Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

When Pamela said she expected Leonard Ross’s personal pressure-the White House’s, if necessary-to obtain the phone taps before noon, a black female agent near the front said, “Guzov uses a mobile phone a lot. Our surveillance pictures show two different handsets.”

“We got the numbers? listening in?” Pamela demanded at once. The cell phone information hadn’t been in any report from Trenton, for fuck’s sake!

“Not yet,” said Meadowcraft.

“Why not!”

“It wasn’t thought necessary to have the homes as well as the office bugged until today,” Meadowcraft pointed out defensively. He was a large, untidy man who reminded Pamela of Al Beckinsdale in age as well as stature. And now in attitude.

She said, “It’s nine-thirty. I want us plugged in by noon, and I want the billing records for the last three months, to know the numbers he’s called. I’d like those, at the Washington incident room, by this time tomorrow. Noon the latest. Don’t screw around with any official obstruction or objection. Come straight on to Washington and it’ll be resolved. Anything unclear?”

There were a lot of exchanged looks. The same black girl who’d mentioned the mobile phones said, “What about the other guy, Kabanov?”

“Just as tight and the same goes for mobiles, if we’ve got evidence of his using one,” instructed Pamela. “Leanov’s coming to make changes-at least he thinks he is-and we might be able to manipulate whatever they are if we get some idea what they might be. There might even be a hit.”

“Why don’t we get inside their houses some way, wire the places like we’ve done in Brooklyn?” asked one of the drafted-in agents.

“ Because we wired Brooklyn,” said Pamela. “We daren’t risk spooking them.”

“What about state-line jurisdiction, courtesy to local forces?” queried Meadowcraft.

“Wherever they go, you go,” insisted Pamela. “I’ll do the telling, if it’s necessary. I don’t want local shitkickers getting in the way.”

“Chicago liaison?” asked the agent in charge.

“Direct, if speed’s involved. Everything copied to me in Washington.”

Pamela’s arrival back in D.C., by 11:30, coincided with the Trenton judge’s approval of the tap on the homes of Guzov and Kabanov. Determined against another Chicago foul-up, she spent an hour on the telephone to the bureau office there assuring herself there were sufficient agents at the telephone exchange and in readiness in various parts of the city to respond when the number was picked up from the impending call to Brooklyn’s River Cafe. As soon as she’d finished doing that, she repeated the process with Manhattan.

It was midafternoon before she reviewed everything with Terry Osnan. The man said, “We shouldn’t be overwhelmed like we were last time. Orlenko being in the cafe, waiting, gives us the specific time. His conversations average out at five minutes. The longest so far has been ten, from the topless bar at Coney Island.”

“The telephone engineers reckon they can run a trace in under sixty seconds,” said Pamela.

Osnan extended both hands, each index finger crossed over its next digit. “This really could be it, couldn’t it?”

“This really could be it,” echoed Pamela. A bureau helicopter was on standby, to take her to Chicago.

The impeachment debate in the Duma collapsed, televised for all to see. There was a desperation about the communists’ attack from the outset, the speakers repeating themselves instead of coming to the podium with the criticism apportioned between them. It didn’t help them that the censure was predicated upon the economy and the unsuccessful reforms to reduce inflation and stabilize the ruble. The terrorist attack and apparent American intrusion into Russian law enforcement had too obviously been tacked on at the last minute, which made the debate as disjointed as its hurriedly rearranged planning.

By comparison, the Russian White House organized itself superbly. The presidential decree to put the country’s early-warning system on standby was leaked overnight, forcing Washington to confirm that the precaution had been discussed and agreed during undisclosed president-to-president discussions. Both White Houses refused to give a reason for the move. By the time the Duma debate began, the speculation had settled on an attack of far greater proportions than that on the U.S. Embassy. It was seized on as fact by the president’s parliamentary supporters. Their procession to the podium to talk of the man’s strength and foresight, in defending the country and its people, swamped the stumbling criticism so much that the economic crisis appeared to be forgotten. Twenty-three communist votes were recorded against the censure motion.

Danilov watched most of it on his set at Petrovka, not hurrying to tell Georgi Chelyag of the ordnance sabotage he’d planned with equal cleverness. It still took three attempts-his first two calls not returned, despite promises-for Danilov to reach the chief of staff.

Chelyag said at once, “We won.”

“I know.”

“He’s very pleased. Grateful. I’m to tell you. We’re going to build on it.”

“There’s an update.”

“I’m very busy. Can’t meet. Tell me now.”

Danilov did so, feeling a sink of apprehension. When he finished Chelyag said, “Good! It’s going well. Keep in touch.”

“I-” Danilov started but stopped, realizing he was talking into a dead phone.

It rang again, almost at once. Cowley said, “What the fuck’s going on!”

Mary Jo had her usual martini, Orlenko his beer. They had their drinks on the outside deck, admiring the Manhattan skyline. It put them directly in view of the two bureau agents who’d arrived before them and got seats at the bar. The pursuit car from Bay View Avenue had already reported their arrival. There was a line permanently open from the exchange monitoring team to the FBI’s Third Avenue Manhattan office and from there to the Washington incident room.

Orlenko brought his wife back into the restaurant ten minutes ahead of schedule and ordered her a second martini while she studied the menu. One of the agents followed Orlenko on his way to the telephone, continuing on to the men’s room to warn the waiting listeners from his pocket-concealed microphone.

“A call’s incoming,” said the exchange listener.

“Tracing,” confirmed the engineer at his elbow.

“Hello,” said Orlenko.

“Got him!” anticipated Pamela, to Osnan.

It was the same recognizable voice-American-as before. “You tell Moscow what I said?”

“It’s got to be a million and a half, all up front.”

“Too much.”

“Then it’s off.”

“I don’t like threats.”

“Neither do my people in Moscow.”

“Gavri know?”

“He’s being told by Moscow.”

“I’ll still talk to him.”

There was fade on the line, the sound almost lost on one occasion. Pamela said, “Why’s that happening?”

Osnan shook his head, not knowing.

The volume dipped again. Pamela only made out: “ … when you are.”

Pamela said, “They promised a trace by now.”

Osnan didn’t respond, leaning forward toward the speaker. There was a mumble from the exchange and then, much louder: “Shit!”

“What?” demanded Pamela, into her voice link with Manhattan.

The reply was from the exchange, not the New York incident room: “It’s a mobile phone. The bastard’s driving-being driven, I guess-around Chicago. Chicago got a scanner ready?”

She hadn’t made the provision, Pamela realized. Before she could repeat the question, Stephen Murray, the Chicago agent in charge, said, “We thought it would be a land line.”

“Is there a scanner?” demanded Pamela.