Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“Were that to happen-with the responsibility for preventing it so positively and clearly defined-the investigation to discover the culprits would be absolute, conducted by the special tribunals established by my decree today. Also set out in today’s decree are the penalties I would expect to be imposed. I realize, of course, that the creation of law involving punishment is the function of the Duma and the upper house. I ask them to ratify those parts of my decree that require it.”

Danilov and Cowley watched the address from the Savoy suite. Cowley said, “I don’t know what the hell game that guy’s playing, but I wouldn’t like to be on the other side.”

“Neither would I,” Danilov said hopefully.

In the final moments of preparation, both Cowley and Danilov thought beyond the basic illegality of burglary to the fact that neither was trained-or had experience-for what they intended to do. Cowley had never attended a SWAT team intrusion. On the two occasions Danilov had used a spetznaz unit, the entry techniques and safeguards had been the responsibility of its commander. It was obviously among the worries of the subdued Paul Lambert, who very early in the briefing asked if they had a search warrant.

“The entry is upon my-Russian-authority,” said Danilov. He didn’t doubt he could have gotten approval from Georgi Chelyag, but it would have been given in the unrecorded circumstances of their conversation, so there’d been no point in asking. Danilov had excluded the protesting Yuri Pavin and the trusted but unaware group from Petrovka from any involvement, distancing them-and their careers-from himself if anything went wrong. Another unspoken awareness between Danilov and Cowley was that if it did go wrong, the danger wasn’t so much from civilian arrest but from mobsters who imposed their own law with their own guns.

“No Russian backup?” persisted the leader of the forensic team.

“The embassy attack is an American-controlled investigation,” said Danilov, uneasy with the threadbare logic. It was a relief that his hangover had gone.

“Which needs to be tightly controlled,” broke in Cowley, just as uneasy. “I’m taking American responsibility for it being done this way.”

With the early-afternoon departure of the American secretary of state and his entourage, it was easier for them to use one of the small conference rooms back at the embassy. A greatly enlarged section of the Nikitskij Boulevard street plan and the lock-up garage side alley was on a display board with a selection of that afternoon’s photographs, also enlarged, alongside. Barry Martlew identified the garage in which he’d seen Leanov park the Oldsmobile and described how the up-and-over door had been secured at ground level by what appeared to be ordinary, snap-fastening padlocks.

“No obvious alarms anywhere,” said the Moscow-based agent. “It’s a cul-de-sac that bends where the garages are. Gives us some cover from the main road.”

“How long did it take Leanov to close three padlocks?” demanded Cowley.

“A good fifteen minutes,” said Martlew, understanding the question.

“So there are some precautions, and after New Rochelle that’s our greatest concern,” Cowley said to the two men whom Lambert had designated his entry specialists. “You lost friends in New Rochelle. After you’re sure that everything’s safe, I want you to go back to the beginning and start again. And if you have the slightest doubt, a bad feeling about anything, we walk away. OK?”

One man nodded. The other said, “OK.”

Cowley looked back to include everyone else in the room. “Let’s go play Watergate.”

“Watergate fucked up,” said someone.

The constant volume of roaring, speeding traffic in one of the busiest parts of the city-Ulitza Vozdvizenka, at one end of Nikitskij Boulevard-provided both the cover for the intrusion but also the risk of its being seen, despite the curve in the alley. Cowley had a rotating team cover the cul-de-sac from midafternoon, to ensure that the Oldsmobile remained inside its garage. Another group watched Yevgenni Leanov’s apartment to see if the man emerged and appeared to be going to collect the car.

Upon their arrival Cowley reduced the alley surveillance-just one man, lingering close to its entrance as the last alert to the two entry men. The rest dispersed unobtrusively in the immediate vicinity, mostly along the more pedestrian-crowded Nikitskaya. Cowley kept in constant touch by throat mike, his hearing aid-style receiver in his undamaged ear.

“We’ve got a problem,” alerted one of the FBI burglars. “The padlocks are wired: We can feel a lead. Guess the disarmament requires the approved key. Pick it and we ring the bells or whatever.”

Shielded by Danilov and others feigning arm-waving conversation all around him, Cowley said, “Can you fix it?”

“Depends how much slack wire we can get.”

“We can’t leave any sign.”

“Any alternative?” asked Danilov.

Lambert said, “There’s some magic stuff, epoxy resin based, we can squirt into the lock to give us a key definition. It would take an hour to set sufficiently to withdraw it to cut a workable key. We’re talking tomorrow. We wouldn’t have to damage any outer casing if we could get enough slack for a wire bypass.”

“Gotta clamp on the first,” came a voice from the alley.

Cowley, Danilov, and Lambert turned around at Skarjatin, to walk back the way they’d come. Danilov said, “I don’t understand the way it works.”

Lambert said, “Each padlock is alarmed. Break or force one and whatever happens happens. If we can get a loop above each of the three padlocks we maintain the circuit, make the locks themselves obsolete. All we’ve got to do then is pick them. Each will have a different operating key, of course. It’s quite simple.”

“Sure,” said Danilov. Three Americans in their group passed them without showing any sign of recognition, going in the opposite direction.

“Two neutralized,” came the earpiece voice.

“What about you guys at Kalasnyj?” demanded Cowley, in apparent conversation with Danilov.

“Lights on in the apartment but the drapes are drawn,” came the reply. “Maybe a quiet evening, six-pack and a ball game.”

“No wise-assing: only what matters and what you’re asked,” ordered Cowley. Schnecker’s brusque instruction against nervousness going into the UN building, Cowley remembered: a million years ago? Two million?

“Three immobilized,” said the voice from the alley.

“Go back and start again,” Cowley instructed at once.

“You sure they’ve got this much time?” demanded Lambert.

“Dead they’ve got all the time they could want. Eternity,” said Cowley.

“Sneaky motherfuckers!” said the recognizable voice.

“What?” said Cowley.

“Secondary system, parallel to the guide rail for the up and over. Static wires, simple hook-and-eye connection on both sides. Door goes up but the wires don’t, unless they’re unclipped. Glad we had a second feel around.”

“So am I,” said Cowley.

“Thanks,” said Lambert, to the other American.

“Whenever you’re ready to join us,” invited the burglar.

Their rehearsed arrival in the alley was intentionally straggled, to avoid attracting attention additionally risked by some of the forensic technicians’ equipment. Further protective surveillance was reestablished along Nikitskij, on either side of the alley, with the existing man remaining in between at its entrance.

The up-and-over door was lifted a bare minimum to admit them, and no light was put on until everyone was inside. The sudden fluorescent glare momentarily blinded all of them. They recovered standing around the immaculately gleaming, dark-green vehicle as Lambert, assuming control, said, “We’re not here to admire. Let’s get it done.”