Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“Afraid not.”

“Do we have the mobile number?” It wouldn’t appear her mistake, Pamela decided.

“Yes,” said the New York monitor.

“ … usual way,” Orlenko was saying. “And cash, of course.”

“I’ll talk to Gavri about that,” said the fluctuating voice.

She’d still go to Chicago, Pamela decided. It wasn’t a total disaster. By the time she got there they’d have the name from the cell phone records. She could personally supervise the surveillance; be there, too, when Ivan Gavrilovich Guzov arrived, which he’d have to if he were collecting the money. So, too, would Yevgenni Leanov.

The intercept totally faded. Orlenko said, “Hello! hello! I’ve lost you?”

“ … delivery …?”

“I couldn’t hear. Say again.”

“What’s the delivery?”

“Immediate. A week, upon payment.”

“Tell them to ship it.”

“I can tell them you have the money?”

“It’ll be ready when the stuff gets here.”

“When do we speak again?”

“We don’t. I’ll speak to Gavri.”

“That’s not how … hello? You there?” There was the click, of Orlenko hanging up.

Pamela said, “I’m still going.”

Osnan nodded. “They’re certainly falling out.”

“Let’s hope there’s some way we can use it.”

“Unfortunate about a scanner.”

“Which Chicago will have to explain when I get there.”

“It’s a goddamned meet-the-people presidential parade, all the way around Nikitskij Boulevard and Leanov’s place on Kalasnyj,” protested Cowley. “Television and still cameras everywhere. I’ve withdrawn everyone on foot, to prevent their accidentally being photographed and recognized from the arrival pictures with the secretary. Trying to cover by car but it’s too loose.”

“I wasn’t told,” said Danilov. We’re going to build on it , he remembered. “You want me to back up with people from here?”

“Even more risk of recognition by your guy on the payroll, isn’t there?”

“The number Leanov called from the car is definitely Vladimir Oskavinky’s line at Plant 43,” identified Danilov.

“You’re going to need extra jails,” said Cowley. “The car hadn’t been put back in the garage when I withdrew surveillance. I don’t like not being there, actually on the ground.”

“I’ll get back to you,” promised Danilov.

It was a full hour before he got a reply from Chelyag’s direct line. The man said, “The footage will be useful after the arrests: show the president’s personal involvement and awareness.”

“How long?” said Danilov, impatient with the nothing-missed cynicism.

“Over any minute now.”

“I’d like to have been told.”

“It was not considered necessary,” the other man dismissed, stiffly.

“Let’s hope it wasn’t,” said Danilov.

When he called Cowley back, the American said, “The guys in the cars already told me. We’re back in position. Jimmy and his guys are going in tonight to finish off.”

Patrick Hollis timed his break five minutes after he watched Mark Whittier leave his desk. Before he followed, Hollis turned off his computer. The FBI accountant was already at a table when Hollis entered the cafeteria. So was Robert Standing, sharing with three girls on the far side of the room. One was Carole Parker. As Hollis got his coffee, he saw Standing lean forward and say something. All the girls looked in his direction. Two laughed.

Hollis approached the bureau agent with his customary hesitancy. Whittier smiled a greeting.

“How’s it going?” Hollis said.

“Pretty good, I think.”

“Arrests imminent?” He laughed, to make the question appear a joke.

“Who knows?” avoided Whittier.

“That sounds promising,” said Hollis, not laughing this time. He saw Standing leave the cafeteria, putting his hand familiarly against the back of one girl as he held the door open for her.

“We’ve set a few traps,” said the man.

“Can you do things like that on a computer?”

“If you know what you’re doing,” the accountant said condescendingly.

“So it shouldn’t be long?”

“I hope not.”

“Best of luck.”

“Time I got back to see if I’ve had any,” said Whittier.

Hollis detoured his return through the open-plan mortgage section to ensure Standing was at his desk. He was, but turned away from his terminal, talking animatedly into the telephone.

At his own desk Hollis logged on to his own terminal with Standing’s computer pass code to dial the Chicago cybercafe. The e-mail message, addressed to the General, read:

DO NOT ADD ANY FURTHER TO THE WAR CHEST. ENEMY ALERTED.

Hollis didn’t add a sender’s name.

He saw Mark Whittier physically come forward toward his computer screen in the outer office. And smile.

Stephen Murray was waiting for Pamela Darnley in the security section of O’Hare Airport. She said at once, “Who’s the owner of the cell phone!”

The Chicago bureau chief said, “A Frederick Porter. Runs a bar in Evanston and reported the phone stolen from his car yesterday. Company hadn’t got around to canceling the number yet.”

“When in the name of Christ is something going to go according to plan!” Pamela demanded.

William Cowley and Dimitri Danilov were thinking roughly the same thing, looking through the just-opened door between the two lock-ups. The Oldsmobile’s garage was empty. So was the adjoining one that had been used as a weapons and ammunition store.

It wasn’t for some time afterward that they even began to suspect that they’d also lost Yevgenni Mechislavovich Leanov. And much later still before Danilov realized there might be some personal protection in the man’s disappearance.

It was a time of continuing inquests without any conclusive verdicts. The first was, of course, immediate, and back at the American embassy. That night not even Cowley suggested a drink, although he wanted one. Several, in fact.

None of that day’s motorized observers had seen any vehicle in the alley off Nikitskij Boulevard during the street watchers’ two-hour absence, but each pointed out that the cul-de-sac curved, hiding the door to what had been the storage garage. Cowley’s desperation was obvious in asking them to remember any specific van or truck in such a busy thoroughfare-quite apart from the extra crowds attracted by the president’s walk. Schnecker showed how desperate a question it was by pointing out that only the trunks of two full-size cars were needed to transport everything. Until it was seen the following day with Igor Baratov at the wheel, a lot of hope was attached to the bugged Oldsmobile.

“So how dangerous are the five things that aren’t fixed?” demanded Cowley.

Neil Hamish, the ballistics experts, spread his hands in an open gesture. “Nothing’s been defused; it’s the detonation and timing we’ve rigged. So technically it’s all dangerous. The five untouched are two antitank mines made to shatter thick armor and three phosphorous incendiaries. If they’re connected with any of the other stuff, we’ll be OK. If all five were used separately and for one incident-and that’s very unlikely-you’ve got a major explosion and an inferno at the target scene, not before. Explode them in a crowded environment, a shopping mall for instance, and you’ve got a catastrophe.”

“I think it’ll be judged that we’ve already got one,” said Cowley.

Barry Martlew said, “For someone claiming to be on the side of the good guys, the president staged a hell of a diversion, didn’t he?”

Danilov, who’d been waiting for the accusation, gave them Chelyag’s explanation. Voicing everyone’s exasperated disgust, Martlew said, “Jesus Henry Christ!”