Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“Let’s wrap it up,” Cowley called to the next room.

“Shit!” complained Pointdexter.

“They haven’t seen the flat,” reported the restaurant commentary. “Getting into the car … firing the engine … starts to … and there’s the bump. He’s out now, kicking the tire. Going back inside leaving Naina in the car … and here’s big brother, Igor Baratov. Hope you guys are hauling ass back there. Both going inside again …. Wait a moment, here’s a cab …. They’re not bothering to change the tire.”

“How’s it going?” demanded Cowley; from the connecting door. Schnecker and Pointdexter were restacking the cache to Hamish’s instructions, read out from his numbered chart.

Hamish said, “Almost done but we’ve got to reassemble the alarms.”

“They won’t have any reason to come here, if they’re not in the Oldsmobile,” Lambert, behind Cowley, pointed out. “Baratov might not get it fixed right away, either.”

“We’re not staying to find out,” said Cowley.

“Cab’s leaving,” reported the observer. “You want us to follow or stay with the Oldsmobile? … Wait …. Some more guys are coming out of the restaurant …. The trunks open, they’re going to change the tire.”

“Stay with the car,” ordered Cowley.

“Done!” declared Hamish. “Everyone out while I reconnect.” He did so remarkably quickly and was panting when he got to the connecting door. To the forensic burglars he said, “You guys mind doing the rest? I’m fucked.”

“Olds is off the jack,” came the commentary. “And Baratov’s getting in. Countdown time. Took twelve minutes to get here. And we’re moving. Twelve ….”

The second lock clicked into place in the linking door. Schnecker and his team had stripped off their body armor and bagged it. Their coveralls beneath were sodden black by sweat. Crowded as they were at the entrance, waiting to emerge the moment the lights were extinguished, the smell was overwhelming.

“Eight … seven …” timed the following observer.

“Give it a minute left open,” said Cowley, as the door lifted. “No one could miss the stink.” To everyone except the two behind them he said, “Everyone else out of the alley.”

“Five … four … here’s luck. Lights against us.”

“Close it,” said Cowley.

The two men were rehearsed now, each working at opposing ends, securing the tripwire, then kneeling before the locks.

“Lights are green ….”

“Done,” said one man, in the darkness.

The two pickup cars pulled up beyond the alley toward Vozdvizenka. Cowley got into the front of the vehicle already carrying Schnecker’s team. As he did so the voice from the Oldsmobile pursuit car said, “Why isn’t he coming the most direct way, for the alley turnoff?” Then: “Would you believe it! He’s not coming back to the garage. He’s going to his own garage, turning in there now. Sorry, guys. You needn’t have left after all.”

Cowley turned to the men in the back, but before he could speak Schnecker said, “No, we’re not going back.” He extended a tremoring hand. “We’re bushed. There’s five we haven’t fixed. Next time it’ll be easier.”

Schnecker and his people declined the drink, and Cowley and the others only stayed for two-the second at Cowley’s insistence- before going back to the bureau’s embassy offices. Waiting there for Lambert from his Washington laboratory was the tone-deciphered number Yevgenni Leanov had dialed from his mobile phone that morning.

Danilov said, “It’s back on file at Petrovka, but from memory it looks like the direct line into the office of Vladimir Leonidovich Oskavinsky, the director of Plant 43.”

“Why bother with the storeman when you can get your stuff from the boss?” said Cowley.

“And who exactly is the boss there?” demanded Danilov, after they had listened to the interception of the Brooklyn telephone call.

“Sounds like a question they’re asking themselves,” agreed Cowley.

“Leanov’s personally carrying the shipping details with him,” Danilov pointed out. “Cuts down our chances of overhearing them.”

“Which we might have if he and Naina had used the Olds to get home tonight,” said Cowley. “Maybe letting the tire down wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

“If there hadn’t been the delay, we wouldn’t have gotten out of the garage in time,” reminded Danilov. “I think we need to think about the conversation in the car on their way to the restaurant.”

“Which brings us back to who’s in charge,” agreed Cowley. “I’m reading it that Ivan Gavrilovich Guzov is the American boss and deals direct with the terrorists. But that Yevgenni Mechislavovich, his former KGB buddy, is on his way to take over. So if we join ourselves at the hip to Gavri, we could be led exactly where we want to go.”

“That’s how I see it,” agreed Danilov. “I also think it’s safe to assume there’s only one cache. And that there don’t appear to be any immediate plans to do anything else here in Moscow.”

“The money dispute could be important,” suggested Cowley. “If they haven’t got enough and keep hitting the banks, we’ll still have a chance of tracking them that way, too.” He paused. “In fact, the intercept has thrown up a lot to be organized in America.”

Pamela had instantly recognized that as she’d listened to the tape three hours earlier and was already making plans. So, too, was Patrick Hollis in the security of his locked den. He’d already cracked into the web address and confirmed it was a cybercafe. He was impatient for eleven o’clock the following morning to send a warning.

Pamela Darnley had concluded that Ivan Guzov headed the Russian arms smuggling organization in America before Cowley’s Moscow message and was glad she had the previous night memoed the director on the urgency for an immediate tap on Guzov’s and Kabanov’s homes from the Trenton exchange. She’d also ordered the Trenton agent in charge, John Meadowcraft, to convene a 9:00 A.M. conference of every agent not specifically involved in that morning’s surveillance on the Russians and was in Trenton by eight personally to address it. She took with her copies of Yevgenni Leanov’s photograph, the man’s KGB file, and transcripts as well as duplicates of all the telephone intercepts upon which Leanov featured. Also there by eight o’clock were the ten additional agents she’d drafted in overnight to supplement the surveillance teams.

From Meadowcraft’s greeting Pamela guessed she’d been preceded by the gossip couriers and was glad of that, too. It saved a lot of time-and ensured that what she wanted done was done properly-for everyone already to know she stood up to piss like they did.

For the benefit of the ten newcomers, Pamela had Guzov’s photograph mounted on the display board beside that of Yevgenni Leanov. She circulated the remainder of those she’d brought through the room for each individual team leader and promised the man’s KGB file-as well as Guzov’s-would be made available as soon as it was translated and duplicated. So would English translations of all the telephone conversations. In advance of their getting that, Pamela recounted the Moscow ordnance discovery-with the assurance that it was being made safe-but insisted that their Russian targets were their best chance of being led to the Watchmen terrorists. That, she said, would probably be in Chicago, where they’d had bad luck that wasn’t going to be repeated.

“There will be no screw-ups,” she said, pedantically spacing her words. “That’s what I’ve come personally to tell you. You’re going to live in their back pockets-Leanov’s when he gets here-and they’re not going to know that you’re there. You’re going to know-and tell me, when I ask-what they eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; the color of their underwear; and how many times they blink per second.”