nodded in acceptance, lips pursed, still calm. “In military campaigns-and these terrorists clearly believe they are involved in some sort of military campaign-it is very often necessary to make small sacrifices to achieve a larger objective. Particularly to deceive the enemy …. The British are supposed to have allowed an entire city to be bombed, many people to be killed, to prevent the Nazis knowing they had broken their most essential code during the Great Patriotic War.”

Danilov was actually leaning forward in his chair, knowing this wasn’t a lecture on military tactics or history.

The man tapped the record of the Hartz meeting. “I’m glad-the president will be glad-of this honesty. There is to be another session between the two of them. We will be just as honest: make it clear we understand all the difficulties but that no wedge can be forced between us, whatever new outrage occurs here. Immediately after their meeting the president will make a televised address to the nation, just as the American leader did.”