Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

Pointdexter knelt beside the second wire leading from the entry trap. He appeared to do little more than lift it from the floor.

Hamish said, “Bastards! Phony lead. No wonder they didn’t think they had to have guards here.” Then: “Hah! Got it!”

“What?” said Schnecker, without looking around from the warhead.

“Lead attached between the mines. Move the arrangement, bang. Safe now.”

“What about vibration?”

“I don’t think so.”

Schnecker rose, stretching the cramp from his legs. To Cowley he said, “Let’s switch the warhead. Get everyone out-one at a time, nice and slow-so we’ve got room to work.”

“How long do you need?”

Schnecker looked back to the piled-up ordnance. “Don’t like the Sneaky Pete stuff. So as long as it takes.”

Martlew’s voice crackled into Cowley’s handset. “Just heard from New York: Arnie’s told his loving wife to go for a walk because he’s got a call to make. Our technical guys are fixing up a simultaneous feed, direct to us here, to warn when the conversation finishes with your restaurant: It’ll give you a little more time if she leaves right away.”

Cowley acknowledged and at once said into his radio, “You hear that, Golden Hussar?”

“Loud and clear,” came a voice from the surveillance car.

“We’d get even more time if the Oldsmobile got a flat,” said Cowley.

“Problem with old cars,” agreed the observer.

“Let’s get rid of the live warhead,” Schnecker said busily.

When Burgess brought it in from the adjoining garage, Danilov saw the improvised container was a cello case. Everyone else realized it, too. Burgess said, “What can I tell you? It works.”

“You think it’ll pass?” Schnecker asked generally, pointing to the marks on the replacement device where Lambert’s scientists had scraped off paint samples.

“There’s no reason for them to think it’s anything but an accidental mark,” judged Cowley.

It was easier getting the empty warhead out than getting the loaded one into the case. The fit was perfect. Cowley used the handset again, to summon the circling car, and said to Danilov: “See you there.” Hank Burgess was carrying the loaded warhead back to the embassy. Before they’d left it had been decided the American needed to be accompanied by a Russian speaker against any eventuality during the journey.

The lights in the first garage were doused for their exit. As they walked up the totally blackened alley, Danilov said, “What would happen if you dropped that thing?”

Burgess said, “Nothing. There’s three inches of packing, so it wouldn’t fracture. And it needs to be armed before it’s fired. If it isn’t, it doesn’t detonate. Still a cockamamie design, though.”

They got to the FBI offices at the embassy in time to hear Naina Karpov say, “Everything arranged?”

The duplicated relay from New York reduced the sound level and there was a hiss from the volume adjustment, but it was still recognizably Arseni Orlenko’s voice. The Russian said, “He’s very angry. Says he can only go to one and a half.”

“Fuck him. He created his own problem trying to get things cheaper. The price stays.”

“He said not to forget what happened last time.”

“Is he buying or not?” the woman demanded impatiently.

“He wants to know how many warheads.”

“One. Already available.”

“So it’s two million?”

“Have they got it?”

“He offered a million deposit. Rest on delivery.”

Naina laughed. “Which he wouldn’t pay, once he’d got it all.”

“I expect not.”

“I know not. That’s why I set the price at the figure I did. When are you speaking again?”

“Tomorrow.”

“So he’s anxious?”

“I suppose so, yes.

“Tell him a million and a half deposit. That’s all we’ll get. If it’s not the full million and a half, the deal’s off.”

Orlenko sniggered. “You’ve really thought it through, haven’t you?”

“Totally. No money up front-full million and a half-no warhead, no nothing. His decision.”

“What if he doesn’t come back anymore?”

“We’ve made $1,500,000. He’s lost a supplier. He say anything about another attack here?”

“Just argued about how much we wanted.”

“Tell him we’re not supplying anything here until we get paid in full, in America, for what we’re sending. And that anything here’s extra, which has also got to be paid for in advance, before it’s supplied.”

“It’s not good dealing with him.”

There was a pause from Moscow. “You’re frightened of him!”

“Not personally. They’ve showed what they’re prepared to do. What they can do.”

“To amateurs. They come to Moscow again, they don’t get dinner at the Metropole and whores. And he doesn’t know you, does he?”

“He knows Gavri: where to find him.”

“Which is Gavri’s problem. You spoken to him?”

“You want me to?”

“Tell him Yevgenni Mechislavovich is coming over.”

This time the silence was from the American end. “Yevgenni Mechislavovich taking over?”

“He’s coming to see how things are running. Make things clear to Gavri.”

“I see.”

“I hope you do.”

“You want to speak tomorrow?”

“Of course. Tell them everything’s ready to be shipped.”

“What about the arrangements for that?”

“Yevgenni Mechislavovich is bringing all the details. Tell Gavri that, too.”

“Are changes being made?”

“Just do as I tell you. And call me tomorrow.”

All but Schnecker’s team were in the empty garage, but the ballistic experts needed extra light-trailing extension cords from the garage as well as using every outlet in the storeroom itself-and it grew uncomfortably hot, everyone sweating.

“We’re not careful, they’re going to smell there’s been people here when they get back,” warned Lambert.

“Forgot air freshener,” said Schnecker. He and his team were in body armor, their faces streaming behind visors. Hamish was numbering each piece as it was handled.

From his embassy pivot Martlew reported the conclusion of the telephone call. Cowley said, “They’ve finished talking. How much longer?”

“Two hours,” said Schnecker, without breaking away from what he was doing. “A little less, with luck.”

It would have been practical for some to leave, but when Cowley thought about it, he realized that the only truly superfluous people there were Lambert and himself. He was the only one who spoke Russian, quite apart from it being unthinkable for the case officer to leave. He would have liked a drink. Not a lot. Just one. Later, he promised himself. Not another party, like last night, although there was as much reason. Maybe more. He’d see how it went. Schnecker and his guys had been damned good-professional-hitting the ground running like this. Right thing to do to offer them a thank you, although they’d probably be exhausted. Maybe, though, they’d be pumped up by adrenaline.

He was sure Pamela would be, ringing the bell like that with the space shuttle. Every reason to be. Would he ever get to know her better, beyond the environment of the J. Edgar Hoover building? A bizarre question in bizarre surroundings. Brought back to where he was, Cowley decided that Lambert had a valid point. The garage and storeroom stank of sweat and people.

Needing something to do, Cowley said, “Anything?” into his handset.

“Nothing” was like an echo from the embassy, the alley mouth, and the restaurant surveillance.

Then, almost at once, from the Golden Hussar watchers came the warning: “There’s movement. They’re on their way out.”